The Bear's Tears

'It is.' Hyde glanced at his watch. Eleven twenty-six. Too long, it was taking too long… Bugger off, Stepanov! For Christ's sake, bugger off…

'Carry on, Radchecko — I'll not interfere. I promise!' There was laughter in Stepanov's voice. He had attached himself like a lonely schoolboy — a new and unwanted friend, clinging like a limpet. Bugger off—!

In Moscow Centre, they knew when he accessed the computer exactly what area of the records he was summoning. They would not know who or what was under scrutiny. But, they could find out… Trace his enquiry like a telephone call might be traced. And if they did that — more likely, when they did that — the telephone would ring and the screen would go blank as they isolated his remote terminal, amputated it from the computer's memory banks.

He had perhaps minutes, probably less. Seconds. And he had to work through all Petrunin's information until he found Babbington's name and it was recorded on the data cassette and he could run…

'OK. You needn't hang about if you don't want to… makes me nervous anyway, someone hovering behind me.'

'Sorry about that. I'm not getting caught not doing my job, Radchenko, even if you are a nice bloke.'

Hyde turned to face the lieutenant, feeling the passing seconds pumping in his arm like a drip-feed; measuring his danger.

'How much are you cleared for?'

'You won't be going that deep.'

'Why not?'

'Because I can't — so you certainly can't.' Stepanov pushed his cap a little further back on his head. He was still smiling.

'Anyone for more coffee — you, sir? You?' Georgi called out, adding: 'Comrade Radchenko — coffee?'

Hyde began to quiver uncontrollably, as if he had received an unexpected shock. He'd blown it — already, he'd—

'You all right?' Stepanov asked. 'Not for me, Georgi!' To Hyde, he added, 'You look as if you need a coffee — or something stronger. Are you feeling OK?'

'Yes! Look, just let me get on with my job, will you?'

'I'm not stopping you—'

'You're not cleared—!'

'Then neither are you — not for more than a system test!' Stepanov's features had darkened, his gaze was squinted and intent. 'What are you doing, Radchenko?'

Damn — oh, damn it!

'Look don't get bloody stupid, Stepanov—'

'I'm not. Let's see this great, ocean-deep clearance of yours, shall we? Just for a giggle…'

Damn—

As if with a gesture of failure rather than aggression, Hyde slipped the pistol from his belt and presented the barrel to Stepanov, keeping the gun below the level of the keyboard. He heard the door close behind Georgi — the silly old bugger would bring coffee as soon as it was ready, whether asked or not. Hyde was trapped by kindness, unnerved and exposed by companionship. Stepanov's eyes widened, his face folded into creases of understanding and capture.

'Just sit down, Lieutenant. Please sit down next to me.' The pistol waggled, just a little; a small innocent wave from a toy. Stepanov removed his cap, as if attending an interview, and sat stiffly on the chair next to Hyde. 'Try to relax, Lieutenant. You're making it look obvious.'

'Who are you? What are you?'

Hyde smiled. 'Don't be silly.'

'What do you want?'

'Something you won't want to see… in fact, I'll do you a favour…' His voice became strained as he twisted his body to request Assignment History once more. The demand for the passwords. He typed them in, his fingers touching across the keyboard as if seeking braille, his eyes flickering from keys to Stepanov to keys to… 'A real favour,' he continued. 'You just avert your eyes. If you see what's about to come up…' The poem. A tear for Lara, whoever Lara had ever been, if anyone outside Petrunin's imagination. '… you won't be very popular at home or abroad. In fact, your future won't be worth a cork-fringed hat… understand? You're a dead man if you peek!'

The gun waggled Stepanov's gaze aside. He selected the tape drive, his eyes flickering to the screen. First Directorate operations in progress in Europe… a goldmine from which Hyde desired only the one nugget. As the information appeared, it was recorded on the data cassette.

'You seem very afraid,' Stepanov said with a level, controlled voice.

'I am.'

'What is it?' the Russian hissed.

'Look and you'll get turned to stone — or fertiliser. Just as soon as they know you know.'

'You won't get away with this—'

'I hope to.'

'You're not sure, then—'

'I'm not sure. No, don't turn around—!'

Hyde glanced towards the glass booth. Patchy steam on part of the glass. The coffee-maker was ready. Georgi had made his coffee. Hyde could see him bent over the table, arranging mugs, spooning sugar.

Come on—

The telephone rang. Stepanov's body twitched, and his lips parted in a smile. He half-turned.

'Don't move. Just let it ring — let it ring!'

He glanced at the screen. First Directorate operations — Libya and Chad. Names of illegals, guerilla unit commanders, Soviet advisers.

Come on—

The bloody short-cut — what the hell was the password? Dominus illuminatio mea, for Christ's sake—!

The telephone insisted. Hyde stared at it helplessly.

* * *

'I left my heart — in San Franciscooo…'

Wilkes sat down before the bank of twelve monitors — two rows of six. He continued humming the tune he had begun to sing, failing to recollect the succeeding lines of the lyric. His eyes flickered from screen to screen; a patient, absorbed, satisfied spectator of the scenes presented to him by the remote cameras located throughout the old house. For years, it had been variously used for training, interrogation, courses in interrogation counter- measures. The district around had been levelled and made late twentieth century and the house had become too noticeable, too easily observed to fulfil many of its former functions.

'… little cable cars climb halfway to the stars—!' Wilkes burst out, remembering a detached, floating line of the song.

Vienna had meant bigger business, way back when the house had been fully utilised — then it was always crowded with people. Front-line, like Berlin in the 'sixties. Wilkes whistled the tune of the song through his closed teeth. Watching the screens. The old house, stranded between the freight-yards and the gas works, began to fulfil some of its old functions.

'I left my heart — in San Franciscooooo—!'

Voronin and Babbington had agreed, decided, concluded. No margin for error or misunderstanding. The three of them — alarmed and on their feet now — were on their way to Moscow. The Massingers would never be seen leaving the aircraft — go out probably dressed in overalls and carrying plastic bags full of rubbish from the galley — but Aubrey would get the pop star treatment. And they'd all be dead within a week; the Massingers the same day they arrived, Aubrey as soon as the masquerade had worked. Heart attack. Easier than risking TV appearances, press conferences and the like. Heart attack.

Wilkes grinned. 'I left my heart — in the Lubyanka—!' he bawled at the top of his voice, then added: 'Your last TV appearance, old boy, old chap.' He leaned towards the screen which displayed the three prisoners. They'd roused Aubrey, he didn't look so thunderstruck now, so much in a daze. Wilkes could see the cogs grinding in the old bugger's brain. Too bloody clever by half—