The Bear's Tears

Godwin's flat. Its roof stretched back on a level with Godwin's kitchen window. He slid the window up and checked the sill and the slope of the roof and the width of the gap between this roof and its neighbour. Then he went back into the lounge and picked up the telephone. He tensed immediately, but there was no betraying double click. Godwin kept his telephone swept clean of bugs. It was as secure as the apartment. He placed the pistol carefully near the telephone and slumped onto the edge of an armchair; immediately feeling the last strength in his legs drain away and his calves begin to tremble with weariness. He dialled the long series of digits with a quivering forefinger. The flat was already growing cold from the open kitchen window.

London. Should he move the car now, while there was time—? London. He dialled the final digit of Sir William Guest's number in Albany that Margaret Massinger had given him, and wondered again about the car. The connection was made, the number began to ring. Three, four — come on… the car? He listened to the noises from the street. A vehicle passed, he held his breath, but it did not stop or turn. Five, six, seven… come on — go and move the car—! He felt trapped now, as if bound to the chair and the telephone, unable to free himself. Then—

'Sir William—!' he blurted before his caution stopped him. Relief flooded him, making him weak and shaky, even as he warned himself to say nothing more until the recipient of the call identified himself.

'Who is that?'

The voice is too young—.

'Get me Sir William.'

'Who is that?'

Did he recognise the voice? Did he, or was it just the tone, the accent? Who—?

'Is Sir William there?' he insisted.

'You sound as if you've been rushing, old man,' the voice drawled. 'I'm afraid Sir William's not yet returned… we're expecting him sometime today. Can I help you?'

'Who are you?' His free hand clutched the cassette in his pocket, as if to crush it. Useless now—

'One of his staff. He asked me to call, collect some papers… lucky to have caught me, really. Who is speaking? Where are you calling

from…?' The words were affectedly indifferent, no more than a polite enquiry, yet Hyde sensed the tension beneath the facade.

'Fuck you,' he whispered and slammed down the receiver. It didn't matter who it was, Babbington's man or Sir William's flunkey. It wasn't Sir William…

Useless. He bit his knuckles, enacting his rage as he stared at the telephone. Useless—

Before Sir William returned, the old man would be in Moscow, ready to go on show, maybe even dead.

'Oh, fuck it!' He slumped back in the armchair, his eyes pressed tightly shut and damp in the corners, his face raised to the ceiling. He was deeply, utterly weary. He had the evidence — and now they knew it, or they would know it soon… Babbington would be told before morning. Then he'd waste no time in getting rid of Aubrey and the Massingers. The consignment for Moscow would be on its way east. Babbington would know it was him and Aubrey would disappear, just as if he, Hyde, had given them a warning, time to act. Babbington would want to be on Guest's doormat to explain Aubrey's disappearance the moment Sir William returned. He'd speeded them up, hurried them to a final course of action—

He sat for whole minutes, still and silent, face raised and eyes pressed shut. His hands gripped the arms of the chair, his body slumped into its sagging container.

And he'd done for himself, too. They knew he was here, they knew what he'd done, and he wouldn't be able to get out the way he came in. He'd not get as far as Bratislava, in all probability. They'd shut the country up to keep him in.

He continued to sit in silence, unmoving. There seemed no point to activity, movement, decision. Part of his awareness listened beyond the flat to the noises from the street, the noises above and below him in the house. Normal. All normal. Someone playing a radio upstairs, walking from lounge to kitchen and then returning to the lounge. His heartbeat settled, his breathing calmed.

He sat bolt upright in the chair.

Zimmermann. Hyde stared at the telephone, then at his watch. Fifteen minutes since he had entered the flat. Fifteen—! He cursed himself. He had to get out. Survival. Continued living and breathing. They'd kill him, not just put him in the bag. They'd kill him for certain—

Zimmermann. Call me if anything goes wrong — very wrong. The German had volunteered his services as emergency case officer. if it's too much to handle, and you can't get out…

He listened. Normal. He dialled feverishly. Godwin could be talking now, could have talked already—! The last three digits, what were they? What—? What, damn you—? His finger quivered over the dial, then he remembered. Four, two, seven.

He waited. Was Zimmermann in the bag, too, by now? Would a younger voice answer the call, smooth and dangerous? He waited. The receiver at the other end was picked up.

'Yes? Zimmermann,' he heard. The voice checked with his memory.

'It's me — Hyde.'

'What is it?' Zimmermann asked immediately and in English. 'You are in trouble?'

'Listen — I may not have much time. Godwin's disappeared — he must have been picked up. They can't be far behind me now.'

'I understand. But, you have—?'

'I've got everything. The computer threw up the whole meal. Everything… Babbington's name, even. Even his name. I've got the whole elaborate frame…'

'Can you get the information to me in any way?'

'No. It's on a tape. And I can't rely on the post, can I? Listen, Zimmermann — I can't go out the way I came in. They'll be waiting for me everywhere. Any suggestion's?'

Hyde felt the hand that held the receiver begin to pain him. He studied his other hand. Raw new skin, still healing. It seemed a badge of his fragility, his uselessness. He waited, willing Zimmermann to provide an escape route.

Eventually, Zimmermann said, 'Yes. You have to get out. Do they know what you have done?'

'Yes. I was almost caught.'

'And Godwin, of course… mm.' Zimmermann paused for a moment. 'There is precious little time, if any. I can do nothing, we can do nothing without the physical evidence. I am suspended. An enquiry is to begin soon. I am to speak to no one. However, I can help you. There is a plumber, a German, living in the small border town of Mytina, south of Cheb. Less than three hours from Prague. You have a map?'

'Yes.'

'Mytina. You will find him at this address… do you wish to write it down?'

'No. Go ahead… OK, I've got that.'

'He has acted unofficially for us on a few occasions. There are others like him, but not so close to the border or Prague. But, he needs money. His name is Langdorf, and he does nothing without money. Also, you will need to explain that you have his name from me. You have money?'

'Godwin must have standard issue Krugerrands in the flat somewhere, or there's a cache of Swiss francs here. I'll find them. I can pay.'

'Then go at once. You must cross tonight — before dawn. I will be waiting for you…' There was a pause. Zimmermann was evidently studying his watch, making his calculations. 'Yes, I can be there before dawn. Very few people know of my suspension at the moment… I will be waiting. Try very hard to be there, Mr Hyde. For all our sakes.'

'I'll try. Thanks.'

'Before dawn, remember. We do not have tomorrow.'

'Yes.'

Hyde put down the receiver and gently rubbed the hand that had held it. He listened to the street outside, then crossed to the window, lifting the curtain gently to one side. Traffic thin, pedestrians few, as if midnight had hurried them home. Man loitering in the dark doorway… no, girl there, too. No one suspicious. No curtains wide for surveillance, no muted lights. Hyde breathed deeply, clouding the cold window-pane, expelling the air like a decision