The Bear's Tears kaaph-4

by Craig Thomas

  He was alert at every sliproad and junction. They passed through Favoriten and Liesing before the autobahn turned south and became the E.7. The three cars left the autobahn at Vosendorf, turning west onto Autobahn 21. By this time, Margaret had a road map on her knees, and periodically switched on the courtesy light.

  "It looks like the Vienna Woods," she said, switching off the light immediately.

  "He's not likely to go further afield. I wonder who owns the property — us or the Red Terrors?"

  The cars left the autobahn outside the village of Perchtoldsdorf and Hyde slowed, widening the gap between them and himself before he, too, took the winding minor road. Now that they had left the tunnel of lights, they could see the low hills rising against still-blue gaps in the clouds. Vineyard lines and trellises flanked the road. The village was quiet, glowing, tiny. Hyde saw the doors of an inn swing open, could almost imagine he heard accordion music and singing. Yet there were modern houses, too. New wealth moving to picturesque suburbs, enlarging villages. He saw a Porsche parked outside a converted barn, a BMW outside a modernised mill, a Ferrari standing next to it. They crossed a tiny stone bridge and, as they did, the three cars ahead turned off the narrow road into trees. He saw their lights dancing ahead of them on a rutted track. He drove beyond their turning point, noticing the narrow drive and the lights of a large, low house perhaps a hundred yards beyond. They were just outside the village. Hyde stopped the car.

  "Welcome to King Babbington's regal hunting lodge," he remarked. "Who says crime doesn't pay. It must belong to the opposition. We couldn't afford it." He gently touched his hands together. Just aching… not too bad.

  "Are they inside?" Margaret asked, the first tiny note of hysteria in her voice. It disturbed Hyde.

  "Oh, yes — they're inside."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "I don't know. I really don't know."

  * * *

  A log fire blazed in the huge fireplace. The lighting was subdued, warm. The shadows of the men who got quickly to their feet as he entered loomed and swayed on the walls and ceiling. Deep old chairs, a sofa, gleaming block flooring covered by thick, bright rugs. Babbington realised the appearance and furnishings probably corresponded to someone's image of a senior Party official's dacha in the woods outside Moscow. However, he liked the house; always had done. It was a safe house in more senses than intelligence jargon implied. He nodded to the three men in the room. More shadows loomed as his escort trooped in behind him. One of them took his dark overcoat. He shook hands warmly with Wilkes who had crossed the room to greet him. Wilkes was Vienna Station; Wilkes was entirely necessary, even irreplaceable. The others were locals, one of them even an emigre Bulgarian, one of the mercenaries of the secret world. The dog-soldiers.

  "You've kept them apart?" Babbington asked, letting go of Wilkes's hand.

  Wilkes nodded. "All the time."

  "Good."

  Babbington crossed to the fireplace. The heat from the logs leapt to his cold face. He rubbed his hands together then offered his palms to the fire, bending slightly forward. He appeared intent upon pictures in the flames, but for Babbington there were none. He had his objective clearly in mind and there was no margin for error or imagination.

  When his hands were warm again, he turned his back to the fire and studied the men in the room with him. They appeared, amusingly, like stark-shadowed passport or prison pictures of themselves against the white-painted stone walls of the room. His people — Vienna Station. Wilkes, of course, had been the beginning of it, approaching the KGB when he was first posted to the city. A greedy man, a man who sought money and also loved the challenge of betrayal. Eventually, Babbington was made known to him, and Babbington began using him. By that time, Wilkes had enlisted most of the people in the room. He was running Vienna Station by then, even though the Head of Station, Parrish, was nominally his superior. Parrish allowed Wilkes, as senior field officer based outside the embassy, to control the operation of the Station; to pay, to contact, to mount operations, and to recruit — most importantly, to recruit. Wilkes had recruited the locals and the emigres, even two of the men posted to Vienna from London. He'd done a very good job during the past three or four years. He had provided Babbington's communications base, and his eventual means of trapping Aubrey.

  Briefly, and with an inward smile, Babbington recollected approaching the small, self-important figure of Aubrey in the Belvedere gardens. Only two weeks ago. Another forty-eight hours would see it finished with.

  Them finished with, he corrected himself.

  "How badly is Massinger hurt?" he snapped at Wilkes. "I couldn't obtain a clear picture from — your colleagues." There was evident irony. Wilkes's expression did not change.

  "Not bad. He's been patched up. A doc the — our friends use from time to time. Silly bugger wanted to be a hero. He'll live. Just lost a lot of blood, that's all." Wilkes affected boredom.

  "And Aubrey?" Babbington could hardly mask the gleam of satisfaction in his voice.

  "Grumbling — threatening — full of bull, about covers it."

  Babbington's face registered disappointment. Evidently, Aubrey was not yet a broken man. He wondered whether he should see him, or let him stew a little longer.

  "No news of the woman?"

  "Which one?"

  "Massinger's wife — oh, dismiss your colleagues, Wilkes…"

  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 pic
tures 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 c
ar 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!"