The Bear's Tears kaaph-4

by Craig Thomas

  Aubrey and his companions would disappear. SIS in Vienna was in total disarray, and controlled by Babbington. There would be no effective search, no possibility of counter-measures. The Austrians would want nothing to do with it except, at a safe distance in time, to make the appropriate empty diplomatic noises. There was this room, then a limousine to Schwechat, then the cabin of the Tupolev, then another car, then another room. That was all that lay in front of the Massingers: Aubrey had little more to look forward to.

  "Comrade Deputy Chairman—!" Voronin announced, to attract Aubrey's attention. Their eyes seemed to focus. The Massingers appeared unmoved, their attention having wandered as easily as that of children. Aubrey twitched once like a small animal receiving a shock from a buried electrode. Then his attention, too, seemed to cloud.

  "Is it done?" Kapustin asked.

  "Of course, Comrade—"

  "Casualties?"

  "One on our side…"

  "Only one? Good."

  "What are your orders, Comrade Deputy Chairman?" Was Aubrey even paying attention—? Damn the old man… damn him. He could not rid himself of the sense that Aubrey had somehow reversed their positions, become the superior by his inattentive silence.

  When Kapustin replied, Voronin realised that the Deputy Chairman sensed Aubrey could hear the exchange. There was a silky pleasure unusual in the Deputy Chairman's gruff voice as he said, "Do I need to repeat them, Voronin?" Momentarily, Aubrey's face narrowed to an expression of hatred. "Very well. I shall repeat your instructions. The aircraft will depart at four-thirty. Before dawn, your guests will be in Moscow. Tell them the weather promises to be fine. Arrangements here are in order. All matters will be dealt with speedily. Please assure them — but perhaps they can hear my voice, Voronin?" The young man did not reply, merely smiled into the room. Aubrey refused to attend—! "In which case," Kapustin's voice continued, "I can assure them personally that no time will be lost in dealing with their — problem. No time will be lost." The repeated words were purred out. "Is there anything else, Voronin?"

  "No, Comrade Deputy Chairman — there is nothing else."

  "Then goodbye…" And then, because Kapustin could not resist the temptation, he added: "Goodbye, Sir Kenneth," in a mocking, triumphant tone. Aubrey's eyes were hooded, but bright with attention. Good, good — at last!

  Voronin switched off the speaker and replaced the receiver. Then he sat back in his chair, studying the faces arranged before him once more. Looked down on by those other faces towards which the Massingers' attention had returned. He adopted a relaxed and confident air. They'd got to Aubrey. He knew, he understood. His inattention was no more than an act, a pretence. He was suffering — oh, yes, he was suffering. Knowing that, Voronin cared little or nothing for the others. They had retreated further from him, but that did not matter. Their hands were linked on the woman's lap, but clearly not for the purpose of mutual comfort. Rather, in a union that suggested that the present moment satisfied them.

  Satisfy—?

  Did Aubrey's suffering satisfy him, Voronin? Did he possess all the feelings, the strength of feeling, appropriate to this moment?

  He could not say that he did.

  Why not?

  He knew why not. Babbington. He disliked the man intensely — always had done, the past two days more than ever. Arrogant — feudally arrogant, the sort you wanted to frighten with a gun or a club, shake out of his complacent arrogance…

  Babbington was the hero of the hour. Hero of the Soviet Union. They'd keep the medals for the day he finally came home. Sickening. Voronin felt himself to be a child, excluded from some adult celebration party. It was Babbington's moment; all the satisfaction, the sense of success, belonged to Babbington. He and all the others had been no more than servants, scurrying to do what Babbington ordered. Saving Babbington's precious skin.

  Aubrey watched Voronin. He saw the man's pleasure pall and understood the reason. He was no more than a cog, a part of Babbington's machine. Aubrey saw a discontented young man of pale complexion and sharp bright eyes. Not fashionably dressed but dowdy and clerk-like, his suit old-fashioned, a piece with the overcoat and trilby hat he had now discarded. The shirt and tie were drab. Voronin's hair was limp and straight; a dirty blond in colour.

  A catalogue of mediocrity. Yet— and Aubrey could not avoid or escape the impression — this mediocrity held their lives in his hands. And would dispose of them all when the time came for him to do so.

  This dangerous drab young man represented a lank-haired Nemesis in a clerk's grey suit.

  Aubrey's attention retreated. What use were the pretences, the masks? He was beaten and knew it. The Massingers were as good as dead. He, too, after a short, shameful interval, would cease to exist—

  Fear came then. He knew why he had hidden his attentiveness from Voronin. The effort had occupied him sufficiently to keep the fear at bay. But now, the fear clutched at his stomach and heart and lungs, almost stopping his breath.

  Voronin smiled greedily. He saw. He knew, and appeared satisfied.

  * * *

  The empty street, cobbled and steep, sloped away from him, pooled by shadows which filled the spaces between the lamplight. The sgraffito-work facade of the Schwarzenberg Palace seemed ghostly, luminescent. The other buildings massed silently and lightless in the square; the palaces and the town hall and the Swiss embassy. The carved saints leaned over their madonna directly ahead of him. He felt as jolted as if he had collided with the statuary or with the wall of a building; winded and disorientated. Godwin wasn't there.

  A cripple, unable to run, but he wasn't there, wasn't there…

  His lungs and heart pumped out the refrain. Godwin wasn't there…

  He listened for the sounds of pursuit, watching the square's pools and bays of shadow for the movement of waiting men. As the strain of his efforts faded, another stronger chorus emerged. Stop it stop it, stop it—

  Routine questioning, slipped on an icy pavement and lying in hospital, too cold for him to come out at all… Hyde hadn't wanted him there, and perhaps Godwin had done no more than change his mind.

  The alarms were ringing, distantly and continuously, in the castle. The guards at the closed gates of the First Courtyard were almost invisible to his left, but he sensed their increased alertness like a scent on the cold air. He pressed back against the wall, feeling chilly carved stone against his cheek. He tried to control the little puffed signals his breath made in the icy night. He began to feel cold as the sweat dried. Lights sprang on in the castle's nearest building; neon lighting, flickering on like burning torches hurried from room to room by the men searching for him. The group of stone giants in combat above the gates loomed over the square, black backs and arms muscled and dangerous in the light thrown down from the windows.

  The guards had turned their backs to him as they looked back through the gates; already puzzled, becoming dangerous. Headlights flickered across the walls surrounding the Second Courtyard, illuminating the frozen beard of the fountain.

  Now—

  Lights above him in the government offices of the old Archbishop's Palace. More alarms, louder as if someone had opened a window to let the sound escape. Lights coming on in the Swiss Embassy, reducing the shadows in which he hid. A car starting further up the cobbled hill. More headlights in the inner courtyards, more lights in the room surrounding the square. By now, the fire in the computer room would have been extinguished, and be understood as no more than a diversion. They would be single-minded now, their attention entirely focused on himself. They did not know what he had — but, if they had him, Godwin would tell them, and soon—

  Running feet, heavy and booted—

  Now—!

  He touched the chilly stone with both hands, as if about to hurl himself away from it, studied the pavement and the cobbles — and ran.

  The gates were swinging open, the guards were moving towards the leading car. He saw this as he knelt by one of the parked black limousines in front of t
he Archbishop's Palace, his heavy breathing clouding the car's polished flank. Booted feet, voices, the alarm shrill, joined by others as if nesting birds had been roused. He got off his haunches and ran, crouching and wary, across the cobbles to the group of figures carved around the madonna. He pressed against the base of the statue and watched the leading car roar out of the gates into the square — wheels spinning, rear of the car sliding sideways, then the drift corrected — and away up the hill towards the Strahov. Only seconds left now. An officer was instructing the guards at the gates; someone yelled down from a high window. A mechanical voice through a public address system began to rouse the whole castle. Only seconds—

  He scuttled across the last pool of light, last bay of shadow. A truck with a searchlight mounted on the back trundled into the square, its brakes protesting as it stopped. Immediately, the beam began bouncing and sliding in the square like a great golden ball striking the walls of the buildings.

  He doubled up in shadow, gasping for breath. Skidded slightly, dragging his cheek against cold stone. The shadow opened up in front of him like a cliffs edge. The Castle Steps. Voices, public address, the bouncing ball of light, heels clicking on frost, the roar of engines.

  Godwin—?

  His car was near Godwin's flat, damn.

  He looked at the steps for a moment, clutching the stone of the wall as if affected by vertigo. Light bounced over him and he hunched his shoulders as if under a weight. The light moved on, someone shouted; it bounced back towards him, slithering along the wall and pavement. Orders were bellowed. He ran.

  In tens. His gloved hand skated down the frosty, dead-cold railing. Steps were in tens. He skipped down them, reached the level, then the next ten steps before the next level. Old street-lamps threw a muted, dusty light, making his shadow enlarge to monstrous size then quickly diminish. Blaring his shape against the walls.

  He paused to look back. Torches, noise — they'd seen him, damn. He ran on, hearing the first pairs of boots clattering in pursuit. The noise of a rifle dropped—? The glow of a television set through open curtains as he passed the window of a tall, narrow house. A door opening—

  He cannoned into someone, the body soft and yielding, perhaps that of a woman. He heard breath escape like an explosion, smelt a strong, cheap perfume, then hurried past, hearing the breathing begin again and the abuse commence. The steps zig-zagged, and he lost the sounds of the woman's voice and the footsteps of the pursuit.

  Another ten steps, then the level, then another ten steps. Level, steps, level. Street-light, looming shadow, shrunken dwarf on the peeling stucco of the wall, darkness, steps, level, shadow, giant, dwarf, shadow, steps, level—

  Crumbling stucco, treacherous, icy steps. His breath was laboured, legs almost gone. He was slowing and was aware of it. A pool of light seemed to open fuzzily ahead of him, like the opening of a door into a brightly lit room. He hesitated, afraid of what might be a searchlight. Then he plunged on, hearing once more the clatter of boots and the scraping of metal funnelled down the Castle Steps after him.

  He staggered as he reached the bottom of the steps, clinging to the railing as a bout of coughing seized him. A narrow street, more light at the end of it. He forced himself to run, his feet noisy on the cobbles. Then he turned the corner into Little Quarter Square. The church of St Nicholas rose in front of him. A rank of black cars stood outside the palace that had become the Regional Party School. The headquarters and the church outfaced one another across the cobbles. Hyde crossed the square into the deep shadows beneath the church—

  Shadows?

  Lights, suddenly, as if they had waited in ambush for him. He gazed around him wildly, clutching the gun in his pocket, clutching the tape cassette. The doors of St Nicholas swung open. Noises, footsteps and tali. An audience emerged. A notice-board near his head advertised a recital that evening. He shook with relief as he began pushing into and through the audience as it descended the steps, dispersing into the square. He crossed the facade, the west door, bumped and hidden by people talking in loud, delighted voices. The recital had been a success.

  He eased ahead of the small crowd and his shadow began to jog with him along the southern wall of the church as he turned into Mostecka ulice. He loped easily, almost with a lightness of mood. A car passed him innocently, its colour a drab fawn. People were behind him, others ahead, emerging from what might have been a club — yes, raw music, a saxophone and drums behind a wall of chatter as he passed the closing, door. He slowed, then. Looked back. People. Overcoated, hatted, scarved. Cover. A few cars moved at a sedate pace along the narrow street, the cobbles jolting their axles. Sirens in the distance, but no uniformed men in the Mostecka. They'd been caught up by the crowd from the church. They'd have to block the exits from Little Quarter Square as a first priority. The pursuit was diluting with each second that passed. Hyde walked on, not too quickly, hands thrust into the pockets of his overcoat, scarf wound round his face, partly to mask his hard, strained breathing. The bridge stretched away ahead of him across the Vltava. One gloved hand gripped the cassette in his pocket. Teardrop—

  He'd done it. He had Babbington, clutched in his gloved hand. Everything; the whole scenario; and Babbington's name. The frame, the predicted consequences which perfectly matched the reality, the double agent who was Moscow's man. He'd done it. The knowledge made him catch his breath, bare his teeth in a triumphant grin.

  He hurried beneath the dark tower at the end of the Charles Bridge. The wind from the river was icy and he hunched against it. The lamps on the bridge glowed, sleet flying through the haloes of chilly light. The black statues lining either side of the bridge leaned over him, hurrying his pace as if they whispered his lack of time to him. His hand gripped the cassette more fiercely. Now that he possessed the proof he realised, with a growing, gnawing urgency as palpable as extreme hunger, that Babbington would waste no time. Margaret Massinger he no longer considered or cared about. She could well have gone into the bag with Aubrey and her husband. There was only himself, blown across the bridge like a black scrap of paper beneath the gloomy, magnificent crucifixion figure, the gold of its crown and of the inscription gleaming in the sleety lamplight. There was only himself now. The bridge tower loomed over him and he passed through its arch into the Old Town. The wind disappeared. He walked through rutted slush on the pavement, unpursued but hurrying more than before. There was only himself.

  Within minutes, he had reached Old Town Square, had passed the astronomical clock and reached the shadows of the Tyn Church. Then he paused, studying the Celetna ulice. Neon lights, hard. Traffic thin, pedestrians few. He could see the bulk of the Powder Tower at the other end of the street. Where was Godwin? He could pick out the darkened windows of his flat. At the back, in the kitchen—?

  Hyde knew the flat was empty. Hunching his shoulders, he began to drift along the street, looking for surveillance; ready to run and feeling the Celetna close in on him and the weight of the streets through which he had come press like a net trawling him in. He was alone. He could go to no embassy. He had a tape, nothing more. They wouldn't believe—

  Stop it—

  He drew level with the Skoda and passed it. The doors and windows did not look as if they had been forced, but he could not check those on the driver's side. He glanced up at the dark windows of Godwin's flat, almost bumping into a young man, who apologised to him at once. Hyde, shivering, mumbled something to the young man's retreating back. Then he continued walking.

  He crossed the street a hundred yards beyond the flat and two hundred from the Skoda, then retraced his steps back towards the square. Then once more towards the Powder Tower — the driver's side doors and windows had looked intact — then back towards the flat. There were no parked cars containing waiting men, there were no open windows, no drawn-back curtains. One hand clutched the tape, the other Godwin's spare key. He reached the doorway, almost passed it, then ducked into its shadow. He fumbled for the lock and turned the key. The door creaked slight
ly as he touched it open. He glanced back at the street, then passed quickly into the narrow hall and mounted the stairs. He listened ahead of him as he reached the first floor. There, he paused. Nothing; no noises from the street, either. Where was Godwin?

  He paused again at the front door of the flat, then reached the key tentatively towards the lock, inserted it, held his breath, turned the key — kicking open the door the moment he did so, bundling himself inside the flat and pressing himself against the wall, the gun in his hands. The vz.75 pistol was close to his face, barrel pointed at the ceiling. His thumb moved the safety catch. Fifteen rounds. He listened, holding his breath.

  Nothing. He reached out and silently closed the door. Then he moved the few paces to the flat's main room. He banged open the door, gun extended, his weight supported by the door frame. The room was lightless, empty. He flicked on the lights. Neat, orderly — unsearched, no signs of a struggle. Where was Godwin? Swiftly, he checked the other empty rooms. No crutches, no overcoat hanging in the hall. Bed undisturbed, empty coffee mug in the kitchen sink. Godwin had left the flat of his own volition — to keep his appointment at the Hradcany. Where was he?

  And who was asking him questions, and what was he saying…? His mind continued with nervous inevitability, completing the scenario. Someone had Godwin under the lights by now—

  And he had only the time it took for one mistake, one contradiction — or a confession because they had become impatient with evasion and lies and used force.

  He went back into the kitchen. The rear of the building was two storeys lower than the part which contained Godwin's flat. Its roof stretched back on a level with Godwin's kitchen window. He slid the window up and checked the sill and the slope of the roof and the width of the gap between this roof and its neighbour. Then he went back into the lounge and picked up the telephone. He tensed immediately, but there was no betraying double click. Godwin kept his telephone swept clean of bugs. It was as secure as the apartment. He placed the pistol carefully near the telephone and slumped onto the edge of an armchair; immediately feeling the last strength in his legs drain away and his calves begin to tremble with weariness. He dialled the long series of digits with a quivering forefinger. The flat was already growing cold from the open kitchen window.