The Bear's Tears

Hyde turned, surprised. Godwin was looking at him. His cheeks were still pale, but dry. His mouth was open in a small, cynical smile.

Hyde nodded. 'OK,' he said. 'Now — where to?'

'What—? Oh, my flat.'

'Secure?'

'They leave me alone.' His hands slapped his thighs. 'Walking wounded. They accept my cover for the real thing. How could I be SIS, on crutches?'

'No one else knows I'm here — that I'm expected?'

'No one. Shelley's signal was very specific. What's going on, Hyde?'

'Babbington — he's Moscow's man. The proofs in the computer.'

'Babbington? Bloody hell—'

'He framed the old man… and it was Petrunin's scenario from the beginning.'

'Petrunin told you all this? You trust that bastard?'

'He was dying — and trying to pull the house down around him. He wasn't lying.'

'Who's on our side?'

'Us — just the two of us.' Hyde did not mention Margaret Massinger. There was little or no point. She wouldn't be able to cope. He knew it would have been better for her had he ordered her to lie low, merely keep out of sight. She wouldn't last five minutes trying to tail Babbington and keep that wooden house in Perchtoldsdorf under surveillance. He had doubted her ability to survive even as he briefed her, even as they bought the camera and lenses. Thus, he had been deliberately vague in explaining his own task to her. What she did not know she could not reveal when they caught and questioned her. 'That's the whole army,' he added. 'Shelley's already in the bag.'

'Christ—' Godwin breathed.

'Are you in?' Hyde asked impatiently. His hands stroked the steering wheel. He was tempted to grip it fiercely, to still the tremor he sensed beginning.

Then Godwin said: 'I'm in — it's bloody hopeless, but I'm in.'

Hyde looked at him. Just for a moment, a younger man glanced from behind the bitter, older mask that Godwin wore.

'OK. Which way?'

'Straight on. My flat's in the Old Town. I'll direct you.'

* * *

'My dear friend, I'm so sorry, so sorry…'

Aubrey patted Massinger's hand as he spoke. It lay like a limp white fish on the coverlet, then it enclosed Aubrey's hand slowly. Massinger's eyes were bright, but empty of fever. His face was puffy and misshapen with dark, livid bruises that were the colour and texture of raw offal.

'It's — OK,' he murmured, his lips working loosely like those of someone whose jaw has been deadened in preparation for dental work. His lips were swollen and split. He shook his head gently. 'OK,' he repeated.

'How is the leg?'

'Someone patched it up. There's no bullet in the wound. Hurts like hell, Kenneth.' He tried to sit more upright in the narrow bed, and groaned as he moved his injured leg. No doubt, Aubrey thought, the dressing on his thigh was temporary. A temporary dressing for a temporary circumstance.

He realised that Babbington had reached a decision, otherwise he would not have allowed Aubrey and Massinger to meet. There was no longer any need to keep them apart. What they knew would die with them. Thus, when Aubrey had surrendered to his hunger and eaten lunch, and then had asked after Massinger's health, Wilkes had merely grinned and taken him to the wounded man's room.

One of Massinger's eyes was almost closed with a puffy, raw swelling. His various cuts had, however, been bathed and disinfected and covered with plaster.

'I want you to understand, my dear Paul, how — how grateful I am for your efforts on my behalf.'

Massinger shook his head and tried to grin. 'Even though all it got me was here and now, uh?' he said. 'Don't take it to heart — ' He winced with pain again as he moved, then added: 'I couldn't help myself. Thank God they didn't get Margaret — thank God for that!' Massinger was almost blithe.

'Yes, thank goodness,' Aubrey breathed, inwardly grateful. He hoped the woman would keep her head down, keep out of things — until they were resolved. Whether she might be able to influence the course of events in any way… police, William Guest, the press…? No, he thought decisively, no. She is out of the game. She can do nothing. He cleared his throat, watching Massinger as he did so. 'You — Paul, you realise what Babbington intends…?' His voice failed him.

Massinger gripped his hand more tightly as he nodded. Then he said urgently, 'They don't have her, do they? They don't know where she is?'

Aubrey shook his head. Massinger lay back on the pillows as if exhausted. He murmured something which might have been, 'Thank God for that,' once more. Aubrey realised that the man's relief at his wife's safety anaesthetised him to his own situation.

After a long silence, he said, 'You've talked with Babbington?'

'Yes.'

'Why — why did he? When?' Then the American opened his eyes. 'It doesn't matter. None of that matters. What's he going to do with us?'

'Moscow, I think.' Aubrey nodded. 'Yes, Moscow. I'm certain of it. I–I'm sorry—'

'Sure. You'll survive, for a little while maybe — but not me. He has to bury the bodies, our friend Babbington. Does he have to bury the bodies!' His eyes studied Aubrey, then slowly became unfocused once more. He stared at the ceiling, and Aubrey knew the man was staring at an image of his wife. He murmured again. Again, Aubrey did not catch the words.

'I'm sorry…'he repeated. Massinger did not appear to hear him;

Thank you — sorry. There was nothing else to say. Their knowledge of each other and of their situation was complete.

Aubrey's past began to press upon him once more. It would mean little or nothing to Massinger. The gallery of images parading before him formed his private collection. And each of the scenes angered him. Every voice, moment, room, person, operation, mission, committee. Angered him—

His past had been utterly refashioned by Babbington. Everything — everything! Completely, utterly changed — made ugly and twisted. That was why he hated Babbington. Not for the man's own treachery — that feeling had passed away. No — but because the man had robbed him of, of reputation—! Of probity. Othello's occupation's gone he remembered bitterly.

The door opened.

It was Wilkes, who immediately said, 'He says you've had long enough.' Aubrey glared at him. 'Come on, Sir Kenneth — back to your own room, if you please.' He used the voice of some psychiatric nurse, mocking him with orders.

Aubrey stood up and released Massinger's hand. It returned to the coverlet; returned, too, to its former, limp-fish state, white and unmoving. Massinger's one open eye winked at him. Aubrey tried to smile.

'Do you need anything?' he asked. Massinger shook his head.

'Hardly worth it, is it?' Wilkes enquired.

'Isn't it?' Aubrey snapped.

'It isn't.'

'When?'

'Less than forty-eight hours,' Wilkes said. 'He has to be back in London within the next two days… look funny otherwise, wouldn't it?'

'God, Wilkes—!' Aubrey hesitated, his mouth open. He had no idea what he had intended to say.

'Come on,' Wilkes ordered.

Aubrey passed through the door without glancing back at Massinger. In the corridor, as Wilkes closed the door, it was as if someone had switched on a powerful light and shone it directly into his eyes. He was dazzled by his illuminated past. Each separate memory stung and hurt. He swayed with the shock of their impact.

Zimmermann and he, face to face — his first captured German officer… those first interviews in the small,