The Bear's Tears (58 page)

Wilkes waved his hand towards the others. Obediently, and
perhaps
with indifference, they filed from the room. Once outside, Babbington
could hear the subdued murmur of their voices as they made for their
own quarters, even a burst of coarse laughter. The usual assortment of
misfits; the greedy, the stupid, the sadistic. He breathed more easily.
His stomach had been queasy in the car, and he realised now that it was
not travel or tiredness or tension. It was the demeaning proximity of
the lower echelons, the infantry of the secret world. Wilkes, of
course, was tolerable - usually…

"Massinger's wife's nowhere in sight. The other woman, the
German -
she's taking a short holiday at her place outside St Wolfgang."

"You had her followed - yes, I will. Scotch. Neat." Wilkes had
crossed to a highly-ornamented cabinet and removed a bottle and
glasses, gesturing towards Babbington with them. He poured two
whiskies, bringing Babbington's glass to the fireplace.

"Yes. The police were there, too."

"Why?"

"She's got influential friends in the Viennese police. She's
looking
after herself."

"What will she have told the police?"

"We're checking on that. Not much, I think. Even if she had,
there's
nothing they're likely to do. If she mentioned Aubrey by name, they'd
back away with a horrified expression. They don't get mixed up with us
- you know that."

"I know it. Would the police look for Margaret Massinger?"

"They might. If they find her, we'll hear about it. Don't worry.
I
doubt they'll look very hard - not in this case."

"What if she goes to the police?"

"She can't tell them anything. And they'll be their usual
reluctant
selves. We could even get to her after she goes to them, if that's what
you want?"

Babbington sipped at his Scotch and moved a little away from the
blazing fire. "I don't know yet… I want her out of the way, but I'd
prefer her to be found by our people. Then we can - arrange matters."

"What are you going to do with Aubrey?"

Babbington smiled. "Aubrey goes over the border. Dear old
Kenneth is
going to appear where everybody expects him to appear."

"Moscow, you mean?"

"Moscow."

"I'll drink to that. But will Kapustin agree?"

"He'd better. It's too good an opportunity to miss, don't you
think?
It simply needs to be arranged. Make contact tonight and get a message
to Kapustin."

"What shall I tell him?"

"Just tell him I want to talk. Urgently." Babbington frowned.
"I'm
not going to let that peasant ignore the opportunity. They can dispose
of Kenneth after they've taken their pictures and spread the news he's
in Moscow to collect his medals and be promoted to the rank of a full
general in the KGB! And we, Wilkes, will be endlessly and
completely secure. Oh no, Kapustin can't be allowed to pass up this
opportunity."

"Do you want to see Aubrey?"

Babbington looked at his empty glass. "No. I think another drink
first, don't you? Kenneth's flavour will increase with a little
keeping." He smiled.

"It might at that," Wilkes replied, taking Babbington's glass.

"There'll be a car, a brown Skoda, waiting for you in the
Zidovska,
near the cathedral - a knitted cardigan with reindeer on the pockets
lying on the passenger seat. The keys will be under the —"

"No! For Christ's sake, for the last time - no! It's impossible."

"For heaven's sake, Patrick - you don't have any choice. Godwin
has
the background in computers, you have the ingress and egress
skills…" Even distantly down the telephone line, Shelley sounded as if
he were pleading. His earlier objections to Hyde's intransigence had
sounded like the disappointment of someone who has failed an
examination despite being convinced of their own cleverness. Now,
however, Shelley was angry, and selfless. It was no longer his scheme
that mattered, it was Aubrey. "You have to do it." The words were soft
and final.

"No. You have to be able to mount some kind of rescue attempt.
It's
a matter of calling the cops, for God's sake —!"

"And they'd believe you and not Babbington?"

"But Aubrey would be alive," Hyde protested. His voice was an
intense whisper, as if the telephone cubicle at the rear of the village
inn was incapable of preventing the carry of his words.

"For how long? And you - how long would you be alive?"

"Mate, I can't just hire a car and skis and drive to Bratislava
to
collect another car that might or might not be waiting for me!"

"You can. And you can get into the Hradcany. And
Godwin
can instruct you —"

"God —"

"Look, you don't have to tell me it's desperate remedies. I know
it
already. But there's no other —"

Shelley's voice had stopped speaking with unexpected suddenness,
almost as if he were in the inn with Hyde and had paused to listen to
the music that had just struck up from an accordion, a violin and
drums. A folk-song, indistinguishable from a hundred others.

"Shelley —?"

"I'm just having a look out of your window, Patrick. I thought I
heard the doorbell downstairs." Apologetically, Shelley added: "Getting
a bit jumpy myself…" Again, his voice tailed off, this time more
slowly, as if his attention had become absorbed elsewhere.

Hyde waited. Tension jumped in his fingertips. He knew the
conversation could have only one conclusion, and already the guilt was
beginning to appear. But, he couldn't - it was impossible…

"Shelley —?"

"Yes, Patrick."

"What is it?" Hyde asked, suddenly alert, as if an enemy had
walked
into the warmly lit, already smoky inn. The door had opened, in fact,
and smoke from the log fire had billowed into the room. A stranger who
was greeted by other customers had entered.
Danger
- "What's
wrong?"

"I - think they must have found me. There're a couple of cars in
the
street outside. Must have found my car, put two and two together. I
think
they're already in the house…"

"Are you sure?" Hyde felt himself sweating. He hunched into the
telephone cubicle, the mouthpiece closer to his lips.

"Oh, yes - I'm sure. Listen, then… brown Skoda in the Zidovska,
cardigan on passenger seat, keys under the driver's mat, papers locked
in the glove compartment - everything you need. It'll be there tomorrow
morning…" Shelley broke off, evidently listening. Hyde imagined he
could hear a knock at his door. "Got that?"

Hyde wanted to reject the information. "Yes," he said.

"Tuck the woman away somewhere safe - then see Zimmermann's
chap
for the Austrian passport. Change cars and papers in Bratislava, then
drive to Prague. Godwin will meet you at one of the bus stops on the E
15, once the road reaches the suburbs. Look out for him —" His voice
broke off suddenly. Hyde distantly caught the repeated knocking,
loudening in the silence. Shelley's breathing, too —

"Are they in?"

"No. But soon. I've given you Zimmennann's number in Bonn. Call
him. If anything goes wrong and you need a fallback plan, call
him…" Shelley broke off.

"Are they in, Shelley?"

"Yes… Good evening, gentlemen," he added, addressing the
visitors to
Hyde's flat. Hyde heard Ros's strident protests from somewhere outside
the room. Someone spoke to Shelley, but Hyde did not catch the words.
Then Shelley said to him: "You see how I'm fixed, darling. I shall be
away for some time, I should think. Ring you when I get back. Take
care…" The voice faded on that as the telephone receiver was snatched
from Shelley.

Hyde listened to the humming silence, then to the breathing that
came on the line. The exhalations of someone's effort and anger. He
heard Shelley ask who was on the line, but there was no reply.
Involuntarily, Hyde turned his head so that he could watch the door, so
much had Shelley's danger worked on him. The door remained shut. No
smoke billowed fom the fire. The breathing went on for a few moments,
then: "Who is that?"

Hyde did not recognise the voice. He held his breath. In his
mind,
the seconds ticked away. He had been on the telephone for almost twenty
minutes arguing with Shelley. Ros was still protesting somewhere in the
background. The man who had spoken to him demanded silence.

"Who is that?" he repeated, the softness gone from his tone.

Twenty minutes - all meaningless now. Shelley had been cut off
from
him, would be taken into custody, interrogated. There might even be
evidence in the flat to suggest Shelley's scheme - he couldn't have
planned it without maps, notes.

Then the voice said, "You're interested in a holiday in
Czechoslovakia, I gather." There was self-congratulation in the voice,
and Hyde's breath exploded. "Ah," the voice said. "Who is it?"

Shelley had had maps, notes - how much for God's sake - how
much?
Enough to kill his agent?

He'd called Shelley, Shelley had rung back when Hyde ran out of
coins. Now, Shelley was under arrest, and they might even guess it was
him on the other end of the line…

"Everything's down the pan," he heard Shelley announce clearly.
His
voice sounded hopeless, then Hyde sensed the message in the
resignation. Shelley had got rid of almost everything, then…

He clattered the telephone onto its rest, hurting his raw hand,
and
left the cubicle swiftly. The smoke billowed out from the log fire as
he opened the door then slammed it behind him.

The night was cloudy, the moon obscured. The temperature chilled
him
and he began to walk back towards the car, which he had parked by the
bridge, leaving Margaret in the passenger seat. He began to jog slowly
for comfort, for the illusion of fitness and freedom, for the paramount
illusion of escape. He was enraged with the anger of a trapped animal.

There was nothing he could do except follow Shelley's plan,
knowing
that, at each turn of the path, they might be there ahead of him,
waiting.

He reached the car, startling Margaret as he dragged open the
door,
climbed heavily into the seat, breathing hard, then slammed the door.
He ignored his protesting burns. He glared at her almost wildly,
malevolently.

"What does he say?" she asked in an apologetic but firm voice.
She
had applied some fresh make-up and looked younger. Hyde, however, saw
only a greater competence which at once disappeared beneath his
stylised view of her as an inconvenience; a dangerous liability.

"Who - Shelley?" She nodded, "He's just been fucking well
arrested -
that's the message from London! All right now? You've bloody done for
everyone now! Satisfied?"

Even though the movement was awkward, and the blow without real
force, Margaret slapped Hyde across the face. "Don't
speak
to
me like that!" she shouted, a lock of hair falling free across her pale
forehead. Anger did not make her beautiful in the lights of an
approaching car, only narrow-faced and dangerous. "Stop blaming me
for everything!" she added when the car had passed them. "Well, did he
talk to William?"

"Your esteemed godfather is in Washington for a few days. Just
our
bloody luck!" His hands banged the dashboard shelf heavily.
He winced at the pain. "Not even you can talk to him at the moment," he
added.

"Blast…" she murmured, staring through the windscreen back
towards
the hidden house where, for all she knew, her husband might be dying.

Yes, Hyde said to himself. I've already accepted it. It's
happened
somewhere between the pub and here. He looked carefully, appraisingly
at Margaret Massinger. Her perfume was seductively inappropriate in the
tense atmosphere of the car. "What state are you in?" he asked bluntly.

"All right - why?" she retorted, turning her face to him. "Fine."

"I - have to find somewhere to leave you… somewhere safe. You'll
be
on your own, maybe for a few days." He, too, looked towards the trees
that masked the house. Go on, he thought - volunteer.

"Why?" she asked, again staring through the windscreen.

"Something that may work - might help. Shelley's option. I'll
have
to try it now."

"And I'd obviously be in the way," she observed. Then she added:
"But what about this place? If everyone's - confined, then who will you
have watching the house?"

Good, he thought. "There isn't anyone," he said.

"But they could - could move them," she said fearfully.

"Maybe."

She was silent for a few moments, and then, after nodding
decisively
to herself, she said: "Then get me a camera, one that takes pictures
night and day, and give me this car and find me an anonymous
hotel…" She had been looking through the windscreen until that point,
and now she turned to him. "… and I'll get you proof that they're in
there."

"You're on," he said, surprising her.

"You don't object?"

"You're the only girl in the world, right now. We are the entire
army. So —" He switched on the ignition. Then he looked very levelly at
her. "Don't get caught," he instructed. "If they try moving either or
both of them, or there are comings and goings, then get it on film. And
make Sir Bloody William listen to you! Even if he's in
Timbuctoo, get hold of him and tell him everything you've seen and
photographed. Then pray he can stop it before it's too late. If you
can't get through to him and can't persuade him to listen to you - you
can tail the car they're in until it's pushed over a cliff!"

Margaret's face was unnaturally still as she struggled to
control
her emotions. She nodded violently, decisively.

"All right," she said, then more firmly: "All right."

our better part
remains

To work in close
design by fraud or guile

What force effected
not.

- Milton: Paradise
Lost, Bk.