The Bear's Tears kaaph-4

by Craig Thomas

  Stepanov's hand upon the door. Fourteen lines. To Lara. His finger still hovered over the Break key. Yet Stepanov appeared to be in no hurry. The poem vanished. Hyde pressed the button on the streamer, to begin recording. Don't use the printer, no hard copy, Godwin warned him in his head. He drew his hand away from the printer as if from a flame. Closing of the glass door behind Stepanov, footfalls on the carpet.

  Cancel—

  No! Not yet…

  Lettering. The words began to flow on the screen, as if hurried by Petrunin rather than himself. Politburo dirt. Family scandals, nepotism, immorality, jewellery, dachas, furs, everything…

  Stepanov was smiling and unsuspicious. Hyde waited to press the Break key, his eyes hurrying from the lieutenant to the telephone to the screen.

  … houses, mistresses, bank accounts abroad, boyfriends, money, money, money, paedophilia…

  There was no short-cut. Teardrop was in there, but Petrunin had died before he could supply the individual passwords for the separate sections of his secret file. The dirt continued to spill down the screen like the front pages of cheap newspapers. Dirt on the Politburo, dirt on the Secretariat, details of current First Directorate foreign operations, agents-in-place… all of it useful, much priceless — but Hyde wanted one name, one man's name connected with one operation.

  Teardrop.

  Come on, come on — the name, the name…

  Please—

  The telephone rang. Hyde's hand jumped, as if electrocuted.

  * * *

  Paul Massinger slumped onto the edge of the vast iron bath with its ball-and-claw feet, staring at his reopened leg wound. His breathing was ragged. Margaret, who had helped him along the corridors, appeared exhausted. Her pale hair flopped over her drained, bruised face. Paul's leg ached deeply. His hands clutched the edge of the bath to steady his shaking body. Beach, standing near the door, appeared genuinely distressed. His gun was drawn, he appeared alert — but he was concerned. He did consider Massinger's pain unfortunate, even unnecessary. Aubrey, too, had been surprised that the wound had suddenly reopened. But the old man was sunk in a profound despair. He seemed incapable of volition, regret, or even fear. As if lightly hypnotised by desperation.

  "Can you — Margaret, help me get my pants off…" he whispered hoarsely. There was no necessity for pretence. His leg hurt like hell. He glanced at his watch. Eleven-twenty. Couldn't be long now, have to hurry—

  Margaret moved to his side. "Can you raise yourself, Paul? Take your weight on your hands and arms…" She undid his belt, kneeled to help his trousers down around his ankles so that the wound could be washed and repatched — Massinger felt the pain of the table-edge against which he had thrust his wound, to open it again. And winced.

  "I–Christ, I'll try…"

  Come on, Beach—! The man moved, involuntarily, as if the mental command had reached him. Come on—

  Massinger groaned. Margaret cried his name in fear. Beach moved closer, reaching out a supporting hand, gun hanging at his side—

  Massinger struck Beach with his fist, high on the side of the head. Margaret heaved at the man, tilting his body over the bath. Massinger's left hand grabbed for the gun, touched, gripped, held. Beach's face distorted with rage. He struggled, lashing out with his fist at Massinger, then at Margaret, who stumbled away from the struggle, colliding with the wall behind her. Her hair fell across her eyes and she wiped it feverishly aside. Beach had twisted against Paul and was bending him back over the bath. Paul's face was white with effort and weakness. Beach had the upper hand, was stronger — it wouldn't work, wouldn't—

  What could she do? She was aware of her own weakness, her lack of height and bulk measured against Beach's trained muscles and reactions. He hit Paul again, his fist striking her husband's chin. Paul's whole face seemed to sag.

  Jug. Patterns of shepherds or a hunt. Horses, eighteenth-century costumes on the men and women.

  The jug and basin stood on a bathroom stool, dusty, unused. She touched the handle. Paul groaned—

  — grabbed the handle, moved forward with a sob, swung the jug which seemed suddenly lighter, not heavy enough—

  It cracked, split on Beach's head, near the right ear. Beach groaned with what might have been surprise, released Paul's shirt, his body, then subsided into the empty bath. Immediately staining the white porcelain with a thin bright smear of blood from his bleeding head. His breathing was like a groan of protest and surprise.

  Margaret leaned heavily over the bath, as if to vomit. She was gasping for breath. Massinger heaved the gun from Beach's grasp and slipped off the safety catch.

  "Go!" he said urgently. "Quickly, love — quickly!" She straightened, flicking back her hair. Her face was ashen around the bruises, older. "Can you?" he asked, and she nodded at once. "Good girl — be careful. If they — if they… just don't do anything, please. Put down the telephone and go quietly. Don't fight—" Again, Margaret nodded. And smiled, shakily. Like someone leaving an intensive care unit, knowing there was no hope for a relative but trying to evade the inevitable or remember some better time.

  She bent and kissed his cheek, glanced at Beach who was almost snoring in the bath, then left the room. Massinger heard her footsteps patter away like someone fleeing. He stared at the gun, held loosely in his hands, object rather than weapon, and then at Beach.

  The Massingers' last stand. He grinned, and then winced at the pain in his leg. And at his fear for Margaret. Stupid move, he told himself. Stupid, dangerous move—

  An act of desperation. He was terribly afraid for her safety. The gun quivered in nerveless fingers. Beach snored. Others moved about the house. All of them threatened Margaret.

  Margaret hurried down the corridors, wincing inwardly at each creak of a floorboard, her breathing light and shallow, her arms and hands trembling, fingertips damp so that she sensed the betrayals of smudged fingerprints left on the wall. Her heart raced.

  Another long corridor. She had noted, counted, each of the closed doors as she struggled to help Paul towards the bathroom, her mind reaching forward like a reluctant hand to the violence and danger to come. She opened the first door carefully, just a crack, fumbled for the light switch, listening to the room's emptiness—

  No telephone.

  Next door, next room, light, no telephone, just packing-cases and floorboards and an empty table. Down the corridor another room, then another, her temperature rising at each pause, each eased opening of a door, each switching on of a light. Five rooms now, then a staircase leading down to the first floor of the tall house near the Wiener Gaswerk-Leopoldau, stranded in a scrubby industrial suburb. She hurried down the stairs to a landing, peered over the banister into an empty hallway with chequered tiles half-hidden by dusty, faded carpet, then tried the nearest room.

  Door, switch, light, and the moment of caught breath as she anticipated a challenge. Carpet, chairs, desk — telephone on the desk! She closed the door silently behind her. The curtains were drawn across the windows, there were cigarette butts in an ashtray and still wet rings on a low table near an empty glass. Beer-froth coated the sides of the glass. The room had been recently occupied — abandoned for only a few moments? She hurried behind the desk so that she could face the door. There had been no key in the lock. She fumbled the telephone to her cheek. It purred with an outside line. She dialled quickly, noisily. Watching the ashtray and the wet rings on the table. Watching the door.

  Ringing. Guest's flat in Albany. Their only slim chance, that Sir William had returned from Washington. Ringing out. No answer. The room still smelt of cigarette smoke, as if she had entered only a moment after it became unoccupied. Then the ringing tone stopped.

  "Sir William Guest's residence," a voice announced as if in the role of a stage butler from a period play. It was the voice, the same voice—

  "No—!" she could not help exclaiming: a protest that became a moan of disappointment.

  "Mrs Massinger — Mrs Massinger, it's you, isn't it?" the vo
ice replied. "How the hell—?"

  "Oh God, no—!" she cried. "You're — where are you?"

  She had lifted her head. She did not hear the question because her glance had been caught and held. All her attention became concentrated upon a box with a short tube attached that was incongruously bolted to the wall, high-up near the ceiling. In shadow at the far corner of the room. A television camera. For surveillance. Shops and supermarkets. A security camera.

  "Oh, no…" she murmured. Failure oppressed her. The voice insisted, demanded, threatened in her ear, but she hardly heard it. She stared, hypnotised and unnerved, at the camera.

  She put the telephone receiver down quite calmly, almost nonchalantly, as Wilkes entered the room, his face angry yet confident. He crossed the room swiftly, as if hurrying to obey some summons, and struck her across the mouth with his open hand. She winced, cried out, staggered. He hit her again, slapping her face, opening her bruised lip, making her eyes water, her nose ache. Then he grabbed her against him like some violent lover, pressing his lips against her ear.

  "Who did you talk to? Who? Who?"

  He was shaking her. She was limp in his grip. "Guest," she murmured.

  "What—?" He held her away from him, shook her again. There was fear in his eyes now.

  "Guest!" she shouted at him. "Guest, Guest, Guest, Guest!" She felt the hysteria rising in her like adrenalin, helping her. "I spoke to Guest!"

  He hit her then, harder than before. She fell away, against the unresisting curtains, twisting against them, gripping them as she fell to the floor. Her jaw ached; pain-lights flickered on a dark screen at the back of her head. She moaned.

  She heard him dial, wait, check, then laugh and reassure. Then she was dragged to her feet. Wilkes was grinning.

  "Come on, lady — back to your room in the East Wing! Where they always lock the loony wife!" He thrust her in front of him across the room, through the door, along the landing to the stairs. "Where is he?"

  "The bathroom," she announced without hesitation, breathless from the way he had banged her body against the wall before he spoke.

  "Come on. We'll go and surprise him!"

  He dragged her up the stairs, along the corridor, pushed her round a corner, propelled her down another corridor. "This bathroom — on this floor?" She merely nodded, and he pressed her more feverishly ahead of him, as if his timetable were making its own irresistible demands. He was beyond malice now. Merely urgent.

  He knocked on the door. "Massinger, don't waste my time, mate — I've got your wife here and I'll kill her unless you come out quietly. I haven't got time to waste." He paused, then said, "What's the matter — don't you believe me?" He squeezed her shoulder with iron fingers. She cried out. "Hear that? Shorthand form of negotiation, I admit — but it is her."

  The door opened. Paul's ashen features appeared. Seeing her, absorbing the sight, he stepped back, leaving the door wide. Beach was sitting on the bath, a handkerchief, dyed red, held to his head.

  "You stupid cunt!" Wilkes snapped, entering the doorway. "Get off your arse and get them back to their room." Wilkes glanced at his watch while Massinger meekly surrendered the gun to Beach. "Quick—!" Wilkes ordered.

  Breaking glass. A door smashed from its hinges by a heavy blow. Other noises. Glass again. Wilkes appeared unsurprised, but said, "What the hell was that? Beach, get down there and find out — go on, man! I'll take care of our friends. Quickly, man!"

  Beach hurried past him and down the corridor. A shot—? Wilkes grinned.

  "It's begun?" Massinger asked, holding Margaret tightly against him.

  "Oh, yes, mate — it's begun. Come on, back to your room. They'll be expecting to find you there. Come on — move!"

  * * *

  Hyde depressed the break key. The screen cleared. The Menu requested he make use of it. Stepanov's shadow fell across the keyboard as Hyde picked up the telephone. He again sucked moisture from his cheeks to dampen his parched, tight throat. Stepanov hovered, as if indulging a child in a brief telephone conversation with a friend. The lieutenant flicked at the sheaf of print-out, lazily interested. Comfortable.

  "Yes?" Hyde asked. No—! Bluff it out — be stronger, impatient. You've been interrupted. "Yes? What is it now?"

  "I — why have you been accessing Assignment History, Comrade?" the voice asked. "How have you been accessing Assignment History? Which files are you accessing?"

  "Why? What's the matter, Comrade?" Hyde asked with evident sarcasm. The tone of a superior — whether rank, class or security clearance remained unrevealed.

  "You were accessing Education Records, then you switched—"

  "And you decided to interfere! Listen, Comrade — I'm trying to find out whether the fault that just went away has damaged the data files in any way. You expect me to do that tooling through a list of embassy staff names, without cross-referencing, without shifting from section to section of the files? Just do me a favour, will you? Keep your long nose out until I've finished — otherwise your colonel is going to have both our heads! Understood?"

  Stepanov was openly grinning as Hyde glanced up at him. The Australian threw in a theatrical toss of his head, rounding out his portrait.

  "But, system tests don't usually—"

  "Listen! Don't usually what? Dig so deep? Just skate along the surface of security? I'm cleared. Are you? I'm testing the system, not you. You're just the operator. Tomorrow, you can have the system back to play with. Tonight, it's mine. Now, go away and don't bother me any more!"

  "I—" A pause, then: "I'm sorry, Comrade. Please continue." The telephone clicked then hummed. The operator from Moscow Centre was gone — and with a flea in his ear, as Hyde's mother might have said. Usually when sending away the rent collector…

  Hyde sighed with impatience. His tension had been expelled in the execution of his bluff. It had worked. A slight delay. But, the operator would think, talk, perhaps ask the colonel—

  Stepanov. Why didn't he go away?

  "Found something wrong?" Stepanov asked lightly, com-panionably. "Anything I can do?"

  Hyde shook his head. "Since your engineer couldn't tie down the fault, if there is one, I'm doing a much wider and deeper test than they might have expected. Bloody little bureaucrats in lab coats!"

  "And everything's in order, so far?"

  "It is." Hyde glanced at his watch. Eleven twenty-six. Too long, it was taking too long… Bugger off, Stepanov! For Christ's sake, bugger off…

  "Carry on, Radchecko — I'll not interfere. I promise!" There was laughter in Stepanov's voice. He had attached himself like a lonely schoolboy — a new and unwanted friend, clinging like a limpet. Bugger off—!

  In Moscow Centre, they knew when he accessed the computer exactly what area of the records he was summoning. They would not know who or what was under scrutiny. But, they could find out… Trace his enquiry like a telephone call might be traced. And if they did that — more likely, when they did that — the telephone would ring and the screen would go blank as they isolated his remote terminal, amputated it from the computer's memory banks.

  He had perhaps minutes, probably less. Seconds. And he had to work through all Petrunin's information until he found Babbington's name and it was recorded on the data cassette and he could run…

  "OK. You needn't hang about if you don't want to… makes me nervous anyway, someone hovering behind me."

  "Sorry about that. I'm not getting caught not doing my job, Radchenko, even if you are a nice bloke."

  Hyde turned to face the lieutenant, feeling the passing seconds pumping in his arm like a drip-feed; measuring his danger.

  "How much are you cleared for?"

  "You won't be going that deep."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I can't — so you certainly can't." Stepanov pushed his cap a little further back on his head. He was still smiling.

  "Anyone for more coffee — you, sir? You?" Georgi called out, adding: "Comrade Radchenko — coffee?"

  Hyde be
gan to quiver uncontrollably, as if he had received an unexpected shock. He'd blown it — already, he'd—

  "You all right?" Stepanov asked. "Not for me, Georgi!" To Hyde, he added, "You look as if you need a coffee — or something stronger. Are you feeling OK?"

  "Yes! Look, just let me get on with my job, will you?"

  "I'm not stopping you—"

  "You're not cleared—!"

  "Then neither are you — not for more than a system test!" Stepanov's features had darkened, his gaze was squinted and intent. "What are you doing, Radchenko?"

  Damn — oh, damn it!

  "Look don't get bloody stupid, Stepanov—"

  "I'm not. Let's see this great, ocean-deep clearance of yours, shall we? Just for a giggle…"

  Damn—

  As if with a gesture of failure rather than aggression, Hyde slipped the pistol from his belt and presented the barrel to Stepanov, keeping the gun below the level of the keyboard. He heard the door close behind Georgi — the silly old bugger would bring coffee as soon as it was ready, whether asked or not. Hyde was trapped by kindness, unnerved and exposed by companionship. Stepanov's eyes widened, his face folded into creases of understanding and capture.

  "Just sit down, Lieutenant. Please sit down next to me." The pistol waggled, just a little; a small innocent wave from a toy. Stepanov removed his cap, as if attending an interview, and sat stiffly on the chair next to Hyde. "Try to relax, Lieutenant. You're making it look obvious."

  "Who are you? What are you?"