The Bear's Tears (82 page)

"Now you must go," Langdorf urged. "Cross here, then follow the
course of the stream. To this road here, which climbs into the hills."
He flashed his torch on his sketch-map. "Here, there is a stone bridge.
Herr Professor Zimmermann will be waiting at this point. If he has
come."

Hyde nodded. Silence except for the stream. Thirty yards to the
wire, wriggle under and through, ford the stream, then run. Getting
colder and colder. But run.

He looked at his watch. Seven-forty. In less than two hours,
Babbington's flight would touch down at Heathrow. Babbington would be
back at the centre of the web, issuing orders, covering up, persuading
— tidying-up. He thrust the cassette into the breast-pocket of his
coat. At Langdorf's insistence it had been wrapped securely in a
polythene bag, like the pistol. He looked at Langdorf —

Noises. Boot-studs on rock, the flash of torches. Langdorf was
startled, and immediately stood up.

"Good luck!" he snapped, and pushed at Hyde as he squatted on
his
haunches.

The heave was a strong one. Hyde rolled out of the trees,
tumbling
over and over, disorientated. Langdorf had known exactly what he was
doing. Hyde would distract the patrol from himself. As he sat up, he
saw Langdorf disappear into the trees, moving swiftly and certainly.
Unobserved.

A dog barked. Hyde could almost hear safety-catches being
released,
the inhalation of surprised breaths. The dog barked again, then
growled. Straining at the leash. Then barking more frantically.

They were fifty yards away, coming out of the trees. Two of them
and
one dog. As he turned his head to the watch-tower, he saw forms pass in
front of the lights, then a searchlight flared and began stepping and
jumping along the rocks towards him. He got to his feet as they called
on him to stop.

He danced across the rocks and pebbles, arms akimbo for balance,
awareness rooted in his calves and ankles, prickling across his
shoulders. A shot. He winced. The one warning shot. Ten yards to the
wire. Now, now the dog —

He skidded onto his belly, skinning his palms. The raw skin
beneath
his thin gloves protested, crying out. His knees were bruised. The roll
of wire was buckled upwards. The snow was shaken off as he wriggled,
revealing the barbs. He crawled on his stomach. Two more shots,
plucking away off the pebbles. The dog, the dog —

Get into the wire,
get under the
wire —!

The dog howled at its release. He heard it coming. His pained
right
hand fumbled at his side, fumbled for the pocket of his coat. Snow fell
on him from the dancing curls of wire tugging over his back. The dog
was close —

He touched the gun in its polythene bag. The dog's growl was
almost
on top of him, he heard it begin to slither expertly on its belly.
Boots, running. Calls to halt, to remain still, not to move.
The
dog's breath on his exposed ankle, he was certain of it—!

The gun twisted in his grip. He tried to turn onto his back, but
a
strand of wire caught in his coat and he could not move. The dog raised
its head, pulling at the cloth of his coat-tail. Heaving against his
body-weight and the restraint of the wire. Holding him. The men were
twenty yards from him, still running. He half-twisted, craning his
neck, lying on his left side, tearing the coat open across his
shoulders, feeling the barbed wire rip his skin. Felt the trigger
awkwardly through the thin polythene. Moved the safety-catch. Held then
squeezed the trigger's vague outline. Fired, deafening himself. As one
of the two shots passed through the dog's shoulder, it howled,
releasing the coat-tail.

Hyde heaved forward regardless of the wire. The searchlight
bounced
onto his prone form, passed, returned. Held him. Almost immediately, a
machine-gun opened fire. The dog, screaming because it had become
trapped in the wire in its pain, fell silent after a single long
whimper. The two border guards were flat on their stomachs, out of the
line of fire. Stone chips flew, bullets ricocheted. Hyde wriggled out
from beneath the wire and flung himself forward into the water.
Immediately, the cold stunned him, numbing his legs and trunk to the
waist. The current flung him off his feet because he was too cold to
move forward. He cried out at the shock. Floated, was pushed then
dragged by the current. Machine-gun fire swept back and forth across
the stream behind him, but the searchlight had lost him. It bounced
forlornly from bank to bank, picked out the two border guards on their
knees, both trying to draw a bead on his bobbing head. He swallowed icy
water, moved his arms in protest, but the stream thrust him on. His
feet dragged on the rocky bed, his leg banged numbly against a hidden
rock, then he was out of his depth.

And the searchlight was gone. The guards, running along the
shore,
also vanished. The wire was just visible. He collided with a midstream
rock and was too winded and weak to grasp its gleaming surface. He was
hurried on by the current. The banks of the stream narrowed, rose on
each side. His whole body was numb, too numb, dangerously —

A rock ahead. He tried to steer for it, tried to reach it, able
only
to push feebly against it with his feet as he passed. He saw foggily.
Drew in one breath with enormous effort. Hands, feet, legs, trunk numb.
He tried to stand, touched rocks, was swept onwards, touched rocks
again, tried to stand, drew in a huge breath and ducked beneath the
surface. Gripping rocks with numb hands, dragging the rocks towards him
as his legs and torso were swept sideways. The water's current
stretched him out, refloated him. Dragged him at another rock, slimy
and hard. Another, then another —

He crouched against the current as it swept to both sides of a
jutting rock. Knees on the pebbly bed, hardly registering the painful,
hard lumps - his head was above water! He waited, then heaved himself
at the bank.

He crawled out of the icy water, heart pumping, breath absent,
strength gone. Rolled onto his back, coughing weakly, waiting for the
effort to subside and allow him to find the strength to draw in air.

And saw Zimmermann's face. Framed by two other faces. They might
have been those of the border guards. His hand flapped on his chest.
Could he feel the wrapped cassette —? Could he? He patted weakly.
Zimmermann understood and bent down beside him. He withdrew the
cassette and held it for Hyde to see. Hyde nodded. Which started him
coughing again. He had begun breathing shallowly and quickly.
Torchlight danced around his body. Men spoke in German. He realised
with difficulty that he had crossed the border.

"Wrap him up well," he heard Zimmermann say. "Get him on his
feet as
soon as you can." He patted Hyde's shoulder softly. Hyde could hardly
feel the gesture. "Well done, Mr Hyde… we came upsteam from the bridge
because of the activity in the area. Particularly the helicopter. But,
it was a good thing you got ashore by yourself. We would not have seen
you in the water."

Blankets laid on him, one after the other, heavy as earth.
Someone
rubbing his legs, his thighs roughly. Arms, too. A hand raised his
head. Brandy. He coughed, losing most of it down his chin and collar.

"Listen —" he began.

"Say nothing at the moment," Zimmermann instructed. Behind his
head
the sky was beginning to gain colour. West German Frontier Guard -
Grenzschütz - uniforms moved around him. Hyde wanted to vomit. His
heart would not slow down. They continued to rub at his limbs and body.
More brandy. This time he swallowed.

He coughed and said, "Not much time - have to talk to London.
Have
to
, Zimmermann!" He was pulling at the German's sleeve.

The helicopter was away to the left, across the stream. Tree-top
height, watching them. Heads turned to observe it. Hyde's head ached
with cold, but ideas flashed and bloomed in his mind, as if he had
drunk much more of the brandy. And then, for certainty's sake, the
helicopter's small searchlight flicked across the river and spotlighted
them for perhaps five seconds. Then it blinked out and the small
helicopter rose and slipped over the trees. Hyde lost sight of it.

They knew.

Already, Zimmermann was saying: "… suspected they were following
from Nuremberg. Someone must have seen me when I landed… they knew from
my whereabouts that you —"

Hyde shook Zimmermann's sleeve, and spluttered: "Get me to a
phone -
if they warn London, then Babbington - disappears as soon - soon as he
lands. Understand? We have to have him - have to have Babbington to
save
Aubrey. No swap, no - no Aubrey. Understand?"

Zimmermann's face darkened. Hie glanced at the sky, as if to
pick
out the now hidden helicopter.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, of course - of course!" He stood up. "They
will carry you down to the car." Then in German, quickly and with
authority: "Pick him up. Quickly - we must return to Waldsassen at
once. Quickly!"

Aubrey glanced at his watch. Nine-seven. The unbroken snow lay
like
a frozen white sea lapping up to the hills of Moscow. The city was
revealed like cast-up wreckage; spars and towers, broad avenues, blocks
of apartments, ornate, miniature churches and palaces. Railway lines,
ring roads and motorways spread in all directions from the city; once
noticed, the scene became transformed into a vast spider's web heavy
with snow and with Moscow at its heart.

The three of them - Margaret Massinger kneeling on her seat like
a
child, her head above the back of it - stared out of the windows of the
Tupolev as it lazily circled the city, awaiting landing instructions. A
small delay, the pilot had informed them over the intercom. Volume of
air traffic for the southern international airport of Domodedovo.
Aubrey glanced up. Margaret was looking at him intently. He tried to
smile and she nodded, as if she understood his intention and his
difficulty.

Now, near the end of it all, he was unable to speak to her. Or
to
Paul Massinger. The three of them had exchanged scrappy, broken
phrases, single words, the occasional platitude but nothing more
throughout the flight. Guests at a party, the earliest to arrive and
strangers to one another. The dozen or so Russians aboard the aircraft
ignored them. The hostesses served them with breakfast and with drinks
in bland silence. Their guards relaxed. Each of the three seemed
grateful for silence, and for the proximity of the others. Aubrey was
pleased that their relationship did not exclude him.

The city slid beneath the wing. Traffic on the huge motorway
ring,
tinier than miniatures. Two trains visible, rushing into the city. The
river, the Kremlin.

Aubrey had not been in Moscow since before the war. Yet it had
formed the enemy fortress for so long that it was familiar. Any map of
the city he had ever seen immediately became an architect's
three-dimensional model or a series of aerial photographs. He knew the
modern city, but until now it had belonged in his imagination. Moscow
had been like Rome and Carthage, made unreal by distance and history.
Sites of ancient battles. Now, below him, he saw the enemy camp. And it
was also the enchanted castle, the home of the wicked…

He smiled to himself. Moscow, for the past forty-six years, had
been
both as real and as imaginary as a child's dream. Fairy-tale. Ogre's
castle.

Now, the place of execution. All three of them knew that.
Already,
the Massingers had been forced to dress in mechanics' overalls so that
they could be smuggled unrecognised from the aircraft long after he had
left it in a gleam of publicity and identification. They had perhaps a
couple of hours remaining to them.

The river glinted, frozen and silver in the morning sunlight.
Gold
glowed on roofs and onion towers. Apartment blocks remained unwarmed,
stubbornly grey and drab beneath the clear sky.

The aircraft began to drop slowly southwards towards the
airport.
Its nose angled more steeply. Aubrey glanced at Margaret Massinger. She
patted his gnarled, liver-spotted hand as it rested on the back of her
seat. The Tupolev continued to slip through the clear air towards the
ground. Moscow, drifting away behind them was still a huge, intricate
child's model of a fortress. And Aubrey was grateful for the unreal
images of Moscow his imagination provided like a sedative. Miniature.
Map. Unreal.

"There's thirty minutes, and they know!" Hyde all but
wailed.

He was huddled in a striped blanket, his hands grasping a mug of
coffee as if to still the constant shuddering of his arms and
shoulders. His hair was once more wet where ice had melted in his
matted curls. The only noise in the small room was the constant sound
of his chattering teeth.

Zimmermann stood near the door of the office that had been put
at
their disposal by the commanding officer of the Grenzschutz HQ at
Waldsassen. Sir William Guest's flat in Albany was still unoccupied.
The clock on the wall displayed nine for another moment, then its
minute hand jerked forward. Babbington was due to land at Heathrow in
thirty minutes. Zimmermann entirely agreed with Hyde. Once he
disembarked, he would be warned off; taken swiftly into hiding and
smuggled out of the country. No exchange, no return of Aubrey.

"Is there no one else?" he asked softly.

Hyde shook his head violently. The green blotting-pad on the
desk
was sprinkled with damp spots as the melted ice flicked from his hair.
He swallowed his coffee greedily, then wiped his mouth.

"No, there's no one else."

"Not even the very top?"

Hyde looked up in disbelief. "Me ring the Prime Minister, or
something?" he asked scornfully. Then shook his head more reflectively.
"I'd be sidetracked. One of Babbington's people -I'd never get to
anyone who could act. There's only Guest."

"You are certain they will dispose of Aubrey at once - without
delay?"