a wave
of nausea in Massinger.
He moved into the dressing-room, piled with coats and umbrellas and
raincoats and furs and capes. He picked up the telephone swiftly and
dialled Peter Shelley's number. The tone summoned, again and again.
Massinger perspired impatiently, guiltily. Sir William's face appeared
again in front of his eyes, but then he saw Margaret - a multiple image
of her face that afternoon, before she left him and Babbington alone,
and her face that evening,
glowing
.
He felt sick with betrayal.
"Come on, come on —!" he urged, as if afraid that the new and
unexpected determination would desert him, seep away down the telephone
line. "Come on." His head kept swivelling towards the door.
Why, why? he asked himself. Why am I calling?
"Yes?" Shelley answered. He sounded the worse for drink.
"Have you seen the late news programme?" Massinger demanded.
"Yes." Shelley's voice was young and bitter, almost sulky. "What do
you want?"
Massinger knew he was poised above a chasm. All he had was an anger
caused by some faked film and the smug, insulting, deliberate
indiscretions of a KGB Rezident - and threats and bribes. They did not
seem to justify this - this
commitment
. His shame had been
revitalised, but, even as he had dialled Shelley's number, bribery and
love had reappeared to restrain him. Then he leapt over the chasm.
His old debt to Aubrey gave him some of the energy he needed to make
that leap. But anger, pure hot rage, finally drove him. They had
threatened
him
, threatened his future with Margaret, his happiness with her…
Babbington and Guest. Threat and bribe. Stick and carrot… and he had
been prepared to go along, to begin to forget…
and it was a lie
!
Pavel knew that —! Buried professional instincts, wider loyalties than
the personal one to Aubrey, began to surface. He thought of Margaret,
hesitated, swallowed, clenched his free hand. Then he said, "I want
that file tomorrow."
"Why the sudden change of heart?" Shelley asked haughtily.
"Never mind. Tomorrow, at eleven. Meet me outside — outside the
Imperial War Museum - yes?"
"I - I'll have to have the file back by one."
"You will. Just be there, Peter. It's very important."
"Have you heard from Hyde?"
"No - you?"
"No."
"I'll talk to the woman again tomorrow. Now, good night."
The door opened as he put down the receiver. His hand jumped away
from it as from an electric current. He automatically adjusted his tie
in the cheval-glass before turning. Margaret stood there, with Pavel.
"Pavel wanted to say good night," she announced. The noise of the
party swelled through the open door behind them. Her hand was on the
Russian's arm like the touch of a fellow-conspirator. Yet it was he who
was the real conspirator, the real traitor.
"Good night, Pavel."
"Good night, my friend - good night, and thank you."
Pavel turned away as he approached, poised to be escorted to the
door. Then Massinger said, before he could weigh or recall the words:
"Not one teardrop, Pavel?"
The KGB Rezident's shoulders stiffened. Then he turned a bland and
smiling face to him.
"Perhaps just one," he said. There was an amusement in his eyes.
Then he laughed. "No, I really must be going." He held out his hand.
"Take care, my friend." The warning was precise. "Take good care of
yourself. Good night, Margaret."
His handshake was firm and hot. He pecked Margaret's cheek, and was
gone. Massinger closed the door behind him. The noise of the party
loudened. His head had begun to beat. Impulsively, he put his arms
around Margaret and pulled her to him, holding her tightly against him.
Eventually, she pulled gently away, smiling.
Glowing
, he
thought once more with black, ashy bitterness.
"Back to the party for you," she instructed humorously. "You're
becoming much too self-indulgent."
She took his hand, and led him back towards the drawing-room.
God, he thought with the fervency of prayer, don't let me hurt her.
Don't let me lose her - don't let me hurt or lose
of nausea in Massinger.
He moved into the dressing-room, piled with coats and umbrellas and
raincoats and furs and capes. He picked up the telephone swiftly and
dialled Peter Shelley's number. The tone summoned, again and again.
Massinger perspired impatiently, guiltily. Sir William's face appeared
again in front of his eyes, but then he saw Margaret - a multiple image
of her face that afternoon, before she left him and Babbington alone,
and her face that evening,
glowing
.
He felt sick with betrayal.
"Come on, come on —!" he urged, as if afraid that the new and
unexpected determination would desert him, seep away down the telephone
line. "Come on." His head kept swivelling towards the door.
Why, why? he asked himself. Why am I calling?
"Yes?" Shelley answered. He sounded the worse for drink.
"Have you seen the late news programme?" Massinger demanded.
"Yes." Shelley's voice was young and bitter, almost sulky. "What do
you want?"
Massinger knew he was poised above a chasm. All he had was an anger
caused by some faked film and the smug, insulting, deliberate
indiscretions of a KGB Rezident - and threats and bribes. They did not
seem to justify this - this
commitment
. His shame had been
revitalised, but, even as he had dialled Shelley's number, bribery and
love had reappeared to restrain him. Then he leapt over the chasm.
His old debt to Aubrey gave him some of the energy he needed to make
that leap. But anger, pure hot rage, finally drove him. They had
threatened
him
, threatened his future with Margaret, his happiness with her…
Babbington and Guest. Threat and bribe. Stick and carrot… and he had
been prepared to go along, to begin to forget…
and it was a lie
!
Pavel knew that —! Buried professional instincts, wider loyalties than
the personal one to Aubrey, began to surface. He thought of Margaret,
hesitated, swallowed, clenched his free hand. Then he said, "I want
that file tomorrow."
"Why the sudden change of heart?" Shelley asked haughtily.
"Never mind. Tomorrow, at eleven. Meet me outside — outside the
Imperial War Museum - yes?"
"I - I'll have to have the file back by one."
"You will. Just be there, Peter. It's very important."
"Have you heard from Hyde?"
"No - you?"
"No."
"I'll talk to the woman again tomorrow. Now, good night."
The door opened as he put down the receiver. His hand jumped away
from it as from an electric current. He automatically adjusted his tie
in the cheval-glass before turning. Margaret stood there, with Pavel.
"Pavel wanted to say good night," she announced. The noise of the
party swelled through the open door behind them. Her hand was on the
Russian's arm like the touch of a fellow-conspirator. Yet it was he who
was the real conspirator, the real traitor.
"Good night, Pavel."
"Good night, my friend - good night, and thank you."
Pavel turned away as he approached, poised to be escorted to the
door. Then Massinger said, before he could weigh or recall the words:
"Not one teardrop, Pavel?"
The KGB Rezident's shoulders stiffened. Then he turned a bland and
smiling face to him.
"Perhaps just one," he said. There was an amusement in his eyes.
Then he laughed. "No, I really must be going." He held out his hand.
"Take care, my friend." The warning was precise. "Take good care of
yourself. Good night, Margaret."
His handshake was firm and hot. He pecked Margaret's cheek, and was
gone. Massinger closed the door behind him. The noise of the party
loudened. His head had begun to beat. Impulsively, he put his arms
around Margaret and pulled her to him, holding her tightly against him.
Eventually, she pulled gently away, smiling.
Glowing
, he
thought once more with black, ashy bitterness.
"Back to the party for you," she instructed humorously. "You're
becoming much too self-indulgent."
She took his hand, and led him back towards the drawing-room.
God, he thought with the fervency of prayer, don't let me hurt her.
Don't let me lose her - don't let me hurt or lose
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