"All right — I promise. But, if you can get her out, do it. Put her somewhere safe. We could need her."
"Shelley — what about the old man?"
"Forget about the old man, Patrick — we can't get near him for the moment."
"For Christ's sake, Shelley — thinking is your bloody job! So thinkl The old man could be in Russia by tomorrow or the day after — find some way to stop it happening. You owe the old man everything." His anger had provoked a return of the pain in his hands, especially his left hand as it awkwardly clutched the receiver. His cheek, too, burned once more.
"All right, all right — you don't have to remind me. I'll think."
"Find an answer. Now, give me the number of this Elsenreith woman in Vienna."
"How — dammit, how?"
Shelley stood before the huge map of Europe, the Middle East, and Asia which he had tacked to one wall of the sitting-room of Hyde's flat. Ros watched him with undisguised disapproval. Hyde was untidy, yes — but during his frequent absences she was always able to restore the flat to an approximation of the perfect reality it had possessed in the Golden Age before she had let it to Patrick Hyde.
And she fussed and tutted about it now because Shelley had told her where Hyde was and the danger he was in and she did not wish to think about either subject.
"I've brought you some lunch," she said, offering a plate of sandwiches and a large can of Foster's to Shelley's back. Peter Shelley turned, attempting a smile. His brow was furrowed and his face pale. He looked almost debauched by tension and failure. She witnessed fear, too, in his eyes, above the dark smudges. He was afraid for himself and attempting to ignore the feelings.
"Thanks, Ros." He took the plate and flopped onto the sofa. He drank greedily at the beer, staring at the torn sheets from his notebook scattered on the coffee-table and the carpet beneath. The cat had toyed with his felt pen, wiping it in a thin trail across the green carpet, leaving a broken, blue, wobbly line. As if apologising, the tortoiseshell rubbed itself against Ros's denims. She gently pushed it away with her foot. Unoffended, the cat jumped onto the sofa next to Shelley, attracted by the scent of the tuna sandwiches.
"These are good," Shelley remarked. There were cat hairs on the lap and calves of his dark suit. Ros forgave him for his patronising tone.
"Will he be all right?"
Shelley looked up, startled. "I hope so."
"He could always go back to Aussie — nobody'd find him there. Not that he'd want to…"
"Do you want a sandwich?"
"I've had my lunch, ta." Nevertheless, she sat opposite him in an armchair that fitted her large frame snugly, even tightly. She watched him, then looked at the map spread on the wall behind him. He had scribbled on it in several places — rings, crosses, names, dates — pieces of torn notebook, frayed-edged, were also pinned to the map, obscuring much of the Mediterranean, some of the North Sea, parts of the Soviet Union and the Middle and Far East. It looked like the creation of a peculiar, fastidious, regimented man planning his holiday or even writing a travel guide. "What is it?" she asked, nodding towards the map.
He glanced at it almost guiltily, as if embarrassed that it should represent hours of work. His stomach rumbled and he apologised. He looked at his watch. It was after three — no surprise that he was hungry.
"It's every Soviet embassy in Europe and most of them elsewhere, and everything I can remember about them — and about our people in the same places." He grinned. "It's all highly secret, of course."
"Sure," Ros replied.
Shelley had told her some, but by no means all. She had needed to be assured concerning the importance of what Hyde was doing, required some vague suggestions that all would eventually be well, and had then seemed satisfied. Shelley did not understand her relationship with Hyde, or her feelings for him. And he did not have the time to spare to consider the situation.
His face must have appeared impatient, for she stood up and smoothed the creases from her denims. "I'll leave you in peace," she said.
"There's just no way in," Shelley murmured, his fingertips pushing the separate sheets of his notebook like pieces on a board, with deliberation and intensity.
"What?"
Shelley looked up. "Oh, sorry. Talking to myself."
"It — it is dangerous, isn't it?" Ros blurted out suddenly. Her large, plump hands held each other for comfort beneath her huge bosom.
Shelley nodded. "It is. Not for you—"
"I didn't mean that!" she snapped. "I meant him — and you, and that Massinger bloke… and your boss. It's a stupid bloody game to begin with, and bloody worse when you find out it's for real!"
"I'm sorry."
Ros snorted in derision and anxiety, then left the room. The cat squeezed through the door just behind her feet. Left alone, Shelley stood up and walked around the sofa to confront the unyielding map once more, the can of Foster's still in his fist. His other hand was thrust into his trouser pocket. He began toying with his car keys. The car was even parked two streets away, just in case. Alison had gone to stay with her mother in Hove — he'd taken that precaution immediately after Hyde's call from Peshawar. Arguing all the way to the coast — but he had managed to return to London without them.
He had used the excuse of having caught a cold in order to leave his office less than an hour after reporting that morning. He had returned to Hyde's flat to await his call from Rome and to tell him the damaging, possibly fatal news of Aubrey and Massinger. He had spent the greater part of the previous night on the telephone in his flat, and the last few hours before dawn trying to sleep in Hyde's bed, which he found too hard. He was camped out, homeless.
Hiding, he reminded himself. I'm on the run like Hyde. I am hiding. No one knows it yet, but I'm already on the run.
He studied the map once more, his eyes roaming at first over whole continents, then reading his notes attached to those embassies and consulates he considered most vulnerable to a penetration operation.
He'd run all kinds of penetration ops from Queen Anne's Gate and from Century House, plenty of times. But he'd never held Aubrey's safety in his hands before, and the concentration required to play this kind of esoteric chess — this war-game — would not come because the old man's face was always there at the back of his mind. He sighed and swallowed more beer. It was gassy. He belched politely. The room was warmer now, with the central heating turned up.
Come on, come on — make a beginning, he told himself. Alison was safe in Hove, perhaps walking their daughter, the dog, even her mother's spaniel along the beach. He, too, was safe for the moment.
Safe until he talked to someone. He could not approach Sir William without Hyde, without Margaret Massinger. Whatever he said would be transmitted directly to Babbington, and he would have endangered himself for nothing. Sir William was leaving for Washington that evening. If he spoke to him now, he would pass the matter to the Cabinet Office or JIC, and they would immediately inform Babbington. No — that way, Aubrey's final disappearance was certain, and time would run out for the Massingers…
He was Aubrey's only hope. He and the annotated, scrawled-upon map on the wall. He flinched at the responsibility, convinced as he now was that Aubrey would be shipped to Moscow as soon as it could be arranged. It made sense. A drugged, bewildered Aubrey would pose for pictures in Moscow, the world would believe his treachery, and Babbington would be safe.
Shame about poor Massinger, dying in that car crash… his wife was terribly upset — she committed suicide, you know… poor woman. It wouldn't take long, or much of an effort, to clean the stable and ensure the continuation of Babbington the Russian agent as controller of all British intelligence and security.