He waited. Was Zimmermann in the bag, too, by now? Would a younger voice answer the call, smooth and dangerous? He waited. The receiver at the other end was picked up.
"Yes? Zimmermann," he heard. The voice checked with his memory.
"It's me — Hyde."
"What is it?" Zimmermann asked immediately and in English. "You are in trouble?"
"Listen — I may not have much time. Godwin's disappeared — he must have been picked up. They can't be far behind me now."
"I understand. But, you have—?"
"I've got everything. The computer threw up the whole meal. Everything… Babbington's name, even. Even his name. I've got the whole elaborate frame…"
"Can you get the information to me in any way?"
"No. It's on a tape. And I can't rely on the post, can I? Listen, Zimmermann — I can't go out the way I came in. They'll be waiting for me everywhere. Any suggestion's?"
Hyde felt the hand that held the receiver begin to pain him. He studied his other hand. Raw new skin, still healing. It seemed a badge of his fragility, his uselessness. He waited, willing Zimmermann to provide an escape route.
Eventually, Zimmermann said, "Yes. You have to get out. Do they know what you have done?"
"Yes. I was almost caught."
"And Godwin, of course… mm." Zimmermann paused for a moment. "There is precious little time, if any. I can do nothing, we can do nothing without the physical evidence. I am suspended. An enquiry is to begin soon. I am to speak to no one. However, I can help you. There is a plumber, a German, living in the small border town of Mytina, south of Cheb. Less than three hours from Prague. You have a map?"
"Yes."
"Mytina. You will find him at this address… do you wish to write it down?"
"No. Go ahead… OK, I've got that."
"He has acted unofficially for us on a few occasions. There are others like him, but not so close to the border or Prague. But, he needs money. His name is Langdorf, and he does nothing without money. Also, you will need to explain that you have his name from me. You have money?"
"Godwin must have standard issue Krugerrands in the flat somewhere, or there's a cache of Swiss francs here. I'll find them. I can pay."
"Then go at once. You must cross tonight — before dawn. I will be waiting for you…" There was a pause. Zimmermann was evidently studying his watch, making his calculations. "Yes, I can be there before dawn. Very few people know of my suspension at the moment… I will be waiting. Try very hard to be there, Mr Hyde. For all our sakes."
"I'll try. Thanks."
"Before dawn, remember. We do not have tomorrow."
"Yes."
Hyde put down the receiver and gently rubbed the hand that had held it. He listened to the street outside, then crossed to the window, lifting the curtain gently to one side. Traffic thin, pedestrians few, as if midnight had hurried them home. Man loitering in the dark doorway… no, girl there, too. No one suspicious. No curtains wide for surveillance, no muted lights. Hyde breathed deeply, clouding the cold window-pane, expelling the air like a decision made.
He turned from the window to face the room, his mind flicking through the rooms of the flat like a sequence of still pictures projected upon a screen.
Urgency returned like the onset of a renewed bout of fever. Now, he was aware of the flat, of the street, of the roof that might have to serve as his escape route…
And of Godwin, under a bright light, fending off the anticipated moment when he would let something slip or would have to tell what he knew.
The rooms were illuminated in his mind as starkly as if he shone a torch rapidly over the contours and contents of each of them. Where? Godwin would have concealed his Krugerrands or Swiss francs like every other agent posted abroad. The Sinking Fund, they called it in London. A lifeline; a way out. To be used when not waving but drowning. In this case, where?
Begin — come on, begin, he ordered his body. His hand flicked the curtain aside once more. The Skoda, a hundred yards away on the opposite side of the Celetna, was passed, light thrown upon it for a moment, by a late bus. At the far end of the street, beneath the Powder Tower, blue sparks flashed from an overhead cable as a tram rattled its way towards the river. Nothing else — there was still time, Godwin was holding out or remained unsuspected. There was time, time—
Little or no time, little or no time, no time…
He got onto all fours and scrabbled around the circumference of the room, his hands feeling the carpet like those of a blind man searching for something dropped. Nothing. He glanced under the dining table. He touched the undersides of the chairs, tilted the armchairs and the sofa… Godwin would, might need the money quickly, so it would have to be easy for a cripple. No bending or lifting or crawling or climbing…
Hyde smoothed the curtains, but there were no lumps, no rustlings. No weights that might have been coins. The old sideboard — his fingers touched and caressed the backs and undersides of drawers, lifted the clock and the tray on which Godwin's bottles of whisky and gin stood. He began, perhaps prompted by the clock, to glance at his watch after handling or moving or touching each object; punctuating his search.
Bathroom. Cistern dirty but otherwise empty. No waterproof package. Shower offering no place of concealment. Back of the wash-basin — twelve-twenty — edges of the thin, weary carpet on the bathroom floor. Nothing.
Kitchen. Undersides of the wall cupboards, just the right height for Godwin the cripple — twelve twenty-one — the stove, the pedal bin, dust and dead flies and a mummified spider on top of the wall cupboards. Buckets and mops in a cupboard, tins of food, including those for the neighbour's thin black cat. Behind the fridge — twelve twenty-two, no three — freezer compartment of the fridge, only ice-cubes and a slim package that contained some cold meat left from a meal.
Hallway. Cupboard. Hands slipping between folded sheets, shirts, smoothing down the ironing board as if searching a spreadeagled suspect. Suitcases in the bedroom, on top of the wardrobe. Bedroom. Twelve twenty-five. He was missing things, he couldn't afford to be really thorough, but he was still taking too long…
Gambling on Godwin holding out because he knew, with utter certainty, that they had him and by now they would have become suspicious. Some STB man would make the connection, bring the questioning round to—
Twelve twenty-six. Nothing in the suitcases or their linings. Nothing on the underside of the narrow bed that looked like a cot from some institution. Nothing in the dressing-table or at the backs of the drawers. Carpet — nothing. Twelve twenty-seven. Hyde's forehead was damp and prickly despite the cold of the flat. He felt his body heating up inside his clothes. He could smell the dust from beneath the bed and in the carpet. Curtains — nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing—!
Twelve twenty-eight. He had been in the flat for two minutes over half-an-hour. There could be no more than a few minutes now. Godwin would have had to supply his address — they'd know it anyway, from his file — and a police or STB patrol would be dispatched; routine in a workers' paradise. They'd be here for certain, and soon. They were already overdue. He was sweating freely now, and he could hear his own panting breaths. The exertion of tension, of frustration, was as great as that of his flight down the Castle Steps.
It had to be within easy reach, easy reach — twelve twenty-nine. Easy reach. Godwin couldn't even kneel easily, couldn't climb onto chairs to reach up, couldn't overturn or move heavy furniture without a huge, time-devouring effort. It had to be within easy reach—!