Zimmermann shrugged, lacing his fingers, unlacing them. He appeared at a loss.
Guest said, "Preposterous. Quite preposterous. What kind of twisted mind invented this rubbish? Hyde? Aubrey? The Russians? It really is ridiculous, you know, Herr Zimmermann."
Nine-sixteen.
"Christ, I'm cold," Hyde murmured.
Zimmermann looked up from his fingers quickly. Hyde's face was pale; the skin quivered on his cheeks, his lips echoed the constant movement of his clenched teeth. His hands, gripping the edges of the blanket and folded on his chest, were bloodless and shaking.
"It is not preposterous!" Zimmermann snapped.
"I beg—"
"Listen to me, Sir William. Please listen—" He lowered his voice. Nine-seventeen. "That was obviously the factor that dictated their timing… your support of Sir Andrew. The new service you have conjured into existence…"
"You suggest I have played into Soviet hands?"
"No, no — believe me, no. Merely that Babbington and his masters took advantage of the circumstances you helped to create. The scenario had lain idle for some years—"
"And how, precisely, did you learn of it?"
Hyde moaned softly, but whether with cold or something akin to despair Zimmermann could not tell. The man's head was hanging. Wrapped in his blanket, he looked like a refugee or a prisoner who had been beaten.
"I — the evidence is here, Sir William, with us. Please believe that we have the evidence."
"From a computer?"
"From Moscow Centre itself. Everything…" Zimmermann sighed. He could not grasp the next word or phrase. There seemed no more he could usefully say. Guest did not believe him. Nine-eighteen. Twelve minutes. Guest could not act now, even if he believed—!
"This — I think I should begin by making reference to your ministry in Bonn, Herr Zimmermann. And perhaps I should listen to Andrew Babbington's account of the affair. Frankly, I don't believe a word of it. Not one word—"
"For Christ's sake, shut up!" Hyde's eyes were wide, bright as if feverish. He was shaking inside the blanket. "If you wait another bloody minute, sport, you'll kill Aubrey!"
"Don't be ridiculous."
"And you'll kill your precious god-daughter, mate. Aubrey, Massinger, and Massinger's wife. They're all on the flight."
"What—?"
"Don't you ever fucking listen to anything anyone says?" Hyde almost screamed, stretching forward towards the receiver, the muscles and veins standing out in his neck. "I said Massinger and his wife are on that bloody plane to Moscow! Babbington's making sure there's no one left to testify! He's cleaning house, mate. Tidying-up! Understand? You're making sure he kills her — kills Margaret Massinger along with Aubrey!"
He slumped back into his chair, almost tumbling it and himself to the floor. Zimmermann started from his seat, but Hyde waved him to sit down. There was a gleam of calculation replacing the wild look in his eyes. His teeth chattered as he tried to grin. Then he said: "It's up to that pompous old fart, now." His voice was loud enough for Guest to hear. "It depends if he gives a monkey's or not."
In the silence, the minute-hand of the clock moved audibly. Nine-twenty.
Eleven seconds later — they had both counted them off — Guest said, "Assuming, perhaps only assuming…" He cleared his throat. "I must assume…" Again, he dried up. They heard him cough. "If — what do you suggest, Hyde? Zimmermann — what do you suggest?"
Hyde dragged his chair to the desk. The blanket fell away once more. "Heathrow — Special Branch must grab Babbington and hold him. Just hold him — and warn them to watch out for interference."
"Yes—"
"Use all your emergency authority and make Euston Tower and Cheltenham transmit Priority Black signals to the embassy in Moscow, and Moscow Centre. They have to do that now. You have to try to stop them taking Aubrey off the plane. If you've got Babbington and they've got Aubrey, there's only one thing to do. Tell them you'll do a swap — exchange their man for ours. Understand?"
"But—"
"Look, if they agree, you've already got the proof you need! They wouldn't agree to hold the operation if Babbington wasn't their man — would they? Once they go on hold, it doesn't matter how long the tidying up takes!" Hyde growled. "Just make sure they know you've got Babbington. They'll have to have him back — too bad for morale if they let him go to the wall. It'll work. It happens with small fry — and big fish. Get them to agree to a trade."
"Euston Tower can—?" Guest began.
"Don't ask — they can talk to Moscow Centre any time they choose. Priority Black, remember. Just tell them to do it. Inform the Chairman you've got his favourite toy. He should choke on the news!"
Nine twenty-one.
"Very well — this is all provisional, of course. But, under the circumstances surrounding… surrounding the other people involved, I am prepared to go along with your suggestions to the extent—"
"Do it! And, while you're at it, get Godwin free in Prague. If the poor sod's still alive. Do it."
Zimmermann said quickly, efficiently, "We will ensure that the computer tape, the irrefutable proof, will be flown by helicopter to our computer centre in Munich at once. Our computer will talk to yours at Century House — an hour after Sir Andrew reaches London, you will have confirmation of everything we have told you." As soon as he had finished speaking, he cut the connection with a brisk, decisive movement of his right hand. Hyde slumped his head on his folded arms and lay still, his damp hair staining the green blotter. Zimmermann watched him for a few moments, then said softly:
"Is there time, I wonder?"
"There'd better be," Hyde mumbled into his sleeve. He was wearing a Grenzschutz uniform shirt that was too large for him. "I don't even want to think about it." He did not look up as he added: "There's nothing we can do about it now, anyway. Nothing."
Zimmermann glanced at the clock. Nine twenty-two. "No," he agreed. "Nothing."
As he descended the passenger steps, Babbington experienced a sensation that might have originated in some television news item. Speed, movement, action; the viewer relying upon the camera's point of view, that camera held by a running man. Vigorous panning — left, right, left, right — a desperate attempt to define the real, crucial focus of the scene.
He was three steps from the bottom of the passenger ladder. There was the expected black Mercedes and the uniformed civil service driver; this one with small-arms expertise and a myriad emergency driving skills. Eldon was there in his military fawn overcoat, present as one of the new influential deputies of SAID. He was standing erectly by the black car, and had not yet begun to react to the new arrivals.
Two other cars. Almost a traffic-jam. One of the cars — another Mercedes — was slightly nearer, and had arrived in more of a hurry. The second new car was — Special Branch. He did not even need to think about it. Two mackintoshes, two trilbies. Caricatures. The morning sunlight glanced off the windows of the terminal, highlighted the arrogant tailplanes of perhaps a dozen airliners. Gleamed on the windows of the three cars. Left, right, left, right — point of focus? Babbington was unsettled.
It would be the act of the next few moments. After that, events would be beyond his shaping. The two Special Branch men began their ponderous progress towards him across thirty yards of tarmac. Eldon began to absorb the scene, his left hand already gesturing to the security driver, who began reaching for his shoulder-holster. Yet Eldon was confused, made compliant by his recognition of the Special Branch officers.