"I'm trying to find something that will convince him I'm a genuine friend, not a trap. But I can't. All I can tell you is that I'm the husband of the daughter of the man Aubrey is supposed to have betrayed to the Russians."
"Christ, mate…" the woman breathed.
"That either makes me Aubrey's bitter enemy, or his one real friend. Hyde must decide. If he contacts you again, or if you can reach him, please tell him everything I've told you — and that I must speak with him. I'll do it from here, even from the call-box on the corner to keep him secure. Will you do that?"
The woman hestitated for a long time, and then she finally reluctantly nodded.
"I'll do it-if I hear from him," she grudgingly agreed.
"Thank you. Now, I'll leave you. Good afternoon, Ms Woode." He inclined his head, and turned to leave the room. The woman made no effort to recall him and Massinger was dubious as to his success. She might just as easily warn Hyde off.
He closed the door of the flat behind him and went down the stairs. A young woman passed him in the hallway, then opened the door of the ground floor flat. The commentary of a Test Match issued into the hall, together with the smell of pipe tobacco. The radio informed him of an imminent English batting collapse before the door was closed upon the commentator's voice. He had never learned the English trick of passionate interest in such a sleepwalking game; especially not in a recording of a game being played on the other side of the world.
He opened the front door.
The blue Cortina was clearly visible in the failing light, against the black railings of the gardens. Two men, driver and passenger. He noted the number, then descended the steps.
He had walked three or four yards in the opposite direction from the parked car when he heard its engine start. A noise harsher than the crow's coughing earlier. His body suffered a violent spasm of shock, as if he had been dreaming the falling-dream and then suddenly awoken. The car passed him. He forced himself to turn his head, and felt a chill of recognition. A type, not an individual. A professional. The driver's glance was vivid with threat.
The car turned out of Philbeach Gardens, and disappeared. Massinger walked on in the chill dusk, his heart refusing to adopt a calmer, more regular beating.
Margaret was perched on the edge of the armchair which faced the door of the drawing-room. Her hands comforted and strengthened each other on her lap. Babbington was in half-profile to Massinger until he turned his head in greeting. Or perhaps it was no more than an acknowledgement of his presence. Massinger felt himself an intruder, the shoulders of his overcoat sparkling with melted snow that had blown along the orange-flaring darkness of the street outside. The warmth of the central heating seemed a barrier; a border he had yet to cross.
Babbington stood almost at once, and held out a hand. Massinger moved towards him, conscious of an ache in his hip. Margaret's features betrayed a little anxiety. Babbington seemed to weigh and discard him, and to be almost amused at his infirmity.
"My dear Paul," he murmured.
"Sir Andrew," Massinger replied stiffly. Babbington smiled sardonically and with infinite confidence.
Margaret stood up jerkily, her body that of a faint-hearted conspirator in the moment of flight. "I–I'll leave the two of you to talk," she murmured. Massinger allowed a look of pain to cross his face. It was evident Babbington and she had been talking. She knew — if not everything, then a great deal about how he had spent the day. He could not but be hurt, and guilty, in the moment before other thoughts crowded in. Blue Cortina. Babbington's people—? Why? He felt breathless.
"Don't forget to leave yourself time to change," Margaret added as she moved to the door.
Flowers — he was aware of a number of new flower arrangements that must have been delivered that afternoon. The sideboard was laden with drink and glasses.
"Why—?" he asked stupidly.
"Covent Garden," she murmured in a tight little voice, indicating displeasure. Then she closed the double doors to the dining-room behind her. Immediately, he could hear her supervising the activities of the butler and housekeeper.
"Sit down, my dear Paul," Babbington murmured, indicating a chair. It might have been the man's own room. Massinger lowered himself into his armchair as vigorously as possible, casting the stick and his removed raincoat aside. Babbington watched him with what might have been greed rather than curiosity. "You're not well?"
"Fine, thank you, Andrew — and you?"
"Good health, thank God."
Massinger quailed inwardly. It was not knowledge of Babbington's position, authority and reputation that made him do so. Rather, Babbington exuded those things, they were palpably present in his frame, his features, the room.
"You seem serious, Andrew?" he asked as lightly as he could.
"I am, Paul — I am. This Aubrey business. This affair of your friend Aubrey. Deeply distressing." Babbington shook his head as an accompaniment to his words. The scent of winter roses from near the windows, where the central heating was opening the tight buds, was sharp and warm in Massinger's nostrils. He had not noticed the scent when he had come in from the cold, wet street. Now, he heard the sleet patter against the windows behind the heavy curtains and, through one window at the far end of the room where the curtains had not been drawn, he saw it blow in a gust through the orange light of a street-lamp. The image was almost identical to that of one of the two Turners on the wall above the sideboard.
"Yes. My friend, as you say." It sounded like a confession of weakness or guilt.
"I'm sorry for you, Paul. It must be very upsetting, caught in the middle as you are."
"Yes."
"Especially when one is impotent, useless." The words had been carefully chosen. "When one can do nothing to help, even though one wishes to — however much one wishes to." Babbington spread his hands on his thighs.
"You think nothing can be done?"
"I'm certain of it," Babbington replied sharply. His eyes held Massinger's. "I'm sure of it," he repeated softly.
"You think he's guilty?"
"Perhaps. It doesn't look good. In fact, it looks very bad, from whichever angle the light strikes it. Very bad."
"But you know he's not a traitor—!"
"I know nothing of the sort, neither do you. You don't believe he is. Nothing more than belief."
"Nonsense."
"My God — if he is allowed to remain as DG of the intelligence service, Paul — the havoc, the absolute, irreparable harm of it!"
"I don't believe it. Any of it. You shouldn't believe it either."
"Aubrey's day is over, Paul, whatever the final outcome. I assure you his sun has set." Babbington's eyes gleamed with an undisguised ambition.
"Whatever the truth really is?"
"I'm sorry," Babbington murmured insincerely. "I realise he is a very close friend…"
"And if it is a KGB set-up, as Aubrey believes?" Massinger asked, feeling warmth ascend to his cheeks. He felt foolish, hot and angry and not in control of his situation. And he felt insulted and unnerved by the threats that had underlain each of Babbington's remarks. "Don't you wonder why the KGB might want to help you achieve your ambitions — why they should want Aubrey ditched like this?"
Babbington was silent for a time, as if genuinely considering Massinger's theory. Then he studied the cornice, and the central moulding above the chandelier. Plaster pastoral, shepherds and shepherdesses against pale blue, like a piece of Wedgwood. Then he returned his gaze to Massinger.
"You're not going to go on with this, of course?"
"What?"