The Bear's Tears

know, how he wished to be helped, what he required.

He typed in Petrunin's name, then rank, then given names. Then KGB number. He glanced at the glass booth. Stepanov showed no sign of movement, other than the lifting of his mug to his lips. To his right, the outer room stretched away into vagueness — his distance to run. Petrunin's assignments appeared on the screen, in summary. Hyde did not even glance at them. He knew the last three. London, Moscow First Directorate HQ, Kabul. Yes, Petrunin would have used Kabul, savouring and hating the irony. Or would he? Would he? When had he corrupted the computer?

In response to another password request, and in place of the valid password, Hyde typed: KABULMOSCOWLONDON.

Blank. Blank screen—!

He knew, almost by telepathy or spiritualism, that Petrunin had used Kabul as his final assignment. He would have changed the password sequence to include it, if necessary. Oh, yes, he would have—

Come on, come on, come on—

Behind the blank screen, Hyde sensed the bypass occurring, felt the computer seek for the tumour that Petrunin had lodged within it. Seek, seek, seek — find!

A poem. Not information. A poem in Russian. Petrunin's record continued to unfold, and then it broke off. Became these fourteen lines of verse rolling down the screen like gentle green water. Malfunction, of course. Petrunin had warned him. Even so, his hand hovered over the keyboard. He wanted to depress the Break key and return to the Menu, as anyone stumbling across Petrunin's secret by accident would now have done. This was the disarmer. Tears, was that? A sad parting. Something about career and love, and the conflict thereof. Petrunin in maudlin, self-indulgent mood. Hyde had no doubt of the poem's authorship. A younger Petrunin. Much younger. A single tear, the scenery about the lovers, a swan gliding into the distance. Hyde wrinkled his nose.

Stepanov's hand upon the door. Fourteen lines. To Lara. His finger still hovered over the Break key. Yet Stepanov appeared to be in no hurry. The poem vanished. Hyde pressed the button on the streamer, to begin recording. Don't use the printer, no hard copy, Godwin warned him in his head. He drew his hand away from the printer as if from a flame. Closing of the glass door behind Stepanov, footfalls on the carpet.

Cancel—

No! Not yet…

Lettering. The words began to flow on the screen, as if hurried by Petrunin rather than himself. Politburo dirt. Family scandals, nepotism, immorality, jewellery, dachas, furs, everything…

Stepanov was smiling and unsuspicious. Hyde waited to press the Break key, his eyes hurrying from the lieutenant to the telephone to the screen.

… houses, mistresses, bank accounts abroad, boyfriends, money, money, money, paedophilia…

There was no short-cut. Teardrop was in there, but Petrunin had died before he could supply the individual passwords for the separate sections of his secret file. The dirt continued to spill down the screen like the front pages of cheap newspapers. Dirt on the Politburo, dirt on the Secretariat, details of current First Directorate foreign operations, agents-in-place… all of it useful, much priceless — but Hyde wanted one name, one man's name connected with one operation.

Teardrop.

Come on, come on — the name, the name…

Please—

The telephone rang. Hyde's hand jumped, as if electrocuted.

* * *

Paul Massinger slumped onto the edge of the vast iron bath with its ball-and-claw feet, staring at his reopened leg wound. His breathing was ragged. Margaret, who had helped him along the corridors, appeared exhausted. Her pale hair flopped over her drained, bruised face. Paul's leg ached deeply. His hands clutched the edge of the bath to steady his shaking body. Beach, standing near the door, appeared genuinely distressed. His gun was drawn, he appeared alert — but he was concerned. He did consider Massinger's pain unfortunate, even unnecessary. Aubrey, too, had been surprised that the wound had suddenly reopened. But the old man was sunk in a profound despair. He seemed incapable of volition, regret, or even fear. As if lightly hypnotised by desperation.

'Can you — Margaret, help me get my pants off…' he whispered hoarsely. There was no necessity for pretence. His leg hurt like hell. He glanced at his watch. Eleven-twenty. Couldn't be long now, have to hurry—

Margaret moved to his side. 'Can you raise yourself, Paul? Take your weight on your hands and arms…' She undid his belt, kneeled to help his trousers down around his ankles so that the wound could be washed and repatched — Massinger felt the pain of the table-edge against which he had thrust his wound, to open it again. And winced.

'I–Christ, I'll try…'

Come on, Beach—! The man moved, involuntarily, as if the mental command had reached him. Come on—

Massinger groaned. Margaret cried his name in fear. Beach moved closer, reaching out a supporting hand, gun hanging at his side—

Massinger struck Beach with his fist, high on the side of the head. Margaret heaved at the man, tilting his body over the bath. Massinger's left hand grabbed for the gun, touched, gripped, held. Beach's face distorted with rage. He struggled, lashing out with his fist at Massinger, then at Margaret, who stumbled away from the struggle, colliding with the wall behind her. Her hair fell across her eyes and she wiped it feverishly aside. Beach had twisted against Paul and was bending him back over the bath. Paul's face was white with effort and weakness. Beach had the upper hand, was stronger — it wouldn't work, wouldn't—

What could she do? She was aware of her own weakness, her lack of height and bulk measured against Beach's trained muscles and reactions. He hit Paul again, his fist striking her husband's chin. Paul's whole face seemed to sag.

Jug. Patterns of shepherds or a hunt. Horses, eighteenth-century costumes on the men and women.

The jug and basin stood on a bathroom stool, dusty, unused. She touched the handle. Paul groaned—

— grabbed the handle, moved forward with a sob, swung the jug which seemed suddenly lighter, not heavy enough—

It cracked, split on Beach's head, near the right ear. Beach groaned with what might have been surprise, released Paul's shirt, his body, then subsided into the empty bath. Immediately staining the white porcelain with a thin bright smear of blood from his bleeding head. His breathing was like a groan of protest and surprise.

Margaret leaned heavily over the bath, as if to vomit. She was gasping for breath. Massinger heaved the gun from Beach's grasp and slipped off the safety catch.

'Go!' he said urgently. 'Quickly, love — quickly!' She straightened, flicking back her hair. Her face was ashen around the bruises, older. 'Can you?' he asked, and she nodded at once. 'Good girl — be careful. If they — if they… just don't do anything, please. Put down the telephone and go quietly. Don't fight—' Again, Margaret nodded. And smiled, shakily. Like someone leaving an intensive care unit, knowing there was no hope for a relative but trying to evade the inevitable or remember some better time.

She bent and kissed his cheek, glanced at Beach who was almost snoring in the bath, then left the room. Massinger heard her footsteps patter away like someone fleeing. He stared at the gun, held loosely in his hands, object rather than weapon, and then at Beach.

The Massingers' last stand. He grinned, and then winced at the pain in his leg. And at his fear for Margaret. Stupid move, he told himself. Stupid, dangerous move—

An act of desperation. He was terribly afraid for her safety. The gun quivered in nerveless fingers. Beach snored. Others moved about the house. All of them threatened Margaret.

Margaret hurried down the corridors, wincing inwardly at each creak of a floorboard, her breathing light and shallow, her arms and hands trembling, fingertips damp so that she sensed the betrayals of smudged fingerprints left on the wall. Her heart raced.

Another long corridor. She had noted, counted, each of the closed doors as she struggled to help Paul towards the bathroom, her mind reaching forward like a reluctant hand to the violence and danger to come. She opened the first door carefully, just a crack, fumbled for the light switch, listening to the room's emptiness—