He was still wrapped tightly in his dark overcoat. They had handed it to him in Peshawar as if it formed a part of a new and enemy uniform. They had watched him with clever, sad, disapproving brown eyes and serious dark faces. Miandad's people, all of them disappointed, hurt that it was he who had come back, yet punctilious in carrying out their dead superior's orders. Medical attention, food, bath, shave, telephone provision with secure line, transport. Because he could not write with his bandaged, aching hands, they had given him the use of a portable tape-recorder and an empty room. Once ensconced and securely alone, he had dictated into the receiver every clearly recollected word Petrunin had spoken concerning the retrieval of Teardrop from the security computer in Moscow. That and everything else had been done swiftly as if by well-trained servants, survivors of the Raj. Only their lips and eyes betrayed, at odd and quickly caught moments, their disappointments, the laying of blame at his door.
He had been bundled aboard a military jet to Karachi and put on the first commercial flight to Rome. He knew he was no more than luggage. Handled carefully and with respect because it was the property of a wealthy and powerful man, but it was nevertheless done in a remote and detached manner. His debriefing had been skeletal, concerned mainly with the way in which Miandad had met his death. Even the demise of Petrunin seemed of little interest to them. It seemed that nothing which had occurred was deemed worthy of the sacrifice of Colonel Miandad. Petrunin was the bane of the Pathans and the other mujahiddin. His death might console the families for the loss of Mohammed Jan and the others.
Thus, they had dispensed with his company as soon as they were able. Officially, he had never been in the country, had never crossed the border with Miandad. They had repeated many times during his period with them, Miandad's last words as reverently as if they had come from the Koran. Mr Hyde must be given every assistance, whatever the circumstances, whatever the outcome.
It was why their helicopter had spotted him, picked him up.
He had spent more than an hour on the telephone to Shelley, whom Ros had summoned to the flat in Earl's Court. He had been fully debriefed, even to reciting once more Petrunin's useless retrieval instructions. Shelley had been shocked by his revelations; bemused by the computer jargon; numbed by their incapacity to do anything against Babbington.
On the flight from Karachi, Hyde had slept because there was nothing else to do; nothing left to do. He knew, and his knowledge was useless to him, useless to Shelley. He had measured progress only by the decreasing pain in his hands and face.
Clumsily, with his bandaged right hand, he dialled the number of his flat, and waited for it to ring four times. Then he put down the receiver, picked it up and dialled again. On the third ring, Shelley picked up the receiver in Earl's Court.
"It's me," Hyde announced. "What's the news?"
"Catastrophic, Patrick — nothing sort of disastrous." Over the telephone, Shelley sounded lugubrious in an almost comic way. Yet Hyde sensed shock and fear beneath the gloom.
"What?"
"Babbington's got the old man, and Massinger."
"Christ, how? When? You didn't even know where they were yesterday."
"Vienna—"
"Massinger went back there? The glass around him was acquiring the faint opaqueness of his tension. I don't believe it—!"
"I thought they were in Bonn, with Zimmermann, just as I told you yesterday. But, they got a lead on what happened to her father in 1946, in Berlin—"
"What the hell are they doing bothering with that, for Christ's sake?"
"His wife's obsessed by it — poor woman. But, the old man was there, too — in the apartment of a woman he knew in Berlin, and one Gastleford knew, too." Shelley's voice was very quiet and distant, a long way away. "I've spoken to her — got her number from Zimmermann… he's been suspended from his post, by the way. The word from on high—"
"So, Babbington got the lot of them? They all walked right into the cage. Christ, while I'm out in Apache country, the old man's revisiting one of his old flames and the bloody Massingers are worrying about dear dead Daddy's spotless reputation! What a fucking mess, Shelley! What a God-awful fucking cock-up!"
"Feel better now?" Shelley asked after a few moments of silence.
"What else is there?"
"They didn't get Massinger's wife, nor this Clara Elsenreith woman. Both of them were out of the apartment when the two men were taken. There was blood on the carpet, and the maid locked in a wardrobe. This Elsenreith woman's a hard one but she's scared, too. She knows what's at stake — Aubrey must have confided everything to her."
"Where's the Massinger woman now?"
"Stored safely."
"And the old man?"
"I don't know. I do know Babbington's booked to Vienna this afternoon."
"Then he's going to see the old man. What are you fucking well doing about it?"
"There's — nothing I can do. Who would listen?"
"Sir William — he's got a pipeline straight to the PM."
"He's been Babbington's patron for years. He wanted the new set-up, SAID, and he wanted Babbington to run it. He might look at proof, but he would never listen to assertion. And once a breath of what we know gets out, we're both dead."
"I'm dead anyway when they catch up with me — remember? Babbington will know by now, and he's bound to believe Petrunin told me everything before he died."
"Well, we can't try Sir William. What chance do you think there would be of finding Massinger and the old man alive if we tell anybody? Babbington would know in five minutes."
"Ballocks to Massinger! He's a silly bugger anyway. What does 1946 matter when you could be pushed under a bus any minute?" Hyde paused, and then asked: "How could Babbington get rid of them without questions being asked?"
"His KGB pals could take care of it for him. They might take the old man to Moscow for all I know, so they can send back pictures of his emergence there before they kill him. As for Massinger, he could be driving a hired car when it leaves the road and goes over a cliff- how the devil do I know? But, he'll do it."
"The bloody crunch, then," Hyde murmured. "The bloody crunch."
"What can we do about the old man, Patrick?"
"God knows. Where is he?"
"Somewhere in Vienna — there's no one in Vienna Station I dare trust, no one I can even send out."
"There's only us—?"
"Yes."
"Christ…" Hyde breathed. "Then, for God's sake, think of something — someone. Anyone. You must be able to trust someone who knows computers!"
"There's no one. God. I've racked my brains, but I can't come up with a single name — not one I can be certain of."
"Then tell someone — without the proof- just tell someone!"
"I can't—! It's too dangerous. Look, your job is to go to Vienna and talk to Mrs Massinger—"
"Now I'm supposed to commit suicide— Christ!"
"She's desperate, she's afraid. She may know something — she may be able… look, Patrick, Sir William is her godfather—"
"And Babbington's a family friend. I know the set-up."
"She could be your only chance," Shelley said softly and calculatedly.
"You bastard," Hyde breathed. "All right, all right. But you — you think of something else. Back-up. This won't be enough, and you know it."