Hyde heaved forward regardless of the wire. The searchlight bounced onto his prone form, passed, returned. Held him. Almost immediately, a machine-gun opened fire. The dog, screaming because it had become trapped in the wire in its pain, fell silent after a single long whimper. The two border guards were flat on their stomachs, out of the line of fire. Stone chips flew, bullets ricocheted. Hyde wriggled out from beneath the wire and flung himself forward into the water. Immediately, the cold stunned him, numbing his legs and trunk to the waist. The current flung him off his feet because he was too cold to move forward. He cried out at the shock. Floated, was pushed then dragged by the current. Machine-gun fire swept back and forth across the stream behind him, but the searchlight had lost him. It bounced forlornly from bank to bank, picked out the two border guards on their knees, both trying to draw a bead on his bobbing head. He swallowed icy water, moved his arms in protest, but the stream thrust him on. His feet dragged on the rocky bed, his leg banged numbly against a hidden rock, then he was out of his depth.
And the searchlight was gone. The guards, running along the shore, also vanished. The wire was just visible. He collided with a midstream rock and was too winded and weak to grasp its gleaming surface. He was hurried on by the current. The banks of the stream narrowed, rose on each side. His whole body was numb, too numb, dangerously—
A rock ahead. He tried to steer for it, tried to reach it, able only to push feebly against it with his feet as he passed. He saw foggily. Drew in one breath with enormous effort. Hands, feet, legs, trunk numb. He tried to stand, touched rocks, was swept onwards, touched rocks again, tried to stand, drew in a huge breath and ducked beneath the surface. Gripping rocks with numb hands, dragging the rocks towards him as his legs and torso were swept sideways. The water's current stretched him out, refloated him. Dragged him at another rock, slimy and hard. Another, then another—
He crouched against the current as it swept to both sides of a jutting rock. Knees on the pebbly bed, hardly registering the painful, hard lumps — his head was above water! He waited, then heaved himself at the bank.
He crawled out of the icy water, heart pumping, breath absent, strength gone. Rolled onto his back, coughing weakly, waiting for the effort to subside and allow him to find the strength to draw in air.
And saw Zimmermann's face. Framed by two other faces. They might have been those of the border guards. His hand flapped on his chest. Could he feel the wrapped cassette—? Could he? He patted weakly. Zimmermann understood and bent down beside him. He withdrew the cassette and held it for Hyde to see. Hyde nodded. Which started him coughing again. He had begun breathing shallowly and quickly. Torchlight danced around his body. Men spoke in German. He realised with difficulty that he had crossed the border.
"Wrap him up well," he heard Zimmermann say. "Get him on his feet as soon as you can." He patted Hyde's shoulder softly. Hyde could hardly feel the gesture. "Well done, Mr Hyde… we came upsteam from the bridge because of the activity in the area. Particularly the helicopter. But, it was a good thing you got ashore by yourself. We would not have seen you in the water."
Blankets laid on him, one after the other, heavy as earth. Someone rubbing his legs, his thighs roughly. Arms, too. A hand raised his head. Brandy. He coughed, losing most of it down his chin and collar.
"Listen—" he began.
"Say nothing at the moment," Zimmermann instructed. Behind his head the sky was beginning to gain colour. West German Frontier Guard — Grenzschütz — uniforms moved around him. Hyde wanted to vomit. His heart would not slow down. They continued to rub at his limbs and body. More brandy. This time he swallowed.
He coughed and said, "Not much time — have to talk to London. Have to, Zimmermann!" He was pulling at the German's sleeve.
The helicopter was away to the left, across the stream. Tree-top height, watching them. Heads turned to observe it. Hyde's head ached with cold, but ideas flashed and bloomed in his mind, as if he had drunk much more of the brandy. And then, for certainty's sake, the helicopter's small searchlight flicked across the river and spotlighted them for perhaps five seconds. Then it blinked out and the small helicopter rose and slipped over the trees. Hyde lost sight of it.
They knew.
Already, Zimmermann was saying: "… suspected they were following from Nuremberg. Someone must have seen me when I landed… they knew from my whereabouts that you—"
Hyde shook Zimmermann's sleeve, and spluttered: "Get me to a phone — if they warn London, then Babbington — disappears as soon — soon as he lands. Understand? We have to have him — have to have Babbington to save Aubrey. No swap, no — no Aubrey. Understand?"
Zimmermann's face darkened. Hie glanced at the sky, as if to pick out the now hidden helicopter.
"Yes," he said. "Yes, of course — of course!" He stood up. "They will carry you down to the car." Then in German, quickly and with authority: "Pick him up. Quickly — we must return to Waldsassen at once. Quickly!"
Aubrey glanced at his watch. Nine-seven. The unbroken snow lay like a frozen white sea lapping up to the hills of Moscow. The city was revealed like cast-up wreckage; spars and towers, broad avenues, blocks of apartments, ornate, miniature churches and palaces. Railway lines, ring roads and motorways spread in all directions from the city; once noticed, the scene became transformed into a vast spider's web heavy with snow and with Moscow at its heart.
The three of them — Margaret Massinger kneeling on her seat like a child, her head above the back of it — stared out of the windows of the Tupolev as it lazily circled the city, awaiting landing instructions. A small delay, the pilot had informed them over the intercom. Volume of air traffic for the southern international airport of Domodedovo. Aubrey glanced up. Margaret was looking at him intently. He tried to smile and she nodded, as if she understood his intention and his difficulty.
Now, near the end of it all, he was unable to speak to her. Or to Paul Massinger. The three of them had exchanged scrappy, broken phrases, single words, the occasional platitude but nothing more throughout the flight. Guests at a party, the earliest to arrive and strangers to one another. The dozen or so Russians aboard the aircraft ignored them. The hostesses served them with breakfast and with drinks in bland silence. Their guards relaxed. Each of the three seemed grateful for silence, and for the proximity of the others. Aubrey was pleased that their relationship did not exclude him.
The city slid beneath the wing. Traffic on the huge motorway ring, tinier than miniatures. Two trains visible, rushing into the city. The river, the Kremlin.
Aubrey had not been in Moscow since before the war. Yet it had formed the enemy fortress for so long that it was familiar. Any map of the city he had ever seen immediately became an architect's three-dimensional model or a series of aerial photographs. He knew the modern city, but until now it had belonged in his imagination. Moscow had been like Rome and Carthage, made unreal by distance and history. Sites of ancient battles. Now, below him, he saw the enemy camp. And it was also the enchanted castle, the home of the wicked…