— "ah, Newcastle-upon-Tyne… the Secret Service and the CIA tried to drive a container lorry full of — souvenirs? — directly onto the tarmac and into a transport aircraft. Our people are known to do the same. No one cares."
"I remember the incident," Aubrey replied softly. "Unfortunately, someone forgot to inform the local constabulary and Customs that that sort of thing always happens." He nodded sagely, with fierce concentration. "Of course it will work…" He looked up at Voronin and blurted out: "Do you have to have them killed once they're in Moscow? Do you have to do it?" Immediately, he recognised the utterance as merely another bandage for his conscience. He was going to have to live with the guilt, and knew he was trying to erect sandbags against an expected flood. It would be terrible, terrible, to face himself after they had been disposed of. He shook his head.
"You see," Voronin said. "You realise quite clearly that nothing else can be done. They know everything. It will be — quick and painless."
"Oh, jolly good!" Aubrey snarled, surprising the Russian. "And me? What about me?"
"You have an important job to do — in Moscow." Voronin grinned. His face was still tinged with colour. The retinal image had faded now, and Aubrey could see the narrow, confident features clearly.
"You're sure of that?" It was blurted out, and it was nakedly fearful.
The Russian nodded. "Of course."
"What Babbington said — his threats. You're going to use me to protect him, yes?" Again, Voronin nodded. Aubrey loathed himself, but it was like pentathol. He could not control the rush of his words. "You need me? You do need me, don't you?"
His lips were trembling. He wiped at them.
Voronin looked unconcernedly at his watch as he said; "Of course, Sir Kenneth Aubrey. You are very necessary." The meeting was over. For whatever reason the man had come, that reason had been satisfied.
"Kapustin—" he began, but did not continue. The drug of fear had lost its overpowering effect. He sat more upright on the bed, leaning on one elbow. "What time do we leave?" he asked with forced lightness.
"It is now three-fifteen. We leave for the airport in thirty minutes. Do you wish shaving materials, hot water?"
Aubrey nodded. "Yes," he said breathily. Thirty minutes—! "Yes," he repeated, more strongly.
"Good. I will have them sent to you." Voronin nodded, almost clicked his heels together, and left the cell. Aubrey heard the key turn in the lock. He felt perspiration spring out on his forehead, despite the temperature of the cell. Felt his hands begin to tremble. Felt nauseous — sick as a dog. He fought it. Fought the nausea. Fought his own cowardice, and faced the fact of his death. He had been terribly afraid, seated before Voronin, so afraid he had been on the point, several times, of pleading to be told that, unlike the Massingers, he at least was safe, would be allowed to live. Thank God he had not fallen quite that low—! Thank God…
He wiped the already chilly sweat from his forehead. Rubbed his bald head.
And resolved.
He squeezed his eyes very tightly shut. In the darkness, some ghost of the light-bulb's filament still glowed. It had been a bad moment. His worst moment. Perhaps worst ever. But, a moment. Only a moment—
Yes. He would try. If they were to keep him alive for a short time for their benefit, he would try to resist…
Try, in front of a sea of strangers' faces and in the flash and wink of lights, to dredge up the truth. Try to struggle through the chemical bonds with which he would be tied, and say something — create some tiny suspicion, some sense of the truth, some sense, semblance, fragment, sliver, atom of the truth—! Try to regain, if only for a moment, one fragment of himself.
He would owe the Massingers more than that, but it would be the only coinage in which he could make any repayment.
He heard footsteps outside and the key turn in the lock. His hands gripped one another and became still. Stronger, even as the door opened. Steam. A bowl of hot water. A towel.
A beginning.
Hyde watched the policeman get out of the patrol car and saunter across to the empty Skoda. He had been in the process of dialling Sir William Guest's flat when he had seen the car turn onto the forecourt of the all-night garage outside Karlovy Vary. His free hand touched his overcoat, smoothing across his chest to reassure him. Package of Swiss francs. Pistol. Pockets — spare clips of ammunition, cassette tape. Teardrop. The map was still in the car…
Useless to assume he could run. He was still thirty-five miles from Mytina.
Kill them if you have to. The policeman had reached the Skoda. He rubbed at the driver's widow and peered into the car. Inside the patrol car, the flash of a cigarette lighter. Hyde remained inside the telephone booth, half-turned to watch the Skoda.
The patrolman straightened and walked back towards his car. Wait, wait—
His companion got out, stretched away stiffness, offered his packet of cigarettes. Then the two of them walked towards the dimly-lit office where Hyde had paid for his petrol. He forced himself to continue dialling. The moment the number began to ring, he returned his gaze to the two policemen. The receiver rang in his ear, an empty sound. He glanced at his watch. Three-fifty. There was no cover between the telephone booth and the office. They would walk towards him, clearly exposed but able to see his every movement inside the glass box. He must wait, and when they moved, he must walk slowly, slowly and unconcernedly towards the Skoda. Then turn and kill them. Two shots, perhaps three before fire was returned. His free hand twitched, as if it had already entered the future. He drummed on the coin box. Mirror—
Yes, leaning on the coin box casually, he could see the office in the mirror. The telephone continued to ring. The two policemen were talking. An arm pointed towards the Skoda, the garage manager pointed in Hyde's direction. One of the policemen turned lazily, then looked away again. Towards a cup he was raising to his lips.
Hyde sighed, clouding the mirror. Furiously, he rubbed it clear. No, they hadn't moved, both drinking with the manager. A regular nightly call. There was a little time left—
Go. The telephone rang unanswered. Go.
Little time—
He knew it was close. Almost over. They didn't need to monitor Guest's telephone any longer. They'd almost finished whatever they had in mind for Aubrey. Babbington was sure of himself.
Policemen smoking, drinking coffee or tea. The manager leaning on his counter. Go now—
He cancelled the number and began to dial at once. He had to know. Two men might have to be killed, he might have to run. He had to know. He finished dialling SIS's Vienna Station. The number began ringing. Three statues in a close group under the dim bulb in the manager's office. Still time.
"Yes?" Hyde did not recognise the voice.
"Listen to me," he blurted out. "It's Hyde — who the bloody hell are you?"
"Beach," came the surprised reply. Then: "What the hell do you want—? You've got a fucking nerve calling—"
"Shut up and listen, you stupid bugger!" Hyde snapped. "I haven't got time for the niceties. Just tell me what's happened to Aubrey."
"My God — his Russian pals have got him, that's what!"
"What—?"
"Two good men died tonight, you bastard! Two good men! All because the fucking KGB wanted their ball back! Do you understand, Hyde? His pals came and took him back! And they killed two of my mates doing it!"
Christ—
Too close. Already too late—
"Listen to me, you moron! It's not Aubrey — it's Babbington! Don't you understand, Babbington is Moscow's man!"