Voices—?
Traffic, then his own footsteps beating across the slippery cobbles, splashing noisily in puddles. Other footsteps, then the first shot. He began to weave in his running, slipped once, regained purchase. The gates ahead of him wobbled in his vision, but he could discern no one outlined against the street-lamps beyond. He collided with them then propelled himself through the gap he had left. A shot struck one of the scrolled ornamentations, and careered away. Then he was in the wide, cobbled street, and a trarn flashed sparks at him like a signal of assistance. He dodged one car and ran across the street, just as the tram stopped.
A very old woman was climbing painfully aboard, helped by a younger woman. Hyde, his breath escaping and being recaptured in great sobs, watched in a fever of impatience — left foot, stick, hip swung, right foot, totter, the young woman's arm braced against the weight that threatened to topple back off the platform. There was a figure at the gates, then a second shadow. Come on, come on—
The old woman heaved her centre of gravity forward into her habitual arthritic hunch again, and then tapped a step forward. The younger woman placed her left foot on the platform. Someone — a tall figure, not Wilkes — was pointing towards the tram. Come on, come on—
He had to clench his teeth to keep the words in. The tall figure began running across the road. The younger woman had both feet on the platform. Through the lighted glass of the rear of the tram, two figures were moving across the road like fish in a bowl; black, shadowy fish, hunting.
Three steps, and the old woman had still hardly mounted the lowest of them.
Trap, trap—!
Hyde turned his head wildly, realising his stupidity, his meek acceptance of the first assistance he had recognised. On the tram, he was trapped. There was nowhere else -
Trap, safe — trap — safe…
He pushed past the two women as gently as he could, squeezing past the surprised malevolence of the old woman's face and her hunched, tottering form. He passed down the tram. Now he was the fish in the lit bowl. Timing, timing. He could take them all the way on the tram, but they'd still be there when it emptied. They could wait. It had to be timing, but he was already beginning to realise that the information was erroneous. Its origins were fictional.
Two men hopping on and off the New York subway — a film, Christ, nothing but a film—! Wires crossed, not training, just a bloody film—! French Connection, man with a beard, jumping on and off…
He should never have got on the fucking tram—!
Standing opposite the centre door of the tram, he watched the door by which he had entered. Both doors were open. Wilkes's face, lighting up and hardening in the same moment, bobbed into view behind the two women, still not seated. Where was the other one? Wilkes's expression promised him full retribution; malevolent, full of hate, full of pleasure. Where was—?
Wilkes's smile was broadening, and the tall man was standing on the pavement opposite the centre door. They'd seen the film, too. Hyde let his shoulders slump. The tall man stepped onto the platform, raised a foot to the step.
The driver waited. The tall man stepped back. He'd follow in the car, having blocked Hyde's escape. The driver pressed the bell, and the door moved fractionally. Hyde went through without touching it and the Heckler & Koch's barrel struck the tall man across the forehead. He staggered back, blinded by pain and sudden blood.
Inside the lit glass bowl of the tram, Wilkes's mouth opened like a fish's. Hyde stepped over the tall man's still form, and ran, at first as if to catch the tram, then into a narrow, ill-lit street, guessing it headed towards the West-bahnhof and light and crowds.
He ran. The noise of the tram faded behind him. There was no noise yet of a car engine firing or of pursuing footbeats. It was enough of a gap.
He ran.
Peter Shelley remembered looking out across dark, light-pricked London on numerous earlier occasions from the broad windows of his office in Century House. The river wound like a black snake between two borders of light, its back striped by the lamps of bridges. Increasingly, his last, reluctant, half-ashamed cogitations of the day had come to concern Kenneth Aubrey. He could not help but consider himself as some kind of betrayer. Aubrey and the old order — he owed them everything, including his latest and most gratifying promotion to the directorship of East Europe Desk. That office was a recognised stage on the road that led to the very top: part of the Jacob's Ladder of SIS mythology. He should repay, honour his debts to Aubrey. Yet whenever he decided that, an image came to him of a sunlit garden in Surrey, and his wife pushing the swing which held and delighted his small daughter. He was always the observer of the scene, and he seemed to himself to lurk beneath the apple trees like an intruder, someone who intended harm to that secure and loved couple. The feeling of danger posed to them was so intense it was as if he held a weapon in his hands, or the two people were naked and vulnerable and he, a stranger, obscenely desired sexual violence.
Paul Massinger had hinted darkly at SIS collusion with the KGB, on Hyde's word. Shelley trusted both men, and could not ignore them. But Babbington, with Sir William's blessing, now controlled SIS along with MI5, and Shelley was in danger — his family was in peril along with his mortgage and his promotion and his career and his ambitions — if he did more than nothing. He must do nothing, nothing at all.
He turned from the nighttime view of the city, and the telephone seemed immediately at the focus of his vision. He all but removed his right hand from his pocket to reach for it, then relented. His breathing was audible, almost a gasp. There was one more moment of reluctance, and then he picked up the receiver and dialled an outside line. The telephone purred. He watched the door, as if afraid of being surprised in some guilty act. He had to, no matter what the cost. The calculation, the selfishness he had hoped would come to him, had not materialised. He was helpless before his obligations to Aubrey. He had to help -
He dialled his home, and waited. His wife's voice gave their number.
"Darling…" he began.
"Peter — where are you?" Then testiness creeping in, tones of a dinner postponed or spoiled. "You're not still at the office, are you?"
"Yes — sorry. Something's come up. Can dinner be kept?" he added hopefully.
"No!" she snapped, then: "Oh, I suppose so. Honestly, Peter, you said you'd be early this evening."
"I know," Shelley soothed. A hard lump of guilt appeared in his throat. "I'm sorry. Look, it won't take me very long. I'll be with you by—" He studied his watch, a birthday present from his wife. " — oh, eight at the latest. OK?"
She sighed. "OK. Don't be any later." Her voice had hardened again, as if being mollified had left her feeling cheated. "Please don't be any later," she repeated with heavy irony.
"I promise—"
The receiver clicked and she was gone. Reluctantly, he put down the instrument. Her testiness, he felt, was entirely justified; he felt more bereft at it than he might have done had they been more affectionate. He was betraying her, all the more so because she was not an ambitious wife, not pushing. She might even have supported his decision to assist Aubrey, to repay his debts. That knowledge was almost insupportable.
Swiftly, he left and locked his office, and made for the lifts. The corridor was empty except for a cleaner with a noisy vacuum. She did not look up as he passed, as if to mirror his shifty guilt. The lift arrived almost immediately, surprising him, and it did not stop until he had reached the basement level which housed Central Registry.