The Bear's Tears

through the lips of the young man. He controlled a slight shiver, and looked at Voronin. He was taller than the Russian — whole inches taller; bulkier. He tried to believe his own significance.

'That is simply a matter of time — both are simply a matter of time,' he asserted.

'Yes, yes,' Voronin snapped, and now there was impatience. 'This man is not important, I agree. Somewhere, at some time, he will show his head above ground and will be taken. But — the woman. She is another matter…' He paused in his step, facing Babbington. 'She has connections, she is familiar with powerful people. She cannot be allowed to remain at liberty.'

'Then agree to my request,' Babbington replied angrily. 'Agree to my proposals for the disposal of the bodies.'

Voronin shrugged and, almost as if ignoring Babbington, began walking ahead. Babbington uttered what might have been a growl of protest, and then hurried to his side. The Russian said at once: 'Your solution does not, at the moment, include the woman. Where is she?'

'I've told you, Voronin, I don't know! She has only one ally in this city… she must be with Hyde—'

'If Hyde is here.'

'I have no doubt he is. Why else would Shelley be concerned with Czechoslovakia?'

'Why is Shelley concerned with Czechoslovakia?'

'Heaven alone knows! Perhaps Hyde wants to hide out — where better, mm, than under your noses?'

'Had you bugged the telephones in the house, you would have discovered exactly why Shelley was so interested in Czechoslovakia.'

It was a patent rebuke. Babbington flushed angrily and snapped, 'Unlike your own dear country, Voronin, security operations require records, permissions, signatures, authorisations, I decided it was better to keep a low profile. It was extremely unlikely that Hyde would ring his own flat — the woman upstairs was merely his landlady, according to our information.' He recognised apology in his tone and said with steely indifference, 'Forget it, Voronin. It's unimportant.'

'The Massinger woman—?' Voronin insisted.

'Vienna Station is looking — your people are looking… will you be patient and give your attention instead to my proposal?'

'What can I do?'

'Signal Moscow Centre — Kapustin. Tell him what I have told you. Aubrey is to be taken to Moscow. Massinger is to be disposed of. I don't care how — the woman, too. Perhaps they should all be taken to Moscow? It would prevent the slightest possibility of their remains being discovered…' Babbington broke off for a moment. A vivid image of Castleford's body being discovered, years after his death, had forced itself upon his awareness. He thrust it aside. 'Yes. That would be best. Take them to Moscow and dispose of them at once. In any event, Aubrey must appear in Moscow. It will silence all doubts. Surely you see that?'

They came to the end of the avenue, and the lawns stretched away from them, up towards the Belvedere. Babbington saw the windows not as dull, lightless panes, but as he had seen them on the last occasion he had walked in the gardens — lit by the last of the sun, glowing deep orange in colour. He saw Kapustin leaving the gardens, and saw Aubrey's overcoated figure. He shook his head as if to clear it of alcohol.

'To me it seems a very risky thing to do,' Voronin remarked, gazing towards the Belvedere.

'Risky?' Babbington snapped. 'What risk is there for you?'

'Risky for you, I mean.'

'It was risky for me that First Secretary Nikitin and Deputy Chairman Kapustin let Petrunin live a single day after they initiated Teardrop. Don't you realise that?' Anger, and its undercurrent of fear, gave him the authority he sought.

Voronin's eyes now displayed uncertainty and loss of confidence. 'Perhaps,' the Russian offered in reply.

'It's the only satisfactory solution,' Babbington pressed.

Voronin shrugged. 'If you had the woman—' he began.

'With or without the woman!' Babbington turned to Voronin, his face mobile with rage. 'I must be back in London tomorrow, without fail the following day. I must have, before tomorrow, your agreement to my proposal. I want Kapustin's agreement. You will organise and execute a rescue of your agent Aubrey, who will be spirited to Moscow by Aeroflot and then subsequently appear at some kind of staged interview with selected members of the Soviet and Western press — my God, man, you have the drugs to make him do handstands and sing soprano for the cameras if you care to use them!' One hand had emerged from his pocket, clenched into a fist. He appeared to threaten Voronin with physical violence. 'Now — will I have Kapustin's agreement? Time is pressing.'

'The raid,' Voronin murmured, shaking his head. 'I don't know—'

'How else will you explain my losing Aubrey?' Babbington taunted. He was inwardly satisfied. Voronin was unsettled, out of his depth. And half-persuaded—

The fear returned, churning at his stomach, tightening his chest. He breathed in slowly, exhaled the warmer, smoky air carefully; calming himself.

'Well?' he prompted.

Voronin hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. He sighed audibly. 'Very well,' he said. 'I will signal Comrade Deputy Chairman Kapustin at once, informing him of your proposal. Perhaps he will agree—'

'He has to agree. There's no other way. I want Aubrey out of Vienna and on his way to Moscow within forty-eight hours at the outside. I want it to be seen and understood as a desperate KGB rescue operation on behalf of their blown agent.'

'For the sake of realism, some of your people will have to suffer?'

Without glancing behind or around him, Babbington nodded. 'Naturally. Some of the Vienna Station personnel who will be guarding Aubrey must inevitably be killed in action. Very regrettable.'

'Very well.' Voronin seemed pleased at the display of ruthlessness. It was as if Babbington had correctly answered the final question of a long and searching interview. 'Very well. Shall we go, Sir Andrew Babbington?' For once, Voronin's grasp of English usage was at fault.

Babbington smiled. 'Yes, Comrade Voronin — let's go.'

Babbington turned, nodded to Wilkes, who seemed relieved, and began to stride confidently down the avenue towards the Lower Belvedere, the gates, and his car. Voronin hurried after him and the screen of watchers seemed trawled in their wake; a small shoal of overcoats and trenchcoats being hauled in.

Margaret Massinger watched the leading man, the one closest to her, turn as at an invisible signal and move away. She felt immediately cramped, cold, and weak. She watched the man's retreating trenchcoat, less white than the snow covering the lawns, as it passed one of the ornate fountains. When it emerged once more, it was distant and small. The eyepiece of the camera seemed cloudy, her eyes wet. The telephoto lens scraped on the stone of the balcony. She looked up, away from the camera, at the features of Maria Theresa worn by one of the stone sphinxes. She felt lightheaded. The sphinx threatened to topple on her as she crouched behind the balcony of the terrace in front of the palace.

Her imagination was filled with photographic stills, as if she were watching some clever, tricky sequence in a film. People moved in her mind, stopped, were photographed, moved again. Stop, move, stop, snap, move, stop, snap, move—

She rubbed her frozen cheeks with her woolen-gloved hands. She was utterly cold inside her fur jacket. She rubbed her aching, chilled thighs. Her feet were numb. She felt too weak to stand.

* * *

For wildlife photography, Hyde had said, and grinned at her. The smile had been transparent, and she had seen the uncertainty behind it. The assistant in the camera shop had nodded, displaying a range of telephoto lenses to accompany the Nikkormat camera. She had tried to attend. The sleepless night in the anonymous hotel had not helped. Hyde's presence was that of a stern examiner. Yet she had eventually understood, simply by reading the literature that accompanied the camera and the lenses.

Babbington clenching his fist into the unidentified man's face — the faces clear in the eyepiece, everything else blurred and unrecognisable behind them because of the small depth of field of the 1000mm lens. She had used the largest of the lenses because she was afraid. She wanted the greatest distance between herself and—

And him. Babbington. Not so much the watchers in the white trenchcoats and the dark overcoats — the small fish — rather the one man. She was afraid of him, even in the artificial close-up of the telephoto lens; as if he