The Bear's Tears

'I understand that, Kapustin.' The room was hot rather than warm. His fingers were not remote. They drummed more quickly now, reflecting his rising anger. 'Of course, there is a risk. Everything is a risk. You should have rid yourselves of Petrunin the day this business appeared on the operations board! As it is — people know, people suspect… but only a handful of people. They must be removed. It is the only logical course of action.'

'There is the German, too.'

'I realise that—'

Snow pattered softly against the window. Babbington turned his head to stare at the square of darkness streaked with wriggles of melted snow, then returned his gaze to the fire. The large Afghan rug in front of it offered up a tiny, thin trail of smoke where some spark from the fire had landed. The ascending wisp looked like incense burning.

'What do you suggest in his case?' There was mockery in Kapustin's tone. The wisp of smoke faded. Babbington could not see the tiny hole the spark must have burned in the rug, but for a moment he imagined his wife clucking over the damage.

'There is nothing that can be done. At the moment. Except that the single bold stroke which I propose will silence him, as it will everyone else. Aubrey's appearance in Moscow will forestall any further questions. Surely you understand that much?' His tone was one of exasperation. Almost helplessly, he continued as if some dam within him had been breached: 'For twenty-eight years you have had my loyalty. You and the rest of Moscow Centre have waited twenty-eight years for the present moment! It was your impatience — Nikitin's impatience— that would not allow Aubrey to remain in his post until he retired and I succeeded by right. He is an old man, you know—! But no, it must be now, while Guest has the PM's ear and confidence and while he supports the idea of SAID and myself as its head. Very well—! You dictated the timing of Teardrop — you see it through! Don't quibble about disposing of one American and his well-connected wife!'

Babbington looked at his fingers on the desk. They had ceased to accompany his rage, and now merely quivered. He touched his fingertips against the whisky glass, against the smooth black case of the encryption unit. He felt perspiration prickle his forehead. It was foolish, but he had been helpless against the outburst. Didn't they realise what was at stake, for God's sake—? He clenched his free hand into a fist and waited for Kapustin to speak.

Eventually, the Russian said, 'Your anger is understandable. I agree, with hindsight, that we should have disposed of Petrunin.'

'Then make up for it now.'

Kapustin was silent again for some time, then he said; 'I cannot decide at once — just to put your mind at rest. This must be discussed.'

'Who with? Nikitin? Remind the President of the investment, and the dividend, won't you?' His hand now toyed with the whisky glass. The crystal caught the warmth of the lamps in the room, held the flames of the fire, miniaturising and fragmenting them.

'There is the problem of the woman. Where is she now?'

Babbington did not hesitate. 'I promise you her confinement within twenty-four hours. That means you could mount the operation tomorrow night.'

Kapustin seemed only to have been waiting for the moment of bluff, for he said at once: 'Then you can have your raid, your dramatic rescue of Aubrey — tomorrow night, providing you have the woman in your hands before then!'

Babbington's fingers quivered the moment he put down the heavy crystal glass.

'You mean—?'

'A bargain. Your rescue attempt in exchange for the woman.'

'You'll take her and the American to Moscow and dispose of them there?' His words sounded almost breathless with excitement.

'Providing I can persuade the President of the wisdom of such a course— persuade him it is necessary to your survival… then yes.' Babbington held back his sigh of relief. 'We will dispose of the Massingers — and parade Aubrey before the cameras.'

The sleety snow blew against the window like a handful of gravel thrown in warning against the pane. Babbington was startled, then very consciously looked back at the fire, considering what Kapustin had said; considering, too, his boast concerning the capture of Margaret Massinger.

Margaret Massinger pressed her body against the bole of the fir tree. The light from Babbington's window spilled towards her hiding place like a torch-beam searching for her. She had been able to see his head turn at the sound of the gust of snow. She ducked aside at once. He couldn't have seen her, couldn't have…

She could hear her breathing above the nose of the wind. The snow blew against her collar, against her woolen beret. Now, she had seen two of them — Aubrey and Babbington. One behind a desk, using the telephone, and the other one — the one she could no longer hate — sitting in an armchair behind barred windows, staring down at his feet; as immobile as if he had died. She shivered with the cold. Next to Aubrey's room were more barred windows. The curtains were drawn across them, the room in darkness. She knew that Paul must be confined there, and she could not rid herself of the idea that the drawn curtains indicated death. Her mother had never signalled her mourning because she would not believe that Robert Castleford was dead — but Margaret had used that semaphore when her mother died. They had done the same thing here, because Paul was dead…

She felt childlike, locked out of some loved place, alone in the windblown, snowy dark. Her eyes were wet, her cheeks numb with cold. She wanted to be, had to be, inside—

She had to know. Nothing else mattered. She had fulfilled her obligations to Aubrey, to Hyde. Now, she could choose. Everything else, all other considerations, had dropped from her as she had placed the two rolls of film, in their padded bag, in the postbox in the foyer of the pension. Her aunt in Bath would receive the undeveloped film with precise and definite instructions to deliver them by hand to William in London. The old lady would go up by train, the whole journey spent horrified at the prospect of spending time in William's company; in the company of the man and his awful cigars.

Nevertheless, Sir William would receive the films. And he would act. He would read her note, see the film, and act. Babbington would be stopped. She had done her duty.

She had to believe that now, shivering with cold and desperate to be discovered in the grounds of the lodge. Just as she had to believe that Paul was not dead and that she could somehow be reunited with him simply by an act of surrender.

Curtains drawn across the windows. Paul was dead — alive—!

She would convince Babbington that she still hated Aubrey, that she still believed he was a Soviet agent and was guilty of her father's murder. Murderer, traitor, villain, abomination — anything that would persuade Babbington that Paul and she were not dangerous to him, that Paul could be allowed to live…

She would know nothing. Hyde — who was Hyde? She could tell him nothing, she knew nothing… anything that Paul may have said would be no more than delirium, the wildest imaginings, hysteria — anything…

Caused by loss of blood, by his wounds—

Aubrey was unhurt. It had been Paul's blood— But Paul wasn't dead, he was alive and hurt, alive and hurt… He could be saved, if she could play her part to perfection. She could keep him alive for long enough — she had told William where they could be found, where she would be.

If Aubrey had to die, so be it. She must save Paul.

She eased her body from behind the tree. She could see Babbington's grey hair as he sat behind the desk, still making his telephone call. She waited. The patrol would return in a few minutes, the two men preceded by the flickering torch-beam. She need only step out in front of them and pray they did not fire without flicking the torch towards her face. She waited, her teeth chattering, her legs and body weak with anticipation. Yet she felt no renewed desire for concealment. All that was behind her now. She stood just where the spillage of warm light from the window reached her boots, as if waiting for a tide to advance.

Should she even have met Hyde—? Should she even know his name? Perhaps from Paul—? Would Babbington believe her, believe even one word of it—?

He must…

She listened. Footsteps on the gravel; light on the gravel. They were coming—