The Bear's Tears

nervousness until he discovered it, lying at the side of the track. Outside the track. It had not been damaged or its wires snapped or crushed. He picked it up, tested it. His breath was noisy, visible around him like a fog. He wedged the torch, checked the watch, and drilled out the last two holes with frantic, careful haste.

Then he drew a thin, long screwdriver from the haversack and levered at the lock. Heaved against it, tearing the tiny patches of metal between each of the holes — snapping out the useless lock. It clattered on the nearest rail, bounced — a flare of sparks, illuminating him briefly, robbed him of his night-vision. The live rail glared on his retinae as he returned his gaze to the door, which now hung open. He waited until the hands of the watch diminished into clear focus, then studied the terminals and cables in front of him.

Third from the top. One, two — he grinned. The red one. The big red one. He bent once more to the haversack. Straightened, replaced the watch on his wrist, then touched his fingertips around the red cable. Enough room. He began to feed the length of coil around the cable, encircling it six or seven times.

How do you know?

Unofficials—

Who? Who told you about this?

He snapped off the length of coiled wire with a pair of pliers, then raised the flip-flop transistor into the beam of the torch. An intermittent noise on the line, interrupting the flow of data from Moscow Centre. Scrambling and altering, disrupting. But not a consistent noise which could be rectified quickly. One difficult to trace because it occurred at imprecise, lengthy intervals.

He began to attach the transistor.

Chartists, people with a grudge, the greedy and the needy, Godwin had replied with a slight smile over the rim of his coffee cup. They sell it, offer it, give it. There's a whole black market in anti-Soviet information out there, if you bother to look…

But, this stuff?

Engineers, designers, surveyors — a lot of them signed the Charter in '77, lost jobs, need to eat or hate the Russians… a lot of clever people were students in '68… the trauma froze most of them their feelings come up brand-new every time …

And you trust them?

I trust their hatred.

Hyde checked that the contacts were good, then drew the battery from the haversack and connected it. Watch, watch—

Three minutes ten already gone. Careful this time—

He stretched out a length of insulating tape and fixed the short-life battery to the hanging door, making certain that it was solidly held. Then he eased the door closed. When he released it, the door swung open once more. Hyde fumbled in the depleted haversack for the timer and set its hands in the beam of the torch.

Three minutes fifty gone—

He glanced involuntarily down the tunnel towards the hidden platform of the Muzeum station. Silence. The air was cold on his heated face. He shivered, aware of the temperature around him. Straightening up once more, he swiftly wired the timer to the circuit. At eight o'clock that evening, the timer would trip the completion of the circuit and the transistor would begin to disrupt the impulses passing through the landline, garbling the flow of information between the Hradcany and Moscow Centre. The intermittent fault would be difficult to trace and cure. The post office engineer would be on the point of giving up when Hyde arrived to test the system. Soon after that, the short- life battery would fail and the fault would disappear.

And he'd be left alone with a computer terminal — screen, keyboard, printer, recorder, all the equipment — and Teardrop—

Four minutes twenty…

He checked the coil, the transistor, the wiring, the battery, then closed the door and taped it shut. Four minutes forty—

He shone the pale light of the torch over the junction box. At a glance — yes? Yes — at a glance it appeared closed and locked—

Lock, where was the lock?

He flicked the torch over the track but could not locate the lock that had bounced on the live rail. Satisfied it was not visible to any workmen or repair team who might walk through this section of tunnel before midnight — when his work would be finished or he would be finished—

Stop that—

Four minutes fifty-eight, nine — five minutes…

He hurried along the track, torchlight pools at his feet, his hearing alert for the noise of the next train.

In this country, they almost queue up to pass you information, he heard Godwin saying, The trouble is, hardly anyone bothers to listen. He reached the inspection shelter and pressed his body into it. The track had begun to tremble once more beneath his shoes. He waited, switching off the torch. At once, the darkness was icy, thick-frozen around him. He heard the metro train approaching.

Collect the drill and the haversack on your way back, he reminded himself. And shivered. The metal storm of the train rushed past him.

* * *

'You're not eating your Chateaubriand, Voronin.'

'I prefer my meat to be more cooked, thank you.'

'Wilkes, give our friend more claret — it might help his palate to accept rare beef. It can't be the suggestion of blood, can it?'

'You seem in a very comfortable frame of mind, Sir Andrew Babbington.'

'I am. Tell him, Wilkes, how industrious you have been this morning.'

'It's all arranged. Parrish, Head of Station, takes official custody of our friends this evening. Eight on the dot. They'll be taken to the safe house — and the rest is up to you. Only five or six men on duty. I'll be around. You'll get updates during the course of the evening and a disposition of forces just before you go in — OK? I'll leave by the back door…'

'I would prefer that you did not.'

'What? Not on your—'

'Please listen. The safe house has monitors and surveillance cameras both inside and out?'

'Yes, but—'

'And a security room?'

'Yes—'

'Then, Sir Andrew Babbington, I propose that Wilkes remains in the safe house — in the security room itself — and he can observe our progress… you speak some Russian, Wilkes?'

'He does.'

'Then over the R/T, he can inform us of the movements of his unfortunate colleagues.'

'Wait a minute, chum—'

'A good idea, Voronin. That's settled, Wilkes… drink your wine and don't sulk.'

'Vienna Station was not curious as to how and where you captured these desperate criminals?'

'Of course. Wilkes bluffed it out with them, in my name. Because of Aubrey's treachery, no one can be trusted. I have had to use local unofficial and people I've drafted in — and a top-secret location. Parrish swallowed it more or less whole, didn't he, Wilkes?'

'Like a greedy trout — silly old fart.'

'And — for your part, my dear Voronin?'

'Everything is arranged. We will go in at eleven-thirty. A strong force of men. Aubrey and the others will be transferred to the embassy, then to the airport. An Aeroflot diplomatic flight will take them to Moscow — leaving at… but that is not your concern. They will be safely in Moscow and no longer a threat to you before daylight tomorrow.'

'Good. I'm glad that Kapustin has had the sense to accept my scenario.'

'Now, I would like to see a scale-drawing of the safe house, please.'

'You still haven't finished your Chateaubriand.'

'I still prefer my meat to be more cooked — what do you say? Well done?'