The first soldier passed out of sight and his two companions moved after him. Their exaggerated steps sifted and fluffed the light snow. There was no sound of any helicopter. Petrunin was shivering against him. Ten seconds, fifteen, twenty, a minute… time elongated. Hyde wanted to cry out, to scream as the nerves tautened all over his body; as if the cold had left him cramped and maddened with pins-and-needles. A minute and a half…
They stopped, casting about. Hyde was convinced that he could see, with vivid clarity, the slight depressions left by his laboured footsteps in the snow. He thought he could make out the shallow trough where he had slithered, dragging the Russian, towards the overhang. It must be clear to the soldiers—
They moved off, as if half-afraid of being left too far behind their companion. Hyde's breathing rushed in his ears. He could hear his heart, just feel Petrunin's shallow, irregular breathing. Out of sight, out of sight — go on, go on…
Another few yards, yes, three, two, another step…
They were gone. He heard one of them call after the first soldier. He heard the quickening slither of their snowshoes.
Now, the snow beyond the overhang looked smooth and undimpled except where they had walked. Gently, as if in apology, Hyde removed his hand from Petrunin's mouth. The lips were still working soundlessly, not so much searching for words as for an expression — perhaps a smile.
"Your man?" Hyde asked. "Who is he?"
"Babbington," Petrunin replied after the smallest hesitation. His lips found something like acceptance, then the name, finally a smile. "Babbington!"
"Christ — then it's worked!"
"Of course." The voice was remote again, but in a superior, Olympian manner. "Of course."
"Jesus-bloody-Christ," Hyde breathed. "Him?"
"Him."
"When — how long, for Christ's sake—?"
Petrunin waved his hand dismissively, weakly, as if he considered Hyde was wasting the little time left with the wrong questions. "A long story," he murmured. "It always is. Now — what will you do?"
Hyde rubbed his face. "God knows."
Petrunin cackled, and coughed. No blood, but his head lolled as if his body were sinking in something; or filling. His whole form lolled. Ballast shifting, Hyde thought, then: Nothing … I don't have … not even paper, no tape, no record, nothing…
It was if the Russian could read his thoughts. "You see?" he asked. "You have no proof. You have nothing. You cannot even escape, I think…" He leaned back, as if trying to sink into the rock. His face was colourless, his eyes, unfocused, studied the rock above their heads.
"Then help me," Hyde replied desperately. "Help me to screw the bastards. Help me screw the people who want you dead — who've already done for you." He leaned his head towards Petrunin until their faces almost touched. He could feel no breath from the Russian warming his cheek. "Help me. They've killed you. Help me spoil their bloody game."
"How?" Petrunin asked, and then the realisation of what Hyde had said gripped him. He was afraid. Even knowing, he had not wished to hear it pronounced. Hyde had sentenced him. "No—" he spluttered. Blood poured from his lips, staining his chin, staining Hyde. It felt warm, ugly and final. Hyde gripped the Russian's arms, almost hugging him like a lover.
"Come on, you clever, clever bastard — where's the proof? Tell me where the proof is and I'll spoil their fucking game for them. Come on…" He was holding Petrunin now, the man's head against him, mouth pressed to Hyde's ear. Wet. His chin was resting on Hyde's shoulder. "Come on," the Australian whispered urgently, afraid of time unravelling utterly in the next few moments. Only minutes now — less perhaps…
"It's all on computer — you couldn't get hold of it… only I could do that — from — from inside a Soviet embassy…" Hyde groaned. He wanted to push Petrunin's body away from him in protest, but some instinct made him hold on. Or perhaps it was merely sympathy. Petrunin, unnoticing and undeterred, continued to murmur against Hyde's ear. His lips were frothily wet. Hyde shuddered. His stomach felt hollow with loathing and disappointment.
Babbington was unassailable — he was British Intelligence, just as Aubrey had been. Hyde had nothing. In itself, without proof, the knowledge was worthless, futile. Babbington was the man in the high castle; impenetrable. Petrunin continued, as if with some litany of confession. It was evident, in his remote and inhuman whisper, that he was mocking Hyde even as he wished him to know and to be able to do something. Revenge and amusement.
"Access is strictly limited," he said. "You would have to be me to get it. Understand — understand? Only I can get hold of it — you would have to be me! Understand?"
"Yes." Hyde did not understand.
"I–I have it on file, hidden in the computer… I saw the advantage of having an, an, an insurance policy… I suborned a programmer to create a secret file, stored under their very noses… everything's in it — dirt, operations, even your precious Teardrop — my precious Teardrop … do you understand me?"
"Yes." Hyde still did not understand. He simply accepted that he must listen to Petrunin until he could speak no more. Hold the man until he felt the final slump of his body into bonelessness.
"Access is from any remote terminal linked to Moscow Centre… in any embassy abroad or in the Eastern bloc… if you knew each of the passwords, you could find it. Only I know them — only me…" He paused, his body shifted violently, as if some last part of his human cargo had shifted in a storm. He sat more upright, and his face appeared haunted. He could see the end now, and must race his own collapsing body. "I killed the programmer, of course, for security — before they sent me here … it was to be my insurance, even my ticket to the West… I would have been the most valuable defector on earth, with just a computer cassette…"
His voice was lower now, but quicker, urgent. "Listen to me, listen… you must access Assignment Histories in the Personnel Files of the computer… access my file…" He paused, his eyes flickered open and closed against Hyde's cheek, as if he were trying to focus his gaze. Or remember. Then he said: "There are passwords to remember before that — listen. Listen… access to the Main Menu is by the password — K-2-U-7 — stroke — R-S-4-K… repeat it to me!" Hyde did so, then to himself once more. Yes… "To Personnel, access is by another password, letters and numbers again… C-7-3-5 — stroke — D-W — stroke — P-R-X… repeat that…" Petrunin sighed with what might have been exhaustion, or satisfaction, as Hyde repeated the password. "Good, good…" Petrunin's hand patted against Hyde's shoulder with the force of falling snow. "Assignment Histories has the password White Nights — White… Russian, White Bear, without a break… after that, you request my assignment history. Then — then use my last three postings, in reverse order — reverse order, without a break, to access the secret file. You, you — a poem appears next — it looks like a corrupted data file, it's meant to put people off… don't cancel it! — let it run, all fourteen lines… to a girl I once knew… then, out comes everything — everything…"
He paused, expecting Hyde to reply. Hyde did not understand anything beyond the urgency of the communication. Yet he memorised it. Like a recorder, he would be able to reproduce the information, if requested. If he ever talked to someone who understood.