The Bear's Tears

bare upstairs flat somewhere off the Strand, only months after he had come down from Oxford… the diplomatic service, he had thought, and had then felt a deep and abiding delight when they had indicated the secret world, intelligence work—

Berlin, after the war — Castleford's face intruded, still alive, smiling… come back like a ghost, to gloat. Aubrey dismissed him in the rush of images. Reams of paper and files passing across a desk beneath hands which he recognised as his own. The hands aged as he watched, as if his whole adult life were passing in moments — the speeded-up film of some flower's life-cycle… the files became more important, more secret—

'You all right?' Wilkes asked. Aubrey hardly heard him, as memory shifted like ballast in his head and he staggered. Wilkes held his arm to keep him upright.

A man of probity. There were moments of ruthlessness, of utter disregard for the lives in his hands. But he had attempted to be a man of probity in the secret world. Othello's occupation's gone—

Hands upon a desk. Faces across a table. Men with secrets to yield, men to be dismantled or repaired. A dozen languages, a thousand small rooms for the breaking of will, resolve, courage—

Aubrey shook his head, shook off Wilkes's supporting hand, and walked as quickly as he could the length of the corridor. He entered his room and Wilkes locked the door behind him. When the man's footsteps had faded, Aubrey began rubbing at his damp eyes with the creased sleeve of his soiled shirt.

* * *

There was no telephone in her room at the pension. She had to use the pay phone near the cramped reception desk. The foyer was empty except for the night porter, who sat reading the evening paper, his head framed by pigeon-holes and hanging keys. His uniform collar was open at the neck. A half-drunk glass of beer and a sandwich of smoked sausage on a paper plate rested on the desk. Margaret turned her head into the hair-dryer globe of clear plastic that enclosed the telephone.

She dialled the international code for London, then Sir William Guest's home number. Hyde had told her William was in Washington… it was stupid to try his number. Yet his answering machine might disclose the means of reaching him in the States. How else could she reach him? She tugged anxiously at the looped cord of the telephone as she waited for the connection, envisaging the comfortable, panelled study in which the number was ringing. Sir William maintained a flat in Albany, just as his father had once done. As a child, she had been overawed by the dark, heavy panelling, the grimy, looming paintings. Whenever her father had taken her there, she remembered Sir William had acted the part of a jolly, generous relative. Yet he expected good manners, long silences, then adult replies to his questions. Sir William had awed her.

'Come on, come on,' she breathed. She glanced round at the night porter. He refolded the newspaper and continued to read. 'Come on — oh, please, come on—!'

The tone stopped abruptly. No one answered the telephone, but she sensed a listener.

'William?' she asked hesitantly.

'Who is that, please?' a polite, assured, unfamiliar voice enquired.

'Who is speaking?' she asked, surprised. 'Where is Mrs Carson?' Then, more insistently: 'Who are you?'

'Mrs Carson — oh, Sir William's housekeeper. I'm sorry, she's away for a few days. As is Sir William.'

'Then who are you? How do you come to be in William's flat?'

'Lucky to have caught me here, really…' The voice was light, cultivated, almost a drawl. She could picture a bright young Whitehall type. One of William's staff — but why?

'This is Margaret Massinger,' she announced with mustered authority and ease, 'It's urgent I speak to Sir William at once—'

'Ah, Mrs Massinger. My apologies. My name is Renfrew, a member of Sir William's Cabinet Office staff… he asked me to collect some papers from his flat — needs to consult them, through me, while he's in Washington. As a matter of fact, I was just about to leave. But you said it was urgent, Mrs Massinger. Can I take a message…?' The question lay helpfully, easily on the air.

She hesitated. Then: 'Can you give me his number in Washington? Where can I reach him?'

'I'm afraid not. His movements are rather fluid — time-table's very crowded, I'm afraid. Look, I tell you what — why not give me your number? Sir William is bound to contact the Cabinet Office either tonight or tomorrow — I can ensure that he calls you. What do you say?'

The voice was calm, almost offhand. Helpful.

'Yes,' she began. 'I'm in Vienna—'

'Vienna? Good heavens! A holiday, Mrs Massinger?'

'Vienna — the number is…'

She paused to study the number printed on the telephone's dial.

'Yes?' the voice said, eagerly. 'Yes? Your number in Vienna is…?' She was puzzled by the voice. Her further hesitation caused it to speak again. 'Mrs Massinger — please give me your number in Vienna!' It was an order. Unmistakably so.

'Who are you?' she snapped.

'I told you, Mrs Massinger—' The voice was more angry now.

'Who?'

'One of Sir William's staff—'

'One of — you're one of Babbington's people, aren't you? I know you are!'

'Mrs Massinger — please give me your Vienna telephone number—' The voice was unpleasant with imminent failure and threat.

'No—!'

She clattered the reciever onto its rest. Her hand was shaking. She dropped the earring she had been holding in her right hand, and scrabbled for it on the worn, dimly-patterned strip of foyer carpet. When she straightened, the night porter glanced incuriously at her, then bent his gaze to the newspaper once more. He looked sinister, dangerous.

She had almost told them—! She could not believe it of herself, could not believe that Andrew Babbington had someone in Sir William's flat.

She breathed deeply, raggedly, trying to calm herself. At once, her overriding priority returned. It had been growing through dinner, through the three whiskies she had drunk to occupy the time before she had thought of reaching Guest via his answering machine.

Paul—

Now she had evidence, and there was no one to see it, she was like a machine that had run down. Out of fuel and motive power. Now, she could only worry, with an increasingly frantic urgency, whether Paul was still alive.

She had to know. She had to go out again, she had to drive to Perchtoldsdorf — she had to see him! Whatever the cost, she had to know!

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Rites of Entry

Babbington watched his fingers, remote, detached objects drumming on the desk top beside the two oblong black boxes of the audio-encryption unit and line adaptor connected to the telephone receiver. Kapustin's voice, despite the complex rearrangements of his words by his own encryption unit, was only slightly mechanical in sound, only slightly hazy in enunciation. His tone of reluctance was not robbed of its anger and command. Babbington, with the utmost clarity, comprehended the Russian's mood.

He was alone in the room. It was warm, from radiators and the blazing log fire. A whisky glass, half-filled, rested on the desk near the high-security encryption unit. To an observer, he might have seemed at his ease. Yet he was not.

'I am not in favour of accidents,' the Deputy Chairman announced. 'Especially to the woman. Should you be fortunate enough to capture her. She has connections — Voronin, I believe, warned you of this. Her death would cause — a fuss?'