Rex might have let her go, but that didn't mean his new masters concurred. And there she'd be, sitting in the most obvious place, for three hours…
She pulled herself together, changed the rest of her pounds into schillings and took a taxi back to the city, to the railway station. Which station? She hadn't realised there were two. Then where did she want to go? She didn't know that, either, but then remembered that Germany was to the west, away from the Iron Curtain. Then she must go to the Westbahnhof.
"How were you going to manage for tickets and a passport?" Agnes asked.
"Oh, I had my Diner's Club card, thank heavens. I'd only taken it out two years ago. And I actually had my real passport. You see, Rex hadn't told me not to bring it when he rang, I suppose that would have sounded odd, so I just naturally did. But he'd taken back the Margaret Franklin one."
There was a stopping train to Munich, and as she watched the white countryside rumble by, the terrors began again. For over twenty. years of marriage she had been aware of the KGB as a giant enemy, but a distant, misty one. Now the giant was aware of her, knew she was scuttling around somewhere on the floor of Europe, would be leaning down to look closer.. At every stop, anybody getting on could be an agent, and most of them looked like it. She reached Munich almost in hysterics.
She staved them off until Munich airport – and by then the snow had hit London, catching Heathrow with its boots off, as usual. Flights to London were backing up all over Europe, nobody knew when… at that, she hauled her case into the lavatory and sat down and burst into tears. Her whole life had fallen in on her, and she was still trapped in the rubble.
At least German lavatories are clean enough for a good long cry. And after that, she remembered the duty-free bottle of Scotch in her airline bag, a rare and expensive brand that Rex had insisted on – and she now knew why. She didn't much like Scotch, especially neat, but a few cautious gulps made the giant seem smaller, and shorter-sighted. She took a taxi back to the station and bought a ticket to Frankfurt, remembering vaguely that the airport there had more flights than anywhere in Germany, and anyway, she wanted to keep moving.
"You could have gone to the British consul," Agnes pointed out.
"You mean just walk in and tell some little trade official that my husband's defected to Russia and I think the KGB's after me? Oh no thank you, Agnes. He'd've thought I was mad."
"You could have rung us. You know the number."
There was a tense silence. Maxim got up, switched on a lamp with an old parchment shade, then fumbled the curtains shut. The room took on a warm, firelight glow.
"Perhaps," he said, "you didn't want to risk being the first to break the news."
"I think perhaps that was it," Mrs Masson said gratefully. She swung her feet onto the floor and sat up, flexing her shoulders. "I suppose he might have changed his mind and come back. And anyway, would you have believed me, Agnes?"
"It's our job to believe things like this," Agnes said tunelessly, watching Maxim.
"And there," Mrs Masson said, "they did catch me."
Probably they'd spotted her at the airport but not risked making a pass then. Now they found her alone in a corner of the concourse, searching for change in her handbag. One snatched the the bag, the other stepped in to block her from view, and she thought he had a gun in his hand. Then before she had time to decide whether to scream or not, the bag had been thrown back at her and they were gone, hurrying but not running, and lost in a crowd that looked quickly at her and quickly away, uninvolved.
She was shaking so badly that she could hardly stand as she reached down for the bag to see what they had left her. And the answer was everything – except her little camera.
"Was there a film in it?" Agnes asked.
"Well there was, yes, I'd just put it in. I'd noticed there were only two shots left in it, so I used them taking a picture of the house – I don't suppose they'll come out, in that light – and bought a new film in Victoria."
"What did you do with the old one?" Agnes asked, her voice very controlled.
"It's somewhere in my airline bag. I was going to get it developed."
"We'll do that for you."
There was a distant thump as the police moved some heavy furniture. Mrs Masson shuddered. "It's like having the burglars in, grubbing through your clothes.. Oh, Agnes, just tell me who I married."
Agnes had come down by train and Maxim offered to drop her at Redhill station. His own drive back to London was going to be murder in that weather, and she had the film to develop. Ferris watched, shivering, as he backed a cautious three-point turn among the parked police cars and vanished as they started down the rutted ice of the drive.
"What happens now?" Maxim asked. "I mean to her: What does she live on?"
"Tricky question. I suppose we might get his pension paid to her – somehow. We can do things with money that would have you jailed in more respectable departments. So she could be lucky that far."
As they turned onto the wooded suburban road, the car slid broadside across the camber until it hit the piled snow on the verge. Maxim eased it out with very delicate use of the clutch. "D'you know what she told me, while you were getting your coat? That he made love to her, that last night in Vienna. It seems they hardly ever slept together any more. She thought it might be a sort of fresh start."
"The bastard," Agnes said unemotionally.
"So probably he guessed she wouldn't go with him."
"Always leave them laughing."
17
It was past nine o'clock when he parked in the bright, wide empty stretch of Whitehall. The journey had been a crawling chaos, even though he was running against the commuter tide, but central London was spookily quiet in the snow. It could have been three in the morning.
For once there were no tourists, just the policeman stamping his feet and punching his gloved hands together outside Number 10. Maxim went through to George's room, but there was only the duty clerk there.
"They're in the Cabinet Room, Major. Would you go straight in?"
Back down the corridor to the corner, where visitors to the Cabinet Room passed through the haughty marble gaze of Wellington – whom the French politely believed was Julius Caesar – and tapped on the door. George shouted: "Come!"
He and Agnes were alone in the tall room, seated together at the near end of a vast boat-shaped table, with red-leather-padded dining chairs all around it. There was a scatter of glossy black-and-white prints on the brown baize tabletop.
"D'you want a drink? I should think you must." George waved at a trolley of bottles and glasses by the fireplace. There wasn't any beer, so Maxim mixed himself a long whisky and water.
"That's the film, is it?"
"See what you make of that." George shoved a photograph into his hand.
It was a negative print, white lettering on black. It seemed to be a straightforward typed document, with unfamiliar numbers and letters as references, then a heading.
Gerald Jackaman
Maxim sat down and began to read. The print was almost life size and only slightly blurred by the grain.
When he'd finished he said: "We knew just about all this already. You could have worked this up from the files."
"It gets better later," Agnes said. She seemed surprisingly cheerful.
George pawed among the prints and thrust another one at Maxim. "Try that for size." Agnes's cheerfulness certainly wasn't infectious.
This page began: Joint account in the names of Gerald and Mary Jackaman at Compte Nationale d'Escompte, Boulevard Heurteloup, Tours. The rest was a mixture of figures – mostly francs and dates – which Maxim might have been able to analyse if he had the time. But he felt he had to say something.