The Bear's Tears kaaph-4

by Craig Thomas

  She hesitated. Then: "Can you give me his number in Washington? Where can I reach him?"

  "I'm afraid not. His movements are rather fluid — time-table's very crowded, I'm afraid. Look, I tell you what — why not give me your number? Sir William is bound to contact the Cabinet Office either tonight or tomorrow — I can ensure that he calls you. What do you say?"

  The voice was calm, almost offhand. Helpful.

  "Yes," she began. "I'm in Vienna—"

  "Vienna? Good heavens! A holiday, Mrs Massinger?"

  "Vienna — the number is…"

  She paused to study the number printed on the telephone's dial.

  "Yes?" the voice said, eagerly. "Yes? Your number in Vienna is…?" She was puzzled by the voice. Her further hesitation caused it to speak again. "Mrs Massinger — please give me your number in Vienna!" It was an order. Unmistakably so.

  "Who are you?" she snapped.

  "I told you, Mrs Massinger—" The voice was more angry now.

  "Who?"

  "One of Sir William's staff—"

  "One of — you're one of Babbington's people, aren't you? I know you are!"

  "Mrs Massinger — please give me your Vienna telephone number—" The voice was unpleasant with imminent failure and threat.

  "No—!"

  She clattered the reciever onto its rest. Her hand was shaking. She dropped the earring she had been holding in her right hand, and scrabbled for it on the worn, dimly-patterned strip of foyer carpet. When she straightened, the night porter glanced incuriously at her, then bent his gaze to the newspaper once more. He looked sinister, dangerous.

  She had almost told them—! She could not believe it of herself, could not believe that Andrew Babbington had someone in Sir William's flat.

  She breathed deeply, raggedly, trying to calm herself. At once, her overriding priority returned. It had been growing through dinner, through the three whiskies she had drunk to occupy the time before she had thought of reaching Guest via his answering machine.

  Paul—

  Now she had evidence, and there was no one to see it, she was like a machine that had run down. Out of fuel and motive power. Now, she could only worry, with an increasingly frantic urgency, whether Paul was still alive.

  She had to know. She had to go out again, she had to drive to Perchtoldsdorf — she had to see him! Whatever the cost, she had to know!

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN:

  Rites of Entry

  Babbington watched his fingers, remote, detached objects drumming on the desk top beside the two oblong black boxes of the audio-encryption unit and line adaptor connected to the telephone receiver. Kapustin's voice, despite the complex rearrangements of his words by his own encryption unit, was only slightly mechanical in sound, only slightly hazy in enunciation. His tone of reluctance was not robbed of its anger and command. Babbington, with the utmost clarity, comprehended the Russian's mood.

  He was alone in the room. It was warm, from radiators and the blazing log fire. A whisky glass, half-filled, rested on the desk near the high-security encryption unit. To an observer, he might have seemed at his ease. Yet he was not.

  "I am not in favour of accidents," the Deputy Chairman announced. "Especially to the woman. Should you be fortunate enough to capture her. She has connections — Voronin, I believe, warned you of this. Her death would cause — a fuss?"

  "I understand that, Kapustin." The room was hot rather than warm. His fingers were not remote. They drummed more quickly now, reflecting his rising anger. "Of course, there is a risk. Everything is a risk. You should have rid yourselves of Petrunin the day this business appeared on the operations board! As it is — people know, people suspect… but only a handful of people. They must be removed. It is the only logical course of action."

  "There is the German, too."

  "I realise that—"

  Snow pattered softly against the window. Babbington turned his head to stare at the square of darkness streaked with wriggles of melted snow, then returned his gaze to the fire. The large Afghan rug in front of it offered up a tiny, thin trail of smoke where some spark from the fire had landed. The ascending wisp looked like incense burning.

  "What do you suggest in his case?" There was mockery in Kapustin's tone. The wisp of smoke faded. Babbington could not see the tiny hole the spark must have burned in the rug, but for a moment he imagined his wife clucking over the damage.

  "There is nothing that can be done. At the moment. Except that the single bold stroke which I propose will silence him, as it will everyone else. Aubrey's appearance in Moscow will forestall any further questions. Surely you understand that much?" His tone was one of exasperation. Almost helplessly, he continued as if some dam within him had been breached: "For twenty-eight years you have had my loyalty. You and the rest of Moscow Centre have waited twenty-eight years for the present moment! It was your impatience — Nikitin's impatience— that would not allow Aubrey to remain in his post until he retired and I succeeded by right. He is an old man, you know—! But no, it must be now, while Guest has the PM's ear and confidence and while he supports the idea of SAID and myself as its head. Very well—! You dictated the timing of Teardrop — you see it through! Don't quibble about disposing of one American and his well-connected wife!"

  Babbington looked at his fingers on the desk. They had ceased to accompany his rage, and now merely quivered. He touched his fingertips against the whisky glass, against the smooth black case of the encryption unit. He felt perspiration prickle his forehead. It was foolish, but he had been helpless against the outburst. Didn't they realise what was at stake, for God's sake—? He clenched his free hand into a fist and waited for Kapustin to speak.

  Eventually, the Russian said, "Your anger is understandable. I agree, with hindsight, that we should have disposed of Petrunin."

  "Then make up for it now."

  Kapustin was silent again for some time, then he said; "I cannot decide at once — just to put your mind at rest. This must be discussed."

  "Who with? Nikitin? Remind the President of the investment, and the dividend, won't you?" His hand now toyed with the whisky glass. The crystal caught the warmth of the lamps in the room, held the flames of the fire, miniaturising and fragmenting them.

  "There is the problem of the woman. Where is she now?"

  Babbington did not hesitate. "I promise you her confinement within twenty-four hours. That means you could mount the operation tomorrow night."

  Kapustin seemed only to have been waiting for the moment of bluff, for he said at once: "Then you can have your raid, your dramatic rescue of Aubrey — tomorrow night, providing you have the woman in your hands before then!"

  Babbington's fingers quivered the moment he put down the heavy crystal glass.

  "You mean—?"

  "A bargain. Your rescue attempt in exchange for the woman."

  "You'll take her and the American to Moscow and dispose of them there?" His words sounded almost breathless with excitement.

  "Providing I can persuade the President of the wisdom of such a course— persuade him it is necessary to your survival… then yes." Babbington held back his sigh of relief. "We will dispose of the Massingers — and parade Aubrey before the cameras."

  The sleety snow blew against the window like a handful of gravel thrown in warning against the pane. Babbington was startled, then very consciously looked back at the fire, considering what Kapustin had said; considering, too, his boast concerning the capture of Margaret Massinger.

  Margaret Massinger pressed her body against the bole of the fir tree. The light from Babbington's window spilled towards her hiding place like a torch-beam searching for her. She had been able to see his head turn at the sound of the gust of snow. She ducked aside at once. He couldn't have seen her, couldn't have…

  She could hear her breathing above the nose of the wind. The snow blew against her collar, against her woolen beret. Now, she had seen two of them — Aubrey and Babbington. One behind a desk, using the teleph
one, and the other one — the one she could no longer hate — sitting in an armchair behind barred windows, staring down at his feet; as immobile as if he had died. She shivered with the cold. Next to Aubrey's room were more barred windows. The curtains were drawn across them, the room in darkness. She knew that Paul must be confined there, and she could not rid herself of the idea that the drawn curtains indicated death. Her mother had never signalled her mourning because she would not believe that Robert Castleford was dead — but Margaret had used that semaphore when her mother died. They had done the same thing here, because Paul was dead…

  She felt childlike, locked out of some loved place, alone in the windblown, snowy dark. Her eyes were wet, her cheeks numb with cold. She wanted to be, had to be, inside—

  She had to know. Nothing else mattered. She had fulfilled her obligations to Aubrey, to Hyde. Now, she could choose. Everything else, all other considerations, had dropped from her as she had placed the two rolls of film, in their padded bag, in the postbox in the foyer of the pension. Her aunt in Bath would receive the undeveloped film with precise and definite instructions to deliver them by hand to William in London. The old lady would go up by train, the whole journey spent horrified at the prospect of spending time in William's company; in the company of the man and his awful cigars.

  Nevertheless, Sir William would receive the films. And he would act. He would read her note, see the film, and act. Babbington would be stopped. She had done her duty.

  She had to believe that now, shivering with cold and desperate to be discovered in the grounds of the lodge. Just as she had to believe that Paul was not dead and that she could somehow be reunited with him simply by an act of surrender.

  Curtains drawn across the windows. Paul was dead — alive—!

  She would convince Babbington that she still hated Aubrey, that she still believed he was a Soviet agent and was guilty of her father's murder. Murderer, traitor, villain, abomination — anything that would persuade Babbington that Paul and she were not dangerous to him, that Paul could be allowed to live…

  She would know nothing. Hyde — who was Hyde? She could tell him nothing, she knew nothing… anything that Paul may have said would be no more than delirium, the wildest imaginings, hysteria — anything…

  Caused by loss of blood, by his wounds—

  Aubrey was unhurt. It had been Paul's blood— But Paul wasn't dead, he was alive and hurt, alive and hurt… He could be saved, if she could play her part to perfection. She could keep him alive for long enough — she had told William where they could be found, where she would be.

  If Aubrey had to die, so be it. She must save Paul.

  She eased her body from behind the tree. She could see Babbington's grey hair as he sat behind the desk, still making his telephone call. She waited. The patrol would return in a few minutes, the two men preceded by the flickering torch-beam. She need only step out in front of them and pray they did not fire without flicking the torch towards her face. She waited, her teeth chattering, her legs and body weak with anticipation. Yet she felt no renewed desire for concealment. All that was behind her now. She stood just where the spillage of warm light from the window reached her boots, as if waiting for a tide to advance.

  Should she even have met Hyde—? Should she even know his name? Perhaps from Paul—? Would Babbington believe her, believe even one word of it—?

  He must…

  She listened. Footsteps on the gravel; light on the gravel. They were coming—

  She mustn't look as if she were waiting for them, she must be caught—!

  Cautiously, bent almost double, she crept to Babbington's window. If Paul was dead, she was meekly surrendering… She crushed the rebellious thought. She reached the window, touched the sill with her fingertips and raised her head to look into the room.

  Light on her face, light on the gravel around her, footsteps on the gravel—

  Snarl of a dog!

  Dog — light — gravel — voice. She was frozen with terror. Footsteps running. She listened in horror for the dog's paws beating on the gravel. She heard it growl — footsteps, the noise of heavy boots, running. She waited, frozen, for the dog's attack.

  Then she turned her face into the torch's beam. The man who held it laughed with surprise and pleasure. The dog, still restrained by the second man, growled then barked viciously. She glanced away from the torch. Babbington's head had turned. His face seemed white and somehow broken open, as if he were confronted by an accusing ghost. Snow blew against Margaret's cheek, against the window. Babbington appeared shaken from a deep trance by the noise it made, perhaps by the dog's continued barking. Then, slowly and with growing pleasure, he smiled.

  And spoke into the telephone, quickly and urgently and with evident triumph on his features. He had seen her held by the man with the torch, his hand gripping her arm.

  Her captor spoke: "Good evening, Mrs Massinger. So nice of you to drop in."

  She turned her head to stare at the dog's open mouth, its white teeth and pink tongue kept away from her by the strained-tight choke-chain and leash. She sagged with relief and weakness against the man who held her arm.

  "Margaret — Massinger's wife, she's here!" Babbington blurted into the telephone, unable to consider disguising his relief and surprised delight. "We've got her! Now, you keep your side of the bargain, Kapustin—!"

  "Very well," Kapustin replied at once. "Very well. Ignoring your remarkable good fortune — I shall try to persuade both the President and my Chairman to adopt your plan."

  "Excellent—!"

  "The scheme will not be popular, but I expect it will be adopted. Yes, I expect so. Have everything ready for tomorrow night. Aubrey and the Massingers. We will dispose of them for you."

  * * *

  Godwin watched the neighbour's thin black cat as he might have watched an enemy. Then, he collected his crutches from either side of his chair and struggled upright, finally shuffling away from the dining-table to the corner of the kitchen. Someone must have brought the brand-name cat food back with them after a London leave, Hyde thought. It wouldn't be on sale in Prague. Godwin unwrapped the tin from a polythene bag that contained its odours and knived chunks of it onto a yellow saucer. Then he placed it on the floor for the cat which had, during his careful preparations, rubbed with a sense of the frantic against the legs that could not sense its body. Occasionally, Godwin looked down at its protestations. And smiled.

  Hyde wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The cat, stroked by Godwin — how much pain in that bending to the cat's arched back and erect tail? — had begun to eat. Gulping delicately. Hyde pushed back his own chair with a mounting reluctance. He had to bully Godwin, again. And disliked the work. Godwin had almost solved the problem — but communicating it had a price of anger.

  He turned on Hyde with a white face and snapped: "I've worked like a black since I got here — from the moment I got here—!"

  He had been preparing the outburst throughout the well-cooked meal, perhaps ever since he had admitted Hyde to his cloistered, lonely rooms. Up thinly-carpeted stairs, the walls pregnant with age and damp, to a loosely-fitting door with English security locks. And the smell of heated, packaged meals and East European vegetables stubbornly cooked, the scent of the neighbour's cat, and the ozone of often used electrical equipment — the in-fi and the desk-top computer. Godwin's thin, eked-out life. Hyde understood, far too well, that only a pair of functioning, fit limbs separated himself from Godwin and his environment.

  But Godwin had it, had the answer — part of it, even almost all of it—

  "— like a black," Godwin repeated almost apologetically.

  "Sure," Hyde replied.

  Godwin had been restraining himself for hours; controlling himself, as he taught Hyde familiarity with the Cyrillic keyboard he would eventually encounter; taught him the jargon; educated him in the small-talk of computers and security and the Hradcany. Hyde's knowledge of computer terminals and keyboards was minimal. Godwin
seemed determined to make him not only skilled, but educated. Hour upon hour, time after time, until he stopped making mistakes, avoided errors, understood what he was doing. And all that time, Godwin had been building to his over-riding, urgent purpose; this outburst. Hyde prepared himself.

  "Yes, like a black!" he stormed, as he plugged in the coffee percolator with the wifely nonchalance of an enforced bachelor. "Do you realise what you and Shelley want from me? Do you?" He ushered Hyde back into the small lounge. The electrical smell was still strong from the keyboard and VDU resting on the old dining-table that Godwin used as a desk. The crutches thumped behind Hyde, the legs shuffled behind them.

  Hyde sat down quickly, reducing his own importance. In the kitchen, the percolator plopped. The cat audibly slid food into its gullet. Then began to lap the milk that Godwin had also put down.

  "The biggest laugh is, Shelley wants everything for Aubrey — for the old man!" Godwin glared. "For the old, blind, stupid bugger who wanted nothing to do with the thing I offered him!" Godwin's frame leaned towards Hyde. The small keyboard and screen peeped like a hint of revelations to come from behind his crooked elbow. "He put it to one side — do you know what he told me? Do you?" Godwin's body echoed in miniature the movements of a fit body in an easy chair, bobbing forward. "It can't possibly work, Godwin — once we tap in, we've given the game away. That was it. His judgment and the opinion of the tame experts he consulted. He consigned Open Weave to the dustbin without a second thought! And now he wants me to resurrect it to save his skin! What a laugh. What an absolute fucking hoot!"

  "What's Open Weave?" Hyde dropped into the charged silence; almost expecting the breath expelled with his words to spark in the heavy atmosphere.

  Godwin's grey face narrowed. "Don't pretend you don't know."

  Hyde shook his head. "I don't."

  "Don't give me that! Shelley's briefed you!" Hyde rejected interruption. "Do you even begin to understand, either of you, what Petrunin did when he fixed the computer in Moscow Centre? Do you have even an inkling of what he had to do to make Teardrop available to you?" Godwin's body slumped on the crutches, almost as if he had fallen backwards into a comfortable chair. The cat appeared, indifferent, licking its mouth in the kitchen doorway. The percolator reached a breathless climax behind the cat.