The Bear's Tears kaaph-4

by Craig Thomas

  For them, killing him would be just as easy.

  "Christ—!" he exclaimed in an explosion of breath. "Christ—!"

  Then, involuntarily, he picked up the telephone and flicked over the directory of international code numbers on the desk, running his finger down the column of figures. He began dialling, first the code for the UK, then the London number. He could see the telephone — perhaps his cat was sitting by it, or looking lazily up at its summons. It was no doubt ensconced in Ros's flat, above his own.

  "Come on, come on…" he breathed.

  Give up, some part of him suggested seductively.

  "Sod that," he muttered, then: "Come on, Ros, come on, girlie…"

  She knew where the other passports were, the money, the credit cards in another name. Would she bring them? At least she could send them.

  "Come on, darling…" he muttered urgently as the telephone went on ringing in her flat in Earl's Court.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Meat Market

  THE TAXI DROPPED PAUL Massinger at the corner of Philbeach Gardens and Warwick Road and he walked quickly, his limp easing with exercise, along the crescent of the Gardens. Through the spaces between the houses he glimpsed the Earls Court Exibition Building that lay behind the crescent. St. Cuthberts Church, though elaborately Gothic, seemed shrunken and dwarfish by comparison as he passed it.

  He felt a cold trickle of danger in his stomach as the afternoon closed in. Gaps in the darkening cloud were blue-turning-black already. There was a chilly sliver of fear in the small of his back. What he had suspected in the taxi was now confirmed. He had collidid with reality and the impact had snatched away his breath and his wits, but he was certain that he was under surveillance.

  The blue Cortina had stopped by the Church. It had pulled out behind the taxi in Charlotte Street and, from time to time, he had seen it during the journey to Earl's Court. Now, there could be no fudging, no postponement of certainty. He could not remember having seen the same car in the vicinity of Aubrey's flat, nor on the way to Antoine's. But it had been there when he and Shelley left, and it was still with him.

  God, he had done no more that call on an old friend and eaten lunch with a second man, and someone already thought him worth tailing-

  Shelly-? he thought, and dismissed the idea. Babbington? The KGB? Who?

  He shook his head, ridding himself of the questions as a dog might have done water from its coat. He studied the house numbers in the crescent. Bare trees flanked the railings of the gardens themselves, trunks black as iron. The grass beyond them was patchily white with old snow.

  He climbed three steps to a front door, and studied the discoloured cards below each doorbell. P. Hyde claimed one of them. On the second floor, he was informed in a more flowing script, lived R. D. Woode. He pressed the top floor bell. There was a delay, and then a tinny voice with a distinct Australian accent issued from the grille of the speaker above the bells.

  "My name is Massinger — a friend of Kenneth Aubrey," he enunciated clearly in reply to the enquiry. "Am I speaking to Patrick Hyde's landlady?"

  "You are, sport. He's away on business." Even through the distortions of the speaker, the voice seemed pinched and tense with knowledge.

  "I know that. You know the name Aubrey, maybe?" Shelley knew nothing of Hyde's relationship with the woman. But he had felt Hyde trusted her — she might know Hyde's work…?

  "I know it."

  "He's in trouble. He wants to know Mr Hyde's whereabouts, urgently." Massinger felt the cold of the late afternoon seeping into him, mingling with the chill knowledge of the watchers in the blue Cortina. He was tempted to turn around, but remained hunched near the grille of the speaker.

  "I know that, too," the voice admitted. Then, rallying: "Shit, what do you want, mister?"

  "I'd like to talk to you. I assure you Kenneth Aubrey, Patrick Hyde's — er, employer — sent me."

  There was a long silence. Massinger heard a crow coughing in one of the naked trees. Then, in a graceless, churlish tone, the woman said: "I'll meet you outside his flat. First floor." There was a buzz, and he pushed open the door, letting it close behind him on its security springs. The hall smelt of cooking, but was carpeted and quiet. He went up the stairs as confidently as he could, wincing at the pain each tread caused in his hip.

  Hyde's door was painted a garish crimson. Standing in front of it was a woman of perhaps thirteen or fourteen stone in a kaftan that billowed around her. She appraised him with keen brown eyes. Her dark hair was dragged back from a broad forehead and held in a pony-tail. She held a bunch of keys in her hand.

  "Massinger?" she said.

  "Yes." He held out his hand.

  "Ros Woode," she acknowledged, gripping his hand firmly and then letting it drop. He studied her face. It was impassive almost to the point of boredom, but he sensed that the expression was adopted; a mask.

  He gave up the puzzle. Carefully, he said, "Could I ask you to do something for me?"

  "Depends."

  "Just listen, then," he instructed. "If you should hear from Mr Hyde—" He held up his hand to stifle her protest. " — if you should hear from him, would you please tell him of my visit, and tell him also that I am trying to help Aubrey. Tell him — mm, tell him that I am trying to establish why the KGB should have framed Aubrey, and that I believe it is a frame-up." Massinger cursed inwardly. He needed something, a token of good faith, a password that would convince Hyde. Yet he knew nothing about him. What—? "Has Hyde worked for Aubrey for long, do you know?"

  "He has — why?" The woman seemed subdued now. She appeared to wish to believe him. He realised that she had been in touch with Hyde, and had been warned against visitors.

  "I'm trying to find something that will convince him I'm a genuine friend, not a trap. But I can't. All I can tell you is that I'm the husband of the daughter of the man Aubrey is supposed to have betrayed to the Russians."

  "Christ, mate…" the woman breathed.

  "That either makes me Aubrey's bitter enemy, or his one real friend. Hyde must decide. If he contacts you again, or if you can reach him, please tell him everything I've told you — and that I must speak with him. I'll do it from here, even from the call-box on the corner to keep him secure. Will you do that?"

  The woman hestitated for a long time, and then she finally reluctantly nodded.

  "I'll do it-if I hear from him," she grudgingly agreed.

  "Thank you. Now, I'll leave you. Good afternoon, Ms Woode." He inclined his head, and turned to leave the room. The woman made no effort to recall him and Massinger was dubious as to his success. She might just as easily warn Hyde off.

  He closed the door of the flat behind him and went down the stairs. A young woman passed him in the hallway, then opened the door of the ground floor flat. The commentary of a Test Match issued into the hall, together with the smell of pipe tobacco. The radio informed him of an imminent English batting collapse before the door was closed upon the commentator's voice. He had never learned the English trick of passionate interest in such a sleepwalking game; especially not in a recording of a game being played on the other side of the world.

  He opened the front door.

  The blue Cortina was clearly visible in the failing light, against the black railings of the gardens. Two men, driver and passenger. He noted the number, then descended the steps.

  He had walked three or four yards in the opposite direction from the parked car when he heard its engine start. A noise harsher than the crow's coughing earlier. His body suffered a violent spasm of shock, as if he had been dreaming the falling-dream and then suddenly awoken. The car passed him. He forced himself to turn his head, and felt a chill of recognition. A type, not an individual. A professional. The driver's glance was vivid with threat.

  The car turned out of Philbeach Gardens, and disappeared. Massinger walked on in the chill dusk, his heart refusing to adopt a calmer, more regular beating.

  * * *

  Margaret was perched on
the edge of the armchair which faced the door of the drawing-room. Her hands comforted and strengthened each other on her lap. Babbington was in half-profile to Massinger until he turned his head in greeting. Or perhaps it was no more than an acknowledgement of his presence. Massinger felt himself an intruder, the shoulders of his overcoat sparkling with melted snow that had blown along the orange-flaring darkness of the street outside. The warmth of the central heating seemed a barrier; a border he had yet to cross.

  Babbington stood almost at once, and held out a hand. Massinger moved towards him, conscious of an ache in his hip. Margaret's features betrayed a little anxiety. Babbington seemed to weigh and discard him, and to be almost amused at his infirmity.

  "My dear Paul," he murmured.

  "Sir Andrew," Massinger replied stiffly. Babbington smiled sardonically and with infinite confidence.

  Margaret stood up jerkily, her body that of a faint-hearted conspirator in the moment of flight. "I–I'll leave the two of you to talk," she murmured. Massinger allowed a look of pain to cross his face. It was evident Babbington and she had been talking. She knew — if not everything, then a great deal about how he had spent the day. He could not but be hurt, and guilty, in the moment before other thoughts crowded in. Blue Cortina. Babbington's people—? Why? He felt breathless.

  "Don't forget to leave yourself time to change," Margaret added as she moved to the door.

  Flowers — he was aware of a number of new flower arrangements that must have been delivered that afternoon. The sideboard was laden with drink and glasses.

  "Why—?" he asked stupidly.

  "Covent Garden," she murmured in a tight little voice, indicating displeasure. Then she closed the double doors to the dining-room behind her. Immediately, he could hear her supervising the activities of the butler and housekeeper.

  "Sit down, my dear Paul," Babbington murmured, indicating a chair. It might have been the man's own room. Massinger lowered himself into his armchair as vigorously as possible, casting the stick and his removed raincoat aside. Babbington watched him with what might have been greed rather than curiosity. "You're not well?"

  "Fine, thank you, Andrew — and you?"

  "Good health, thank God."

  Massinger quailed inwardly. It was not knowledge of Babbington's position, authority and reputation that made him do so. Rather, Babbington exuded those things, they were palpably present in his frame, his features, the room.

  "You seem serious, Andrew?" he asked as lightly as he could.

  "I am, Paul — I am. This Aubrey business. This affair of your friend Aubrey. Deeply distressing." Babbington shook his head as an accompaniment to his words. The scent of winter roses from near the windows, where the central heating was opening the tight buds, was sharp and warm in Massinger's nostrils. He had not noticed the scent when he had come in from the cold, wet street. Now, he heard the sleet patter against the windows behind the heavy curtains and, through one window at the far end of the room where the curtains had not been drawn, he saw it blow in a gust through the orange light of a street-lamp. The image was almost identical to that of one of the two Turners on the wall above the sideboard.

  "Yes. My friend, as you say." It sounded like a confession of weakness or guilt.

  "I'm sorry for you, Paul. It must be very upsetting, caught in the middle as you are."

  "Yes."

  "Especially when one is impotent, useless." The words had been carefully chosen. "When one can do nothing to help, even though one wishes to — however much one wishes to." Babbington spread his hands on his thighs.

  "You think nothing can be done?"

  "I'm certain of it," Babbington replied sharply. His eyes held Massinger's. "I'm sure of it," he repeated softly.

  "You think he's guilty?"

  "Perhaps. It doesn't look good. In fact, it looks very bad, from whichever angle the light strikes it. Very bad."

  "But you know he's not a traitor—!"

  "I know nothing of the sort, neither do you. You don't believe he is. Nothing more than belief."

  "Nonsense."

  "My God — if he is allowed to remain as DG of the intelligence service, Paul — the havoc, the absolute, irreparable harm of it!"

  "I don't believe it. Any of it. You shouldn't believe it either."

  "Aubrey's day is over, Paul, whatever the final outcome. I assure you his sun has set." Babbington's eyes gleamed with an undisguised ambition.

  "Whatever the truth really is?"

  "I'm sorry," Babbington murmured insincerely. "I realise he is a very close friend…"

  "And if it is a KGB set-up, as Aubrey believes?" Massinger asked, feeling warmth ascend to his cheeks. He felt foolish, hot and angry and not in control of his situation. And he felt insulted and unnerved by the threats that had underlain each of Babbington's remarks. "Don't you wonder why the KGB might want to help you achieve your ambitions — why they should want Aubrey ditched like this?"

  Babbington was silent for a time, as if genuinely considering Massinger's theory. Then he studied the cornice, and the central moulding above the chandelier. Plaster pastoral, shepherds and shepherdesses against pale blue, like a piece of Wedgwood. Then he returned his gaze to Massinger.

  "You're not going to go on with this, of course?"

  "What?"

  "This misguided attempt to assist someone who cannot be helped."

  "The truth doesn't matter?"

  "That is the second time you have asked me that. It still sounds just as naïve."

  "My God—"

  "Aubrey is as guilty as hell!" Babbington snapped. His powerful hands were bunched on his knees as he leant forward in his chair. "When we get to the bottom of it — to the centre of the web — Aubrey will be seen to be as guilty as hell. He's a Soviet agent, dammit, and he has been for nearly forty years. Ever since he betrayed your wife's father, and had him disposed of by the NKVD."

  "Why should he have done that?" Massinger disputed hotly, his face burning with anger and with the effect of Babbington's unsheathed determination.

  "A proof of his loyalty — or because Robert Castleford was a convenient way to save his own skin — take your choice."

  "That's crazy—" Massinger replied, a perceptible quaver in his voice.

  Babbington sat back as if weary of the discussion. His eyes, unlike his cheeks and lips, were not angry. They studied Massinger in a cold, detached manner.

  "As you will," he said finally. "But he did it — your wife's father. A man whose bootlaces Aubrey wasn't fit to tie."

  "Is that blackmail?" Massinger asked quietly. His voice was breathy, nervous.

  "Just remember your happiness, and that of Margaret, Paul. Please…" It was no more than the mockery of a plea.

  "As I thought — blackmail."

  "No, Paul. Sound advice. If, in your Harvard, CIA and King's College priggishness, you wish to see real blackmail — then think of this. You might expect a number of City directorships to come your way. You might expect a decent number of Quango appointments. None of it will happen if you go on with this. I can assure you of that. Belgravia, everything that might have come with the job, so to speak—" He gestured around the room. It was obscene. Massinger choked on his silent anger. " — will come to nothing. I really do assure you of it."

  "Great God," Massinger breathed.

  "But, above all, you will lose your wife's love. I am certain of that. As you must be." Babbington stood up quickly. "Don't bother to see me out. Say goodbye to Margaret for me. Tell her that Elizabeth will be in touch — a dinner party, perhaps? Good evening, Paul."

  And he was gone before Massinger could clear his throat of accumulated bile and fear. He watched the door close, as if half-fearful the man would not leave. He felt his hands twitching on his thighs, but did not look at them. His body felt hot and without energy. Babbington had threatened to take his wife from him.

  The doors to the dining-room opened and she posed, the light and bustle behind her like a natural setting
. He was terrified, as if she had shown herself to him before being taken away to some place of confinement; or before she voluntarily departed. The butler and housekeeper busied themselves behind her, part of the tableau vivant. Crystal, gleaming napery, silver. Candlesticks and candelabra. Caviar, smoked salmon, canapes, asparagus. Champagne, Burgundy, claret, hock.

  She released the door handles and moved out of her setting towards him. Her face began to mirror his as she moved, and she hurried the last few steps then knelt beside his chair, taking his proffered, quivering hand at once.

  "Oh, my dear, my dear…" she murmured over and over, her cheek against the back of his hand. Massinger listened to the note of sympathy in her voice, clinging to it, afraid to lose it. And he heard, above the sympathy, like static spoiling broadcast music, something he could only comprehend as necessity. She knew what had been said, and she knew it had been necessary to her happiness. She had allowed Babbington to threaten and blackmail; to frighten him off. Her father existed in some sacrosanct part of her memory, deeper rooted than himself.

  Class, too, he thought miserably. Damned English class. She had taken sides, and she expected him to join her. Nothing else would make sense to her. Aubrey had been a verger's son, and a scholarship boy. A choral scholar with, a brilliant First. A verger's son.

  He shifted in his chair. "It's — all right, my dear," he muttered. She looked at him, the gleam of her satisfaction slowly becoming absorbed in affection.

  "I know, darling. I know." She stood up. "Are you — ready to change?"

  "Yes, of course," he replied with studied lightness. His hip stabbed him like a painful conscience as he moved, and his limp was more pronounced. Without looking at her, he said as he reached the door: "There'll be no trouble, my love. No trouble." He heard her sigh with satisfaction.

  He crossed the hall to his dressing-room, avoiding the long, gilded eighteenth-century mirror on the wall above the telephone, avoiding the cheval-glass in one corner of the dressing-room. The long modern mirror on the inside of the fitted wardrobe door caught him by surprise, revealing the irresolute, dispirited shame on his features. He turned away from it, slamming the door. He took off his jacket and tie, uncrooked his arm and dropped his overcoat to the carpet. The hard seat of the divanette looked inviting.