The Bear's Tears (21 page)

"And, of course, there is always the PM's stern, Noncomformist
morality to deal with. The PM would be inclined to a trial, no doubt.
After all of them, all the old bogeymen who've been let off,
allowed to go free, brushed under the carpet, kicked upstairs and even
honoured for treachery - the buck stops here!" He turned to face
Babbington. His face was drawn and tired, but animated. "The wrong
place at the wrong time. One traitor too many to stomach, mm?"

Babbington shrugged. "Perhaps…"

"And, of course, my background isn't quite what it might have
been."

"That is nonsense —"

"Is it? Is it really?"

Aubrey appeared about to continue, but the telephone, ringing in
the
hall, silenced him. Babbington got up immediately.

"Probably for me. I gave them your number —"

Aubrey shrugged and Babbington crossed swiftly to the door,
closing
it behind him. It moved ajar slightly, but Aubrey had no desire to
listen. There was no motive for suspicion. Babbington was keeping
nothing secret from him. His end had been prescribed; etched in clean,
deep lines. They were determined that he should be finished, and that
he should be seen to be finished. The king must die. His ashes would
fertilise the new seed - SAID. And Babbington, who would be
Director-General of the new organisation, would then possess supreme
power in his country's secret world.

Resentment died, to be replaced by a hollow, deflated feeling.
Emptiness.

He realised that they had succeeded in taking his life from him.
Not
simply his past, or his reputation and credibility; not his
achievements or his probity; not his rank or his honours. His life.
More important even than his good name. He was not Othello. He could no
longer do as he had always done, he could no longer involve himself,
belong…

They had taken away his reason for living.

"I warned him - I warned him," Babbington was saying
heavily in the hall. There was a brutal power in the man's voice; naked
strength. Babbington was too strong an opponent and Aubrey had no will
or allies with which to fight him. Kapustin had known all this, had
known everything that would follow
from
the instigation of his damned
Teardrop!

Aubrey's eyes were damp with rage and self-pity. Damn Kapustin.
He
had guessed correctly at every turn of the cards, every throw of the
dice.
Teardrop
was cast-iron,
watertight, unsinkable. There was nothing he could do.

"You've done that? Good," Babbington was saying. "Yes - oh, no,
it
was no coincidence. He went deliberately, to make contact. Yes. No
risks. Yes."

The receiver clicked back onto its rest. Aubrey straightened his
slumping tired old body, forcing it to replicate a former self.

Babbington entered the room again, his face dark with anger. A
domestic tyrant facing a squeaking, fearful little rebellion from one
of his children. Not endangered or unsettled, simply enraged at the
enormity of defiant words or disobedience.

"Your friend Massinger —" he began, then swept his hand through
the
air in a dismissive gesture. "Why concern ourselves with him? The man
is a fool!"

"A sentimentalist. They are only the same thing once in a while,
usually over women or small animals. Paul is no fool."

"If he tries to help you, he is."

"Has he —?" Aubrey could not prevent himself from asking.

"Inadequately, yes. There's no comfort in it, though."

"No," Aubrey admitted.

Babbington crossed to his briefcase, and removed a buff file.

"Read these," he said, pressing them into Aubrey's hand. "They
contain the details of your arranged escape from NKVD custody in
Berlin, and Soviet instructions to ensure that you reached the British
sector safely." The papers shook in Aubrey's grasp, and he could not
prevent them doing so. Babbington seemed delighted.

"Your ambition's blinding you to everything except the surface…"
Aubrey began.

"You had Castleford killed. You're a Russian agent - my God, to
think what might have happened if we hadn't got hold of this! - and
we'll have you for that. Especially for that." Babbington collected his
briefcase, and made for the door. Looking at his watch, he said, "I'll
send Eldon along in a little while. I'm sure you won't object to a late
night? I doubt you could sleep, anyway."

"There. He's ready for you now." Cass inspected the dilated
pupils
of Karel Bayev, KGB Rezident in Vienna, as his plump, still
fully-dressed form lolled in a deep armchair. The light of the room
fell on Bayev's blank, dead-yet-alert features. The man looked capable
of reason and speech at one moment, incapable even of movement at
another. Massinger was disconcerted by proximity to such total
imprisonment. "Try him out," Cass suggested as he filled another
syringe with benzedrine. Hyde slipped silently back into the room
through the door to the bedroom. Presumably, he had tied the girl and
gagged her. A call from the Vice Squad had persuaded her to open the
door, and shock had prevented her from having to be hurt or disabled as
they pressed through. Hyde had gagged her with his hand and bundled her
up the stairs in front of him. Bayev had been sitting idly drinking
champagne, and at once called out to the girl as they opened the door
of the lounge. He had recognised a type in Hyde almost immediately but
Cass, holding Hyde's pistol, had quelled protest.

Simple preliminaries, Massinger reminded himself. Almost too
easy.
Now, begin —

Hyde had crossed to the window, almost unobserved. Bayev's
pupils
had not followed his progress. He was staring into some unknown middle
distance.

Margaret —

Begin.

"Karel, old friend - so good to see you again!" Massinger
exclaimed
in Russian, attempting as close an impersonation of Pavel Koslov's
ringing tones as he could. "Karel!" he tried again, catching in his
memory the echo of Pavel's usual enthusiastic greeting. "It's Pavel -
your old friend, Pavel!" He chuckled, imitating Pavel's delight, clear
in his mind, from the darkened back of an opera box.

"Embrace him," Cass whispered. "Call his name again."

"Karel - come on, Karel!" Massinger bent forward and took Bayev
by
the sholders, kissing him on each cheek. "It's Pavel. I want you to
show me Vienna, old man!"

Bayev seemed to snap into wakefulness. His eyes watched
Massinger,
who could not but believe that the fiction would be exposed in a
moment, that Bayev would protest, attempt to rise from the chair,
threaten, become frightened —

"Pavel - Pavel…"he muttered, his voice thick with phlegm.

"That'll clear in a minute," Cass observed nonchalantly. "Once
the
station's tuned in properly. Go on."

"I've four whole days in this beautiful city, and I'm ready for
anything. Just like the school holidays, eh, old man? Tallinn - do you
remember Tallinn? The girls?"

Cass was smiling broadly when Massinger glanced up at him. He
nodded
encouragingly. Hyde was also smiling, then he tossed his head towards
the door and went out.

"Ah… aaah…" Bayev sighed. His hands moved in slow-motion,
describing
the female form in the air. "Yes - the girls in Vienna, too! Wait till
you see some of them. Meet
them,
Pavel! Oh, yes —"

"Very well, old friend. And how are you - busy?"

"Too busy. Much too busy. But, I will give myself a special
assignment for a few days - we'll enjoy ourselves!"

"Good, good." Massinger could not see the conversation unfolding
any
further. He had established the circumstances, the fiction of himself
as Koslov, but he could not force his own imagination to ignite. He
could not be Koslov.

"What now?" he whispered.

"You've got the script," Cass replied.

"Damn," Massinger breathed, then he said: "London is a pig,
Karel,
old friend. Trouble, trouble, trouble. I can't tell you how they're
keeping us on our toes…" His voice and ideas trailed off once more.

Then Bayev said: "You complain? We had that bloody
Deputy
Chairman here again last week! My God, that operation is never-ending
—!" Bayev was animated, waving his arms slowly like the sails of a
windmill or the slow circling of a lighthouse beam.

"My God," Massinger whispered. Then: "Kapustin always was a real
shit!"

"Too right, my friend, too r- right… y-es, oh… y-e-ss…"

"What's happening?"

"He's not lasting long, is he?" Cass replied. He moved towards
Bayev's form, which now had slumped back in the armchair, his pupils
tiny and hard like currants, his eyes staring blankly. His hands and
legs lay like those of a dummy about to be folded into its case.

Cass injected benzedrine, and stood back. "He could be overtired
or
half-cut. I can't tell. Looks like you'll have to keep waking him." He
looked at his watch. "If I want to catch the Frankfurt flight, I'd
better go, I'll leave you the syringe. Remember, if he doesn't come out
of it at any time, leave him alone."

"Very well."

Bayev snapped awake once more.

"Kapustin's a real shit," Massinger said at once.

"Who are you?" Bayev replied in a suspicious voice.

"Oh, Jesus —!"

"What is it, Wilkes? You told London. What did they say? What
did
they come back to you for?"

"Never mind - look, go out and get some chocolate cake, will
you?
I'm starving."

"Now? Everywhere's shut —"

"Not that little delicatessen on the corner. Go on, do as you're
told for a change."

"Money first. I know you."

"Here - and don't be long."

"OK. See you."

"Thank God for that. Now, six… seven… four… eight… nine… three…
one…
five… Come on - Christ, if this hits the fan, Wilkes old son, you can
forget a cushy berth next time out - come on… thank God - give me Savin
- at once. Never mind, just put me through. Yes, yes, the bloody code
of the day is Volgograd - bloody imaginative, isn't it? Hurry
up! Savin, is that you? Listen. London just signalled. If you know
where your Rezident is, check up on him and keep him secure. Why?
Because someone's been into our Registry files, and they've been
checking on your boss. Yes, and that someone's in Vienna now - probably
with Hyde… yes, that's right, Hyde. So, if you know where he is, I
should check up on him if I were you!"

"Pavel - it's Pavel," Massinger said hesitantly.

"Pavel?" Bayev was still suspicious. Massinger had been
attempting
to re-establish the fiction of his circumstances for more than five
minutes. Cass, as if supremely indifferent, had left to catch his
flight; Frankfurt then onward to Madrid, his job now simply to make
himself secure. Massinger's task was proving difficult, if not
impossible. It had been too easy, like a gleam of sun before fog
returns.

"Yes, Pavel - come on, Karel, what's the matter with you? Pissed
again?"

Bayev laughed. "Pavel!" he exclaimed. "You old rat, how are you?
What are you doing in Vienna?"

"Holiday - fun! And business, of course."

"Not more orders - not more of this business. Does Kapustin
never
sleep?"

"Thank God," Massinger breathed.

The telephone began ringing. Startled, Massinger stared at it.
He
did not dare to pick it up. Bayev's round head swung slowly, and bobbed
like a bird's on his thick neck as he attempted to focus on the ringing
telephone.

"Don't bother with it —!" Massinger said, inspired. "No time for
business now. I want you to show me some of the sights!"

Bayev's head swung back. "But, what if —?"

"It's not Kapustin, and who else are you afraid of? I've
got Kapustin's instructions. Come on, we'll talk as we walk, eh? I've
got a hell of a thirst on me!"

Bayev laughed. The telephone stopped ringing but he did not seem
to
notice.

A customer, a customer, Massinger prayed in the silence, then he
said: "God, I'm thirsty!"

"Same old Pavel!"

"Well, why not? I do my job. Anyway, being a party drunk is a
good
cover. London society loves me!"

"And so they should. I know a nice new bar - the girls are
delightful?"

"When was Kapustin here last?"

"Two weeks ago. We were running round with our arses hanging out
trying to keep up with him. He was meeting the Englishman —"

"Aubrey?"

"Of course. Who else?"

Massinger paused. Here was the Pandora-box. Aubrey's ills lay
inside
it. And then he wondered: Is Aubrey in there, too? Is there something
more? He could not bring himself to continue the conversation. Bayev
sat patiently, hands folded in his lap, body upright, a machine
awaiting a current of electricity. Massinger's hands quivered. He did
not wish to discover…

The door opened. Hyde, preceded by a draught of cold air,
entered
the room. Massinger heard his ragged breathing and turned to him at
once.

"Three cars," Hyde struggled to say, clinging to the door
handle.
"Three cars, and they're not friendly. What the bloody hell do we do
with him?"

"Well?" Hyde repeated. "What do we do with him? Not to
mention ourselves?"

Massinger turned his gaze back to Bayev's face. He seemed
unaware,
untroubled by the collapse of the situation in which he believed
himself to be; as if he had been switched off until required.

"I don't know - how close are they?"

"They're watching at the moment, cars drawn back maybe thirty
yards
on either side of ours. They'll be looking for our car first - then us.
They'll try not to harm him, but don't you reckon on walking away."

"How did they —?"

"Christ knows - it doesn't matter! Get that bugger on his feet,
Massinger."

"He can't be moved —"

"He'd better bloody well be, if you haven't finished with him!"
Hyde
moved into the room and through rather than across the heavy white
carpet. He studied Bayev's simpleton expression and vacant eyes, which
had not followed him as he moved. "Christ, he's well away. Have you
finished with him?"