Now—
Lights above him in the government offices of the old Archbishop's Palace. More alarms, louder as if someone had opened a window to let the sound escape. Lights coming on in the Swiss Embassy, reducing the shadows in which he hid. A car starting further up the cobbled hill. More headlights in the inner courtyards, more lights in the room surrounding the square. By now, the fire in the computer room would have been extinguished, and be understood as no more than a diversion. They would be single-minded now, their attention entirely focused on himself. They did not know what he had — but, if they had him, Godwin would tell them, and soon—
Running feet, heavy and booted—
Now—!
He touched the chilly stone with both hands, as if about to hurl himself away from it, studied the pavement and the cobbles — and ran.
The gates were swinging open, the guards were moving towards the leading car. He saw this as he knelt by one of the parked black limousines in front of the Archbishop's Palace, his heavy breathing clouding the car's polished flank. Booted feet, voices, the alarm shrill, joined by others as if nesting birds had been roused. He got off his haunches and ran, crouching and wary, across the cobbles to the group of figures carved around the madonna. He pressed against the base of the statue and watched the leading car roar out of the gates into the square — wheels spinning, rear of the car sliding sideways, then the drift corrected — and away up the hill towards the Strahov. Only seconds left now. An officer was instructing the guards at the gates; someone yelled down from a high window. A mechanical voice through a public address system began to rouse the whole castle. Only seconds—
He scuttled across the last pool of light, last bay of shadow. A truck with a searchlight mounted on the back trundled into the square, its brakes protesting as it stopped. Immediately, the beam began bouncing and sliding in the square like a great golden ball striking the walls of the buildings.
He doubled up in shadow, gasping for breath. Skidded slightly, dragging his cheek against cold stone. The shadow opened up in front of him like a cliffs edge. The Castle Steps. Voices, public address, the bouncing ball of light, heels clicking on frost, the roar of engines.
Godwin—?
His car was near Godwin's flat, damn.
He looked at the steps for a moment, clutching the stone of the wall as if affected by vertigo. Light bounced over him and he hunched his shoulders as if under a weight. The light moved on, someone shouted; it bounced back towards him, slithering along the wall and pavement. Orders were bellowed. He ran.
In tens. His gloved hand skated down the frosty, dead-cold railing. Steps were in tens. He skipped down them, reached the level, then the next ten steps before the next level. Old street-lamps threw a muted, dusty light, making his shadow enlarge to monstrous size then quickly diminish. Blaring his shape against the walls.
He paused to look back. Torches, noise — they'd seen him, damn. He ran on, hearing the first pairs of boots clattering in pursuit. The noise of a rifle dropped—? The glow of a television set through open curtains as he passed the window of a tall, narrow house. A door opening—
He cannoned into someone, the body soft and yielding, perhaps that of a woman. He heard breath escape like an explosion, smelt a strong, cheap perfume, then hurried past, hearing the breathing begin again and the abuse commence. The steps zig-zagged, and he lost the sounds of the woman's voice and the footsteps of the pursuit.
Another ten steps, then the level, then another ten steps. Level, steps, level. Street-light, looming shadow, shrunken dwarf on the peeling stucco of the wall, darkness, steps, level, shadow, giant, dwarf, shadow, steps, level—
Crumbling stucco, treacherous, icy steps. His breath was laboured, legs almost gone. He was slowing and was aware of it. A pool of light seemed to open fuzzily ahead of him, like the opening of a door into a brightly lit room. He hesitated, afraid of what might be a searchlight. Then he plunged on, hearing once more the clatter of boots and the scraping of metal funnelled down the Castle Steps after him.
He staggered as he reached the bottom of the steps, clinging to the railing as a bout of coughing seized him. A narrow street, more light at the end of it. He forced himself to run, his feet noisy on the cobbles. Then he turned the corner into Little Quarter Square. The church of St Nicholas rose in front of him. A rank of black cars stood outside the palace that had become the Regional Party School. The headquarters and the church outfaced one another across the cobbles. Hyde crossed the square into the deep shadows beneath the church—
Shadows?
Lights, suddenly, as if they had waited in ambush for him. He gazed around him wildly, clutching the gun in his pocket, clutching the tape cassette. The doors of St Nicholas swung open. Noises, footsteps and tali. An audience emerged. A notice-board near his head advertised a recital that evening. He shook with relief as he began pushing into and through the audience as it descended the steps, dispersing into the square. He crossed the facade, the west door, bumped and hidden by people talking in loud, delighted voices. The recital had been a success.
He eased ahead of the small crowd and his shadow began to jog with him along the southern wall of the church as he turned into Mostecka ulice. He loped easily, almost with a lightness of mood. A car passed him innocently, its colour a drab fawn. People were behind him, others ahead, emerging from what might have been a club — yes, raw music, a saxophone and drums behind a wall of chatter as he passed the closing, door. He slowed, then. Looked back. People. Overcoated, hatted, scarved. Cover. A few cars moved at a sedate pace along the narrow street, the cobbles jolting their axles. Sirens in the distance, but no uniformed men in the Mostecka. They'd been caught up by the crowd from the church. They'd have to block the exits from Little Quarter Square as a first priority. The pursuit was diluting with each second that passed. Hyde walked on, not too quickly, hands thrust into the pockets of his overcoat, scarf wound round his face, partly to mask his hard, strained breathing. The bridge stretched away ahead of him across the Vltava. One gloved hand gripped the cassette in his pocket. Teardrop—
He'd done it. He had Babbington, clutched in his gloved hand. Everything; the whole scenario; and Babbington's name. The frame, the predicted consequences which perfectly matched the reality, the double agent who was Moscow's man. He'd done it. The knowledge made him catch his breath, bare his teeth in a triumphant grin.
He hurried beneath the dark tower at the end of the Charles Bridge. The wind from the river was icy and he hunched against it. The lamps on the bridge glowed, sleet flying through the haloes of chilly light. The black statues lining either side of the bridge leaned over him, hurrying his pace as if they whispered his lack of time to him. His hand gripped the cassette more fiercely. Now that he possessed the proof he realised, with a growing, gnawing urgency as palpable as extreme hunger, that Babbington would waste no time. Margaret Massinger he no longer considered or cared about. She could well have gone into the bag with Aubrey and her husband. There was only himself, blown across the bridge like a black scrap of paper beneath the gloomy, magnificent crucifixion figure, the gold of its crown and of the inscription gleaming in the sleety lamplight. There was only himself now. The bridge tower loomed over him and he passed through its arch into the Old Town. The wind disappeared. He walked through rutted slush on the pavement, unpursued but hurrying more than before. There was only himself.
Within minutes, he had reached Old Town Square, had passed the astronomical clock and reached the shadows of the Tyn Church. Then he paused, studying the Celetna ulice. Neon lights, hard. Traffic thin, pedestrians few. He could see the bulk of the Powder Tower at the other end of the street. Where was Godwin? He could pick out the darkened windows of his flat. At the back, in the kitchen—?