The Bear's Tears kaaph-4

by Craig Thomas

  "Don't be stupid!"

  "Sorry."

  There was a very long, strained silence. Massinger suspended all thought, almost ceased to breathe. Cross the border, he told himself again and again.

  "Very well," he said eventually. "It's the only way. I agree."

  As Shelley sighed with relief, Massinger encountered an image of Aubrey's old and shrunken form in silhouette at the end of a long, poorly-lit corridor, abandoned and alone. Massinger clenched his fists and turned his thoughts forcibly to his wife.

  * * *

  It is ludicrous, Aubrey told himself, that I should be providing my interrogator, just as he is at his most dangerous, with a roast pheasant Sunday lunch accompanied by a bottle of good claret. He watched Eldon squash a portion of peas onto his fork and raise them to his lips before he refilled the man's glass from the silver-necked ship's decanter. Aubrey watched his own hand intently as the wine mounted in Eldon's glass. It was steady. He had absorbed the shock of the Insight article long before Eldon had telephoned and been invited to lunch. Mrs Grey considered their dining together an act of madness or heresy, but had prepared one of her best lunches, with apple tart to follow. Aubrey had needed the normality of the occasion, false though it was, to assist the drama of casual indifference and easy denial that he knew he would have to perform for Eldon.

  Within himself, controlled but evident, the turmoil of an approaching crisis brewed like a tropical storm. The subject of Clara Elsenreith had arisen, and Aubrey knew they would be looking for her. He also knew that he had to get to her first, at whatever risk.

  "She seems to have quite disappeared," Eldon was saying. "Ah, thank you, Sir Kenneth. As I said, an excellent claret."

  "I'm sure you regard it as a great pity that I have not continued the liaison until the present day," Aubrey remarked. He sliced neatly at the thigh of the pheasant, placing the meat delicately between his lips. He was well into the role, and was confident he could play it to the end of the interview; despite his increasing weariness, his growing desperation, and the new and sudden fear that he had to make a move. The journal that Clara had kept for him for thirty-five years must be destroyed. Now, it could well constitute the last link in the chain they would use to bind him. They felt they had a motive now menage a trois, he thought with disgust — and his confession to Castleford's murder was in the hands of the woman in the case. Find her and they would find his confession.

  Eldon's eyes studied Aubrey. He smiled thinly. "At least, Sir Kenneth, you admit the liaison itself."

  "Of course. Murdoch was not the only one to know of it."

  "And this woman was Castleford's mistress, too?"

  Aubrey's face narrowed as he pursed his lips. "She was not."

  "But—" Eldon's fork indicated the room, which somewhere contained the newspaper article and Murdoch's assertions.

  "Murdoch assumed the fact."

  "As did others?"

  "Naturally."

  Eldon's brow creased. "I wonder why that should be," he mused.

  "Because Castleford's reputation in such matters was well-known. Because he — actively pursued Clara Elsenreith."

  "You had, then, no cause for sexual jealousy? You were, in fact, the victor, the possessor of the lady's favours and affection?" Eldon's tone was light, sarcastic, stinging. The slighting of the affair, of the woman in the case, was quite deliberate.

  "I was," Aubrey replied levelly.

  "We shall have to ask the lady for corroboration."

  "When you find her," Aubrey remarked incautiously.

  "Is there any reason you should hope we do not?" Eldon asked sharply, laying down his knife and fork.

  Aubrey shook his head, sipped his claret. "None whatsoever."

  "You have no idea where she can be found?"

  "As I indicated — the lady belongs very much to an earlier part of my life. An episode I thought long closed," Aubrey added with unpretended bitterness. "I have no idea where you might find her." An elegant apartment opposite the Stephansdom, above a smart shoe shop, his memory confessed, almost as if he had spoken the words aloud. He sipped at the claret again. He could clearly envisage, without concentrating, the rooms of the apartment, much of the furniture and many of the ornaments, the decoration of the drawing-room and the guest bedroom where he had occasionally slept. Clara owned the lease of the shop below the apartment. It sold shoes produced by the small companies in which she had an interest in France and Italy.

  Thank God, he told himself, that she never called her fashion house by her own name, married or maiden. Thank God for that, at least.

  Castleford had pursued her, yes. Castleford had become insanely jealous when he found her drawn towards another man.

  He felt himself cheated by Aubrey, insulted by the poorer physical specimen's success, by the junior man's triumph. He had pleaded with Clara, attempted to coerce and blackmail, to bribe — to possess. Castleford needed to possess women, to use and enjoy them, then put them to one side like empty bottles when he had done with them. Clara had loathed him, though Aubrey was certain that, for her own advantage, she would have become Castleford's mistress had he not appeared on the scene. Clara would have had to look after herself. From Castleford she could have obtained papers, food, money, clothes, protection, safety. Instead, Aubrey had supplied those things.

  Yes, Castleford had been jealous. At first Aubrey had been jealous of Castleford, suspecting a success the man had not at that time enjoyed. But sexuality was not the motive for Castleford's murder.

  No, not sex, nor money, nor power…

  "You seem thoughtful, Sir Kenneth?"

  Damn—

  "Not at all. More claret?" Eldon demurred, covering his glass with his palm. "Then I'll ring for Mrs Grey. We'll have the dessert."

  I must save myself. Only I can save myself, Aubrey's mind recited to the tinkling of the silver bell in his hand. I have to get to Vienna. I have to destroy that stupid, stupid journal, before…

  He looked calmly into Eldon's face.

  Before he sees it!

  * * *

  "Come on, Mike — you can tell me how you got onto this chap Murdoch — surely?" Shelley's voice was strained with bluff jollity.

  "Look, Pete— I told you. The man came to us. You know it happens all the time."

  "And you believed him?" Shelley, sitting on his sofa, the receiver pressed to his cheek, watched his daughter patiently rolling a growing snowball around the garden. Alison, as if she felt the child required close personal protection, was standing in her fur coat, arms folded tightly across her breasts, intently watching their daughter.

  "You don't think we didn't check, old boy?" the jocular, superior, knowing voice came down the line. It was as if the voice mocked not simply Shelley's naïvety but also the innocence of the scene through the bay window. The new patio doors seemed suddenly very insecure; too much glass. "No—"

  "Well, we talked long and hard to him. We even cleared it with your people. Not that we had any need to, but we did. They gave us a couple of other names. Common knowledge, old boy. Aubrey and Castleford at it like hammer-and-tongs for months, both trying to crack this Nazi widow. We couldn't trace her, more's the pity. I can't imagine your guv'nor having that much of a yen for a bit of the other, can you?" Mike laughed.

  "No," Shelley replied ruefully. He trusted Mike. He was a journalist SIS had used before, fed or pumped as the need arose. He could be trusted. And he would probably pass on the fact of Shelley's enquiry. And his acceptance of the answers he was given. With luck, Shelley was beginning his professional rehabilitation. I just made a few enquiries for Massinger's sake, he thought with disgust. "You believe it, then?" he added. "I do. Don't you?"

  "I suppose so. God, it takes some swallowing, though."

  "The most unlikely people can get steamed up over sex, old boy. Your old boss is human after all — I think." Mike roared with laughter again. He was beginning to irritate Shelley; as if the amusement was directed at his evident disloya
lty. "I suppose so."

  "Any chance of the first hint when they charge him?"

  "I — yes, of course." Shelley felt sweat break out along his hairline. He hadn't even thought of it— Charges. They'd be charging the old man any day now. "Yes, yes — I'll be in touch," he added. "See you."

  He put down the telephone hurriedly. It was growing dark in the garden. Suddenly, he did not want his wife and daughter outside any longer. He crossed swiftly to the patio doors beside the bay window. The Labrador arranged on the rug in front of the fire opened one hopeful eye. Shelley slid back the glass doors. "Come on, you two," he called with false jollity. Alison immediately studied him.

  "Just a moment, Daddy," his daughter called, intent upon the snowball, almost as tall and heavy as herself. She heaved at it and it moved towards the rosebed.

  "Careful," he cautioned. Oh, come in, his thoughts pleaded. "Close the doors," Alison instructed. "You'll let all that expensive heat out."

  He slid the doors closed. "Oh, shit!" he bellowed. He'd established his alibi. Murdoch in Guernsey had reluctantly answered the telephone, spoken to him, confirmed his claims in the paper. Mike, author of the Insight article, had apparently satisfied his curiosity. To all intents and purposes, Shelley was satisfied with the motive for Castleford's death and the evidence for Aubrey's guilt. He had surrendered, made himself harmless; defused himself as a threat to whoever—

  He was miserable in his shame. He had abandoned Aubrey for good.

  * * *

  The main highway between Kabul and Jalalabad lay below them, twisted like rope between tumbled, snow-clad cliffs. It seemed to writhe like a living thing. A snow-plough had passed along it since the most recent fall. On the other side of the road, between its embankment and the grey skein of the river which looked as tarred and gravelled as the road itself, the snow-cloaked remains of a burnt-out personnel carrier had returned to innocence. Dawn slid softly down the face of the opposite cliffs.

  The patrol had spent the night in a bombed, deserted village rather than risk an ambush in the dark on the highway. Scouts had reported, almost gleefully, the restlessness and the inability to sleep as well as the numbers, vehicles and arms of the patrol. Mohammed Jan had decided to wait until dawn, until the patrol returned to the highway to make its way back to Kabul. The Pathans were now hidden on both sides of the narrow highway, high up in the cliffs. From his vantage point, Hyde was aware of no more than half a dozen of them, and he felt they were competitors in a race. He did not trust any of them to leave a Russian soldier alive for long enough to be questioned. He needed an officer, preferably. But, anyone—

  If he was quick enough. Even then, all he could offer the man in exchange for information was a quick bullet rather than execution by mutilation. Thus his tension as he crouched in the rocks. Miandad beside him was, apparently, more diffident and relaxed. Below them, almost directly below, rocks and larger boulders had spilled across the highway, effectively blocking it to traffic. A similar small landslide had been prepared further back down the highway, to block any retreat.

  The dark air was bitterly cold. Hyde felt as if he had never been warm since he had boarded the old military transport in Karachi. The cold sunlight slid further down the cliffs. A mirrored light flashed a signal towards their position. Mohammed Jan stood up and waved in reply.

  "Less than half a mile away now," Miandad murmured. Hyde merely nodded. Miandad studied the lightening sky above them. "I wonder whether they will send a helicopter from Kabul?"

  "Do they usually?"

  "A year ago, every patrol had a helicopter escort. But now — who can say? This part of the country has been quiet for most of the winter. The Russians assume they control this highway. Perhaps there will be no helicopter — until we have finished our business, anyway." Miandad smiled, then unconsciously flicked at his moustache, parodying a British officer.

  Hyde returned his attention to the road. Less than three minutes later, a green-painted BTR-40 scout car rounded the nearest bend, moving with what appeared to be exaggerated caution. Its small turret and finger-pointing machine gun swivelled from side to side. The vehicle seemed to possess a jumpy tension of its own. Then two caterpillar-tracked BMP infantry carriers, squat and green and heavily armoured, appeared behind the scout car. Each of them was armed with a missile launcher and a 73mm gun. There would be eight men in each, all capable of firing with the aid of periscopes while the vehicle kept moving. The red stars on the flanks of the vehicles were hardly visible in the slow dawn. A second scout car brought up the rear of the small column.

  Hyde shivered with cold and tension. Yet, however much he reminded himself of the armour and armaments of the men and the vehicles that contained them, he could not avoid the impression that this slow-moving patrol was afraid and vulnerable. Four armoured vehicles — two missile launchers and two heavy cannon mounted on the BMPs, two machine guns on the scout cars, sixteen to twenty Kalashnikov AKMs inside the four vehicles, perhaps four or five handguns, grenades, perhaps one or two machine guns like the PK or the RPK…

  The catalogue meant nothing. It could not prevent those Russian conscripts from being afraid every moment they crouched behind their armour, jogging and bucking back to Kabul. Thirty Pathans with old rifles and stolen Russian arms and American or British or Czech or Russian grenades posed a far more potent threat. The terrain and the fanaticism both belonged to them.

  The leading scout car began to slow, well down the road from the small, deliberate landslide. At that moment, the officer in command of the scout car would be operating on assumptions. In that situation, and with his nerves, he would assume that the landslide was deliberate and that it was intended as part of an ambush. Perhaps less than a minute to decide, to report over the radio—?

  The scout car turned awkwardly on the highway and headed back towards the two BMPs. The trailing scout car also turned, making for the bend in the road. Hyde imagined that the patrol had already summoned a helicopter from Kabul, less than thirty miles west of their position; perhaps ten or fifteen minutes flying time for a MiL-24 gunship.

  The two BMPs began to turn very slowly, shunting back and forth on their caterpillar tracks, the stationary scout car near them like a sheepdog. Nothing else appeared to move on or near the highway. Hyde heard a distant rumble that might have been thunder or the echoes of a shot. Presumably, the second landslide. His hand involuntarily jumped with nerves as it rested on the chilly plastic stock of his stolen Kalashnikov. The remains of a sticker — he hadn't noticed it before, but it was lighter now — was still affixed to the gun. It was yellow, had been round, and displayed the torn remains of a smiling cartoon face. The Cyrillic command to smile had been partially torn away. The image disturbed Hyde, adding to the spurious but intense nerves he experienced as a spectator of the almost innocent scene below.

  A figure moving, crawling in the roadside ditch—? He could not be certain. The second scout car, the one that had headed back down the highway, now seemed to flee back into sight, a spray of slush rising at the side of the road as it cornered at speed. Hyde's hand covered the torn, smiling sticker and he leaned slightly forward, drawn to the opening scene of the drama which was as inevitable as a previously witnessed tragedy. He saw from the corner of his eye that Miandad's body had adopted the same posture. He had no doubts. He's been told the ending of this play.

  A figure, yes—

  A brown-robed Pathan slipped on all fours onto the grey ribbon of the road, rolled something, then ducked back into the drainage ditch. Hyde held his breath. He was captive and captivated. Four seconds, then the grenade exploded beneath the scout car. Flame billowed around its flanks and wheels, but died almost at once. The scout car appeared undamaged, apart from scorch-marks on its olive-drab paintwork. Hyde lowered his binoculars in disappointment. Miandad nudged him, and pointed.

  Dandelion clocks. He focused his glasses. Dandelion clocks. They floated, orderly, delicate, innocent, down from the lowest rocks towards the vehicles on
the road. One BMP had turned, the other straddled the highway while undoubted and furious radio contact continued between all four vehicles. The trap was dawning upon them. The grenade had been some kind of signal—? Perhaps just a piece of bravado.

  The dandelion clocks—

  Suddenly, he knew what they were. Soviet RKG anti-tank grenades, hand-thrown and capable of penetrating five inches of armour. The BMP armour was 14mm thick, that of the scout cars 10mm. The white patches which had reminded him of dandelion clocks were the small stabilising drogue parachutes which ensured that after the grenade was thrown, its shaped charge struck nose-first.

  One of the BMPs launched a Sagger missile with a bright, spilling flame. Rock and snow and dust flew away from the suddenly obscured hillside above the road; above the Pathans, too. Boulders began to roll towards the lower slopes. The echoes of the noise deafened Hyde.

  The first dandelion clock struck, then the second. One detonated on the surface of the road, the other on the trailing scout car's back. The armour erupted like a boil, then split as if the vehicle had been unzipped. Something staggered from the ruin, ablaze, and fell to a whisper of rifle fire. Hyde could not hear screaming at his safe height. Other grenades struck one of the BMPs. Flame, noise, the tearing of armour. Hyde had never realised the hideousness of the noise of splitting armour-plating. It seemed to cry out on behalf of the occupants of the troop carrier.

  Another Sagger was launched by the undamaged BMP. The cannon atop the first troop carrier also opened fire. Rock and hillside boiled and shattered. The narrow gorge filled with smoke and raging noise. The surface of the grey river was pattered into distress by falling rock and metal. Uniformed men running — others lying still, sprawled down the sides of vehicles or by the caterpillar tracks or on the slush and grey tar of the highway. Hyde could hear, though he could no longer distinguish, the firing of both 73mm cannons from the BMPs. Flame lit the smoke and dust cloud from within — flickering flames from the shooting, steadier flame from one of the scout cars, burning.