He clutched her hand, but prevented her from moving close to him again.
"Margaret," he began guiltily. "Margaret, listen to me, please."
"What is it?"
He led her to the sofa, made her sit down. She was half-puzzled, half-amused. He lowered himself into the cushion, his body separated from hers. He held her hands solemnly.
"It's not over — whatever I told Babbington, it's not over," he murmured. She looked struck, even wounded. "No, just listen to me before you say anything, please—" He held up one hand to silence her. "Please listen before you say anything, before you judge me."
Eventually, she nodded stiffly, a little bob of her head. Her fair hair fell across her cheek, her brow. "Very well."
"This isn't about Aubrey," he began. "At least, it's not just about Aubrey. No, don't make that face, you can't hate him that much…" He abandoned the argument, and continued: "I have evidence — from Aubrey's man in Vienna, and Peter Shelley's convinced too — that the KGB are behind this business. Whatever the truth of the matter, they're using it. More than that, Aubrey's man could well be killed by his own side." He paused. There was little reaction other than puzzlement, a sense of unfamiliarity; then a sense of dismissal, of the light of common sense falling on this dark corner of experience and making it seem ridiculous; incomprehensible and incredible. "No one else believes it. No one else is interested. Babbington is blinded by his own ambition, Sir William is content to see Aubrey go to the wall because he's persuaded the Cabinet Office and the Joint Intelligence Committee that they want and need a unified security and intelligence service." Her eyes revealed that she was dismissing each of his statements even as he made them. He waved one hand loosely to indicate his helplessness. "You see," he pleaded, "why I can't give up on this?"
She was silent for a long time, and then she said simply, "No, I don't see."
"But, you must—!"
"I can't! All I can see is that you're still willing to help the man who betrayed my father — who caused his death!"
"You don't even know if it's true!"
"And you don't care! You'll help him anyway!"
"My darling, I promise you — I promise, that if I find it is true, I'll abandon him like everyone else. If Aubrey helped to kill your father, then to hell with him. I won't lift a finger to help him."
"I can't bear this…" she murmured.
"There's nothing else I can do."
"Why can't you talk to William about this — please?"
"Because he's convinced that Aubrey's a traitor. Just like everyone else. They don't want to look any deeper into it."
"But you do—" she accused.
"I must."
"So, only Paul Massinger can be right, only Paul Massinger's priorities are important."
"You know that isn't true—!"
"How do I know? Dear God, it isn't even your country!"
He stood up, unable to bear her hot gaze, her accusing mouth. He crossed the room, then turned to look back at her.
"I'm trusting you with my life," he said quietly. "I've told you because I had to. I promised Babbington that I'll go no further. Only you know I'm continuing with it. I — have to go to Vienna for a couple of days, to see this man of Aubrey's." She averted her face. His body had taken on a supplicant's stoop, arms akimbo. "I ask you to tell no one. If anyone asks, then I'm in Cambridge for a couple of nights. Out of harm's way," he added cynically. "When I get back, I'll tell you everything. I'll let you decide—"
She turned to him, her face reddened, her hands clenched on her lap. She shook back her hair.
"Don't come back," she said. "Just — don't come back." She, too, stood up. Her body was rigid with determination. "If you leave this flat on that man's behalf—" He groaned inwardly. She had accepted nothing of what he had said. " — then you need not bother to come back. I don't care if I'm being unreasonable, or stupid, or even malicious — but I can't bear it! If you go on helping that man, then we're finished. It's over."
Immediately, she left the room, closing the doors to the dining-room behind her with a firm, quiet finality. Massinger's eyes immediately transferred their gaze to the portrait of Castleford. It watched him with what he could only consider malevolence, accusation. Castleford's eyes were her eyes. They had always had the same eyes; now, they possessed the same stare. He rubbed his forehead and groaned aloud.
Finished—
The British Airways Trident dropped towards the snowbound landscape amid which the south-eastern suburbs of Vienna straggled out towards the pattern of Schwechat airport's runways. The scene was uniformly grey and white to Massinger's red-rimmed, prickling eyes. Bodily, he was little more than a lump that had sleeplessly occupied a hotel bed near Heathrow and then a taxi and then a departure lounge and then an aircraft seat next to a window; a lump that had previously performed, like an automaton, the tasks of packing, gathering passport, credit cards, wallet, Hyde's papers, ordering a taxi, avoiding all sense of Margaret in other rooms in the flat, avoiding him.
His mind was numbed. Not free, or released, merely numbed. He could no longer think of her or about her. He had lost her. That realisation was like a wall in his mind, preventing other images and thoughts.
The wheels bumped, and snow-covered concrete and grass rushed past the window; a moonscape produced by snowploughs. Then the aircraft was taxiing, turning right then left, back towards the strangely provincial, miniature airport buildings. Schwechat was like any airfield in eastern Europe; a bare, flat child's model of a grown-up's real airport. He and Margaret had flown into Schwechat often, visiting concerts, operas, galleries in Vienna…
The thought drifted away, as if he had no powers of retention left. The landing music switched off and the hostess wished him a pleasant stay. People began to gather baggage hurriedly, tumbling it out of the overhead lockers as if prompted by an escape timetable limited to split-seconds. He followed them slowly across the pooled, windy tarmac into the terminal building.
Passport control, luggage, customs; a largely empty hall, echoing, modern, aseptic. He tried to anticipate the events to come, the evening and night ahead, but all he gained was a sense of foreboding and weakness, and he surrendered the idea. He had begun, he knew, to lose interest, not to care. Teardrop, Hyde, Aubrey the old man, the KGB, all became figments of a melodramatic dream, as they had been for Margaret. There was only one thing he now cared about, one fragment of the truth upon which he must lay hold; had Aubrey betrayed Robert Castleford, had him killed in Berlin almost forty years ago?
That could animate him; that question obsessed him. That he would pursue, whatever else…
The doors slid back and he walked into the freezing air outside the arrivals hall. Immediately, a grey Mercedes displaying a taxi sign pulled out from a parking space and, jumping the queue of vehicles drawn up, halted directly in front of him. He was startled into clutching his suitcase more tightly.
"Massinger," Hyde said. It was a recognition, not a question. "All right. I'm Hyde. Note the accent?" Hyde smiled grimly at Massinger's relief.
"How did you—?"
"Money. What else? Just borrowed it. Get in." He pushed open the rear door and Massinger climbed in, sliding his suitcase in front of him. The moment he shut the door, Hyde pulled the Mercedes away, down the ramp towards the main road. "I thought a taxi might come in useful — oh, better be kosher and put the clock on." He turned his head to glance at the American. "You strong on tipping, Massinger?"