The Bear's Tears

indeed cleansed both services of disciples, apostles, fellow-travellers and the like — then it would serve Moscow Centre's purpose very well to substitute shadow for substance, raise the bogey again.' He shrugged. 'I really don't know, Paul.'

Massinger was silent for a time, then he said: 'If Charlie Buckholz was still alive, he'd never have let JIC see that file. He'd have warned you of it at the very least.' Aubrey remembered, vividly, Massinger's arm supporting him as they stood at the damp, chilly graveside. The military chaplain had said, his words, Buckholz's coffin had been lowered and the Deputy Director of the CIA had vanished from their lives. Their mutual friend. Then Massinger added: 'What can I do?'

Aubrey suppressed a small sense of triumph. 'Thank you, Paul.'

'How are you fixed here? What access do you have?'

'None. The telephone is tapped. I am guarded day and night.'

'Fortunately, Babbington has been kind enough to keep the Press away from my door. There are no other advantages to my isolation.'

'Then, what do we do? I have — very unofficial contacts. Nothing I can use to help.'

'If only Hyde were here—!' Aubrey burst out.

'Hyde? Who is Hyde?'

'A good field man.'

'Would he help?'

'I think so. But, I can't reach him and neither can you.'

'Where is he?'

'He was with me in Vienna when I was arrested. He — fled.'

'Why?'

'I don't know. He must have had good reason. What he knows or suspects, who can say? If only he would come in…'

'Who else?'

'Peter Shelley. He's got East Europe now, you know. I promoted him. He could be our man.'

'Will he have been warned off?'

'Yes. Yes, I think everyone will have been warned off. The situation is extreme — I am not believed. I am guilty… but I think Peter will come through. He has to come through if I'm to escape this net.'

'Very well, Kenneth. I'll see him.'

'Invite him to lunch — today,' Aubrey instructed with a dry, hungry eagerness.

'If you wish — from a call-box, naturally,' Massinger replied with a boyish smile. Yes, he was hooked, Aubrey concluded. He had begun drinking again, had become addicted to the secret life once more. 'Who's running your whole show at the moment?'

'Babbington — the Cabinet Office, Sir William Guest that is, has dumped everything in his lap. DG of MI5, chief investigating officer in the case of yours truly, and acting DG of SIS. An unparallelled array of finery!' he concluded with surprising venom.

'Do you think I should talk to him — unofficially, of course, as a friend of Margaret…?'

'Babbington wants my head, and my job.'

'OK,' Massinger concluded heavily. He felt manoeuvred; shuffled and dealt like cards. Aubrey was at his most threatened, and therefore his most calculating. 'What do you want from Shelley?'

'The last two years of my life,' Aubrey replied grimly. 'He will have access to the files, the recordings, everything. I need it all. And he must find Patrick Hyde for me. I must have Hyde's voice — and I must know why he ran away.'

'Can you prove your innocence — with no shadow of doubt?'

'I must. I must break the mirror and show the reality behind it. I am not Teardrop. I must prove that. Otherwise—' His spreading arms indicated, even embraced, his surroundings. ' — all of this is lost. I am lost.'

Massinger perceived that Aubrey felt his whole career, his whole past, to be in the balance. Forty-five years and more of secret work, secret loyalty, secret pride. All of it was threatened now.

'And 1946?' he asked.

'That must wait.' Aubrey paused for a moment. Massinger saw his jowls quiver slightly, and the greyness of his face as a gleam of watery sunlight caught it from the tall window. Motes of dust danced uncertainly in the beam of light as Aubrey swept doubt aside with a gesture of his hand. 'That must wait — it is the recent past that will save me. I have to prove that I controlled Teardrop — that he did not control me.'

'You're fighting shadows. It doesn't matter to your people, maybe, that the X-ray machine has a fault. It's snowing up a shadow on your lungs, and that's enough for them.' Massinger's face was bleak. He appeared out of his depth, even regretful that he had come, made his offer.

'Dammit, Paul—!'

'OK, Kenneth. I'll help — if I can.'

Massinger sighed involuntarily, even shook his head. Then he looked up at Aubrey, grimaced as if with pain, then nodded. His features seemed to clear of doubt, become heavy with a decision already made. 'I owe you, Kenneth,' he said.

Aubrey waved the remark aside, murmuring: 'Not that old matter…'

'Nevertheless,' Massinger persisted, 'I owe you my career — at least, until I changed it for college teaching. I don't know if I can help. I just know I have to try. There isn't anyone else who will, is there?' Aubrey shook his head. 'Though what a retired professor of European history has to bring to this thing, I'm not sure.' Massinger's smile was rueful, and he added: 'Though I was a good operations controller in the field, back before the Flood!' His face darkened when he said: 'You always involved yourself too personally in operations. You should never have gone near that Deputy Chairman — not within a mile.'

'Meals with the Devil and the virtues of a long spoon, you'll be telling me next.'

'Exactly.'

'Another drink, Paul?'

'Mm? No thanks. I guess I'd better be going—' He looked at his watch. ' — if I'm to talk to Peter Shelley today.' He hoisted himself stiffly to his feet. Aubrey rose. Massinger, leaning on his stick, looked down on the older man. He smiled slightly, sardonically. His eyes were lidded and he appeared weary. 'OK, Kenneth. I'll do what I can…' Something evidently still nagged at his mind. He said diffidently: 'I feel — like a traitor myself.' Aubrey winced at the word. 'Margaret wouldn't forgive me, even though you didn't do it…?' He ended on an interrogative note.

'I swear to you, Paul, I did not betray Robert Castleford to the NKVD,' Aubrey said with finely-judged solemnity.

Massinger seemed relieved. 'I know.'

'Tell Peter to find Patrick Hyde,' Aubrey instructed urgently. 'And — and tell him I shall need a transcript of that file our defecting friend took to the CIA — that damned Teardrop file, as it's called! I need to see that.'

'Very well. I'll be in touch tomorrow.' He looked once more at his watch. An expensive gold watch on a thick gold bracelet, Aubrey noticed. Subtle wealth. Castleford money.

Aubrey shook Massinger's hand. Light flashed from the face of the watch.

'Thank you, Paul — thank you!' he said.

* * *

The upstairs room of Antoine's in Charlotte Street was almost empty. Peter Shelley watched Massinger over the rim of his glass, and then sniffed the armagnac. He sipped at it, savoured it, and sensed his moment. He shook his head firmly. Massinger's hand, about to pick up his demi-tasse of black coffee, quivered. The tiny cup rattled in its saucer.

'I'm sorry, Professor Massinger — there's nothing I can do. There's a shutdown order on everything. Christ, I'd like to help the old man — but he's out of bounds. They're watching me, for God's sake!'

'Who?'