"Ah… aaah…" Bayev sighed. His hands moved in slow-motion, describing the female form in the air. "Yes — the girls in Vienna, too! Wait till you see some of them. Meet them, Pavel! Oh, yes—"
"Very well, old friend. And how are you — busy?"
"Too busy. Much too busy. But, I will give myself a special assignment for a few days — we'll enjoy ourselves!"
"Good, good." Massinger could not see the conversation unfolding any further. He had established the circumstances, the fiction of himself as Koslov, but he could not force his own imagination to ignite. He could not be Koslov.
"What now?" he whispered.
"You've got the script," Cass replied.
"Damn," Massinger breathed, then he said: "London is a pig, Karel, old friend. Trouble, trouble, trouble. I can't tell you how they're keeping us on our toes…" His voice and ideas trailed off once more.
Then Bayev said: "You complain? We had that bloody Deputy Chairman here again last week! My God, that operation is never-ending—!" Bayev was animated, waving his arms slowly like the sails of a windmill or the slow circling of a lighthouse beam.
"My God," Massinger whispered. Then: "Kapustin always was a real shit!"
"Too right, my friend, too r- right… y-es, oh… y-e-ss…"
"What's happening?"
"He's not lasting long, is he?" Cass replied. He moved towards Bayev's form, which now had slumped back in the armchair, his pupils tiny and hard like currants, his eyes staring blankly. His hands and legs lay like those of a dummy about to be folded into its case.
Cass injected benzedrine, and stood back. "He could be overtired or half-cut. I can't tell. Looks like you'll have to keep waking him." He looked at his watch. "If I want to catch the Frankfurt flight, I'd better go, I'll leave you the syringe. Remember, if he doesn't come out of it at any time, leave him alone."
"Very well."
Bayev snapped awake once more.
"Kapustin's a real shit," Massinger said at once.
"Who are you?" Bayev replied in a suspicious voice.
"Oh, Jesus—!"
"What is it, Wilkes? You told London. What did they say? What did they come back to you for?"
"Never mind — look, go out and get some chocolate cake, will you? I'm starving."
"Now? Everywhere's shut—"
"Not that little delicatessen on the corner. Go on, do as you're told for a change."
"Money first. I know you."
"Here — and don't be long."
"OK. See you."
"Thank God for that. Now, six… seven… four… eight… nine… three… one… five… Come on — Christ, if this hits the fan, Wilkes old son, you can forget a cushy berth next time out — come on… thank God — give me Savin — at once. Never mind, just put me through. Yes, yes, the bloody code of the day is Volgograd — bloody imaginative, isn't it? Hurry up! Savin, is that you? Listen. London just signalled. If you know where your Rezident is, check up on him and keep him secure. Why? Because someone's been into our Registry files, and they've been checking on your boss. Yes, and that someone's in Vienna now — probably with Hyde… yes, that's right, Hyde. So, if you know where he is, I should check up on him if I were you!"
"Pavel — It's Pavel," Massinger said hesitantly.
"Pavel?" Bayev was still suspicious. Massinger had been attempting to re-establish the fiction of his circumstances for more than five minutes. Cass, as if supremely indifferent, had left to catch his flight; Frankfurt then onward to Madrid, his job now simply to make himself secure. Massinger's task was proving difficult, if not impossible. It had been too easy, like a gleam of sun before fog returns.
"Yes, Pavel — come on, Karel, what's the matter with you? Pissed again?"
Bayev laughed. "Pavel!" he exclaimed. "You old rat, how are you? What are you doing in Vienna?"
"Holiday — fun! And business, of course."
"Not more orders — not more of this business. Does Kapustin never sleep?"
"Thank God," Massinger breathed.
The telephone began ringing. Startled, Massinger stared at it. He did not dare to pick it up. Bayev's round head swung slowly, and bobbed like a bird's on his thick neck as he attempted to focus on the ringing telephone.
"Don't bother with it—!" Massinger said, inspired. "No time for business now. I want you to show me some of the sights!"
Bayev's head swung back. "But, what if—?"
"It's not Kapustin, and who else are you afraid of? I've got Kapustin's instructions. Come on, we'll talk as we walk, eh? I've got a hell of a thirst on me!"
Bayev laughed. The telephone stopped ringing but he did not seem to notice.
A customer, a customer, Massinger prayed in the silence, then he said: "God, I'm thirsty!"
"Same old Pavel!"
"Well, why not? I do my job. Anyway, being a party drunk is a good cover. London society loves me!"
"And so they should. I know a nice new bar — the girls are delightful?"
"When was Kapustin here last?"
"Two weeks ago. We were running round with our arses hanging out trying to keep up with him. He was meeting the Englishman—"
"Aubrey?"
"Of course. Who else?"
Massinger paused. Here was the Pandora-box. Aubrey's ills lay inside it. And then he wondered: Is Aubrey in there, too? Is there something more? He could not bring himself to continue the conversation. Bayev sat patiently, hands folded in his lap, body upright, a machine awaiting a current of electricity. Massinger's hands quivered. He did not wish to discover…
The door opened. Hyde, preceded by a draught of cold air, entered the room. Massinger heard his ragged breathing and turned to him at once.
"Three cars," Hyde struggled to say, clinging to the door handle. "Three cars, and they're not friendly. What the bloody hell do we do with him?"
CHAPTER FIVE:
An Evening on the Town
"Well?" Hyde repeated. "What do we do with him? Not to mention ourselves?"
Massinger turned his gaze back to Bayev's face. He seemed unaware, untroubled by the collapse of the situation in which he believed himself to be; as if he had been switched off until required.
"I don't know — how close are they?"
"They're watching at the moment, cars drawn back maybe thirty yards on either side of ours. They'll be looking for our car first — then us. They'll try not to harm him, but don't you reckon on walking away."
"How did they—?"
"Christ knows — it doesn't matter! Get that bugger on his feet, Massinger."
"He can't be moved—"
"He'd better bloody well be, if you haven't finished with him!" Hyde moved into the room and through rather than across the heavy white carpet. He studied Bayev's simpleton expression and vacant eyes, which had not followed him as he moved. "Christ, he's well away. Have you finished with him?"
"By no means—"
"Then we'd better keep our hands on him. We might be a little bit safer in his company. Help me get him down to the car. We can't barricade ourselves in here."
"It might be dangerous to move him."
"And fatal if we don't!" He looked up at Massinger. He was bending still in front of Bayev like an exhausted runner or an animal tensed to spring. "You can ask him questions in the car. He's not going to bloody well know the difference!"
"Very well—"
"Get his coat — it's hanging up in the hall."
Hyde crossed to the window and peered through a crack in the curtains. Their car appeared unguarded, undetected. Massinger returned with Bayev's coat.
"You talk to him in Russian," Hyde instructed. "Keep him calm."
Massinger nodded, and then bent to lift Bayev by the arms.