"Thank you, Hyde."
Hyde got into the car, looked at Cass's dozing form, then settled down in the driving seat. He had brought the smell of cold into the car, together with the scent of excitement. Massinger was aware of his own adrenalin, sluggish at first like melting ice, now prickling and prodding him into alertness. He was aware of how little he had considered Margaret in the past hours, and was abashed and grateful. He and Hyde did have something in common — the drug of the secret life. Temporarily, at least, his wife had receded in his heart and mind. Now he did want this, he did want to know.
"What time do you have?" he asked Hyde.
Hyde slanted his watch to catch the light of a street-lamp.
"A couple of minutes to nine. If, as you tell me, this bloke's as regular as a sergeant-major's bowels, he'll be here in a mo."
"Quite." Massinger's smile, hidden by the darkness, was eager and almost childish. "Cass?" he whispered. Cass sat upright.
"Here's a black Mercedes — no official plates," Hyde reported. "Probably his own car."
The car passed them and pulled in at a vacant parking meter on the opposite side of the Herrengasse. It was less than twenty yards from the front of the jeweller's shop and the discreet, narrow door between its window and the next shop, where jackets and skirts, cardigans and trousers lay like the victims of a skirmish, softly-lit from the ceiling. All three men leaned forward in their seats.
A short, plump man got out of the car. He was alone, and little more than a dark overcoat and trilby hat. He locked the car and, as he passed the boutique, they saw his face for a moment. Massinger sighed.
"That's him," Hyde said unnecessarily.
"We'll give him ten or fifteen minutes. He mostly stays until after midnight. Her only client on Thursday evenings. Drinks first, I guess," Massinger almost drawled.
"Open a couple of tinnies, eh?" Hyde murmured. "Gives him wind while he's performing, I'll bet."
"Hyde—?"
"I know. Is your joking really necessary? No, it isn't. But I haven't had many laughs lately."
The Vienna Rezident of the KGB rang the bell and the door opened a moment later. They had seen him bend forward to speak into a grille set to one side of the door.
"Damn," Massinger muttered as the door closed behind the Russian.
"Don't worry. Speak Russian," Hyde instructed. "He'll let us in if he thinks it's official. Sound annoyed at being dragged out on a night like this. It'll work wonders."
"No, I think German. The police," Massinger replied. He looked at his watch. "Ten minutes, then we'll go in while he's still drinking his second glass of champagne." His voice was light, filled with an unaccustomed excitement.
"You're the boss," Hyde said. "You're the boss."
"Anything in today's airport snaps?"
"Couple of girls with big tits — LOT hostesses."
"All right — bring them over. I'd better look them over before I initial the docket."
"There. Couple of wasted rolls. Oh, those two in that shot. RGB back from London leave. See the M & S bags full of goodies. Should guarantee them a good time in Moscow when they next go home."
"We know those two. Log them back in."
"Wilkes?"
"Yes?"
"Why are we after Hyde — I mean, really after him?"
"You don't believe he's been turned?"
"I've worked with Hyde before. He's a barmy Australian, I grant you, but he'd never take orders from some KGB control. Too bloody-minded for that."
"Look, you weren't there the other night. He didn't hesitate to kill that poor sod Philips."
"I know that—"
"There you are then. Would he do that if he wasn't working for the other side?"
"I suppose not."
"He's been on the run ever since they took in that old bugger Aubrey. He's Aubrey's man, all right."
"I have my doubts about Aubrey, too."
"For Christ's sake, Beach! London arrested Aubrey, the DG himself. They wouldn't dare if they didn't have a good case. Now, be a good lad and pour some coffee while I glance at these snaps."
"OK, Wilkes."
"Mm… nothing there… big knockers is right… Boris and Doris, the terrible twins. Caught London just right for the January sales… no, nothing in those two… thanks — mm, not bad for a beginner. Too much sugar."
"So sorry, Wilkes. What did your last servant die of?"
"I don't recognise him — ah, Ivan the Dreadful, on duty-go at Schwechat again, I see. It must be his boils they don't like… no, no… nothing, nothing, nothing… stop bloody whistling, will you, Beach, it goes right through my teeth… no, no, and no… almost done — hello, do I know you from somewhere?"
"Found something?"
"No, shouldn't think so. Just a face I thought I knew… mm? Can't place it. Just a look-alike, I expect… where's that bloody glass? Ah, let's blow you up a bit… no? Now, who the hell is that? I'm sure I know him."
"Let's have a look, then—"
"You're too young to remember. I think this face goes too far back for you… there. Recognise that bloke with the small suitcase, tall one?"
"Looks British to the core. Banker? Company director? Civil servant? I don't recognise him."
"Back in time… years ago… civil servant, you said? Like us or the 'Yes, Minister' mob? Now, who the bloody hell are you? No — I don't think he's anything to do with us. Come to think of it, I don't think he's British. But I'm just sure there's some connection with Aubrey."
"More coffee?"
"Oh, Christ!"
"What is it?"
"I've just remembered who this bloke is!"
"Go on, let's have another look."
"You won't know him. Paul Massinger — yes, that's right, he's a Yank — CIA years ago. A friend of Aubrey. I've seen him with the old man. Aubrey's used him unofficially as an adviser from time to time. Paul Massinger."
"What's he doing here, then?"
"I don't know — but I'll bet London would be interested. What time was this — bloody hell, he's been here half a day already. You hang on here, I'm going to signal London now. Someone's bound to think this isn't a coincidence."
The silences between their words were little islands of civilised living. As soon as either of them spoke, the mellow whisky and the subdued lighting and the rich velvet curtains retreated, and Aubrey was once more fighting for his survival and Andrew Babbington was his declared enemy.
Staring into his crystal tumbler, Babbington said with a pleasurable finality: "I really came to tell you that JIC and the Cabinet Office and myself are to meet the PM early next week to formalise the setting up of the new Security and Intelligence Directorate. SIS and MI5 will no longer continue their separate existences." He looked up. There was a flinty, satisfied calm in his eyes. "And I have been instructed to prepare papers in your own case for the DPP as soon as possible." His eyes gleamed like those of a cat.
Aubrey felt winded. He studied his own whisky greedily, but did not drink. He silently cleared his throat and drew saliva into the roof of his mouth from his cheeks so that his voice would not betray him when he spoke. Then he said, "So, you have it all. King, Cawdor, Glamis, all as the weird women promised."
"Do you fear I have played most foully for it?" Babbington countered, his teeth appearing mirthlessly between his lips.
"No. Foolishly and dangerously, perhaps."
"How so?"
"Andrew, if you do not see that I cannot be guilty of these things, then I cannot persuade you. You are blinded by your own supreme ambition, and your blindness has served you well. What you may, by omission, have done to my service and your own, I can't say."
"Your service?"