The Bear's Tears kaaph-4

by Craig Thomas

  * * *

  The Tupolev-134 moved onto the taxi-way preparatory to takeoff. Babbington dispensed with the binoculars and handed them to Wilkes, who stood beside him in the upstairs lounge at Schwechat. Two more SIS staff from Vienna Station stood on either side of them at a few yards distance. Viennese police officers hovered at a short distance, also awaiting the Tupolev's departure.

  Babbington glanced at his watch. Six-ten. The Tupolev's engine had been repaired. Babbington recalled the cold sense of shock he had experienced on arriving at Schwechat, to witness from this very window the tail-unit of the Soviet airliner still jutting from the Aeroflot hangar. And the police cars, lights turning and washing over the aircraft's tail and the open hangar doors. And the remonstrations between the Viennese police and airport authorities and the identifiable figure of Voronin on the gleaming tarmac. Eventually, the police had given up. The airliner had diplomatic status; it was Soviet territory. The police had retired, having satisfactorily displayed their helplessness. A senior officer reported to Babbington that Aubrey had been identified as having arrived in a limousine from the Soviet embassy, traveling under false papers. He was definitely on the aircraft. Babbington had demonstrated anger, then acceptance.

  But, the shock of seeing the aircraft still grounded, in that first moment…

  Now, the scene around him possessed all the necessary ingredients. A group of men posed, as if for some painter, expressing a communal mood of disappointment and relief.

  The wingtip and belly lights flickered on the Tupolev. The aircraft passed along the wall of glass enclosing the upstairs passenger lounge. Drawn up on the tarmac below, the British Airways flight to Heathrow waited for its cargo of businessmen. As soon as the Tupolev had taken off, Babbington would board the Trident.

  Only the persistent thought of Hyde marred his satisfaction at his own nerve and daring. Hyde—

  He'd received a long report of events in Prague, from the Soviet embassy. Hyde had rifled the Moscow Centre computers, gaining access to some secret database that Petrunin had hidden in the computer — evidence concerning Teardrop, hidden like incriminating documents or photographs for future use. Hyde had the whole thing; even his name. He must be stopped. How, where—? He'd been identified as having entered the country through Bratislava on a tourist visa. They were waiting for him now — though Hyde was too clever to come out by the same route. He had to be stopped. It was the one loose end—

  The Tupolev turned tail-on to the windows, moving away from him towards the single main runway. Its lights winked in farewell. Babbington's satisfaction was marred. This, this very moment, should have been some kind of fulfillment; a climax, a conclusion. The Tupolev turned again, side-on to his view, pausing at the end of the runway. Kenneth Aubrey was about to fly east; a talisman to protect him. A guarantee of Babbington's future.

  "Wilkes," he snapped.

  "Yes?" Babbington glared at him. "Yes, sir?" Wilkes added in a less casual voice.

  "Come with me." Babbington led Wilkes perhaps ten yards or more before he turned to him and said: "You have to lay hands on Hyde — eliminate him. He won't return here — not now that he knows Aubrey is on his way to Moscow. But he will try to get out with what he possesses. You're certain Godwin knows no more than he's told?"

  Wilkes nodded. They would not be overheard, he realised, but spoke nevertheless in little more than a whisper. "They know their business. He's told them everything he can. He doesn't know Hyde's plans, unless they're for Bratislava. He doesn't know anything except that Hyde's pinning his hopes on Guest."

  "Guest is the only one with the authority to do anything — except create doubt. Anyone could create doubt — even Hyde, if he can get some rag or TV station to listen to him. Anywhere in the world. He has to be stopped. And," he added almost casually, "ask your friends in Prague to get rid of Godwin. He mustn't appear in public again."

  "That's easy. Hyde — a little more difficult. Sir."

  The Tupolev appeared like a dog held back on its leash. Then the brakes were released and the aircraft jerked forward across the first yards of concrete, swiftly gathering speed. Aeroflot. Aubrey was safe. Babbington breathed more easily.

  "What about Zimmermann?" he asked. "You've checked on him?"

  "We're still checking. He doesn't appear to be in Bonn. Don't worry, we'll find him."

  "Hyde might go to him — yes, he might well go to him. As soon as you locate Zimmermann, put on full surveillance. Hyde could show up."

  "Agreed."

  The Tupolev had reached take-off speed. Babbington studied it intently. The pool of colour from the belly light was spreading and diluting as the fuselage lifted away from the concrete. Nose up, further up, stretching—

  The Tupolev heaved itself towards the sky. The muffled noise of the engines grew fainter. Aubrey was gone.

  Immediately Babbington's tone was threatening.

  "It's up to you, Wilkes. I'm relying on you to co-ordinate with our friends. Find Zimmermann — above all, find Hyde. Meanwhile, I'll deal with Guest. He'll be entirely satisfied by the time I've finished." He grinned suddenly, staring down at the British Airways Trident. Passengers were straggling out of the terminal towards the aircraft. Luggage on a tractor-towed trailer had arrived alongside its cargo doors. He could smell coffee brewing behind the bar of the passenger lounge. A few more small, careful steps… the end of the tightrope, and safety, beckoned him. "Yes," he sighed. "The immediate disposal of Aubrey along with the Massingers is the safest step." He shrugged his shoulders. "As long as we can put our hands on Hyde." He turned once more to Wilkes. "Purchase Hyde's eternal silence, Wilkes. Today!"

  * * *

  "From here, we walk," Langdorf announced, turning round in the driver's seat.

  Hyde stretched his legs, which were too stiff and weary to be supple. The journey in the back of the plumber's dirty, oil-smelling, tool-laden van had been uncomfortable. The suspension and the climbing tracks they had taken had conspired to jolt him continually from the sleep which threatened.

  Hyde grunted.

  "You are all right?"

  "Great." He pushed open the rear doors and dropped to the ground. He could smell the pines on the cold, damp air as the misty cloud almost settled on his head and face. It was lightless beneath the crowding trees. Langdorf closed and locked the doors of the van. It was parked deep under the trees. The thick carpet of pine debris and the thin layer of snow registered little trace of its passage. And the van was parked too far down the mountain to immediately arouse suspicion.

  Langdorf flicked a torch-beam onto Hyde's face, then switched it off. He breathed deeply.

  "Good. Now, we go."

  He turned and headed into the trees, immediately climbing upwards. Certain and unhesitating; on a familiar journey. Hyde hunched into his overcoat against the raw, chill damp that had folded around him, already pearling his shoulders and hair, and followed. Twigs crunched or cracked dully beneath the snow. He trod warily in the plumber's wake, his eyes gritty, his head heavy. His own movement was now keeping him from the sleep he craved. Thirty hours — more — since he had slept properly.

  He shivered almost awake, and stumbled, sprawling full-length on the ground. Ankles, ankles—! he warned himself, jarring his elbows to save his hands and wrists from sprain.

  "What—?" he heard Langdorf whisper before moving back. The torch flicked on, off. In the new, deeper darkness, he heard Langdorf say, "You must stay awake. You must try to stay awake."

  Hyde got to his knees. Langdorf lifted him by his elbow until he was steady on his feet.

  "Sorry."

  "Come. We have a long climb ahead. Perhaps thirty minutes. Soon it will be getting light. Very soon."

  "Yes, I know!" Hyde snapped. "I'm all right now. Get moving."

  His night vision had returned. He saw Langdorf shrug, then turn and move off. Hyde plodded carefully in his wake. The trees above him were like low white clouds, heavy with snow.

  Time clamped do
wn like a fog. He measured his steps, but continually lost count. With Petrunin, he had registered each step, remembered the total, even with the dying man on his back. But not here. His hand went numb around the shape of the cassette in his pocket, the knuckles of his other hand ceased to register the presence of the pistol against them. His breathing was laboured. Occasionally, he bumped into Langdorf, colliding with him as the man halted to check his hand-drawn sketch or to listen intently for suspected sounds. Langdorf seemed impatient with him, yet not afraid. Having accepted the commission and agreed the price, he was more professional than Hyde.

  Hyde remembered the man's reports as they drove through the small town and out into the countryside. More patrol cars… at one time, a helicopter overhead… a road-block which recognised his van and almost hurried him through. Time closing in.a More activity than usual, much more… They didn't stop the plumber, except at the one road-block. Motorcycle police recognised the legend on the van, so did the car patrols.

  The advantage of working for Party members, Langdorf had told him almost gaily as another car speeded up and passed them on a narrow country road.! When they want their German bathrooms and Swiss double-sinks fitted, they want it done quickly and they want it to work! They don't use the approved plumbers — all the other poor bastards get their services. They need someone like me… I go all over — Marienbad, Karlovy Vary, Cheb… They allow me to be a capitalist. Work for myself- private enterprise, yes?

  Hyde stumbled awake, steadied himself on the bole of a pine, and watched Langdorf's retreating back a little way ahead. He could see the man's outline, now possessing more depth and solidity than mere shadow. He looked at the luminous dial of his watch. Seven-twenty. Time closing in — running out…

  He plodded on.

  … even work for the STB, police, Party officials, their mistresses and wives, army, athletes — all the cream. They think I'm one sort of crook, but really I'm a different kind altogether. I can be out all hours of the day and—

  "Quiet!" Langdorf hissed. For an instant, Hyde believed the plumber was speaking in his memory, then the man's hand gripped his arm, forcing Hyde to his knees at the base of a pine trunk.

  "What is it?"

  "I heard something — listen!"

  Hyde shook off the effort of memory that had kept him awake. He crouched beside Langdorf. The man's hand still held his forearm, and the quiver in it was transmitted to Hyde. The plumber's face was a white patch beginning to acquire features, his shape in the overalls almost possessing colour.

  "How far—?" Hyde began.

  "Shhh!" Langdorf hissed.

  Crack—? Shuffle through pine debris—? Hyde's senses seemed dull, approximate. Sight was unfocused, hearing muddy as if under water. Shadow? Noise?

  The crack of a twig muffled by fallen, brown needles and snow. The tiny clink of metal against metal. Then the muted gleam of a torch-beam. Hyde shivered with cold and the effort to remain still. Langdorf seemed as tensely contracted as a wound spring.

  A four-man patrol. Armed with rifles, each man carrying a small pack on his shoulders. The patrol moved in a single-file, crossing the path they were using. As they came closer, he could make out their uniforms. Border guard. They passed within ten yards and moved slowly off, routinely alert, waiting for daylight to assist them.

  When they had gone, Hyde said: "Will they find the van?"

  Langdorf shook his head. "No. It is unlikely — if we hurry."

  "Why are they — they know, don't they?"

  "I do not know—" the plumber began.

  "But you suspect?"

  Langdorf nodded. "For some reason, they are very protective of this part of the border, tonight. It is not usual." Langdorf shook his head. It was still too dark to see any emotion displayed by his features. "Not usual," he repeated. Then he stood up. "Come," he whispered. "We must hurry."

  Hyde climbed to his feet. Weariness had dropped away like a blanket he had left on the ground. His eyes ached, but his body was alive with the myriad small shocks and prickles of tension. He hurried after Langdorf. The ground climbed more steeply, rock jutted through the snow and pine debris, the trunks were thinner, farther apart. The damp low cloud seemed to have lifted. Perhaps it had been no more than a mist.

  Ten minutes later, Langdorf again motioned him to stop. They were at the edge of the trees. Their twisting route had always seemed to be ascending, yet now they were on the edge of a sloping stretch of grassland. An alpine meadow. Trees bordered it on all sides, except where a swathe had been cut to make a forest ride. A watch-tower that was not intended for ornithology loomed at the far end of the meadow. Beyond it, a mountain climbed out of the trees, its face masked with snow. The meadow was white, ghostly.

  Huts and barns huddled in the snowbound meadow. An animal snorted audibly across the white silence. In the further distance, an engine coughed into life. There were lights on the watch-tower, but no sweeping searchlight.

  "The border wire runs alongside a stream," Langdorf explained, "on the other side of this meadow. We must follow the trees. The stream is in a narrow bed. The wire is on this bank. Soon, the stream turns west and then it is in the Federal Republic. The wire no longer follows it. Come."

  They skirted the meadow warily and swiftly. In another six or seven minutes, without the aid of his sketch, Langdorf located a narrow track that might originally have been made by deer. He hurried Hyde along it, the meadow now behind them, the slope of the land dropping away, becoming rocky. Langdorf's nailed boots scuttled and scraped ahead of Hyde.

  The trees opened as Hyde heard the rush of water. Pebble and rock stretched down to a foaming, narrow stream that pushed and grumbled through its channel. Langdorf's hand restrained him. The pebbles were light, betraying. The top of the watch-tower could be seen. The wire was visible on the Czech side of the stream.

  "Is it deep?" he asked.

  "Here, no. You can wade across. The current is strong, however. You must be careful. Strong."

  The watch-tower rose like a pit's winding-gear against the slowly lightening sky. Patches of snow grew among the rocks and large pebbles. Snow sheathed the rolls of wire.

  "Do I have to cut the wire?"

  "No. You can wriggle beneath it. Directly ahead of you, the wire is in poor condition."

  "Electrified? Mines?"

  "Neither. This is a cheap border." Langdorf chuckled, but the nervousness was mounting in his voice and breathing. He wanted to leave. "They rely on patrols with dogs, and on the tower."

  There was no wind. No movement in the trees or along the stretch of rocks. Only the noise of the stream. Above that, the growing beat of a helicopter's rotors. Hyde waited.

  The helicopter slid into sight, a black insect no more than a couple of hundred feet up. It followed the course of the stream, heading north, passing over the watch-tower, which signaled to it with a flashing lamp. Then its noise faded beyond the trees as it crossed the meadow.

  "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, tum
bling 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—!