Suddenly, he hated Margaret Massinger and her husband. And sensed their danger to himself. What did they know, or suspect? The old ghosts of '74 had been stirring. If they knew, then…
Even if they suspected.
"I understand your concern, Sir William." The studied introduction of cool deference stung the older man. He glowered.
"Andrew," he said heavily, "I am not concerned. I want this foolish matter closed, like a factory without orders, like an old file. Closed. Finished with. Bring them back. Have them put on a plane home — today."
"Very well — William." At last, Sir William began to feel comfortable with his role before this audience of one. "Yes," he continued with a sigh, "I hope you can persuade her to desist in this affair. And her husband. The silly man persists in the belief that Aubrey may be innocent."
"That's ridiculous. You should have been able to convince him."
"I tried — dear God, I tried. This American passion for investigation… it blinds them to the most evident truths."
"I quite agree." Sir William's voice was lazier now, more drawling. They were two powerful members of the same exclusive club. There were no differences between them now. He smiled benevolently upon Babbington.
Kim Philby, Babbington thought. Or Guy Burgess. How they must have relished — loved, moments like this. Laughing into their sleeves. The cosmic joke. He trusts me, I'm on his side now that he's demonstrated his petty power. All pals once more. Club members for life, for eternity.
Yes, Babbington admitted to himself, there is a tang, a bouquet, to moments like this. The appetiser to the feast.
"But, if we talk to him together — forbid him to continue, I think he can be brought to his senses."
"That ought not to be beyond us. Margaret will certainly have to be reminded of her duty." He snorted. "The silly woman could have put herself in danger, for God's sake. Amateurs!" The word was pronounced with the force of some profound imprecation. An association of outer darkness, excommunication. Babbington thought: You impossibly pompous, blind old man.
Sir William raised his hands, more limply this time. "Ah, well," he sighed, "it's done now. There are no more than a few pieces to be picked up — and your job of cleaning house. Then we can move ahead. I want it all working like clockwork before I finally vacate this chair." The voice purred, and hinted at the identity of the next occupant of that chair and that office. Babbington shrugged off the compliment, and in the same moment inwardly reviewed the prospect with satisfaction. This was beyond the laughter-in-the-sleeve, the nod-and-wink of secret knowledge. In Sir William's position, his treachery would be pre-eminent; invaluable to Moscow. Kapustin would be little more than an office-boy by comparison.
"I'll have it in hand, William, before your return from Washington. Eldon can take charge of the cleaning-up."
"Let's just have it over with!" Sir William remarked with sudden and unexpected testiness. "Unpleasant, time-consuming business… let's get on with it, and then on with more important matters." His voice reproved gently and with immense authority. Babbington, like a tiresome junior boy, was wasting the house-master's valuable time. As if to fulfil the image that occurred to Babbington, Sir William added: "Let's not spend too much time with the Colts, shall we, and neglect the First Eleven? What's past is past."
"Quite." Babbington was satisfied with the self-control he had displayed during their meeting. He looked at his watch. "I have a lunch appointment, William," he explained deferentially.
"Of course, my dear fellow — as a matter of fact, so have I." Sir William stood up, and offered his large, smooth-knuckled hand. Babbington took it, smiled.
"Spring-cleaning will be early this year," he promised. "And comprehensive."
"I don't doubt it, my dear fellow — but, find Margaret and her silly husband for me, would you? I'd like to have a long, godfatherly talk to that young lady."
"Of course."
Babbington envisaged the tightrope, the knife-edge. Timing would be important; daring crucial. Sir William would have to content himself with eventually learning that his god-daughter and her husband had walked into the very danger he had always feared they might meet. Unfortunate, the meddling of amateurs…
As for Aubrey — if they once laid hands on him, he could be shipped to Moscow and his treachery displayed there for the world to see… before he was quietly killed. Aubrey might yet have made his greatest mistake. He had been safer in London than he was in any other part of the world.
Yes. Who dares wins, he thought ironically. Who dares wins.
Paul Massinger was afraid. Not professionally, but in a deeper, more insidious personal sense which he could neither quell nor ignore. Zimmermann's warning to employ his old training and instincts had amounted to no more than a half-hearted attempt to avoid surveillance at Schwechat airport when they reached Vienna. His awareness was clogged and weary with the images of his sleepless night; the turning, tossing body of Margaret lying in the other bed, pretending sleep. He had been unable to discern any surveillance. He had made Margaret walk with an American couple to the doors of the lounge while he held back, watching the passenger lounge, the stairs, the doors. It was futile; a branch of mathematics which he had forgotten and which would not return. He was no longer an agent.
He had given up the attempt and rejoined Margaret outside the glass doors in a bitter afternoon wind that seemed to mock them, and they had immediately taken a taxi.
Margaret talked quietly and obsessively in the back of the taxi. Occasionally, Massinger glanced through the rear window but saw no tailing car. The turning of his head was a duty rather than a skill. His wife voice's endlessly refuted the accusation that her father might have been a Nazi. There was Cliveden, of course, even an acquaintance with Mosley. But it was nothing, nothing…
He had not been allowed to take a commission because of his importance in the wartime civil service… no one had worked harder, no one was more outspoken of the need to defeat Hitler and the Nazis… people had trusted him… Churchill… Sir William would laugh at the suggestion… it had to be the woman… the answer was with the woman.
Nonsense. Ridiculous. Foul…
Foul, foul, foul…
Massinger's head beat with the voice, with its almost mad intensity. Nothing had changed. His wife was still obsessed with her father's death and the manner of it. There was nothing else. Nothing else, nothing else, his mind began to chorus with her assertions and refutations. Nothing else. The remainder of their lives together was at stake, he admitted.
Sobs like the separate, recurring pains of violent toothache. All night. Yet, whenever he addressed her or sat up in his bed, she had not replied but had instantly pretended sleep, holding her breath in the darkness of the bedroom as if listening for the noise of intruders. Until he, too, adopted a regular rhythm of breathing that imitated sleep. After a while, the sobbing would begin again, punctuated by sighs, and occasional stifled groans. The distance between the twin beds was a gulf. He had never felt so separated and apart from her and the sensation horrified him.