The Bear's Tears (20 page)

"Well?" he asked finally as Hyde passed the hotel and slid into
a
parking space fifty yards beyond it. The Australian switched off the
car engine and turned, leaning his arm on the back of the bench seat.
His eyes studied Massinger over the sleeve of his stained overcoat.

Speaking almost into his sleeve, he said: "So there's me, you
and
Shelley. That's the entire army, is it?"

"Yes." He felt dry-throated from talking without pause or
interruption; weary from lack of conviction in what he was doing.

"And you couldn't give a bugger. What about Shelley?"

"What do you mean?"

"Your scheme is harebrained, but it doesn't seem to frighten
you.
You don't care enough. I can't see us getting away with it unless you
wake up."

"I see." Massinger wanted to explain, but then said bluntly:
"Unless
you help - unless we get to the bottom of this - you're living on
borrowed time."

"Sure - and interest rates are going up and up. I know. But - you
watching my back? I don't think so, mate. Thanks all the same."

"You know Aubrey is supposed to have betrayed my wife's father
to
the NKVD in 1946. She believes it, anyway. Does that answer your
question? I may not seem to care - but if I want my own answers, my own
peace, then this has to be the first step. Now - do we go or not?"

Hyde studied Massinger's drawn and tired face for a long time,
then
he said: "This bloke Cass - he's laid on, is he?"

Massinger nodded. "He arrives this afternoon. He knows where to
contact me."

"Do you know enough to play the Rezident's pal - just through
having
a couple of drinks with him and watching the opera from the same box?"

"I'll have to, won't I?"

"You will." Then Hyde shrugged. "I don't have any choice,
anyway.
Argument's just a lot of finessing crap. I don't have anywhere to go.
The body in the alley decided that for me." He held out his hand. "OK,
Massinger - light the blue touch-paper and stand well clear."

"You understand, Professor? I'm sure Pete Shelley warned you of
the
dangers of pentathol interrogation - opening and closing doors?"
Massinger nodded. Cass's face was a mere white blank in the darkness of
the car. Hyde had left them once more to patrol the street,
adrenalin-alert, senses and intelligence heightened to the point where
Massinger sensed excitement, even pleasure in him. "Good. You have to
be
this man Pavel Koslov and you mustn't step out of character, not for a
moment. At least, it would be wise not to."

Cass was about Shelley's age, an old school friend of the head
of
East Europe Desk, clever, fluent in at least five languages,
apparently, a good field agent, and totally lacking the other's
ambitions. Madrid Station was simply another enjoyable and easy posting
on a covert tour of the world. Shelley's assessment of and liking for
Cass were both deserved.

"Do you think it'll work?"

"It might - I say only might. I won't be there to
increase
the dose, or direct you. Shelley made it clear that I should scarper as
soon as I've filled his veins."

"Yes, you must get away at once."

"All right. First of all, I'll knock him out with sodium
pentathol.
Twenty minutes later, I'll inject enough benzedrine to bring him round
again. Then he's all yours. I'll stay long enough to check the first
couple of questions, to make sure he doesn't need any more benzedrine.
He'll be somewhere between waking and sleeping, then. Almost comatose,
but bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at the same time. OK?"

"Yes."

"Good. This is a form of narcotherapy. There are other and
better
drugs that could be used with a greater chance of success, but they're
harder to handle. I couldn't leave you to do the whole thing by
yourselves."

"I see."

"Now - lull him at first by talking slowly, sleepily if you like
-the old-fashioned hypnotist's voice. Mm?" Massinger nodded. "Then come
across as strongly as you can in the guise of Koslov. Create an
atmosphere for him, a conversation. Now, if he begins to doze off,
don't slap his face or shake him about. You might start waking him up
properly. I'll leave you a syringe. Ten milligrams of benzedrine if he
falls asleep. OK?"

"How long do I have with him?"

"Perhaps an hour, even an hour and a half. But if at any time
ten
milligrams doesn't bring him back to you, leave it. Unless you don't
mind what happens to him."

"I don't want him - harmed," Massinger replied.

"OK, that's that, then. All we have to do now is wait."

Cass settled back in the seat, arms folded across his chest. He
seemed sublimely unconcerned. Massinger scanned the street for Hyde and
eventually saw him drifting back towards the car from the direction of
the Michaelerplatz and the massive facade of the Hofburg Palace. The
girl's apartment was on the second floor of an elegant
nineteenth-century house, the ground floor of which was a jeweller's
shop.

Hyde thrust his head inside the Mercedes, and announced: "Not a
bloody sausage, Massinger. The street's clean for three blocks, and the
square's strictly kosher. OK? Can I get warm now?"

"Thank you, Hyde."

Hyde got into the car, looked at Cass's dozing form, then
settled
down in the driving seat. He had brought the smell of cold into the
car, together with the scent of excitement. Massinger was aware of his
own adrenalin, sluggish at first like melting ice, now prickling and
prodding him into alertness. He was aware of how little he had
considered Margaret in the past hours, and was abashed and grateful. He
and Hyde did have something in common - the drug of the
secret life. Temporarily, at least, his wife had receded in his heart
and mind. Now he did want this, he did want to know.

"What time do you have?" he asked Hyde.

Hyde slanted his watch to catch the light of a street-lamp.

"A couple of minutes to nine. If, as you tell me, this bloke's
as
regular as a sergeant-major's bowels, he'll be here in a mo."

"Quite." Massinger's smile, hidden by the darkness, was eager
and
almost childish. "Cass?" he whispered. Cass sat upright.

"Here's a black Mercedes - no official plates," Hyde reported.
"Probably his own car."

The car passed them and pulled in at a vacant parking meter on
the
opposite side of the Herrengasse. It was less than twenty yards from
the front of the jeweller's shop and the discreet, narrow door between
its window and the next shop, where jackets and skirts, cardigans and
trousers lay like the victims of a skirmish, softly-lit from the
ceiling. All three men leaned forward in their seats.

A short, plump man got out of the car. He was alone, and little
more
than a dark overcoat and trilby hat. He locked the car and, as he
passed the boutique, they saw his face for a moment. Massinger sighed.

"That's him," Hyde said unnecessarily.

"We'll give him ten or fifteen minutes. He mostly stays until
after
midnight. Her only client on Thursday evenings. Drinks first, I guess,"
Massinger almost drawled.

"Open a couple of tinnies, eh?" Hyde murmured. "Gives him wind
while
he's performing, I'll bet."

"Hyde —?"

"I know. Is your joking really necessary? No, it isn't. But I
haven't had many laughs lately."

The Vienna Rezident of the KGB rang the bell and the door opened
a
moment later. They had seen him bend forward to speak into a grille set
to one side of the door.

"Damn," Massinger muttered as the door closed behind the Russian.

"Don't worry. Speak Russian," Hyde instructed. "He'll let us in
if
he thinks it's official. Sound annoyed at being dragged out on a night
like this. It'll work wonders."

"No, I think German. The police," Massinger replied. He looked
at
his watch. "Ten minutes, then we'll go in while he's still drinking his
second glass of champagne." His voice was light, filled with an
unaccustomed excitement.

"You're the boss," Hyde said. "You're the boss."

"Anything in today's airport snaps?"

"Couple of girls with big tits - LOT hostesses."

"All right - bring them over. I'd better look them over before I
initial the docket."

"There. Couple of wasted rolls. Oh, those two in that shot. RGB
back
from London leave. See the M & S bags full of goodies. Should
guarantee them a good time in Moscow when they next go home."

"We know those two. Log them back in."

"Wilkes?"

"Yes?"

"Why are we after Hyde - I mean, really after him?"

"You don't believe he's been turned?"

"I've worked with Hyde before. He's a barmy Australian
,
I
grant
you,
but he'd never take orders from some KGB control. Too bloody-minded for
that."

"Look, you weren't there the other night. He didn't hesitate to
kill
that poor sod Philips."

"I know that —"

"There you are then. Would he do that if he wasn't
working
for the other side?"

"I suppose not."

"He's been on the run ever since they took in that old bugger
Aubrey. He's Aubrey's man, all right."

"I have my doubts about Aubrey, too."

"For Christ's sake, Beach! London arrested Aubrey, the
DG
himself. They wouldn't dare if they didn't have a good case. Now, be a
good lad and pour some coffee while I glance at these snaps."

"OK, Wilkes."

"Mm… nothing there… big knockers is right… Boris and Doris, the
terrible twins. Caught London just right for the January sales… no,
nothing in those two… thanks - mm, not bad for a beginner. Too much
sugar."

"So sorry, Wilkes. What did your last servant die of?"

"I don't recognise him - ah, Ivan the Dreadful, on duty-go at
Schwechat
again, I see. It
must be his boils they don't like… no, no…
nothing, nothing, nothing… stop bloody whistling, will you, Beach, it
goes right through my teeth… no, no, and no… almost done - hello, do I
know you from somewhere?"

"Found something?"

"No, shouldn't think so. Just a face I thought I knew… mm? Can't
place it. Just a look-alike, I expect… where's that bloody glass? Ah,
let's blow you up a bit… no? Now, who the hell is that? I'm sure I know
him."

"Let's have a look, then —"

"You're too young to remember. I think this face goes too far
back
for you… there. Recognise that bloke with the small suitcase, tall one?"

"Looks British to the core. Banker? Company director? Civil
servant?
I don't recognise him."

"Back in time… years ago… civil servant, you said? Like us or
the
'Yes, Minister' mob? Now, who the bloody hell are you? No - I don't
think he's anything to do with us. Come to think of it, I don't think
he's British. But I'm just sure there's some connection with
Aubrey."

"More coffee?"

"Oh, Christ!"

"What is it?"

"I've just remembered who this bloke is!"

"Go on, let's have another look."

"You won't know him. Paul Massinger - yes, that's right, he's a
Yank
- CIA years ago. A friend of Aubrey. I've seen him with the old man.
Aubrey's used him unofficially as an adviser from time to time. Paul
Massinger."

"What's he doing here, then?"

"I don't know - but I'll bet London would be interested. What
time
was this - bloody hell, he's been here half a day already. You hang on
here, I'm going to signal London now. Someone's bound to think this
isn't a coincidence."

The silences between their words were little islands of
civilised
living. As soon as either of them spoke, the mellow whisky and the
subdued lighting and the rich velvet curtains retreated, and Aubrey was
once more fighting for his survival and Andrew Babbington was his
declared enemy.

Staring into his crystal tumbler, Babbington said with a
pleasurable
finality: "I really came to tell you that JIC and the Cabinet Office
and myself are to meet the PM early next week to formalise the setting
up of the new Security and Intelligence Directorate. SIS and MI5 will
no longer continue their separate existences." He looked up. There was
a flinty, satisfied calm in his eyes. "And I have been instructed to
prepare papers in your own case for the DPP as soon as possible." His
eyes gleamed like those of a cat.

Aubrey felt winded. He studied his own whisky greedily, but did
not
drink. He silently cleared his throat and drew saliva into the roof of
his mouth from his cheeks so that his voice would not betray him when
he spoke. Then he said, "So, you have it all. King, Cawdor, Glamis, all
as the weird women promised."

"Do you fear I have played most foully for it?" Babbington
countered, his teeth appearing mirthlessly between his lips.

"No. Foolishly and dangerously, perhaps."

"How so?"

"Andrew, if you do not see that I cannot be guilty of
these things, then I cannot persuade you. You are blinded by your own
supreme ambition, and your blindness has served you well. What you may,
by omission, have done to my service and your own, I can't say."

"Your service?"

"My former service. They mean to send me to trial, then?"

"Perhaps. Cooperation could forestall that… ?"

"How can I cooperate? I do not know the script of the play!"
Aubrey
snapped, getting up from his chair and topping up his whisky.
Babbington refused the proffered decanter.

"I see," he said.

"How far will they take this matter?" Aubrey asked, his back to
Babbington, shoulders slightly hunched as if he were leaning heavily on
the sideboard for support.

"I'm not sure - no one is at the moment."

"I don't want a trial. I don't think I could face that," Aubrey
murmured.

"Then —"

"I have nothing to offer as cooperation!"

"Then - let me say this to you. There are elements - not
necessarily
in the majority - who consider a trial, in camera, of course,
but certainly a prosecution before the law, could be useful. A cleaning
of the stable, purification of the house - reconsecration, so to speak.
Good for Security and Intelligence Directorate at its inception."