The Bear's Tears (41 page)

"So, you have a complete record of his movements, contacts
- everything?" Massinger asked.

"Indeed. The BfV calls the official record a failure - because
Guillaume must have guessed that he was under suspicion. He led us
nowhere. His arrest became inevitable because there was nothing more to
be gained from letting him run. The BfV knew that Brandt was still
reluctant to believe or to act, so it waited until the Chancellor was
on a visit to Cairo, then made the arrest…" There was a gleam in
Zimmermann's eye as his voice tailed off.

Massinger, realising that his intuitions were being tested, said
quickly: "That's not quite it, though, is it? BfV had to rush at the
last minute, I guess?"

Zimmermann nodded him a compliment. "Quite so. His telephone had
been tapped, his movements watched. He went about his business as
usual. We expected the mouse to play while the Chancellor-cat was away
- forgive me, incidentally, for using the term we so freely.
I was, of course, not connected with the service at that time." A
moment of retrospection, then he continued: "He became concerned to
shake his tail. This he did on two occasions in the week before his
arrest. He kept assiduously away from his network, his couriers and his
control. They, it seems, were to be kept safe. But he was meeting
someone. Someone we did not know was evidently helping him. Warning
him." He thumbed through his notebook, then nodded. "Yes - April 22nd.
A voice speaking German with a heavy English accent telephoned
Guillaume, and was warned off the line. Guillaume immediately left his
apartment, and went to a public telephone booth. Fortunately, we had
bugged all of them within a certain radius. Enough of a radius."
Zimmermann was enjoying himself, as if recounting a particularly
pleasing episode in his own biography. Whatever disappointments he had
suffered in the past two years, he had evidently flung himself
wholeheartedly into his role as special adviser to the German
counter-intelligence service. It was as if he had recaptured, entirely
and freshly, his Abwehr past.

"And?"

"There was trouble. Hitches. BfV gossip was, however, repeated
to
Guillaume - gossip that could only have come from us or from people
liaising with BfV as part of the World Cup security studies."
Zimmermann looked grave. "Papers were arranged, a car hired… there were
a number of calls to different telephone booths, but we never were able
to trace the caller. The flight to the DDR - by car with a false
passport - was to take place on the 24th. So, Guillaume was arrested
the previous night."

"Always the same caller?"

Zimmermann nodded. "Always. An Englishman with good, correct,
school-taught German. BfV was certain that he was a professional
intelligence operative and that he was relaying the instructions of
Guillaume's masters. Whoever he was, he was working for the East
Germans or the KGB. And probably still is."

Zimmermann, his narrative complete, sipped at his whisky,
smiling
encouragingly at Margaret. Massinger saw the frown of concentration
lighten. Her features were still smooth, however. She had hidden or
otherwise temporarily disposed of whole parts of herself in order to
concentrate on his safety.

The snow had eased, and the window was gradually clearing. The
barges moved like flat-backed whales.

"Was there any evidence pointing at a particular individual?"

Zimmermann shook his head. "Unfortunately, no. The car hire firm
was
traced - a nondescript man was described. The tickets for a train
journey - presumably as back-up - which we found in Guillaume's
apartment were bought by someone whose German sounded a little peculiar
- no description. No, there was nothing to go on."

"And how many suspects?"

"Conservatively, perhaps twenty or twenty-five. There were a
great
many advisers, as well as the normal embassy staff."

"You have a list of names?"

"Here." Zimmermann passed Massinger a sheet of typing paper. The
list of names was neatly aligned in the centre of the page. The
typeface might have belonged to a computer.

"Well," Massinger sighed, "no one anywhere has found anything up
to
now. What have we to lose?"

"I have one other name for you," Zimmermann said, and was
surprised
at the hungry, guilty eagerness Massinger's face displayed. He glanced
at Margaret, then back to Massinger. He saw their mutual love, sensed
the anguish not yet dissolved between them. The scene was a moment of
nakedness from which he wished to remain detached. Nevertheless,
sensing the crisis that was imminent, he passed Massinger a small,
folded sheet which he removed from his breast pocket. "He's retired
now," he explained.

Margaret realised at once the implications of Zimmermann's
words.
"Who is this?" she asked angrily. "What other name?"

Massinger's shoulders hunched as he began his explanation. "It's
to
do with —"

"My father? That's it, isn't it? You've asked Herr Zimmermann to
help me?"

"Not you - us."

"No —!" Zimmermann was pained by her anguish. She suddenly
looked
older, careworn. Even haunted.

"I can't leave it —!"

"I don't want you to —"

"I must…"

"Leave it alone!"

Zimmermann hesitated, then said: "I do not think that you will
find
it was…"

"I don't care! I don't want to know!" Margaret wailed.

"It cannot be Aubrey."

"Why not? Why not?"

"I believe it can't be." Zimmermann glanced at Massinger, then
back
at his wife, then Massinger again. In a hoarse voice, he said, "But you
believe it could be Aubrey, Mr Massinger. You do, don't you?"

"I don't know what to think —"

"You're wrong —"

"Stop it! Stop it! I don't want you to go on with it, Paul - I
want
to begin to forget it. Can't you understand that? Please —"

"I must," he murmured, unfolding the paper. Margaret got up
stiffly
and left the room. A moment later, they heard the running of a bathroom
tap, the clink of a glass.

Massinger felt Zimmermann's gaze on him, felt the man's
hostility
stalking the room like an interrogating officer. He looked up
sheepishly.

"If I had known," Zimmermann began, "that this was your opinion
—"

Massinger held up his hand. "Please," he said. "Please. I have
to
know. Margaret has to know. Christ, I don't know what I believe —!"

"But you suspect… ?"

Massinger nodded miserably. "Yes."

Zimmermann shifted uncomfortably in his chair, as if he was
disarmed
by the American's unguarded display of misery. "I do not understand,"
he murmured at last. "I do not understand why you have these -
suspicions. But, you have the address now, whatever good it will do
you. I have requested the BfV to trace this woman you claim was
involved with Aubrey and your wife's father. The man whose name you
have was one of the people employed by Aubrey in Berlin, one of many
such who later became good BfV officers. The Allies trained many of our
best people - to catch other Germans." There was no expression on
Zimmermann's face. "The man lives in Cologne. You will need a car."

Massinger looked up. "What?" he asked numbly.

"The sooner you get this business over, the sooner I can begin
to
help you and your wife - and Aubrey and perhaps even England. I do not
know. Your wife will not, I suspect, wish to see you when she has -
repaired the damage?" He smiled quizzically. "I suggest that you allow
me to entertain her for lunch while you pursue your demon in Cologne.
Then, perhaps this evening, you can be of help to me, I to you… ?"
There was a thin, quick knifecut in the final words, and a sense of
knowledge. Massinger felt his dilatoriness, his selfishness, his guilt
laid under a hard light and dissected.

"You've spoken to this man, haven't you?" he guessed.

Zimmermann smiled. "Perhaps."

"Then tell me —!"

"No. Hear it for yourself."

Massinger glared at Zimmermann like a malevolent puppet for a
moment, then he stood up stiffly. His hip twinged like his conscience.
There was hope, too, if Zimmermann despised his doubts about Aubrey —?
He could not tell. "Very well," he said. "Very well. I'll do as you
suggest."

"There is a car booked in your name. You have only to ask at the
desk." Zimmermann's handsome features twisted in bitter contempt. "I
will not wish you good luck," he added acidly.

Deputy Chairman Kapustin of the KGB watched the traffic in
Dzerzhinsky Square below his window, the transcript of the coded signal
from Kabul in his hand, his thumb and forefinger clenched upon the
flimsy sheet of paper. Its ragged top edge suggested the urgency with
which it had been torn from the pad and hurried to his senior secretary
in the outer office. A small motorcade of black, official Volga saloons
turned out of the square beneath the swirl of driving snow towards the
Kremlin. The Chairman and some of his senior advisers attending a
select Politburo meeting. Kapustin wondered why he should feel like a
boy not invited to a party. More appropriately, perhaps, he was like
the mouse about to play during the cat's absence.

Snow flurried more thickly across the square. Opposite his
second
floor window, the lights - burning early in the afternoon -of the KGB's
own exclusive beriozhka shop gleamed like an illuminated
hoarding. As he turned to the senior secretary who had brought in the
message, he glowered with appropriate anger, and quashed the rising
sense of possible failure and the fear that accompanied it.

"How positive is this identification?" he asked.

"Colonel Petrunin's team questioned the guard detail very
thoroughly, Comrade Deputy."

"You checked —?"

"Sir. The code clerk informed his superior - there was a full
exchange of signals with Kabul before the message was sent upstairs."

"And —?"

"Kabul concludes —"

"Who in Kabul?"

"Petrunin's senior KGB captain - our man."

"Very well. His conclusions?"

"The kidnapper of Colonel Petrunin was undoubtedly a British
agent."
The secretary appeared uncomfortable, sensing himself on a limb.

"Nothing more particular?" Kapustin asked heavily.

"Our man thinks he knows him."

"From hurried impressions - from the description here?"

The secretary nodded. "I - placed a call myself, Comrade Deputy.
I
considered the delay - worthwhile, in view of the implications."

"Implications?"

"Sir - Petrunin's second-in-command was our
appointment.
When Colonel Petrunin was disgraced, he asked for one of his closest
confederates to accompany him when he was posted to Kabul. You, sir,
thought it wiser to send someone we could trust."

Kapustin's laugh was like a dog's bark. "I remember!" he
exclaimed.
"Poor devil. I remember the look on his face." Then his mood darkened,
and he added: "Well?"

"He claims that the man involved is a British agent.
He
even claims to be able to positively identify him. He says the man is
Patrick Hyde."

Kapustin appeared puzzled. "Who —?"

"Hyde was with Aubrey in Helsinki, and Vienna. He was with him
during many of your meetings."

Kapustin's eyes widened. "Him?" he breathed. "In Kabul?
I
don't believe it. He's skulking somewhere in Europe…"

"Our man is positive - he knows the man. Sir, if
there's
even the slightest possibility —"

"
Teardrop
. You think he's
—?"

"I don't know, sir. We can't afford to take the chance, however.
In
my opinion, sir."

Kapustin studied his face, then the sheet of paper in his hand.
Then
he looked up again. "You've checked - double-checked?"

"Yes, sir. Our man sticks by his word."

Kapustin was silent for some time. Then he said, "Then there is
only
one solution. A pity —" The sentiment sounded blatantly hollow. "— but
we have no choice. There mustn't be the slightest possibility. Very
well. Issue the damned army its orders. Tell our man to take full
command. Get rid of Petrunin, Hyde - find them all and get rid of them
all."

"Sir."

It was evident to Eldon that Sir Andrew Babbington revelled in
the
congratulations that Eldon had felt, in duty and sincerity, he should
offer his superior. Babbington had been confirmed as the first
Director-General of Security and Intelligence Directorate that morning.
Eldon knew he would rise with Babbington, but it had not affected the
spirit in which he had offered his good wishes. There was only one
small element of personal calculation - Eldon was embarrassed and angry
at the disappearance of Aubrey and wished to deflect what he
anticipated would be Babbington's similar anger. Otherwise, he
considered SAID a satisfactory innovation and Babbington its natural DG.

"Thank you, Eldon. A pity, however, that our euphoria must be
incomplete, thanks to the laxity your men displayed with regard to
Aubrey."

"You'll remember, Sir Andrew, that I originally suggested a
closer
method of surveillance?" Eldon observed with studied lightness.

Babbington glared momentarily, then waved his hand to brush the
subject aside as easily as crumbs from the white linen tablecloth. The
club's dining-room was almost full, but Babbington's table was well
removed from its nearest neighbour. Eldon could remember occasions when
Babbington, the aspiring acolyte in the secret world, would not have
merited such a secluded corner of the dining-room. The memory amused
him. In some small part, the audacity of Aubrey's escape amused him,
too; just as it enraged him morally to see the man escape his trial and
conviction.

"Very well. As long as Kenneth's found, there will be no
recriminations. Shelley obviously wasn't involved. Kenneth ran out of
luck, and nerve, and time. But, Eldon, on this matter of SAID —?" The
tone had an element of seduction in it.