The Bear's Tears (84 page)

Zimmermann looked up from his fingers quickly. Hyde's face was
pale;
the skin quivered on his cheeks, his lips echoed the constant movement
of his clenched teeth. His hands, gripping the edges of the blanket and
folded on his chest, were bloodless and shaking.

"It is not preposterous!" Zimmermann snapped.

"I beg —"

"Listen to me, Sir William. Please listen —" He lowered his
voice.
Nine-seventeen. "That was obviously the factor that dictated their
timing… your support of Sir Andrew. The new service you have conjured
into existence…"

"You suggest I have played into Soviet hands?"

"No, no - believe me, no. Merely that Babbington and his masters
took advantage of the circumstances you helped to create. The scenario
had lain idle for some years —"

"And how, precisely, did you learn of it?"

Hyde moaned softly, but whether with cold or something akin to
despair Zimmermann could not tell. The man's head was hanging. Wrapped
in his blanket, he looked like a refugee or a prisoner who had been
beaten.

"I - the evidence is here, Sir William, with us. Please believe
that
we have the evidence."

"From a
computer?"

"From Moscow Centre itself. Everything…" Zimmermann sighed. He
could
not grasp the next word or phrase. There seemed no more he could
usefully say. Guest did not believe him. Nine-eighteen. Twelve minutes.
Guest could not act now, even if he believed —!

"This - I think I should begin by making reference to your
ministry
in Bonn, Herr Zimmermann. And perhaps I should listen to Andrew
Babbington's account of the affair. Frankly, I don't believe a word of
it. Not one word —"

"For Christ's sake, shut up!" Hyde's eyes were wide, bright as
if
feverish. He was shaking inside the blanket. "If you wait another
bloody minute, sport, you'll kill Aubrey!"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"And you'll kill your precious god-daughter, mate. Aubrey,
Massinger, and Massinger's wife. They're all on the flight."

"What —?"

"Don't you ever fucking listen to anything anyone says?" Hyde
almost
screamed, stretching forward towards the receiver, the muscles and
veins standing out in his neck. "I said Massinger and his wife are on
that bloody plane to Moscow! Babbington's making sure there's no one
left to testify! He's cleaning house, mate.
Tidying-up!
Understand? You're making sure he kills her - kills Margaret Massinger
along with Aubrey!"

He slumped back into his chair, almost tumbling it and himself
to
the floor. Zimmermann started from his seat, but Hyde waved him to sit
down. There was a gleam of calculation replacing the wild look in his
eyes. His teeth chattered as he tried to grin. Then he said: "It's up
to that pompous old fart, now." His voice was loud enough for Guest to
hear. "It depends if he gives a monkey's or not."

In the silence, the minute-hand of the clock moved audibly.
Nine-twenty.

Eleven seconds later - they had both counted them off - Guest
said,
"Assuming, perhaps only assuming…" He cleared his throat. "I must
assume…" Again, he dried up. They heard him cough. "
If
- what do you
suggest, Hyde? Zimmermann - what do you suggest?"

Hyde dragged his chair to the desk. The blanket fell away once
more.
"Heathrow - Special Branch must grab Babbington and hold him. Just hold
him - and warn them to watch out for interference."

"Yes —"

"Use
all
your emergency
authority and make Euston
Tower
and Cheltenham transmit Priority Black signals to the embassy in
Moscow, and Moscow Centre. They have to do that now.
You
have to try to stop them taking Aubrey off the plane. If you've got
Babbington and they've got Aubrey, there's only one thing to do. Tell
them you'll do a swap - exchange their man for ours. Understand?"

"But —"

"Look, if they agree, you've already got the proof you need!
They
wouldn't agree to hold the operation if Babbington wasn't their man -
would they? Once they go on hold, it doesn't matter how long the
tidying up takes!" Hyde growled. "Just make sure they know you've got
Babbington. They'll have to have him back - too bad for
morale if they let him go to the wall. It'll work. It happens
with small fry - and big fish. Get them to agree to a trade."

"Euston Tower can —?" Guest began.

"Don't ask - they can talk to Moscow Centre any time they
choose.
Priority Black, remember. Just tell them to do it. Inform the Chairman
you've got his favourite toy. He should choke on the news!"

Nine twenty-one.

"Very well - this is all provisional, of course. But, under the
circumstances surrounding… surrounding the other people
involved, I am prepared to go along with your suggestions to the extent
—"

"Do it! And, while you're at it, get Godwin free in Prague. If
the
poor sod's still alive. Do it."

Zimmermann said quickly, efficiently, "We will ensure that the
computer tape, the irrefutable proof, will be flown by
helicopter to our computer centre in Munich at once. Our computer will
talk to yours at Century House - an hour after Sir Andrew reaches
London, you will have confirmation of everything we have told you." As
soon as he had finished speaking, he cut the connection with a brisk,
decisive movement of his right hand. Hyde slumped his head on his
folded arms and lay still, his damp hair staining the green blotter.
Zimmermann watched him for a few moments, then said softly:

"Is there time, I wonder?"

"There'd better be," Hyde mumbled into his sleeve. He was
wearing a
Grenzschutz uniform shirt that was too large for him. "I don't even
want to think about it." He did not look up as he added: "There's
nothing we can do about it now, anyway. Nothing."

Zimmermann glanced at the clock. Nine twenty-two. "No," he
agreed.
"Nothing."

As he descended the passenger steps, Babbington experienced a
sensation that might have originated in some television news item.
Speed, movement, action; the viewer relying upon the camera's point of
view, that camera held by a running man. Vigorous panning - left,
right, left, right - a desperate attempt to define the real, crucial
focus of the scene.

He was three steps from the bottom of the passenger ladder.
There
was the expected black Mercedes and the uniformed civil service driver;
this one with small-arms expertise and a myriad emergency driving
skills. Eldon was there in his military fawn overcoat, present as one
of the new influential deputies of SAID. He was standing erectly by the
black car, and had not yet begun to react to the new arrivals.

Two other cars. Almost a traffic-jam. One of the cars - another
Mercedes - was slightly nearer, and had arrived in more of a hurry. The
second new car was - Special Branch. He did not even need to think
about it. Two mackintoshes, two trilbies. Caricatures. The morning
sunlight glanced off the windows of the terminal, highlighted the
arrogant tailplanes of perhaps a dozen airliners. Gleamed on the
windows of the three cars. Left, right, left, right - point of focus?
Babbington was unsettled.

It would be the act of the next few moments. After that, events
would be beyond his shaping. The two Special Branch men began their
ponderous progress towards him across thirty yards of tarmac. Eldon
began to absorb the scene, his left hand already gesturing to the
security driver, who began reaching for his shoulder-holster. Yet Eldon
was confused, made compliant by his recognition of the Special Branch
officers.

And the Russians… He recognised his contact, Oleg, inside the
car. A
hand beckoning him down the last few steps towards the opened door of
their Mercedes. One young man in a well-cut suit displayed by his
opened overcoat - a gun there, too —

And he believed, for an instant, that they would kill
him
rather than allow Special Branch near him.

Babbington shivered. Passengers from first class pressed behind
him
on the steps, their respectful stillness because of the array of cars
already evaporating. The air was chilly in his nostrils, scented with
aviation fuel. His chest seemed to pound. Left, right, left, right -
the mad panning continued.

Eldon raised his hand in a confused, troubled gesture of welcome
that might have been a signal to bar his admission to some club.

Hyde —

He had time to think that. It couldn't have been Aubrey. He was
already dead; prepared for death at the very least. Poor Margaret and
her stupid, persistent husband were, without doubt, no longer living.
But, Hyde —

His hands clenched into useless fists. The Russians gestured
more
frantically. He saw the sweep of the young man's arm, his readiness to
risk even gunfire to salvage the focus of the scene, the focus of
Teardrop
…

A car chase, the embassy in Kensington or some hidden
safe-house, a
light aircraft to the Continent, then - Moscow…

The things with which he had mocked Aubrey. The Special Branch
men
were fifteen yards away now. The medals, the Pravda eulogy -
and the bitter, never-forgotten taste of failure. The daily reminders
that his rank, his rank, was little more than a joke, albeit
a respectful joke, while their uniforms demonstrated the real power and
authority —

Everything was clear to him. Eldon had started forward now,
confused
but with some intuition that he should be acting against
Babbington. Both he and the driver closed upon the Russian Mercedes -
closing that exit, unless he ran —

Ran, ran, run, run -—

Special Branch were five yards from him. And he was already
at
the last step,
as if to greet them
with his surrender —!

"Sir Andrew Babbington?" one of them began, questioning and
polite
and final. His hands gripped the sides of the passenger steps. "Sir
Andrew, would you please accompany us…"

He heard no more. It had begun. The young Russian diplomat was
already climbing into his Mercedes. Eldon was at the door, speeding a
departing guest, his face beginning to turn towards Babbington,
confusion lessening in his eyes, being replaced by shock. The two
Special Branch officers - senior officers by their age - blocked the
gangway, and the passengers behind him pushed at his back, insisting he
move forward.

The security driver had turned against him. His hand lay snugly
inside his jacket, awaiting events. Special Branch, Eldon, the driver -
blue exhaust smoke from the Russian Mercedes as it prepared to leave -
and, and, and…

Hyde.

He choked. One of the Special Branch officers gripped his arm
like a
stern nurse.

He staggered forward, and the other policeman was on his left
side.
He was walking towards their black Granada, unresisting. Eldon - he
turned away from the look of disillusioned contempt on Eldon's face.

That Moscow flat —

He had promised himself newer, never that - even in '56, when he
put
his foot to this road, he had promised himself it would never be that.

Now, it was the best he could hope for. His only hope. That
flat,
those false, powerless ranks, the bench in Gorky Park, feeding the
pigeons and watching the men in uniform strut where he shuffled —

Hyde, Hyde,
Hyde —

At least Aubrey was dead. At least that.

He ducked his head as he climbed into the rear seat of the Ford
Granada.

There would be no words. Looks, gestures, impressions, visual
images
of lurid clarity - but no words. Nothing spoken.

Kapustin had hurried aboard the Tupolev as soon as it came to a
halt
near the principal terminal building of Domodedovo airport. He was
large and brisk in the seemingly, cramped first-class cabin of the
airliner. And delighted. There was barely concealed pleasure on his
square, broad features. The face he had shown Aubrey when he had lied
about meeting a woman, the moment before Aubrey's arrest in the gardens
of the Belvedere in Vienna. Now, Aubrey understood the source of the
secret, satisfied smile. The man had been anticipating the arrest, as
now he anticipated the final humiliation of Aubrey and his subsequent
demise. No hatred; that was impermissible, unprofessional. But
certainly the satisfaction of a web woven and an insect trapped.

He had uttered a few words of ironic welcome. The Russian
diplomats
had disembarked. Through his window, Aubrey saw the herded, arranged
cameramen and journalists; the audience for his farewell appearance.
Once they were alone on the aircraft, Kapustin fell to inspecting the
Massingers as if checking luggage, murmuring inaudibly to already
briefed guards, checking through the windows for cars and cameras. Then
he paused before Aubrey.

Overcoat swelling over his stomach, gloves held before his
paunch in
a military gesture. Fur hat tucked beneath one arm. Woolen scarf at
his throat. He was monolithic and irresistible as he gestured Aubrey
from his seat.

A KGB officer held Aubrey's coat, helped him into it. He glanced
down the cabin at the Massingers. Paul raised his hand in a tired, slow
wave of farewell. His face was pale and drawn, and his other arm was
around Margaret's shoulders. Aubrey could bear to look at them for only
a moment. The sense was of -betrayal? No, not quite that. Guilt
certainly. Pity, too. He had not been responsible for the deaths of
very many amateurs - outsiders - in more than forty years. Hardly ever
for the death of a friend. Now, he was. It was to be part of his
epitaph, like the photographs and television shots those outside were
waiting to capture.

He turned away from the painful image of the Massingers, unable
to
cope with the unfamiliar emotions that gripped him. He cauterised them
by staring instead at the hostess standing at the door of the aircraft.
And with the knowledge of the lessening distance between himself and
the cameras. Cold bright air crossed the threshold of the aircraft like
an intruder.