"Liking did not come into it, not in those days, in that place."
"Nevertheless, something repelled you. What was it?"
"Possession," she announced, suddenly ruffled, looking hard at Margaret.
"Aubrey and my father hated one another?" Margaret asked.
"They did."
"And you — you were the cause. Possession, you said."
"No — I would flatter myself if I were the cause. In your father's case, perhaps… but," she added, turning to Massinger, "you know Kenneth. Passion would not disturb him so much, I think?"
Massinger shrugged by way of reply.
"It must be that!"
"Why must it?" Clara asked Margaret. "Why? Kenneth's dislike of your father was — professional. He interfered in Kenneth's work."
"And Aubrey killed him." Margaret had shifted her point of vantage. Now, it was rivalry, professional animosity.
Clara seemed to look to the far end of the drawing-room, towards an alcove. Massinger followed her gaze. An illusion that Aubrey was standing there was powerfully clear to him. The illusion stepped into the room. It was Aubrey, old and tired and wearing a silk dressing-gown below which pajama trousers appeared. He was, however, shaved and groomed. He appeared fully at home in Clara Elsenreith's apartment.
"Paul," he acknowledged quietly. "Mrs Massinger, I—"
"You?" It was like a curse.
Clara was mysteriously shaking her head in vehement denial, or to indicate that Aubrey was mistaken in revealing himself. Aubrey came to Margaret's chair, and studied her. She glared at him, then her gaze turned aside. Aubrey continued to study her for some moments, then turned to Massinger. His expression was kindly, sadly-wise.
"Is your wife ready for the truth she has come to hear?" he asked Massinger.
"Yes!" Margaret snapped in a hoarse voice.
Massinger pondered, then slowly nodded. Clara looked at her watch.
"Kenneth — I have appointments this afternoon. I must change. My apartment is at your disposal." Clara's lips demonstrated a fleeting smile. Aubrey nodded. It seemed that something passed between them, brief and secret like a coded message; it appeared to be affection, at least.
"Very well, my dear. It's my responsibility, anyway. I must explain everything. I need the help of these people, both of whom are dear to me."
"Then be careful," Clara warned.
"No, the time for caution is past. You run along, my dear."
Clara left the room with only a brief nod towards the Massingers. Surprisingly, she lightly pecked Aubrey's cheek. The old man seemed warmed by the gesture. He lowered himself onto the sofa as the door closed behind Clara, his gaze directed at Margaret. Then, without preamble, he began talking.
Zimmermann switched on his answering machine — his secretary was still at lunch and he had been out of his office for almost an hour — and listened to the familiar voice. Only its content was unexpected; disturbing and enraging. It was the Chancellor's senior private secretary.
"The Chancellor wishes you to take a week of the leave at present due to you, Herr Professor. This unfortunate matter of the suicide of a prisoner only hours after you interrogated her must be properly investigated. The woman's lawyers and family are prepared to make an embarrassing public display of their feelings — and of their suspicions that the nature of your questions disturbed the balance of her mind…"
The message continued. There was no order for him to present himself to the secretary or the Chancellor or to make himself available to any investigation. He was to be away from the scene until the fuss died down. There was no reference to any connection between the suicide of Margarethe Schröder in Cologne and the burglary of his apartment. A public fuss concerning a senior officer of the government, albeit one unelected, was the only thing of significance.
Zimmermann remembered another answerphone, years before, and the message that his wife had died in hospital coming hesitantly from it in an official voice. It had been late, he had been dog-tired, ready for bed, knowing he should not avoid the private room for another night and day where she was slowly, certainly dying — and then there had been the message. The pain and the guilt had been equal and immediate. The guilt had remained while the pain eased during the months after the funeral.
Now, this message was meaningless. Sufficient only to raise a small anger. It was also a rope that tied him to a chair, immobilising him. He would be unable to assist Massinger and Aubrey now, he realised that.
Someone had killed Schröder; someone had burgled his flat. KGB, or KGB-linked— had to be. They were worried, and it wasn't Aubrey they wished to protect. It had to be Babbington.
Where was Aubrey? his thoughts demanded as he switched off the voice that had now become unctuous and only served to remind him of his guilt at the lonely death of his wife — the coma she was in did not excuse him, the fact that she would not have spoken, would not have recognised, not even known him…
Where was Aubrey? If he could talk to Aubrey, he might still be able to help.
Otherwise — nothing.
"I went into the Russian Sector of Berlin to meet Clara's husband," Aubrey was saying. "Karl Elsenreith, formerly of the SS — Amt VI, to be exact, the department concerned with foreign intelligence under Schellenberg — and now working for new masters. The Russians. For a department of the NKVD." Aubrey studied his audience for a moment, then continued to recite his narrative towards the high ceiling and the long-chained chandelier. "Karl Elsenreith dared not return to the Allied Zone, or to the West. He was a native Berliner and his part of Berlin, or what remained of it, was occupied by the Russians. As for his wife, I am sure he thought it an inconvenience that they had become separated — but he had found consolation for his loss elsewhere."
"The Russians trusted him?" Massinger asked.
"They used him. They appreciated his talents. He had a comfortable flat, a mistress, an income, and an immunity from his former life and associates. In fact, his only problem was that some of those less savoury old friends, senior officers, kameraden, popped up now and again, asking for help. Money, papers, passage out of the Russian Sector, the Russian Zone of Germany. What could he do? He could never be certain the organisation might not destroy him. if he refused… so, he began to help. On my — final visit to the Russian Sector, I went at his request."
Aubrey paused and Massinger, after looking at Margaret, asked: "Why?"
Margaret flinched. She had half-turned in her chair, away from Aubrey. She seemed sunk in some private world of her own.
"He had heard of my — association with Clara. Evidently, he still cared something for her… or so I thought when I received his message. He promised me — certain valuable information if I guaranteed I would do everything in my power to help her, look after her. But he could not, dare not come out — so I crossed into the Russian Sector."
"And—?"
"It was a trick. I was blinded by the chance of success, and by the nobility I envisaged for myself making promises about my mistress to her Nazi husband!" Aubrey was mocking himself. Then he added: "Elsenreith was a charming, attractive, poisonous young man. I saw why Clara had been attracted to him, even though he no longer wore that obscene and glamorous uniform — and then I saw why he had really asked me to come. I was becoming too much of a nuisance to the Russians in matters of intelligence. They wanted me removed from the board — once I had given them all the names in my head, of course."
"But you escaped?"
"I did."
"How?"
"With help. People who helped me because they could not afford to see me broken. My people. It was during one of my transfers from prison to their headquarters — Elsenreith's office, to be exact. The car was ambushed and I was smuggled away from the scene and back into the Allied Sector."