The Bear's Tears kaaph-4

by Craig Thomas

"I must…"

  "Leave it alone!"

  Zimmermann hesitated, then said: "I do not think that you will find it was…"

  "I don't care! I don't want to know!" Margaret wailed.

  "It cannot be Aubrey."

  "Why not? Why not?"

  "I believe it can't be." Zimmermann glanced at Massinger, then back at his wife, then Massinger again. In a hoarse voice, he said, "But you believe it could be Aubrey, Mr Massinger. You do, don't you?"

  "I don't know what to think—"

  "You're wrong—"

  "Stop it! Stop it! I don't want you to go on with it, Paul — I want to begin to forget it. Can't you understand that? Please—"

  "I must," he murmured, unfolding the paper. Margaret got up stiffly and left the room. A moment later, they heard the running of a bathroom tap, the clink of a glass.

  Massinger felt Zimmermann's gaze on him, felt the man's hostility stalking the room like an interrogating officer. He looked up sheepishly.

  "If I had known," Zimmermann began, "that this was your opinion—"

  Massinger held up his hand. "Please," he said. "Please. I have to know. Margaret has to know. Christ, I don't know what I believe—!"

  "But you suspect…?"

  Massinger nodded miserably. "Yes."

  Zimmermann shifted uncomfortably in his chair, as if he was disarmed by the American's unguarded display of misery. "I do not understand," he murmured at last. "I do not understand why you have these — suspicions. But, you have the address now, whatever good it will do you. I have requested the BfV to trace this woman you claim was involved with Aubrey and your wife's father. The man whose name you have was one of the people employed by Aubrey in Berlin, one of many such who later became good BfV officers. The Allies trained many of our best people — to catch other Germans." There was no expression on Zimmermann's face. "The man lives in Cologne. You will need a car."

  Massinger looked up. "What?" he asked numbly.

  "The sooner you get this business over, the sooner I can begin to help you and your wife — and Aubrey and perhaps even England. I do not know. Your wife will not, I suspect, wish to see you when she has — repaired the damage?" He smiled quizzically. "I suggest that you allow me to entertain her for lunch while you pursue your demon in Cologne. Then, perhaps this evening, you can be of help to me, I to you…?" There was a thin, quick knifecut in the final words, and a sense of knowledge. Massinger felt his dilatoriness, his selfishness, his guilt laid under a hard light and dissected.

  "You've spoken to this man, haven't you?" he guessed.

  Zimmermann smiled. "Perhaps."

  "Then tell me—!"

  "No. Hear it for yourself."

  Massinger glared at Zimmermann like a malevolent puppet for a moment, then he stood up stiffly. His hip twinged like his conscience. There was hope, too, if Zimmermann despised his doubts about Aubrey—? He could not tell. "Very well," he said. "Very well. I'll do as you suggest."

  "There is a car booked in your name. You have only to ask at the desk." Zimmermann's handsome features twisted in bitter contempt. "I will not wish you good luck," he added acidly.

  * * *

  Deputy Chairman Kapustin of the KGB watched the traffic in Dzerzhinsky Square below his window, the transcript of the coded signal from Kabul in his hand, his thumb and forefinger clenched upon the flimsy sheet of paper. Its ragged top edge suggested the urgency with which it had been torn from the pad and hurried to his senior secretary in the outer office. A small motorcade of black, official Volga saloons turned out of the square beneath the swirl of driving snow towards the Kremlin. The Chairman and some of his senior advisers attending a select Politburo meeting. Kapustin wondered why he should feel like a boy not invited to a party. More appropriately, perhaps, he was like the mouse about to play during the cat's absence.

  Snow flurried more thickly across the square. Opposite his second floor window, the lights — burning early in the afternoon — of the KGB's own exclusive beriozhka shop gleamed like an illuminated hoarding. As he turned to the senior secretary who had brought in the message, he glowered with appropriate anger, and quashed the rising sense of possible failure and the fear that accompanied it.

  "How positive is this identification?" he asked.

  "Colonel Petrunin's team questioned the guard detail very thoroughly, Comrade Deputy."

  "You checked—?"

  "Sir. The code clerk informed his superior — there was a full exchange of signals with Kabul before the message was sent upstairs."

  "And—?"

  "Kabul concludes—"

  "Who in Kabul?"

  "Petrunin's senior KGB captain — our man."

  "Very well. His conclusions?"

  "The kidnapper of Colonel Petrunin was undoubtedly a British agent." The secretary appeared uncomfortable, sensing himself on a limb.

  "Nothing more particular?" Kapustin asked heavily.

  "Our man thinks he knows him."

  "From hurried impressions — from the description here?"

  The secretary nodded. "I — placed a call myself, Comrade Deputy. I considered the delay — worthwhile, in view of the implications."

  "Implications?"

  "Sir — Petrunin's second-in-command was our appointment. When Colonel Petrunin was disgraced, he asked for one of his closest confederates to accompany him when he was posted to Kabul. You, sir, thought it wiser to send someone we could trust."

  Kapustin's laugh was like a dog's bark. "I remember!" he exclaimed. "Poor devil. I remember the look on his face." Then his mood darkened, and he added: "Well?"

  "He claims that the man involved is a British agent. He even claims to be able to positively identify him. He says the man is Patrick Hyde."

  Kapustin appeared puzzled. "Who—?"

  "Hyde was with Aubrey in Helsinki, and Vienna. He was with him during many of your meetings."

  Kapustin's eyes widened. "Him?" he breathed. "In Kabul? I don't believe it. He's skulking somewhere in Europe…"

  "Our man is positive — he knows the man. Sir, if there's even the slightest possibility—"

  "Teardrop. You think he's—?"

  "I don't know, sir. We can't afford to take the chance, however. In my opinion, sir."

  Kapustin studied his face, then the sheet of paper in his hand. Then he looked up again. "You've checked — double-checked?"

  "Yes, sir. Our man sticks by his word."

  Kapustin was silent for some time. Then he said, "Then there is only one solution. A pity—" The sentiment sounded blatantly hollow. " — but we have no choice. There mustn't be the slightest possibility. Very well. Issue the damned army its orders. Tell our man to take full command. Get rid of Petrunin, Hyde — find them all and get rid of them all."

  "Sir."

  * * *

  It was evident to Eldon that Sir Andrew Babbington revelled in the congratulations that Eldon had felt, in duty and sincerity, he should offer his superior. Babbington had been confirmed as the first Director-General of Security and Intelligence Directorate that morning. Eldon knew he would rise with Babbington, but it had not affected the spirit in which he had offered his good wishes. There was only one small element of personal calculation — Eldon was embarrassed and angry at the disappearance of Aubrey and wished to deflect what he anticipated would be Babbington's similar anger. Otherwise, he considered SAID a satisfactory innovation and Babbington its natural DG.

  "Thank you, Eldon. A pity, however, that our euphoria must be incomplete, thanks to the laxity your men displayed with regard to Aubrey."

  "You'll remember, Sir Andrew, that I originally suggested a closer method of surveillance?" Eldon observed with studied lightness.

  Babbington glared momentarily, then waved his hand to brush the subject aside as easily as crumbs from the white linen tablecloth. The club's dining-room was almost full, but Babbington's table was well removed from its nearest neighbour. Eldon could remember occasions when Babbington, the aspiring acolyte in the se
cret world, would not have merited such a secluded corner of the dining-room. The memory amused him. In some small part, the audacity of Aubrey's escape amused him, too; just as it enraged him morally to see the man escape his trial and conviction.

  "Very well. As long as Kenneth's found, there will be no recriminations. Shelley obviously wasn't involved. Kenneth ran out of luck, and nerve, and time. But, Eldon, on this matter of SAID—?" The tone had an element of seduction in it.

  "Yes, Sir Andrew?"

  "I want you as Deputy Director-General. Second Deputy, of course. I shall have to promote Worthington — temporarily."

  "I understand, Sir Andrew. Thank you." Eldon sliced at his lamb cutlet. Babbington sipped at his claret. "I did not expect—" Eldon felt obliged to offer, surprised at his own lack of excitement.

  "You never do, do you, Eldon?" Babbington almost sneered. "You seem quite without proper ambition, at times."

  "I'm sorry, Sir Andrew," Eldon replied calmly, chewing on the piece of lamb, his gaze level and untroubled. Babbington was irritated by his subordinate's self-possession. His own delight was tarnished by Aubrey's disappearance, but only on the grounds that its ease reflected on himself. Aubrey, per se, did not matter any longer. He had lost, was lost.

  "Very well, Eldon," Babbington snapped, irritated by the lack of surprise and pleasure in Eldon, then dismissing the emotions. Eldon was good, reliable, efficient, unambitious — a perfect DDG 2. There was a wife somewhere in Hampshire who would, no doubt, see the promotion in cruder, more pleasurable terms than had her husband. "Where do you think dear Kenneth is now?"

  Eldon studied the claret as if its vintage and origins were no more than a cover story. Then he sipped it, and nodded. "On his way East, Sir Andrew. He'll pop up in Moscow, no doubt, in due course — for the medal ceremony." Eldon seemed to be speaking without irony.

  "I suppose so," Babbington agreed. "A damned nuisance, all the same."

  "Perhaps tidier," Eldon murmured.

  "Root and branch now, Eldon. Your first job. All Aubrey's old cronies, his lackeys and appointments and time-servers. I want them all out."

  "Of course. It makes sense."

  A waiter approached as Babbington was about to reply. A silver tray was offered. Babbington took the sealed envelope. He opened it with the proffered paper-knife, levering up the red, embossed wax, then waved the waiter away. Eldon watched him as he read; watched, too, his own emotions. Studied the lack of pleasure, remembered the Sunday lunch he had shared with Aubrey, and sensed an unwilling and surprising comparison of Babbington and Aubrey in his emotions. Babbington was without charm, except when he chose to exercise it. Aubrey was — charming. Gifted, intuitive, and he would have said upright before events proved that idea no more than a sham. Aubrey was what Eldon might have fancied himself to be — except that Aubrey was a proven traitor. Eldon had no wish, however, to be Babbington.

  He watched Babbington's heavy features. Brutally handsome, perhaps. Elaine would have admired the strength of character they displayed, even in growing anger, as now. Fear, too, he thought quickly, even as he inwardly smiled at his wife's impressionability with regard to the superfices of human character. It was as if he had married, with subconscious deliberation, someone who could never rival or imitate his own capacity for insight.

  Fear, too—?

  Why?

  Babbington caught Eldon's gaze, and there was only anger. Eldon maintained a calm expressionless exterior. Babbington screwed the paper into a ball in his fist.

  "A message from the Continent," he announced with heavy irony. "Massinger has been seen in Bonn."

  "One of the first fruits of SAID," Eldon observed.

  "It isn't a joking matter, Eldon!"

  "I'm sorry—"

  "What in hell's name is Massinger doing in Bonn?" Eldon thought he detected an element of bluff, or subterfuge in the puzzlement. As if Babbington knew the answer…? Eldon dismissed his guess. Better to be like Elaine on some occasions, he warned himself. Interrogator's paranoia. "Why the devil can't he drop this damn business?" Babbington continued. "He must be stopped."

  "Does it matter? May I?" Eldon held out his hand. Babbington reluctantly passed him the ball of paper. Eldon smoothed it on the tablecloth, and read. Eventually, he said: "I don't see what we can do, since he's with Zimmermann. Ask politely, I suppose?"

  "So do it. And — find Aubrey. I want him to stand trial — I want Aubrey in the dock at the Old Bailey!"

  Eldon glimpsed the fear once more, lurking beneath the anger like a serpent beneath a flower. Eldon, too, squeezed the sheet of notepaper into a ball in his fist.

  * * *

  To have reached the abandoned Afghan fort before darkness seemed to Hyde like a race that had been won. The day had exhausted him. Not because of the distance so much as the tensions that surrounded himself and his prisoner. There were eleven Pathans still alive, including Mohammed Jan, and all of them coveted Petrunin as certainly as if he were encrusted with precious stones. Even now, in the shadows of the fort's empty, windswept rooms — a wind that plucked little drifts of snow from the corners and floors of the rooms and whirled them like new showers — Hyde could sense their eyes turning continually towards the Russian, their hunger evident. Miandad sensed some kind of approaching crisis, too, for he had positioned himself near Hyde and Petrunin, his small frame crouched and alert with tension. Mohammed Jan, after posting his look-outs, paced through the fort like a magnate who had acquired a mansion requiring extensive renovation. There was about him both an urgent need for change and a sure sense of possession. Petrunin was his, his stance and movements declared. His by right, his to take.

  They had left the truck to continue its journey to Jalalabad less than five miles from the place where they had ambushed the patrol and Hyde had killed Lieutenant Azimov. The Pathans who had slipped out of Kabul in wagons, on bicycles, by bus and even on foot, rendezvoused with them before midday. Hyde was shocked to discover how few in number they were. There had been no time at the rug maker's to ask Miandad anything as the Pakistani had hurried him into the back of the truck with the now conscious Petrunin, then joined the driver in the cab. The staff car was driven away by one of the rug-maker's sons and presumably dumped.

  The truck had not been searched. They had evaded the net, perhaps by no more than ten or fifteen minutes. Confusion still aided them, and Petrunin might not yet have been missed.

  The afternoon had been filled with the noise of helicopters, after they had taken to the hills — their noise and the sharklike shapes of MiL gunships dark against the snow-clad hillsides. The Pathans had protected Petrunin like their dearest possession; which he was, Hyde admitted. He was the purse that held the coinage of their hatred and their revenge. Bright gold coins. They had avoided detection with what had seemed like ease, threading through narrow defiles or using hidden, hair-thin tracks that clung to the sheer sides of the hills, until they reached the fort where Hyde and Miandad had rested two days before.

  After nightfall, they would continue their journey. Miandad expected them to cross the border into Pakistan before dawn. Hyde associated the crossing, and the hours before it, only with crisis, not with safety at the journey's end.

  Hatred. Even in that sub-zero temperature, its effects heated Hyde's body. Almost three-quarters of the Pathans had died for this man's capture, the last of them in the square, buried by rocket-loosened masonry or raked by bullets. Some of them might yet die of wounds, exhaustion or gangrene. Their efforts and their losses demanded the mutilation of Petrunin and his slow death as recompense. To satisfy their hatred, they would risk capture and death by remaining here for two or three days just to kill him slowly and with infinite pleasure.

  Above all, Petrunin had burned fifty of Mohammed Jan's men; burned two of his sons.

  "My friend," Miandad murmured on the other side of the apparently sleeping Petrunin, "what will you do? Have you decided?"

  The wind whipped snow from one corner of the roofless room
in which they huddled around a small, flickering fire, creating a tiny blizzard which lasted no more than a moment. The arms of Petrunin's greatcoat were dusted with snow. The Russian's head remained resting on his chest. Petrunin had answered none of Hyde's questions. He realised his value to the Australian and relied on Hyde's protection. Petrunin realised as clearly as the Pathans his value as a commodity. He knew Hyde would not sell him to Mohammed Jan, not even at the price of his own safety.

  Hyde shook his head. "I don't know," he muttered. "Christ, I don't know—!" Petrunin appeared to stir in his sleep. Hyde dug his elbow viciously into the Russian's side. "Wake up, you bastard!" he growled. As if the Pathans had been large cats huddled around them, there was a murmuring noise as Petrunin sat up; a throaty, greedy, hungry noise. "You bastard, you bastard…" Hyde repeated impoteritly.

  "You can't threaten me with them," Petrunin observed calmly, though his face betrayed the effect of the Pathans' murmuring on him. "And I won't tell you, because then you would give me to them. And you can't hand me over and hope to stop it if I talk — they'd never Let you."

  "So how do you expect Mr Hyde to protect you, if they are so much to be feared?" Miandad asked.

  Petrunin glared at the Pakistani.

  "Can you get us over the border?" Hyde asked.

  "From here, yes — but I doubt if we could slip away unnoticed, my friend."

  "Shit—"

  "I am already compromised, I fear," Miandad continued. "It would do me no extra harm to help you escape. But I cannot see how we would possibly outrun Mohammed Jan — can you?"

  "No, I can't. We're right in it, thanks to this bastard."

  "I didn't ask to be kidnapped," Petrunin observed with an affected lightness that seemed to recapture, for an instant, a former time and place, even character.

  "Aubrey didn't ask to be set up!" Hyde snapped. Again, the Pathans stirred. Wild, large cats. "I didn't ask to get shot at by my own side, or to be here."

  "I did nothing more than create Teardrop — I didn't use it. It was an intellectual exercise, nothing more."

  "What was its purpose?"

  "Ah," Petrunin answered smugly, and smiled. Hyde could see his face in the failing light, somehow softened and made younger. It was haggard with effort, of course, and afraid. But it belonged to the Petrunin Hyde had formerly known. It was the face of an invalid who had recovered from a severe fever; and the face of a still dangerous enemy.