Aubrey looked up. "Patently a forgery," he managed to say. His chest felt tight. He could hear his racing heartbeat in his ears, feel its thump in his chest.
"I see. You will also discover, as you read on, that you explain it was Castleford who operated all your networks, presenting yourself only as a minion in SIS's organisation. You deliberately suggested to the NKVD that it was of the utmost importance for them to stop him. Even to get hold of him. You claim in that document that Castleford was your senior officer in SIS. You lied so effectively to the NKVD that they had Robert Castleford murdered as a British agent!" Eldon cleared his throat, then added quietly: "It was at that point, when you had betrayed Castleford, that you decided to throw in your lot with the NKVD and become a Russian agent!"
Aubrey felt choked. He could not speak.
They had him.
The telephone rang and Massinger snatched up the receiver. Ros's plump hand hovered near his for a moment, and then she stepped away from him, as if to dissociate herself from the conversation to come. She gathered the tortoiseshell cat to her large breasts.
"Yes?"
"Massinger?"
"Yes." It was Hyde. He felt flooded with relief. He had spotted no tail on his way to Philbeach Gardens, but he wondered at the extent of his own competence. It had been too long since he had needed those old skills to be certain he still possessed them.
Hyde was evidently using a call box, yet there was the sound of music in the background which Massinger strove to identify. A string quartet — Mozart? "Where are you? Are you safe?" he asked.
"Just. They're getting closer. I'm at a recital, chamber music. No one would look for an ignorant Ocker in a place like this."
"You're keeping off the streets?"
"Yes. And away from the bus depots and stations. Last night, it was close."
"How close?"
"Inches. A coat of varnish."
"But you're all right?"
"I'm still operational, if that's what you mean. But it can't last much longer. Vienna Station tried to kill me again last night."
"My God, you're certain? Sorry, yes, you're certain. I — must come to Vienna. I'm seeing Shelley later today. He should have some information for me that could be of use. Tomorrow. I'll arrive tomorrow."
"A room at the Inter-Continental, then."
"Is there anything else? Anything I should be aware of?"
"No…" Hyde replied relucantly.
"Anything?" Massinger demanded.
"All right — last night, I had to kill one of them. One of ours."
"Damn!"
"It wasn't open to choice."
"I understand. Look, I have a copy of the file on Aubrey — the frame-up. It looks very bad for him."
"It's bloody worse for me, mate!"
"Yes, I know that, I have a plan, something we might be able to do to change things. In Vienna — "
"Christ, mate, all I want to do is get out of Vienna!"
"I'll have papers to make that possible, Hyde. But, perhaps you won't be able to leave at once."
"Christ—!"
"Look, hold on. This matter is — it's so big, Hyde, that we may have to take risks, greater risks than ever, if we're going to help Aubrey. You understand? It's not simply a question of your life any longer."
Yes, Mozart. One of the 'Haydn' quartets. A door had opened somewhere near Hyde and the music had swelled out. The B flat quartet, the 'Hunt'… door opening…?
"Hyde? Are you all right?"
"Yes. Don't get jumpy. Just hurry it up, will you?"
"OK. Tomorrow." Aubrey's signature at the bottom of a full confession, naming Castleford. For a moment, the document he had read at his club — so that Margaret would have no idea of what he was doing — was vivid in his mind. Very clever, very tight; noose-like. The document had taken his breath away, removed for perhaps ten minutes any facility to believe it a forgery. In Vienna, the Mozart quartet had ended. He could hear muted applause.
"Tomorrow," he repeated. "The Inter-Continental."
He heard Hyde's exhalation of relief.
"See you."
The connection was broken and the telephone purred. Slowly, Massinger replaced the receiver, unaware that he was not alone in the room; unaware of the room.
"Is he all right?" Ros asked.
"Mm — what?" Massinger looked up. The cat nestled against Ros's breasts like a stole. "Oh, yes. For the time being."
"Can you help him?"
"I think so."
Ros's face was restrained momentarily then a naked and complete fear possessed it. "Then for Christ's sake do it!" she wailed.
Massinger turned his back upon the sharp, cruel — and now so personalised — satire of Hogarth's Marriage a la Mode. His eyes caught the timeless glances of Mr and Mrs Robert Andrews, their tranquil security evident to him in a moment, before settling upon Constable's Salisbury Cathedral, white and green and blue, colours of an innocence he could not pretend. Room XVI of the National Gallery was quiet except for the mutterings of a troop of schoolchildren being shepherded through part of their undesired heritage.
He and Shelley stood side by side, almost caricatured in their identical dark overcoats.
"First thing," Shelley said, "Hyde's new papers. They've been carefully checked. They should remain secure for at least a few days, perhaps longer." He passed a small flat package to Massinger, who guiltily hurried it into the breast pocket of his coat. It was as if he had finally accepted membership of some subversive organisation. Shelley's face looked pale and strained with worry and lack of sleep. "Another thing," Shelley added, "there's a recent snap of the Vienna Rezident — his name is Karel Bayev, by the way — included with Hyde's papers."
"Thank you, Peter. I've spoken to Hyde."
"How — is he?"
"He's killed one of your people in Vienna."
"God—"
"He had to."
"I see. Are they that close to him?"
"He can't have long."
"We have to have Hyde's testimony."
"I know. But, it won't be enough. We have to have everything."
"I know," Shelley replied glumly.
"Then what do you have for me? Shall we walk?"
They began to patrol the room. Massinger regretted leaving the impossible cleanliness of Salisbury cathedral, reaching out of the placid green meadow. Even its illusory peace was something to be treasured.
Gainsborough and Reynolds portraits; satisfied, aristocratic eighteenth-century faces. Their exuded security irritated him as his glance lighted on them while Shelley recited what he had — gleaned from Registry. Massinger nodded from time to time, absorbing each fragment of information. Turner's Fighting Temeraire, then the misty, swirling rush of his Rain, Steam and Speed. The schoolchildren trooped out of the room; silence returned. Shelley's voice dropped to accommodate itself to the renewed hush. An attendant's heels clicked on the tiles. Finally, they confronted the obscure shapelessness, the formless half-world of Turner's Sun Rising in a Mist. Its reduction of the world to muted colour and pearly, bleared light echoed Massinger's mood.
And Shelley's final words.
"… if, if you go on with this, then Cass is a good man with pentathol. He can get to Vienna tomorrow afternoon. Remember, unless you're skilled at this or familiar with the techniques—?" Massinger shook his head abstractedly. " — then you can make mistakes. You can close the oyster-shell as easily as you can open it. The whole thing is very risky, Professor."