The Bear's Tears (24 page)

"I - can't remember," he murmured. "No doubt it was another
occasion
for reprimand. It usually turned out to be like that, whenever we met.
Castleford taking a high-handed moral line towards SIS's work."

"Yours in particular, I gather."

"Perhaps."

"You disliked each other."

"Yes. Our enmity, however, was not strong enough for me to
betray
him. I did not wish him dead."

They do not know about Clara, do they? Aubrey asked himself.
They
must know, some other part of his mind answered. It was known to others
- the quarrels, the courtship, the victory - people in Berlin
knew of Castleford's interest in Clara, of my interest —? Why hasn't it
been brought up?… Don't let it be brought up…

"I see."

"Eldon?"

"Yes, Sir Kenneth?"

"What is the mood - of your masters?" Aubrey hated himself for
asking the question, but it had eaten at him from the moment that
Babbington had broached the subject. "Will they require a trial? A
charge of treason to be answered?"

"Yes, Sir Kenneth - I think they will."

"Rather late in the century for it, wouldn't you say?"

"Some might say, long overdue rather than late."

"I suppose they might."

"You did hate Castleford, didn't you?" Eldon asked quickly.

"He hated me," Aubrey replied.

"You hated him, also."

Aubrey stared at Eldon's quietly implacable features. It was a
matter of days, no more. He would know how close he was to being
charged with treason the moment they gave him access to his solicitor.
At that moment, his interrogation would be over and his trial on the
point of beginning.

Trial, trial, his mind echoed. Zalozny had offered him that,
often.
In the intervals between the bouts of cold water, the bucket over his
head being beaten with wooden sticks, the blows of huge peasant fists,
the standing to attention in the freezing, snowbound yard of the
prison, teeth chattering, body shuddering with ague; if he gave in,
they promised him a quick trial and execution. The situation was an
almost exact parallel.

One of his most vivid memories was of having to defecate into a
bucket while an eye watched him through the spyhole in the cell door.
Stained, torn trousers around his ankles, buttocks perched on the icy
rim of the iron bucket - all dignity gone, only the reduced, tormented,
pained animal left.

He dismissed the past. Of his present situation, he knew that
whatever he had to do - except confess - he would do to avoid a trial.
He would never be led into court, never hear the charge of treason,
never face a jury. Whatever he had to do, he would avoid that.

He watched Eldon. Eldon would never understand about the trial.
He
would never assume that Aubrey the traitor had left to him anything
with which he could not bear to part in public.

Hyde raised his head above the level of the dashboard. Glass
prickled his neck and the backs of his hands and slithered from his
overcoat onto the driving seat. Behind him, he knew that Bayev was dead
- one glance at the doll slumped in the corner of the Mercedes had told
him that. He had not even looked at Massinger. There was no time to
consider him. The Russian was
coming
on now, heavily jogging the last few strides between himself and the
car. Hyde fired through the crazed remains of the windscreen and the
man disappeared sideways below the bonnet.

Only then did Hyde turn his head. Massinger was sitting bolt
upright
in the back, evidently in shock.

"Come on, mate! Time's up."

"What —?" Massinger might have been drugged himself, so slow and
unfocused were his movements. Hyde reached over the seat and grabbed
his arm.

"Bayev's dead - we're next. Get out of the car!"

The top of the incline, where the road passed the freight-yard,
was
blocked by a long black saloon. Two men were standing by it, one of
them already advancing the first few paces down the slope. A glance in
the wing mirror had shown Hyde that much.

"Out —?"

"I can't move the car!"

Massinger began to move, groaning as he levered himself out of
the
door. Hyde saw the walking-stick, and his chest and stomach felt hollow
with foreboding. Massinger's bloody hip!

Massinger looked up the slope, appearing to Hyde to lean
heavily,
breathe hard. "How many of them?" he said urgently.

"Just the one car. They didn't wait for reinforcements. Someone
told
them to shut Bayev up as a first priority. Tape?"

"Yes." Massinger patted his pocket. "For what it's worth,
dammit! We
both know it's worthless - he knew nothing —!"

"Come on - this way."

He watched the two men who had halted at the top of the rutted,
frosty incline. They were mere dark lumps in the fog, revealed only
because of the powerful floodlights. Fog danced and moved around them.
Twenty-five yards. The kamikaze had had to come in close in order to
pick out his targets. A tactic of desperation, the impetus of a
high-ranking order behind him, pushing him on. Now that he was dead,
the other two wanted to wait for reinforcements.

"Down?"

"Yes, down. They're not eager to follow. Come on."

Massinger moved ahead of Hyde, who walked carefully backwards,
his
heels seeking the ruts and frozen puddles. A goods wagon's couplings
clanked in the fog, startling him. He could hear Massinger moving away,
limping, sighing with effort.

The cautious footsteps of the two Russians reached him, too.
Then
the sound of a car arriving, braking hard.

"Hurry it up," he called to Massinger. "The cavalry's arrived."

He turned his back, caught up with Massinger, and took his arm.
He
studied the man's face. Tired and lined, hardly handsome any longer. He
nodded.

"I'm all right —" Massinger protested.

"No you're not. Just doing all right. We're going to have to
hurry."

He forced Massinger to break into a limping jogtrot. The
American
used his stick like a drunken, uncertain third leg, and he groaned once
or twice; but he did not attempt to slow Hyde until they reached the
bottom of the incline. A gate in a wooden fence, then the tracks on
either side and ahead disappeared into the fog. A locomotive was moving
slowly somewhere in it like a circling, invisible shark. Its headlight
flashed occasionally, and its passage made the fog roll and billow.
Hyde shuddered with cold.

"All right?"

Massinger nodded, recovering his breath. "I'm OK, Hyde. I'm just
angry as hell."

"Never mind. They'll be consulting and planning for a couple of
minutes. There's time enough."

"What do we do now?"

"Get out of Vienna. There's nothing else we can do." He pushed
open
the unlocked gate. Warning signs forbade them to cross the tracks.
Massinger passed through the gate and Hyde closed it behind them. The
incline retreated into the fog. Hyde could not see the Mercedes or the
body in front of it, but nothing appeared to be moving on the slope.
"OK. Be careful - I don't know whether there are any live rails or
whether it's all electrified overhead. Just watch where you put your
feet."

Massinger was aware of the momentary confidence in Hyde's voice.
He
was a hundred yards ahead of the pursuit and shrouded by the fog. It
was enough, apparently, to satisfy him. Massinger recognised Hyde's
quality. He'd controlled only a few men like him all those years ago.
One or two, but very few. The nerve-enders, the jack-in-the-boxes. Good
field agents.

He crossed the first set of tracks, listening attentively.
Scrapings, clanks, the roll of flanged wheels, the movement of
locomotives. Strangely, a cow lowed somewhere in the fog and was
answered by other cattle. It was unnerving for an instant, then became
comfortingly innocent.

A line of goods wagons loomed out of the fog.

"Underneath and through," Hyde instructed.

Massinger grasped the icy buffer of a wagon, then bent down into
a
crouch. His hip protested as he waddled forward. It hurt badly, and at
the centre of the pain was a light, almost floating feeling of
weakness, as if he had little more than air or a vacuum to rely upon.
He was afraid that his hip might give out at any moment. He
straightened up with great difficulty, and his breath escaped in a
misty, smoky gasp.

"You OK?" Hyde asked anxiously.

"I'm all right, damn you!" he replied fiercely,
leaning on
his stick, watching Hyde with a twisted, angry face. "I'm all right."

"OK." Hyde shrugged. "Let's keep moving."

Four more sets of tracks, snaking towards their feet and
slithering,
so it seemed, away again into the chill-lit whiteness of the fog.

"Hold it!" Hyde snapped suddenly.

Noise of a locomotive, coming towards them. Massinger studied
his
feet, his heart racing. Between tracks —? Beyond, between —? The fog
swirled, writhed, then parted to admit a looming black shape with a
headlight struggling to cut a swathe through the curtain. Massinger
leaned away, feeling the rush of the air and the bulk of the engine and
the thudding of it through his shoes. He could see Hydenowhere.Wagons
clanked past, allowing little slats of white light to appear between
them.

The noise was deafening.

Eventually, it had gone and the fog had closed in behind the
guard's
van and the dim red light it carried.

"Hyde?" Massinger asked fearfully into the fog.

"Keep your voice down! Come on."

Three, four, five more sets of tracks. Sheds, repair and
maintenance
shops, points, gantries, lights. Then a high stone wall with frost
thickly riming weeds and ivy, and the dim glow of street-lamps above
and beyond it.

"Look for some steps," Hyde instructed. "And be careful."

The flight of steps was two hundred yards away, towards
Lassallestrasse. Hyde climbed it first, then waved to Massinger to
follow him. At the top, a gate barred their exit to the street. It was
unlocked. Hyde gestured Massinger through.

Icy puddles, poor street-lights, blank-faced warehouses. A narrow,
grubby, cobbled street empty of people and cars.

"Can you walk a bit more?" Hyde asked defensively, his hands
raised,
palms outwards.

"Yes. How far?"

"The station. We'll get a taxi back to the hotel. Just take it
easy
and stay alert."

As they walked, Massinger's stick tapped the cobbles and echoed
from
the blank walls and doors of the warehouses. The noise of it reminded
Hyde of the American's age, his infirmity, and his determination.
Nevertheless, he could not avoid the feeling that he was carrying the
older man; even though Massinger had adopted the role of his field
controller almost naturally and by right. Massinger would make the
decisions, but he would be left to carry them out; put himself in
jeopardy.

"Have we got anything out of that?" he asked.

"Mm?" Massinger was silent. No, no, no, his stick tapped out in
the
fog, then echoed its negative. "Tell me about this Petrunin," he said
eventually. "You know him, don't you?"

"Too well."

"Sorry — ?"

"One-time London Rezident. Later, he tried to screw me again in
Australia and Spain. We don't get on - quarrel all the time!" Behind
the banter, there was a quiver in his voice that Hyde could not
eradicate.

"He's a field man?" Massinger asked in surprise.

"No. He's been a general in his time."

"In his time."

"Word is, he got demoted back to colonel last year…"

"Because of you?"

"No. But I helped. He couldn't keep the lid on something."

"Part of the lid being your death?"

"Right."

"His scheme, apparently, wasn't discredited with him," Massinger
commented bitterly.

Hyde stopped the American then moved ahead and checked the
well-lit
street that lay ahead of them. Cars passed now, moving slowly in the
fog, there were one or two pedestrians, dog-walkers or night-shift
workers. It felt to Massinger both safe and dangerous at the same
moment. More, he sensed an excitement in himself. Dangerous, foolish,
desperate. Hyde returned.

"It's clear, as far as I can tell. I don't imagine they've given
up,
but it's a big area down there behind us. They may not be covering the
station yet. But be careful. If I move, you move. I shan't wait for
you. OK?"

"OK," Massinger nodded.

"The station's just a couple of hundred yards down the street,"
Hyde
continued. "What do we do when we get back to the hotel and the car you
hired?"

"Take the autobahn to Linz, and then maybe Munich. We can get
there
by morning, with luck. Unless this fog lasts all the way."

"And then—?"

"I must talk to Peter Shelley again. We must consult. I wish I
could
talk to Kenneth again… but that's too dangerous." He turned to face
Hyde. "You see, neither of us has anywhere to go at the moment.
Babbington forbade me to go on with this - someone informed Vienna I
was
here, someone wants me dead along with you."

"Babbington?"

"I doubt it. But - someone. Wilkes can't be the only rotten
apple.
Wilkes takes orders from someone else. This collusion is too smooth,
too efficient and, according to our dead friend back there, too
long-standing to be run by people like Wilkes. Someone, in Europe or in
London - a senior officer, at least as senior as Shelley or one of
Shelley's deputy directors, has to be in the KGB's pocket."

"Christ! I hadn't thought about it… Shelley?"

"Well?"

Hyde shook his head vigorously. "No, not Shelley."

"I thought not."

They had reached the portico of the Nord-bahnhof. A rank of
taxis
stood alongside the pavement. There seemed no one concerning themselves
with Hyde and Massinger. Hyde's relaxation was evident.

Obsessed with his theory, he had forgotten their narrow escape,
forgotten the dead body of Bayev in the back of the Mercedes; forgotten
the men who wanted himself and Hyde similarly disposed of. Hyde would
have to watch his back for him. He had to think —