spread his arms. Cognac slopped onto his
wrist, staining the cuff of his white silk shirt. His face was red.
Then he laughed.
"Not one," he said, vehemently. "Not one for him. These people here
aren't crying. Why should I - why should we?" He laughed again.
"They've abandoned him, haven't they?"
"I'm afraid they have, Pavel." Then Massinger said, quickly and
lightly, "But you should mourn him as one of yours - surely?"
Pavel's eyes cleared, hardened into black points. Then he laughed
once more, with genuine amusement. "I heard all about his arrest, you
know," he said. "From my - colleague in Vienna. My opposite number
there tells a most amusing story - quite anecdotal." His features
sharpened around his gleaming eyes. Massinger sensed triumph exuded
like an odour. His arm waved his glass around the room. Massinger
tensed himself for revelation. Pavel was on the point of indiscretion,
already certain of Aubrey's fate. "Aubrey has been gathered in like a
good harvest," he said. "My colleague saw his face, at the moment of
his
arrest. Quite, quite crestfallen! It must have been so dreadfully
embarrassing for poor Aubrey," he added venomously.
"Yes," Massinger said after a long silence. Why am I doing this? he
asked himself. I have abandoned him, too.
Pavel raised his glass once more, and murmured something inaudible.
He knows all about it, Massinger recited to himself. He knows. His -
the Vienna Rezident was
there
… ? He wanted to shake the
truth from the Russian. Instead, he raised his own glass and left
Pavel, who seemed complacent at his own indiscretion, unworried. His
indifference had to spring from complete and utter confidence. And it
was as if he had needed to tell, to boast of it to a man who had been
Aubrey's friend…
and
, as Pavel must know, had abandoned him
in company with everyone else. Massinger felt nausea rise into his
throat.
If only I could make him talk, make him tell, Massinger thought. If
only I could - he knows it's all faked, that it's a set-up - he knows
what's going on… The Vienna Rezident
saw
it all.
He realised that he had left the party, glass in hand, and had
walked through the dressing-room into their bedroom. He studied his
glass, his reflection in the dressing-table mirrors, and his swirling
thoughts, and decided he would not return to the drawing-room
immediately. He sighed, and looked at his watch. A masochistic urge
prompted him to turn on the portable television on the table opposite
the bed. He sat down, hearing the slither of silk beneath his buttocks.
Soft lights glowed upon silver brushes, crystal jewellery trays, pale
hangings, deep carpet. A late news magazine programme bloomed on the
screen.
He could not believe what he saw. Aubrey, in front of a monkey cage.
A tall, bulky man standing next to him. Summer, blue sky. A distant,
hidden camera.
"… film sold to RTF, the French broadcasting service, which purports
to show the head of British Intelligence and his Soviet controller
during one of their meetings. The French television service have
refused to name the supplier of the film…" Massinger was stunned. He
saw his blank face and open mouth in a mirror. An idiot's
expressionless features. "… Foreign Office has tonight refused to
comment on the veracity or otherwise of the film. We have been unable
to confirm the identities of the two men…"
It was Aubrey. Body, head, build, profile, full-face - Aubrey. And
the other was Kapustin, no doubt…
Teardrop
himself. He moved
quickly to the television set and switched it off, almost wrenching at
the controls. An image of Pavel's satisfied, confident features floated
in front of his eyes, then melted and reformed into the features of Sir
William, then Babbington and then the others, followed by Aubrey's
shrunken, defeated old face. Finally, the professional mask of the
driver of the blue Cortina.
They had him now. Aubrey. Tape, film, public exposure, trial by
television and newspapers. They had wrecked him. Anger rose like
wrist, staining the cuff of his white silk shirt. His face was red.
Then he laughed.
"Not one," he said, vehemently. "Not one for him. These people here
aren't crying. Why should I - why should we?" He laughed again.
"They've abandoned him, haven't they?"
"I'm afraid they have, Pavel." Then Massinger said, quickly and
lightly, "But you should mourn him as one of yours - surely?"
Pavel's eyes cleared, hardened into black points. Then he laughed
once more, with genuine amusement. "I heard all about his arrest, you
know," he said. "From my - colleague in Vienna. My opposite number
there tells a most amusing story - quite anecdotal." His features
sharpened around his gleaming eyes. Massinger sensed triumph exuded
like an odour. His arm waved his glass around the room. Massinger
tensed himself for revelation. Pavel was on the point of indiscretion,
already certain of Aubrey's fate. "Aubrey has been gathered in like a
good harvest," he said. "My colleague saw his face, at the moment of
his
arrest. Quite, quite crestfallen! It must have been so dreadfully
embarrassing for poor Aubrey," he added venomously.
"Yes," Massinger said after a long silence. Why am I doing this? he
asked himself. I have abandoned him, too.
Pavel raised his glass once more, and murmured something inaudible.
He knows all about it, Massinger recited to himself. He knows. His -
the Vienna Rezident was
there
… ? He wanted to shake the
truth from the Russian. Instead, he raised his own glass and left
Pavel, who seemed complacent at his own indiscretion, unworried. His
indifference had to spring from complete and utter confidence. And it
was as if he had needed to tell, to boast of it to a man who had been
Aubrey's friend…
and
, as Pavel must know, had abandoned him
in company with everyone else. Massinger felt nausea rise into his
throat.
If only I could make him talk, make him tell, Massinger thought. If
only I could - he knows it's all faked, that it's a set-up - he knows
what's going on… The Vienna Rezident
saw
it all.
He realised that he had left the party, glass in hand, and had
walked through the dressing-room into their bedroom. He studied his
glass, his reflection in the dressing-table mirrors, and his swirling
thoughts, and decided he would not return to the drawing-room
immediately. He sighed, and looked at his watch. A masochistic urge
prompted him to turn on the portable television on the table opposite
the bed. He sat down, hearing the slither of silk beneath his buttocks.
Soft lights glowed upon silver brushes, crystal jewellery trays, pale
hangings, deep carpet. A late news magazine programme bloomed on the
screen.
He could not believe what he saw. Aubrey, in front of a monkey cage.
A tall, bulky man standing next to him. Summer, blue sky. A distant,
hidden camera.
"… film sold to RTF, the French broadcasting service, which purports
to show the head of British Intelligence and his Soviet controller
during one of their meetings. The French television service have
refused to name the supplier of the film…" Massinger was stunned. He
saw his blank face and open mouth in a mirror. An idiot's
expressionless features. "… Foreign Office has tonight refused to
comment on the veracity or otherwise of the film. We have been unable
to confirm the identities of the two men…"
It was Aubrey. Body, head, build, profile, full-face - Aubrey. And
the other was Kapustin, no doubt…
Teardrop
himself. He moved
quickly to the television set and switched it off, almost wrenching at
the controls. An image of Pavel's satisfied, confident features floated
in front of his eyes, then melted and reformed into the features of Sir
William, then Babbington and then the others, followed by Aubrey's
shrunken, defeated old face. Finally, the professional mask of the
driver of the blue Cortina.
They had him now. Aubrey. Tape, film, public exposure, trial by
television and newspapers. They had wrecked him. Anger rose like
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