"I'm not upsetl I hate that man!"
"For God's sake, Margaret!" His eyes never moved from Babbington's face. The directorships, the Quangos, the circles that might have admitted him, the respect — they all paled. This was Babbington's real power — this … a woman in tears, almost hysterical with fear and anger and hate. Babbington could, he was amply demonstrating, poison Margaret's mind incurably.
Castleford—
He was made aware once again of how many pictures of her father this room, other rooms, contained. The portrait watched from the wall. Castleford was here, in the room with them, assisting Babbington. He felt nausea and guilt sourly together in his throat.
Then he remembered Aubrey. The pictures stared at him, the portrait watched. Aubrey, in the back of his awareness, pleaded for, demanded help.
Aubrey—
"My dear," Babbington murmured, touching Margaret's hand, his large fingers tapping at the two rings, at the knuckles of her left hand. Massinger clenched his fists at his sides. "My dear, go and calm down a little. I think I may have — well, let me talk to Paul about this… mm?"
She looked at Babbington, nodded, sniffed, and got up. It was mesmeric, a further demonstration of Babbington's power over her mind. She left the room. Massinger pulled off his overcoat, careful of the package as he folded it and placed it across the back of a chair. The wall lights appeared gloomy, the room large and vacant.
"Well?" he accused Babbington. "What the hell are you up to, Andrew?"
He stood over Babbington, who did not attempt to rise.
"What the hell are you doing, Paul? It's my right to ask, I think, not yours. What are you doing, man?" Even then, his hand indicated the door by which Margaret had left. It was as if he had struck her. "What were you doing in Earl's Court, at Hyde's address? Who did you talk with — his landlady? Why, man? What were you doing at the Imperial War Museum, with Shelley? Why did Shelley have to throw off surveillance in order to meet you?" His eyes glinted, but Massinger suspected that he had no answers to his questions, using them as he was simply in the form of accusations. Please don't let him know, he thought, and realised the weakness of his position. He and Shelley and Hyde. The sum total… Inadequate.
"I—" Careful, careful, he told himself, trying to rid himself of images of his wife, trying to press down upon his anger, create a mood of apologetic explanation. Not too weak, not too quick, but start to give in. "I don't see what it has to do with you, Andrew. I really don't think it needs you to come here and poison my wife against me—" He had walked away from Babbington soon after he began speaking, and now he turned to face him. Deliberately, the whisky decanter in his hand as he did so. "Do you?" he finished.
"Poison?" Babbington smiled. "You never possessed much sense of proportion, Paul, did you? I'm not poisoning Margaret against you. I'm just trying to establish what you think you're engaged upon, that's all." The remark invited explanation.
Not too quickly, Massinger instructed himself, pouring a large whisky without offering one to Babbington. Margaret kept intruding, tightening his chest with a physical pain. It was difficult to concentrate on fending off Babbington. "Do I owe you any explanation, Andrew?"
"I think you do, yes. You don't even know this man Hyde. Of what interest is he to you?"
"I—" Massinger looked thoughtful, slightly guilty; almost determined. "Aubrey asked me to check…"he admitted slowly.
"What?"
"Aubrey asked me to check," he blustered. "It's as simple as that. He wanted to know whether Hyde had been heard from. Does that satisfy you?"
Enough bluster, too much—? Had he hooked Babbington, used the man's poor enough opinion of him? Dodged and paltered enough to be dismissed?
Babbington smiled. His eyes almost seemed to form words — errand-boy, pet dog… Babbington's contempt for him was evident. Massinger wondered whether the man might not destroy his happiness simply out of amusement?
"Aubrey asked you," he repeated with heavy sarcasm. "And what, pray, did you find out?"
"His landlady hadn't heard from him."
"And the matter of Shelley — your little assignation with the head of East Europe Desk?" Babbington made it seem a very temporary appointment.
"Much the same," Massinger snapped, irked by Babbington's interrogation. "Look, dammit, I was asked by an old friend, a very old friend, if I would seek help for him. Can't you understand? Aubrey was desperate, isolated, afraid. I had to do as he asked. I couldn't turn him down!"
Yes, yes, yes, he thought, his eyes watching Babbington as he held the tumbler to his lips. Loyalty, old friendships — the futility of it was expressed in Babbington's eyes. He had successfully placed him now, understood and dismissed him as a sentimentalist. It confirmed what he thought of Margaret and Massinger together, and the leverage any threat to personal happiness would exercise on him. Massinger held his body unmoving, though a wave of relief swept over him. He'd done it…
For the moment.
"I see," Babbington murmured. "But, with what result?"
"Enlistment isn't fashionable these days," Massinger replied bitterly. "Leastways, not for lost causes."
"Ah. And you — do you feel Aubrey's cause is lost?"
"I don't believe he's guilty."
"That's not what I asked."
Massinger shrugged. "There's — nothing more I can do, either way," he admitted grudgingly.
"I agree." Babbington stood up. "Thank you for being frank with me," he said, crossing to Massinger and extending his hand. Massinger held his drink for a moment, as if in defiance, then Babbington added: "I'll just pop and have a word with Margaret. Don't worry. She'll be fine. Her father was a very special man, you know," he added. "Especially to her." Massinger shook his hand. "I'm glad things are — cleared up, Paul. Thank you for being so honest." There was an evident, cruel amusement in his eyes. And visible contempt—
"Margaret's been through enough already, Andrew," Massinger warned.
"Quite. Goodbye, Paul."
He went through the door to the dining-room, closing it behind him. Massinger swallowed at his drink. Yes — the contempt of power for emotion, for sentiment — yes. He was warmed by the passage of the drink and by a fierce delight in his own skill and intuition. He resented Babbington's returning Margaret to him like a borrowed gift, but he waited for her to come through the doors, smiling.
"Paul," she said. Yes, she was smiling. "Paul, Andrew's explained everything! I understand what you've been trying to do." There was a superiority about her understanding, almost a maternal, comforting sense of his being patronised. He ignored it, holding her close against him, feeling her breathing against his throat and neck. He had beaten Babbington.
And Babbington had shown him his power over Margaret and, once more, the power of dead Robert Castleford. Babbington would use Castleford without hesitation against him as he was using him against Aubrey; to fulfil his own ambitions. What he held, he would keep; the joint Director-Generalship of MI5 and SIS. Absolute power in the secret world. Babbington would stop at nothing to retain that power. The KGB had provided him with the means to finish Aubrey. Babbington cared nothing for the truth of the matter, for the KGB's motives, for the rot that might have set in, for collusion …
He'd see none of it. He'd see only his chance, his success.
Massinger felt anguished. Slowly, he held her at arms' length. Her eyes were still bright with dismissed tears. Her face glowed. He ached with love for her, with fear at losing her. He couldn't let her go — wouldn't…
Had to.
"Darling," he murmured.
Her left hand, the one with the rings he had given her, the diamond flashing in the subdued lighting, reached up and stroked his temple, then his cheek. It could not help but seem to him to be some kind of final, parting blessing. He caught her hand as she murmured: "Darling…" Her lips pouted. He was aware of her sexual attractiveness in a swift, piercing way. He knew that she had begun to entertain images of their lovemaking. He could envisage her face smoothed, whitened, dreamlike at climax, and felt roused.