And the Russians… He recognised his contact, Oleg, inside the car. A hand beckoning him down the last few steps towards the opened door of their Mercedes. One young man in a well-cut suit displayed by his opened overcoat — a gun there, too—
And he believed, for an instant, that they would kill him rather than allow Special Branch near him.
Babbington shivered. Passengers from first class pressed behind him on the steps, their respectful stillness because of the array of cars already evaporating. The air was chilly in his nostrils, scented with aviation fuel. His chest seemed to pound. Left, right, left, right — the mad panning continued.
Eldon raised his hand in a confused, troubled gesture of welcome that might have been a signal to bar his admission to some club.
Hyde—
He had time to think that. It couldn't have been Aubrey. He was already dead; prepared for death at the very least. Poor Margaret and her stupid, persistent husband were, without doubt, no longer living. But, Hyde—
His hands clenched into useless fists. The Russians gestured more frantically. He saw the sweep of the young man's arm, his readiness to risk even gunfire to salvage the focus of the scene, the focus of Teardrop …
A car chase, the embassy in Kensington or some hidden safe-house, a light aircraft to the Continent, then — Moscow…
The things with which he had mocked Aubrey. The Special Branch men were fifteen yards away now. The medals, the Pravda eulogy — and the bitter, never-forgotten taste of failure. The daily reminders that his rank, his rank, was little more than a joke, albeit a respectful joke, while their uniforms demonstrated the real power and authority—
Everything was clear to him. Eldon had started forward now, confused but with some intuition that he should be acting against Babbington. Both he and the driver closed upon the Russian Mercedes — closing that exit, unless he ran—
Ran, ran, run, run —
Special Branch were five yards from him. And he was already at the last step, as if to greet them with his surrender—!
"Sir Andrew Babbington?" one of them began, questioning and polite and final. His hands gripped the sides of the passenger steps. "Sir Andrew, would you please accompany us…"
He heard no more. It had begun. The young Russian diplomat was already climbing into his Mercedes. Eldon was at the door, speeding a departing guest, his face beginning to turn towards Babbington, confusion lessening in his eyes, being replaced by shock. The two Special Branch officers — senior officers by their age — blocked the gangway, and the passengers behind him pushed at his back, insisting he move forward.
The security driver had turned against him. His hand lay snugly inside his jacket, awaiting events. Special Branch, Eldon, the driver — blue exhaust smoke from the Russian Mercedes as it prepared to leave — and, and, and…
Hyde.
He choked. One of the Special Branch officers gripped his arm like a stern nurse.
He staggered forward, and the other policeman was on his left side. He was walking towards their black Granada, unresisting. Eldon — he turned away from the look of disillusioned contempt on Eldon's face.
That Moscow flat—
He had promised himself newer, never that — even in '56, when he put his foot to this road, he had promised himself it would never be that.
Now, it was the best he could hope for. His only hope. That flat, those false, powerless ranks, the bench in Gorky Park, feeding the pigeons and watching the men in uniform strut where he shuffled—
Hyde, Hyde, Hyde—
At least Aubrey was dead. At least that.
He ducked his head as he climbed into the rear seat of the Ford Granada.
There would be no words. Looks, gestures, impressions, visual images of lurid clarity — but no words. Nothing spoken.
Kapustin had hurried aboard the Tupolev as soon as it came to a halt near the principal terminal building of Domodedovo airport. He was large and brisk in the seemingly, cramped first-class cabin of the airliner. And delighted. There was barely concealed pleasure on his square, broad features. The face he had shown Aubrey when he had lied about meeting a woman, the moment before Aubrey's arrest in the gardens of the Belvedere in Vienna. Now, Aubrey understood the source of the secret, satisfied smile. The man had been anticipating the arrest, as now he anticipated the final humiliation of Aubrey and his subsequent demise. No hatred; that was impermissible, unprofessional. But certainly the satisfaction of a web woven and an insect trapped.
He had uttered a few words of ironic welcome. The Russian diplomats had disembarked. Through his window, Aubrey saw the herded, arranged cameramen and journalists; the audience for his farewell appearance. Once they were alone on the aircraft, Kapustin fell to inspecting the Massingers as if checking luggage, murmuring inaudibly to already briefed guards, checking through the windows for cars and cameras. Then he paused before Aubrey.
Overcoat swelling over his stomach, gloves held before his paunch in a military gesture. Fur hat tucked beneath one arm. Woolen scarf at his throat. He was monolithic and irresistible as he gestured Aubrey from his seat.
A KGB officer held Aubrey's coat, helped him into it. He glanced down the cabin at the Massingers. Paul raised his hand in a tired, slow wave of farewell. His face was pale and drawn, and his other arm was around Margaret's shoulders. Aubrey could bear to look at them for only a moment. The sense was of — betrayal? No, not quite that. Guilt certainly. Pity, too. He had not been responsible for the deaths of very many amateurs — outsiders — in more than forty years. Hardly ever for the death of a friend. Now, he was. It was to be part of his epitaph, like the photographs and television shots those outside were waiting to capture.
He turned away from the painful image of the Massingers, unable to cope with the unfamiliar emotions that gripped him. He cauterised them by staring instead at the hostess standing at the door of the aircraft. And with the knowledge of the lessening distance between himself and the cameras. Cold bright air crossed the threshold of the aircraft like an intruder.
Kapustin was behind him — did he speak, whisper? No — but propelled him gently, firmly towards the door. Sunlight, a stiff, ambushing little breeze, the expanse of grey concrete with heaped snow beyond it; the glitter and dazzle of huge glass windows. Faces in and behind the dazzle, watching him. The air he drew in choked him with its coldness. He coughed, as if to clear his throat before addressing—
Addressing the broad scimitar of cameramen and journalists at the foot of the passenger steps. Roped back, the perched, portable TV and film cameras bobbing behind them. Guards, rope — the distance of deception. He could not call to them, they would not hear. They would see him, see what Kapustin wished them to see and record and believe, and then he would be hurried into one of the waiting black cars; to disappear.
He could not have addressed them. The cough had left his throat dry, inoperative. Kapustin crowded onto the top step of the passenger ladder behind him. A murmur like wind through tall dry grass, then the stutter of lenses and the whirr of automatic winders. The dry, awful chorus of crickets in a burned landscape. Aubrey hated it. The cameras went on and on pointing, on and on exposing yards of negative and video tape and film stock.
Kapustin's satisfaction enveloped Aubrey like a heavy, suffocating blanket. Kapustin held his arm, keeping him to the pose.
Then nudged him. He began to descend the steps. The chorus of the cameras loudened, became almost frenzied. Preying on his treachery, devouring the deception. They did not expect him to smile — Kapustin would, no doubt, prefer the scowl he gave the lenses. It would later be taken to be a sign of illness and strain. A harbinger of his death. At the least, the opening of millions of newspapers the following day would lead to the conclusion that he still possessed perhaps a modicum of shame and therefore could not summon a smile.