Hyde knew the flat was empty. Hunching his shoulders, he began to drift along the street, looking for surveillance; ready to run and feeling the Celetna close in on him and the weight of the streets through which he had come press like a net trawling him in. He was alone. He could go to no embassy. He had a tape, nothing more. They wouldn't believe—
Stop it—
He drew level with the Skoda and passed it. The doors and windows did not look as if they had been forced, but he could not check those on the driver's side. He glanced up at the dark windows of Godwin's flat, almost bumping into a young man, who apologised to him at once. Hyde, shivering, mumbled something to the young man's retreating back. Then he continued walking.
He crossed the street a hundred yards beyond the flat and two hundred from the Skoda, then retraced his steps back towards the square. Then once more towards the Powder Tower — the driver's side doors and windows had looked intact — then back towards the flat. There were no parked cars containing waiting men, there were no open windows, no drawn-back curtains. One hand clutched the tape, the other Godwin's spare key. He reached the doorway, almost passed it, then ducked into its shadow. He fumbled for the lock and turned the key. The door creaked slightly as he touched it open. He glanced back at the street, then passed quickly into the narrow hall and mounted the stairs. He listened ahead of him as he reached the first floor. There, he paused. Nothing; no noises from the street, either. Where was Godwin?
He paused again at the front door of the flat, then reached the key tentatively towards the lock, inserted it, held his breath, turned the key — kicking open the door the moment he did so, bundling himself inside the flat and pressing himself against the wall, the gun in his hands. The vz.75 pistol was close to his face, barrel pointed at the ceiling. His thumb moved the safety catch. Fifteen rounds. He listened, holding his breath.
Nothing. He reached out and silently closed the door. Then he moved the few paces to the flat's main room. He banged open the door, gun extended, his weight supported by the door frame. The room was lightless, empty. He flicked on the lights. Neat, orderly — unsearched, no signs of a struggle. Where was Godwin? Swiftly, he checked the other empty rooms. No crutches, no overcoat hanging in the hall. Bed undisturbed, empty coffee mug in the kitchen sink. Godwin had left the flat of his own volition — to keep his appointment at the Hradcany. Where was he?
And who was asking him questions, and what was he saying…? His mind continued with nervous inevitability, completing the scenario. Someone had Godwin under the lights by now—
And he had only the time it took for one mistake, one contradiction — or a confession because they had become impatient with evasion and lies and used force.
He went back into the kitchen. The rear of the building was two storeys lower than the part which contained Godwin's flat. Its roof stretched back on a level with Godwin's kitchen window. He slid the window up and checked the sill and the slope of the roof and the width of the gap between this roof and its neighbour. Then he went back into the lounge and picked up the telephone. He tensed immediately, but there was no betraying double click. Godwin kept his telephone swept clean of bugs. It was as secure as the apartment. He placed the pistol carefully near the telephone and slumped onto the edge of an armchair; immediately feeling the last strength in his legs drain away and his calves begin to tremble with weariness. He dialled the long series of digits with a quivering forefinger. The flat was already growing cold from the open kitchen window.
London. Should he move the car now, while there was time—? London. He dialled the final digit of Sir William Guest's number in Albany that Margaret Massinger had given him, and wondered again about the car. The connection was made, the number began to ring. Three, four — come on… the car? He listened to the noises from the street. A vehicle passed, he held his breath, but it did not stop or turn. Five, six, seven… come on — go and move the car—! He felt trapped now, as if bound to the chair and the telephone, unable to free himself. Then—
"Sir William—!" he blurted before his caution stopped him. Relief flooded him, making him weak and shaky, even as he warned himself to say nothing more until the recipient of the call identified himself.
"Who is that?"
The voice is too young—.
"Get me Sir William."
"Who is that?"
Did he recognise the voice? Did he, or was it just the tone, the accent? Who—?
"Is Sir William there?" he insisted.
"You sound as if you've been rushing, old man," the voice drawled. "I'm afraid Sir William's not yet returned… we're expecting him sometime today. Can I help you?"
"Who are you?" His free hand clutched the cassette in his pocket, as if to crush it. Useless now—
"One of his staff. He asked me to call, collect some papers… lucky to have caught me, really. Who is speaking? Where are you calling
from…?" The words were affectedly indifferent, no more than a polite enquiry, yet Hyde sensed the tension beneath the facade.
"Fuck you," he whispered and slammed down the receiver. It didn't matter who it was, Babbington's man or Sir William's flunkey. It wasn't Sir William…
Useless. He bit his knuckles, enacting his rage as he stared at the telephone. Useless—
Before Sir William returned, the old man would be in Moscow, ready to go on show, maybe even dead.
"Oh, fuck it!" He slumped back in the armchair, his eyes pressed tightly shut and damp in the corners, his face raised to the ceiling. He was deeply, utterly weary. He had the evidence — and now they knew it, or they would know it soon… Babbington would be told before morning. Then he'd waste no time in getting rid of Aubrey and the Massingers. The consignment for Moscow would be on its way east. Babbington would know it was him and Aubrey would disappear, just as if he, Hyde, had given them a warning, time to act. Babbington would want to be on Guest's doormat to explain Aubrey's disappearance the moment Sir William returned. He'd speeded them up, hurried them to a final course of action—
He sat for whole minutes, still and silent, face raised and eyes pressed shut. His hands gripped the arms of the chair, his body slumped into its sagging container.
And he'd done for himself, too. They knew he was here, they knew what he'd done, and he wouldn't be able to get out the way he came in. He'd not get as far as Bratislava, in all probability. They'd shut the country up to keep him in.
He continued to sit in silence, unmoving. There seemed no point to activity, movement, decision. Part of his awareness listened beyond the flat to the noises from the street, the noises above and below him in the house. Normal. All normal. Someone playing a radio upstairs, walking from lounge to kitchen and then returning to the lounge. His heartbeat settled, his breathing calmed.
He sat bolt upright in the chair.
Zimmermann. Hyde stared at the telephone, then at his watch. Fifteen minutes since he had entered the flat. Fifteen—! He cursed himself. He had to get out. Survival. Continued living and breathing. They'd kill him, not just put him in the bag. They'd kill him for certain—
Zimmermann. Call me if anything goes wrong — very wrong. The German had volunteered his services as emergency case officer. if it's too much to handle, and you can't get out…
He listened. Normal. He dialled feverishly. Godwin could be talking now, could have talked already—! The last three digits, what were they? What—? What, damn you—? His finger quivered over the dial, then he remembered. Four, two, seven.