The Bear's Tears kaaph-4

by Craig Thomas

  "Sir William Guest? Am I addressing Sir William Guest?" Zimmermann asked breathlessly, his voice light and strange.

  "Who is this? My telephone has been ringing ever since—" With a silent movement of his lips, Zimmermann queried the voice with Hyde. He had slumped in the chair, the blanket falling open, disregarded. He nodded. His clenched fists beat at his thighs. His head bobbed. It was Guest, was Guest — impossibly, it was—!

  Zimmermann identified himself to Guest in a formal, polite manner. Then he said, "I have someone here, Sir William, who must speak with you — only with you. It is of the utmost urgency. You must listen to him—" Zimmermann's tone had changed to one of pleading. He was no longer able to control his voice.

  Nine-twelve.

  "Yes? What is all this, Herr Zimmermann? Of course, I understand you, but not the mystery you seem intent on creating. I have just arrived after a very unsatisfactory aeroplane journey, I am very tired—"

  "Shut up and listen!" Hyde shouted into the telephone, leaning forward on his chair, his face bent towards the receiver. "It's Hyde — Patrick Hyde. And I want to talk about Aubrey. Now, listen—"

  "Hyde!" Sir William's voice blared from the receiver. "Hyde — how dare you…" Hyde grinned at Zimmermann. His teeth had begun to chatter once more, and his shaking seemed well beyond control. Zimmermann realised that the Australian was without reserves. He was forcing himself not to subside completely. Zimmermann prepared to take command of the situation. Hyde pulled the blanket back around his shoulders and hunched his body. Somehow, diminishing the physical space he occupied seemed to assist him; as if he were squeezing some sponge within him which still held a few last drops of energy. "This conversation must end at once, Hyde," Sir William continued, his habitual tone of authority fully recaptured. "There are channels — and you are persona non grata, as you are only too well aware."

  "For Christ's sake—!"

  "Sir William," Zimmermann interjected, waving Hyde to silence. The Australian glared at him. And obeyed. "Sir William — time is very short, as you will understand once you have heard what we have to tell you. I beg you to listen." Zimmermann's tone was edged with obsequiousness, which Hyde loathed. The German adopted the role of a subordinate, but one with his own degree of rank and authority. "I really must insist—" he continued.

  "What is it, Herr Zimmermann? Really, what is the cause of this unexpected, uninvited conversation?"

  "Proof!" Hyde exclaimed. "Proof that Aubrey's innocent and your pal Babbington's been a very naughty boy behind your back! And from the same fucking school, too—!"

  "Hyde! Be silent!" Zimmermann barked. He pressed his finger to his lips, then pointed to himself. "I'm sorry, Sir William. Mr Hyde's loyalty is not in question, as you can—"

  "But it is, Herr Zimmermann — I don't know what tale he has told you, but I'm afraid you are in the company of a renegade. One of our rotten apples, I'm sorry to say…"

  "Forgive me, but I don't think so."

  "Really. With the kind of accusation he appears to be making? You surely don't believe him?"

  Nine-fourteen. Both of them glanced in the same moment at the clock on the wall, the coffee from Hyde's mug an elongated, drying splash beneath it on the cream paint.

  "I am afraid that I am forced to do so," Zimmermann replied with studied deference and conviction.

  "Herr Zimmermann — I really am very tired…"

  "Please, Sir William—! You have been in Washington for a matter of days now…"

  "Yes?"

  "You are then not familiar with what has happened — that Sir Kenneth Aubrey is in the Soviet Union at this moment?"

  There was a silence, then Guest said, "The news does not surprise me. I will, no doubt, be receiving a report in due course. From Andrew Babbington."

  "He'll be on your doorstep within the hour, mate, with his version of events. You can bloody count on it!"

  "Sir Andrew has been in Vienna. Aubrey was captured by your intelligence service there—"

  "Ah."

  "But, they lost him. He was allowed to fall into the hands of the KGB. They spirited him at once to Moscow. His flight will have landed by now."

  Nine-fifteen. Yes, Hyde admitted, banging his thighs with clenched fists. Landed by now. Zimmermann had checked with Vienna before leaving Waldsassen for the border. The Aeroflot flight had left Vienna at six-fifteen. Three hours to Moscow. It was down by now. Red carpet, the boys in the band, the forced handshakes and back-pattings, the black car — finis. Gone. Tomorrow, all you have to look forward to is a heart-attack and the obituary in Pravda.

  "And?"

  "Sir William, I am convinced that Sir Kenneth is in the gravest danger—"

  "From his own people?" Guest remarked with studied irony.

  "No — from the Soviets. He is not one of them."

  "But Andrew Babbington is? Preposterous!"

  "Hyde has evidence, Sir William. The man is named specifically. The whole — scenario, shall we call it, whereby Sir Kenneth was made to appear a Soviet agent… Mr Hyde has this on a computer tape. He has obtained definitive evidence of Sir Andrew Babbington's treachery and the Soviet attempt to disgrace Sir Kenneth and replace him with their own agent."

  "I promoted Andrew Babbington," Guest replied. The tiny click of the clock's minute hand moving was audible in the room. Zimmermann's words had fallen emptily, with a dull, hollow noise. The cassette lay, still wrapped in polythene, on the captain's desk. It was mute; might have been blank for all the use it appeared to be.

  Zimmermann shrugged, lacing his fingers, unlacing them. He appeared at a loss.

  Guest said, "Preposterous. Quite preposterous. What kind of twisted mind invented this rubbish? Hyde? Aubrey? The Russians? It really is ridiculous, you know, Herr Zimmermann."

  Nine-sixteen.

  "Christ, I'm cold," Hyde murmured.

  Zimmermann looked up from his fingers quickly. Hyde's face was pale; the skin quivered on his cheeks, his lips echoed the constant movement of his clenched teeth. His hands, gripping the edges of the blanket and folded on his chest, were bloodless and shaking.

  "It is not preposterous!" Zimmermann snapped.

  "I beg—"

  "Listen to me, Sir William. Please listen—" He lowered his voice. Nine-seventeen. "That was obviously the factor that dictated their timing… your support of Sir Andrew. The new service you have conjured into existence…"

  "You suggest I have played into Soviet hands?"

  "No, no — believe me, no. Merely that Babbington and his masters took advantage of the circumstances you helped to create. The scenario had lain idle for some years—"

  "And how, precisely, did you learn of it?"

  Hyde moaned softly, but whether with cold or something akin to despair Zimmermann could not tell. The man's head was hanging. Wrapped in his blanket, he looked like a refugee or a prisoner who had been beaten.

  "I — the evidence is here, Sir William, with us. Please believe that we have the evidence."

  "From a computer?"

  "From Moscow Centre itself. Everything…" Zimmermann sighed. He could not grasp the next word or phrase. There seemed no more he could usefully say. Guest did not believe him. Nine-eighteen. Twelve minutes. Guest could not act now, even if he believed—!

  "This — I think I should begin by making reference to your ministry in Bonn, Herr Zimmermann. And perhaps I should listen to Andrew Babbington's account of the affair. Frankly, I don't believe a word of it. Not one word—"

  "For Christ's sake, shut up!" Hyde's eyes were wide, bright as if feverish. He was shaking inside the blanket. "If you wait another bloody minute, sport, you'll kill Aubrey!"

  "Don't be ridiculous."

  "And you'll kill your precious god-daughter, mate. Aubrey, Massinger, and Massinger's wife. They're all on the flight."

  "What—?"

  "Don't you ever fucking listen to anything anyone says?" Hyde almost screamed, stretching forward towards the receiver, the muscles and veins s
tanding out in his neck. "I said Massinger and his wife are on that bloody plane to Moscow! Babbington's making sure there's no one left to testify! He's cleaning house, mate. Tidying-up! Understand? You're making sure he kills her — kills Margaret Massinger along with Aubrey!"

  He slumped back into his chair, almost tumbling it and himself to the floor. Zimmermann started from his seat, but Hyde waved him to sit down. There was a gleam of calculation replacing the wild look in his eyes. His teeth chattered as he tried to grin. Then he said: "It's up to that pompous old fart, now." His voice was loud enough for Guest to hear. "It depends if he gives a monkey's or not."

  In the silence, the minute-hand of the clock moved audibly. Nine-twenty.

  Eleven seconds later — they had both counted them off — Guest said, "Assuming, perhaps only assuming…" He cleared his throat. "I must assume…" Again, he dried up. They heard him cough. "If — what do you suggest, Hyde? Zimmermann — what do you suggest?"

  Hyde dragged his chair to the desk. The blanket fell away once more. "Heathrow — Special Branch must grab Babbington and hold him. Just hold him — and warn them to watch out for interference."

  "Yes—"

  "Use all your emergency authority and make Euston Tower and Cheltenham transmit Priority Black signals to the embassy in Moscow, and Moscow Centre. They have to do that now. You have to try to stop them taking Aubrey off the plane. If you've got Babbington and they've got Aubrey, there's only one thing to do. Tell them you'll do a swap — exchange their man for ours. Understand?"

  "But—"

  "Look, if they agree, you've already got the proof you need! They wouldn't agree to hold the operation if Babbington wasn't their man — would they? Once they go on hold, it doesn't matter how long the tidying up takes!" Hyde growled. "Just make sure they know you've got Babbington. They'll have to have him back — too bad for morale if they let him go to the wall. It'll work. It happens with small fry — and big fish. Get them to agree to a trade."

  "Euston Tower can—?" Guest began.

  "Don't ask — they can talk to Moscow Centre any time they choose. Priority Black, remember. Just tell them to do it. Inform the Chairman you've got his favourite toy. He should choke on the news!"

  Nine twenty-one.

  "Very well — this is all provisional, of course. But, under the circumstances surrounding… surrounding the other people involved, I am prepared to go along with your suggestions to the extent—"

  "Do it! And, while you're at it, get Godwin free in Prague. If the poor sod's still alive. Do it."

  Zimmermann said quickly, efficiently, "We will ensure that the computer tape, the irrefutable proof, will be flown by helicopter to our computer centre in Munich at once. Our computer will talk to yours at Century House — an hour after Sir Andrew reaches London, you will have confirmation of everything we have told you." As soon as he had finished speaking, he cut the connection with a brisk, decisive movement of his right hand. Hyde slumped his head on his folded arms and lay still, his damp hair staining the green blotter. Zimmermann watched him for a few moments, then said softly:

  "Is there time, I wonder?"

  "There'd better be," Hyde mumbled into his sleeve. He was wearing a Grenzschutz uniform shirt that was too large for him. "I don't even want to think about it." He did not look up as he added: "There's nothing we can do about it now, anyway. Nothing."

  Zimmermann glanced at the clock. Nine twenty-two. "No," he agreed. "Nothing."

  * * *

  As he descended the passenger steps, Babbington experienced a sensation that might have originated in some television news item. Speed, movement, action; the viewer relying upon the camera's point of view, that camera held by a running man. Vigorous panning — left, right, left, right — a desperate attempt to define the real, crucial focus of the scene.

  He was three steps from the bottom of the passenger ladder. There was the expected black Mercedes and the uniformed civil service driver; this one with small-arms expertise and a myriad emergency driving skills. Eldon was there in his military fawn overcoat, present as one of the new influential deputies of SAID. He was standing erectly by the black car, and had not yet begun to react to the new arrivals.

  Two other cars. Almost a traffic-jam. One of the cars — another Mercedes — was slightly nearer, and had arrived in more of a hurry. The second new car was — Special Branch. He did not even need to think about it. Two mackintoshes, two trilbies. Caricatures. The morning sunlight glanced off the windows of the terminal, highlighted the arrogant tailplanes of perhaps a dozen airliners. Gleamed on the windows of the three cars. Left, right, left, right — point of focus? Babbington was unsettled.

  It would be the act of the next few moments. After that, events would be beyond his shaping. The two Special Branch men began their ponderous progress towards him across thirty yards of tarmac. Eldon began to absorb the scene, his left hand already gesturing to the security driver, who began reaching for his shoulder-holster. Yet Eldon was confused, made compliant by his recognition of the Special Branch officers.

  And the Russians… He recognised his contact, Oleg, inside the car. A hand beckoning him down the last few steps towards the opened door of their Mercedes. One young man in a well-cut suit displayed by his opened overcoat — a gun there, too—

  And he believed, for an instant, that they would kill him rather than allow Special Branch near him.

  Babbington shivered. Passengers from first class pressed behind him on the steps, their respectful stillness because of the array of cars already evaporating. The air was chilly in his nostrils, scented with aviation fuel. His chest seemed to pound. Left, right, left, right — the mad panning continued.

  Eldon raised his hand in a confused, troubled gesture of welcome that might have been a signal to bar his admission to some club.

  Hyde—

  He had time to think that. It couldn't have been Aubrey. He was already dead; prepared for death at the very least. Poor Margaret and her stupid, persistent husband were, without doubt, no longer living. But, Hyde—

  His hands clenched into useless fists. The Russians gestured more frantically. He saw the sweep of the young man's arm, his readiness to risk even gunfire to salvage the focus of the scene, the focus of Teardrop …

  A car chase, the embassy in Kensington or some hidden safe-house, a light aircraft to the Continent, then — Moscow…

  The things with which he had mocked Aubrey. The Special Branch men were fifteen yards away now. The medals, the Pravda eulogy — and the bitter, never-forgotten taste of failure. The daily reminders that his rank, his rank, was little more than a joke, albeit a respectful joke, while their uniforms demonstrated the real power and authority—

  Everything was clear to him. Eldon had started forward now, confused but with some intuition that he should be acting against Babbington. Both he and the driver closed upon the Russian Mercedes — closing that exit, unless he ran—

  Ran, ran, run, run —

  Special Branch were five yards from him. And he was already at the last step, as if to greet them with his surrender—!

  "Sir Andrew Babbington?" one of them began, questioning and polite and final. His hands gripped the sides of the passenger steps. "Sir Andrew, would you please accompany us…"

  He heard no more. It had begun. The young Russian diplomat was already climbing into his Mercedes. Eldon was at the door, speeding a departing guest, his face beginning to turn towards Babbington, confusion lessening in his eyes, being replaced by shock. The two Special Branch officers — senior officers by their age — blocked the gangway, and the passengers behind him pushed at his back, insisting he move forward.

  The security driver had turned against him. His hand lay snugly inside his jacket, awaiting events. Special Branch, Eldon, the driver — blue exhaust smoke from the Russian Mercedes as it prepared to leave — and, and, and…

  Hyde.

  He choked. One of the Special Branch officers gripped his arm like a stern nurse.
>
  He staggered forward, and the other policeman was on his left side. He was walking towards their black Granada, unresisting. Eldon — he turned away from the look of disillusioned contempt on Eldon's face.

  That Moscow flat—

  He had promised himself newer, never that — even in '56, when he put his foot to this road, he had promised himself it would never be that.

  Now, it was the best he could hope for. His only hope. That flat, those false, powerless ranks, the bench in Gorky Park, feeding the pigeons and watching the men in uniform strut where he shuffled—

  Hyde, Hyde, Hyde—

  At least Aubrey was dead. At least that.

  He ducked his head as he climbed into the rear seat of the Ford Granada.

  There would be no words. Looks, gestures, impressions, visual images of lurid clarity — but no words. Nothing spoken.

  * * *

  Kapustin had hurried aboard the Tupolev as soon as it came to a halt near the principal terminal building of Domodedovo airport. He was large and brisk in the seemingly, cramped first-class cabin of the airliner. And delighted. There was barely concealed pleasure on his square, broad features. The face he had shown Aubrey when he had lied about meeting a woman, the moment before Aubrey's arrest in the gardens of the Belvedere in Vienna. Now, Aubrey understood the source of the secret, satisfied smile. The man had been anticipating the arrest, as now he anticipated the final humiliation of Aubrey and his subsequent demise. No hatred; that was impermissible, unprofessional. But certainly the satisfaction of a web woven and an insect trapped.

  He had uttered a few words of ironic welcome. The Russian diplomats had disembarked. Through his window, Aubrey saw the herded, arranged cameramen and journalists; the audience for his farewell appearance. Once they were alone on the aircraft, Kapustin fell to inspecting the Massingers as if checking luggage, murmuring inaudibly to already briefed guards, checking through the windows for cars and cameras. Then he paused before Aubrey.

  Overcoat swelling over his stomach, gloves held before his paunch in a military gesture. Fur hat tucked beneath one arm. Woolen scarf at his throat. He was monolithic and irresistible as he gestured Aubrey from his seat.