The Bear's Tears kaaph-4

by Craig Thomas

  Godwin's face was tight and calm. A case officer's noncommittal expression. Then he grinned, nervously and boyishly. Hyde backed away from him. Could he hear the approach of the train? He reached the edge of the platform, hard against the wall. He stared for a moment at the live rail, and at a cigarette packet, crumpled into a ball, between it and the outer rail. He glanced up the platform. Faces turned to the far end. A quiet, distant rumble—?

  Godwin had moved to the edge to mask him. He slipped his body off the edge of the platform. Aware of the sleepers and of his trouser-leg inches from the live rail. Then he strode swiftly but carefully into the tunnel. He heard no cry, no murmur of detection behind him. He flicked on his torch. The sleepers quivered beneath his feet and he heard the train enter the platform, come to a halt. He felt impelled to hurry, even to run. He flicked the torch-beam along the wall of the tunnel, back to the sleepers and his feet stepping into the pools of light, to the walls, counting the seconds. Torch on the wall, on his feet, aware of the fragility of ankles and the price of stumbling — seconds, wall, feet, breathing — noise, noise. The jerky sigh of acceleration, the quiver returning to the sleepers, the hiss of rubber wheels, the hum of current—

  The fireplace, the fireplace and the chimney—!

  He stepped over the live rail and pressed himself into the inspection arch set in the tunnel wall. The train cried and bellowed past him, his lips quivered almost to the rhythm of the carriage lights splashing over him. He pressed his cheek to the rough brickwork. Silver blur of the flanks of the carriages, a solid rushing wall, a metal blizzard passing the shallow niche of the inspection shelter and the ventilation shaft that rose from it like a chimney above a fireplace.

  Then silence, except that his ears rang with the noises of the train. A deafness into which the hum of the live rail insisted after a few moments. Seconds going. He pushed himself away from the wall, stepped over the live rail — five minutes now — and began to walk on weak, trembling limbs down the curving tunnel.

  Second inspection shelter, third. Three hundred and fifty yards into the tunnel. He counted his measured paces, his legs marking distance and the passage of time. Each step a yard, each step a second—

  He washed the thin light of the torch over the tunnel wall. Instructions, conduits, fuse boxes. A metal plate, unmarked. He walked on. Six paces. There, just on the edge of the beam. Metal plate, like the door of a first-aid box, but unmarked. He hurried to it, stepping over the live rail. Shone the torch. Drew out the snapshot, checked the dimensions scribbled on the back together with the distance from the platform. Yes, yes

  A heavy security lock.

  The landlines that linked the terminals in the Hradcany with Moscow Centre had been buried in the tunnel walls of the metro system when it was constructed. Under KGB supervision. Just as the rock outcrop on which the Hradcany stood was bomb-proofing for the cellars of the computer room, so the deep tunnels of the metro afforded similar protection to the secure communications channels.

  Hyde touched the lock, then removed a drill from his haversack. He waggled the torch beam until he located the heavy-duty power points and plugged in the drill. He switched on — and sensed the whine of the drill funnel along the darkness to reach the platform and alert—

  He pressed the drill-tip against the door of the terminal box, felt it jump aside, pressed it with both hands and began to drill into the lock.

  The torch nestled under his chin, jammed against his hunched shoulder. Its weak beam wavered, jumped, seemed tenuous. Hyde was aware of the darkness around him, around the metal box he was attacking. Aware of the hum of the live rail behind him. It was thirty yards along the tunnel to the next inspection shelter. He had to listen above the whine of the drill for the next train—

  He stopped and dropped into a crouch, unstrapping his watch quickly from his wrist. Then he fished in the haversack at his side, withdrew a roll of black insulating tape, and straightened up. He held the door in the torch-beam and taped his watch to it. Its face hung there in the pale light. Two minutes forty-seven since he had stepped out onto the tracks behind the last train. Two minutes — two-nine before the next train. The second hand jerked across the face of the watch. He wedged the torch beneath his chin once more and placed the drill-tip against the lock. One hole, two, three — one minute-twenty left, one minute and ten — three, four holes. He punctured the metal, withdrawing the drill with a jerk before its tip could contact any of the cables inside the hatch. Then again — forty-five seconds. Five holes. Two more, three—?

  Thirty seconds. Sweat was running down his cheeks and into his eyes, even though his breath clouded around him in the torch-light and damply misted the face of his watch. Clouded the metal of the door. He was wet with perspiration. Twenty-five seconds. He listened after the drill's noise had tailed away. The bend in the tunnel obscured the platform. He began to drill again.

  Twenty, fifteen, ten.

  Six holes, beginning the seventh. On schedule. Five seconds.

  Train should be drawing into the station, time to begin to move—

  He lowered the drill.

  The sigh preceded the train, a rushing wind. He dropped the drill nervelessly. Light on the opposite wall, and a quiver in the sleepers. Hyde ran.

  The train bellowed its way around the curve of the tunnel, pursuing him. He flicked the torch ahead of his feet, then to the tunnel wall, then his feet—

  The shallow arch was caught in the torchlight. He threw himself into it, his back to the train as it yelled past him and the metal blizzard of its flanks roared inches away from him. Then it was gone, and he slumped against the brickwork. The train had been perhaps thirty seconds early.

  Slowly, his breathing stetorious, he returned to the junction box and the drill. Flicking the torch with intense nervousness until he discovered it, lying at the side of the track. Outside the track. It had not been damaged or its wires snapped or crushed. He picked it up, tested it. His breath was noisy, visible around him like a fog. He wedged the torch, checked the watch, and drilled out the last two holes with frantic, careful haste.

  Then he drew a thin, long screwdriver from the haversack and levered at the lock. Heaved against it, tearing the tiny patches of metal between each of the holes — snapping out the useless lock. It clattered on the nearest rail, bounced — a flare of sparks, illuminating him briefly, robbed him of his night-vision. The live rail glared on his retinae as he returned his gaze to the door, which now hung open. He waited until the hands of the watch diminished into clear focus, then studied the terminals and cables in front of him.

  Third from the top. One, two — he grinned. The red one. The big red one. He bent once more to the haversack. Straightened, replaced the watch on his wrist, then touched his fingertips around the red cable. Enough room. He began to feed the length of coil around the cable, encircling it six or seven times.

  How do you know?

  Unofficials—

  Who? Who told you about this?

  He snapped off the length of coiled wire with a pair of pliers, then raised the flip-flop transistor into the beam of the torch. An intermittent noise on the line, interrupting the flow of data from Moscow Centre. Scrambling and altering, disrupting. But not a consistent noise which could be rectified quickly. One difficult to trace because it occurred at imprecise, lengthy intervals.

  He began to attach the transistor.

  Chartists, people with a grudge, the greedy and the needy, Godwin had replied with a slight smile over the rim of his coffee cup. They sell it, offer it, give it. There's a whole black market in anti-Soviet information out there, if you bother to look…

  But, this stuff?

  Engineers, designers, surveyors — a lot of them signed the Charter in '77, lost jobs, need to eat or hate the Russians… a lot of clever people were students in '68… the trauma froze most of them their feelings come up brand-new every time …

  And you trust them?

  I trust their hatred.

  Hyde
checked that the contacts were good, then drew the battery from the haversack and connected it. Watch, watch—

  Three minutes ten already gone. Careful this time—

  He stretched out a length of insulating tape and fixed the short-life battery to the hanging door, making certain that it was solidly held. Then he eased the door closed. When he released it, the door swung open once more. Hyde fumbled in the depleted haversack for the timer and set its hands in the beam of the torch.

  Three minutes fifty gone—

  He glanced involuntarily down the tunnel towards the hidden platform of the Muzeum station. Silence. The air was cold on his heated face. He shivered, aware of the temperature around him. Straightening up once more, he swiftly wired the timer to the circuit. At eight o'clock that evening, the timer would trip the completion of the circuit and the transistor would begin to disrupt the impulses passing through the landline, garbling the flow of information between the Hradcany and Moscow Centre. The intermittent fault would be difficult to trace and cure. The post office engineer would be on the point of giving up when Hyde arrived to test the system. Soon after that, the short-life battery would fail and the fault would disappear.

  And he'd be left alone with a computer terminal — screen, keyboard, printer, recorder, all the equipment — and Teardrop—

  Four minutes twenty…

  He checked the coil, the transistor, the wiring, the battery, then closed the door and taped it shut. Four minutes forty—

  He shone the pale light of the torch over the junction box. At a glance — yes? Yes — at a glance it appeared closed and locked—

  Lock, where was the lock?

  He flicked the torch over the track but could not locate the lock that had bounced on the live rail. Satisfied it was not visible to any workmen or repair team who might walk through this section of tunnel before midnight — when his work would be finished or he would be finished—

  Stop that—

  Four minutes fifty-eight, nine — five minutes…

  He hurried along the track, torchlight pools at his feet, his hearing alert for the noise of the next train.

  In this country, they almost queue up to pass you information, he heard Godwin saying, The trouble is, hardly anyone bothers to listen. He reached the inspection shelter and pressed his body into it. The track had begun to tremble once more beneath his shoes. He waited, switching off the torch. At once, the darkness was icy, thick-frozen around him. He heard the metro train approaching.

  Collect the drill and the haversack on your way back, he reminded himself. And shivered. The metal storm of the train rushed past him.

  * * *

  "You're not eating your Châteaubriand, Voronin."

  "I prefer my meat to be more cooked, thank you."

  "Wilkes, give our friend more claret — it might help his palate to accept rare beef. It can't be the suggestion of blood, can it?"

  "You seem in a very comfortable frame of mind, Sir Andrew Babbington."

  "I am. Tell him, Wilkes, how industrious you have been this morning."

  "It's all arranged. Parrish, Head of Station, takes official custody of our friends this evening. Eight on the dot. They'll be taken to the safe house — and the rest is up to you. Only five or six men on duty. I'll be around. You'll get updates during the course of the evening and a disposition of forces just before you go in — OK? I'll leave by the back door…"

  "I would prefer that you did not."

  "What? Not on your—"

  "Please listen. The safe house has monitors and surveillance cameras both inside and out?"

  "Yes, but—"

  "And a security room?"

  "Yes—"

  "Then, Sir Andrew Babbington, I propose that Wilkes remains in the safe house — in the security room itself — and he can observe our progress… you speak some Russian, Wilkes?"

  "He does."

  "Then over the R/T, he can inform us of the movements of his unfortunate colleagues."

  "Wait a minute, chum—"

  "A good idea, Voronin. That's settled, Wilkes… drink your wine and don't sulk."

  "Vienna Station was not curious as to how and where you captured these desperate criminals?"

  "Of course. Wilkes bluffed it out with them, in my name. Because of Aubrey's treachery, no one can be trusted. I have had to use local unofficial and people I've drafted in — and a top-secret location. Parrish swallowed it more or less whole, didn't he, Wilkes?"

  "Like a greedy trout — silly old fart."

  "And — for your part, my dear Voronin?"

  "Everything is arranged. We will go in at eleven-thirty. A strong force of men. Aubrey and the others will be transferred to the embassy, then to the airport. An Aeroflot diplomatic flight will take them to Moscow — leaving at… but that is not your concern. They will be safely in Moscow and no longer a threat to you before daylight tomorrow."

  "Good. I'm glad that Kapustin has had the sense to accept my scenario."

  "Now, I would like to see a scale-drawing of the safe house, please."

  "You still haven't finished your Châteaubriand."

  "I still prefer my meat to be more cooked — what do you say? Well done?"

  "Yes. Quite correct. Well done it is."

  * * *

  "Well, there it is — Castle Dracula. You all right?"

  "Stakes and garlic — check."

  "Just walk straight in through the gates, past the guards. Just like that bus-load of schoolkids."

  "Bit late, isn't it — getting dark?"

  "Never too late for a bit of Party history."

  "Christ — they're forming up in a crocodile, and I can't hear any noise! Something to be said for the Party after all."

  "Make sure you buy the official guide book to the Hradcany. From the Cedok office in the First Courtyard. Then you can wander through the Second and Third Courtyards to the cathedral. Across the courtyard from the cathedral is the President's Chancellery. Down below the building and the courtyard are, among other things, the computer rooms. Wander over for a closer look at the architecture — you'll be looked for and spotted."

  "The supervising cleaner?"

  "That's him. He'll use your name — no, he knows nothing else about you, only the name. Then he'll conceal you until tonight."

  "You're certain he'll know—?"

  "When the post office engineer arrives — yes. When an hour has passed, he'll come and tip you off. Then you're on — the big finale, all singing, all dancing."

  "Why is he doing it?"

  "Oh, he wants to be bit better off financially… well, he's bitter as well. He used to be an electrical engineer until he signed the Charter one night when he was pissed out of his mind. Now, he supervises the Mrs Mops in the Hradcany. Someone's idea of a joke. But, he wouldn't do it without the money — it's also true you can trust him…"

  "And I get out this way?"

  "Your Soviet ID's OK — I double-checked. And the guards will change at about ten. When you come out, they won't expect to have checked you in — they'll be new."

  "OK — I'm off."

  "Good luck, Hyde. I mean it."

  "Don't go cold on your brilliant planning now, Godwin — that's all I need!"

  "I'm not cold on it — it'll work, if you keep your head."

  "I intend to."

  "And remember — Moscow Centre will expect to hear from you before you start testing — and maybe during. If they ring you — at any time — you've got to be able to bluff it out. You have to convince them that you're doing nothing wrong, that you need to access the information you've requested to check the system thoroughly. If you don't, they could isolate your terminal at any time they choose, just like that—! Your screen will go blank, the terminal will shut down, and you'll never get hold of Teardrop."

  "Sure. Here's another bus-load of kids for the funfair. I'm off."

  "I'll be here, waiting for you. You'll be finished before midnight and on your way to Bratislava, with any
luck. You could be back across the border before daylight."

  "Let's hope it's soon enough."

  "Good luck."

  "Sure."

  * * *

  Babbington's bruise-dyed knuckles as he thrust his right hand into the black glove; Margaret Massinger's swollen lips and crooked, reluctant smile; Massinger's limp and his own weariness; all confirmed his growing realisation of the complete, successful power of an implacable opponent. Margaret's hurt mouth and jaw were like badges of ownership placed on them all by Babbington.

  Then they were outside — Massinger shivered immediately in the thin raincoat he wore over his shirt. Margaret hunched into her fur jacket. Aubrey felt the wind whip at his sparse hair, blow coldly around his collar. The sky was bright with stars where racing clouds did not obscure them. Gravel crunched beneath their feet — dragged in the case of the limping Massinger. Margaret supported his weight as well as she was able. Their guards walked beside them, unworried. Aubrey felt his attention drawn towards the moving, changing, unreal clouds. His thoughts drifted.

  He ducked into the rear of the black BMW, and a guard followed him. In the headlights, he saw haloes of breath like signals of distress around Massinger's head as the others were put into a Mercedes for the drive to the safe house. Then the driver slipped into his seat, and Babbington settled heavily into the front passenger seat, obscuring Aubrey's view of the other car.

  Babbington ordered the driver to move off. The BMW bucked down the narrow track towards the road through the village, headlights swaying and jolting; illuminating the Massingers' heads in silhouette pressed almost together in the leading car. Reconciled, accepting.

  Aubrey was envious, and angry. Babbington's head obscured his view of the other car when he sat back in his seat. The guard was silent at his side, hardly watchful, already assured of the old man's harmlessness.

  Yes, the Massingers — he'd known it the moment he had first seen them together, seen it through the shock of her presence at the lodge — had achieved acceptance; had settled for the consolation of their reunion. It was to be envied, for he, after all, would die alone.