Stepanov's hand upon the door. Fourteen lines. To Lara. His finger still hovered over the Break key. Yet Stepanov appeared to be in no hurry. The poem vanished. Hyde pressed the button on the streamer, to begin recording. Don't use the printer, no hard copy, Godwin warned him in his head. He drew his hand away from the printer as if from a flame. Closing of the glass door behind Stepanov, footfalls on the carpet.
Cancel—
No! Not yet…
Lettering. The words began to flow on the screen, as if hurried by Petrunin rather than himself. Politburo dirt. Family scandals, nepotism, immorality, jewellery, dachas, furs, everything…
Stepanov was smiling and unsuspicious. Hyde waited to press the Break key, his eyes hurrying from the lieutenant to the telephone to the screen.
… houses, mistresses, bank accounts abroad, boyfriends, money, money, money, paedophilia…
There was no short-cut. Teardrop was in there, but Petrunin had died before he could supply the individual passwords for the separate sections of his secret file. The dirt continued to spill down the screen like the front pages of cheap newspapers. Dirt on the Politburo, dirt on the Secretariat, details of current First Directorate foreign operations, agents-in-place… all of it useful, much priceless — but Hyde wanted one name, one man's name connected with one operation.
Teardrop.
Come on, come on — the name, the name…
Please—
The telephone rang. Hyde's hand jumped, as if electrocuted.
Paul Massinger slumped onto the edge of the vast iron bath with its ball-and-claw feet, staring at his reopened leg wound. His breathing was ragged. Margaret, who had helped him along the corridors, appeared exhausted. Her pale hair flopped over her drained, bruised face. Paul's leg ached deeply. His hands clutched the edge of the bath to steady his shaking body. Beach, standing near the door, appeared genuinely distressed. His gun was drawn, he appeared alert — but he was concerned. He did consider Massinger's pain unfortunate, even unnecessary. Aubrey, too, had been surprised that the wound had suddenly reopened. But the old man was sunk in a profound despair. He seemed incapable of volition, regret, or even fear. As if lightly hypnotised by desperation.
"Can you — Margaret, help me get my pants off…" he whispered hoarsely. There was no necessity for pretence. His leg hurt like hell. He glanced at his watch. Eleven-twenty. Couldn't be long now, have to hurry—
Margaret moved to his side. "Can you raise yourself, Paul? Take your weight on your hands and arms…" She undid his belt, kneeled to help his trousers down around his ankles so that the wound could be washed and repatched — Massinger felt the pain of the table-edge against which he had thrust his wound, to open it again. And winced.
"I–Christ, I'll try…"
Come on, Beach—! The man moved, involuntarily, as if the mental command had reached him. Come on—
Massinger groaned. Margaret cried his name in fear. Beach moved closer, reaching out a supporting hand, gun hanging at his side—
Massinger struck Beach with his fist, high on the side of the head. Margaret heaved at the man, tilting his body over the bath. Massinger's left hand grabbed for the gun, touched, gripped, held. Beach's face distorted with rage. He struggled, lashing out with his fist at Massinger, then at Margaret, who stumbled away from the struggle, colliding with the wall behind her. Her hair fell across her eyes and she wiped it feverishly aside. Beach had twisted against Paul and was bending him back over the bath. Paul's face was white with effort and weakness. Beach had the upper hand, was stronger — it wouldn't work, wouldn't—
What could she do? She was aware of her own weakness, her lack of height and bulk measured against Beach's trained muscles and reactions. He hit Paul again, his fist striking her husband's chin. Paul's whole face seemed to sag.
Jug. Patterns of shepherds or a hunt. Horses, eighteenth-century costumes on the men and women.
The jug and basin stood on a bathroom stool, dusty, unused. She touched the handle. Paul groaned—
— grabbed the handle, moved forward with a sob, swung the jug which seemed suddenly lighter, not heavy enough—
It cracked, split on Beach's head, near the right ear. Beach groaned with what might have been surprise, released Paul's shirt, his body, then subsided into the empty bath. Immediately staining the white porcelain with a thin bright smear of blood from his bleeding head. His breathing was like a groan of protest and surprise.
Margaret leaned heavily over the bath, as if to vomit. She was gasping for breath. Massinger heaved the gun from Beach's grasp and slipped off the safety catch.
"Go!" he said urgently. "Quickly, love — quickly!" She straightened, flicking back her hair. Her face was ashen around the bruises, older. "Can you?" he asked, and she nodded at once. "Good girl — be careful. If they — if they… just don't do anything, please. Put down the telephone and go quietly. Don't fight—" Again, Margaret nodded. And smiled, shakily. Like someone leaving an intensive care unit, knowing there was no hope for a relative but trying to evade the inevitable or remember some better time.
She bent and kissed his cheek, glanced at Beach who was almost snoring in the bath, then left the room. Massinger heard her footsteps patter away like someone fleeing. He stared at the gun, held loosely in his hands, object rather than weapon, and then at Beach.
The Massingers' last stand. He grinned, and then winced at the pain in his leg. And at his fear for Margaret. Stupid move, he told himself. Stupid, dangerous move—
An act of desperation. He was terribly afraid for her safety. The gun quivered in nerveless fingers. Beach snored. Others moved about the house. All of them threatened Margaret.
Margaret hurried down the corridors, wincing inwardly at each creak of a floorboard, her breathing light and shallow, her arms and hands trembling, fingertips damp so that she sensed the betrayals of smudged fingerprints left on the wall. Her heart raced.
Another long corridor. She had noted, counted, each of the closed doors as she struggled to help Paul towards the bathroom, her mind reaching forward like a reluctant hand to the violence and danger to come. She opened the first door carefully, just a crack, fumbled for the light switch, listening to the room's emptiness—
No telephone.
Next door, next room, light, no telephone, just packing-cases and floorboards and an empty table. Down the corridor another room, then another, her temperature rising at each pause, each eased opening of a door, each switching on of a light. Five rooms now, then a staircase leading down to the first floor of the tall house near the Wiener Gaswerk-Leopoldau, stranded in a scrubby industrial suburb. She hurried down the stairs to a landing, peered over the banister into an empty hallway with chequered tiles half-hidden by dusty, faded carpet, then tried the nearest room.
Door, switch, light, and the moment of caught breath as she anticipated a challenge. Carpet, chairs, desk — telephone on the desk! She closed the door silently behind her. The curtains were drawn across the windows, there were cigarette butts in an ashtray and still wet rings on a low table near an empty glass. Beer-froth coated the sides of the glass. The room had been recently occupied — abandoned for only a few moments? She hurried behind the desk so that she could face the door. There had been no key in the lock. She fumbled the telephone to her cheek. It purred with an outside line. She dialled quickly, noisily. Watching the ashtray and the wet rings on the table. Watching the door.