The Bear's Tears

into the car. Inside the patrol car, the flash of a cigarette lighter. Hyde remained inside the telephone booth, half- turned to watch the Skoda.

The patrolman straightened and walked back towards his car. Wait, wait—

His companion got out, stretched away stiffness, offered his packet of cigarettes. Then the two of them walked towards the dimly-lit office where Hyde had paid for his petrol. He forced himself to continue dialling. The moment the number began to ring, he returned his gaze to the two policemen. The receiver rang in his ear, an empty sound. He glanced at his watch. Three-fifty. There was no cover between the telephone booth and the office. They would walk towards him, clearly exposed but able to see his every movement inside the glass box. He must wait, and when they moved, he must walk slowly, slowly and unconcernedly towards the Skoda. Then turn and kill them. Two shots, perhaps three before fire was returned. His free hand twitched, as if it had already entered the future. He drummed on the coin box. Mirror—

Yes, leaning on the coin box casually, he could see the office in the mirror. The telephone continued to ring. The two policemen were talking. An arm pointed towards the Skoda, the garage manager pointed in Hyde's direction. One of the policemen turned lazily, then looked away again. Towards a cup he was raising to his lips.

Hyde sighed, clouding the mirror. Furiously, he rubbed it clear. No, they hadn't moved, both drinking with the manager. A regular nightly call. There was a little time left—

Go. The telephone rang unanswered. Go.

Little time—

He knew it was close. Almost over. They didn't need to monitor Guest's telephone any longer. They'd almost finished whatever they had in mind for Aubrey. Babbington was sure of himself.

Policemen smoking, drinking coffee or tea. The manager leaning on his counter. Go now—

He cancelled the number and began to dial at once. He had to know. Two men might have to be killed, he might have to run. He had to know. He finished dialling SIS's Vienna Station. The number began ringing. Three statues in a close group under the dim bulb in the manager's office. Still time.

'Yes?' Hyde did not recognise the voice.

'Listen to me,' he blurted out. 'It's Hyde — who the bloody hell are you?'

'Beach,' came the surprised reply. Then: 'What the hell do you want—? You've got a fucking nerve calling —'

'Shut up and listen, you stupid bugger!' Hyde snapped. 'I haven't got time for the niceties. Just tell me what's happened to Aubrey.'

'My God — his Russian pals have got him, that's what!'

'What—?'

'Two good men died tonight, you bastard! Two good men! All because the fucking KGB wanted their ball back! Do you understand, Hyde? His pals came and took him back! And they killed two of my mates doing it!'

Christ—

Too close. Already too late—

'Listen to me, you moron! It's not Aubrey — it's Babbington! Don't you understand, Babbington is Moscow's man!'

'What? You're crazy, Hyde… Babbington caught Aubrey. Handed him over for us to guard — and we buggered it up. Lost him. Understand? He's going back to Mother Russia, and good fucking riddance to him!'

'What's happening to the old man?' Hyde yelled into the telephone.

Rub the mirror clear. Smoking, drinking in the office. Heads lifted in laughter.

'He's already left for the airport — just had the report.' Beach was calmer now, almost pleased.

'Then stop him!'

'Babbington's letting him go, Hyde. Your mate's not to be touched. Better for everyone. Even you—'

'Christ — don't you listen?' Mirror. Small, tight, relaxed group in the office. New cigarettes being lit. The sense at the other end of the line that someone else had taken — snatched? — the receiver.

A pause, then: 'Hyde?' He recognised Wilkes's voice. 'It's Wilkes, Patrick.' Then: 'OK, Beach, I'll deal with this. Get some coffee up here, will you?'

'Wilkes — where's the old man?'

'Where are you, Hyde?' Wilkes's tone was amused, certain.

'Never mind. I've got it all, Wilkes. Everything. Even his name. Of course, no one mentioned anyone as small-time as you.'

'Everything, eh? Still in Czecho, are you? You won't get out, old son. That's certain.'

Mirror—!

Group breaking up, one of the two policemen nearer the office's glass door, turning back to speak, hand outstretched to the ear-shaped handle of the door. Time—

No time. All over. Hyde ground his teeth audibly as he struggled to contain his rage.

'You know what I've got,' he said, certain that Babbington already knew of his interference with the computer. They'd have tracked down and run Petrunin's programme themselves by now.

'You don't matter, Hyde. You're a dead man. You won't get out.'

'And your boss is running for London already, is he? Wiping his shoes on Guest's doormat, full of the news that he's lost the old man to his Russian friends?'

'First businessman's flight this morning to Heathrow. Your pal Aubrey's just about to leave. He'll be in Moscow before it gets light.' Wilkes chuckled.

One policeman through the door, the second replacing his cap and following. The manager's hand raised in farewell. Too late to move now. Wait until they get close—

'And then—?'

'He goes on show, old son. Press call — the whole shocking story. Terrible ordeal for the poor old sod. Can't say the same for the Yank and his wife, of course. They'll just disappear on arrival.'

'I'll have Babbington, Wilkes. I swear it. And you. I don't care how long, or when and where. I'll have you both.'

Both policemen near their car. One, hands on hips, staring towards the telephone booth. Cap pushed on the back of his head. Glance towards the Skoda, then back to Hyde—

'If you hurry, Hyde, you'll catch him before he boards the seven o'clock to Heathrow. First-class lounge, of course. I'll give him a call, shall I, tell him to be expecting you?' Wilkes laughed.

Seven o'clock. Heathrow arrival time, nine-thirty. He glanced at his watch as he cut off the call with his free hand. Retaining his grip on the receiver to allay suspicion. Policemen unmoving. Aubrey would be in Moscow even before Babbington's flight reached London.

Three fifty-five. Five and a half hours. Guest must be arriving from Washington on the early morning flight.

Mirror—

The patrol car's engine started, the car moved, rounding the pumps in a wide arc, heading towards him. His free hand moved to the lapel of his coat. The policeman in the passenger seat stared at him. The patrol car did not stop. Hyde felt the coin box hard against his side as he slumped in relief. The rear lights of the car moved off towards Karlovy Vary, climbed windingly up the hill, then dropped over the brow and disappeared.

Hyde slammed down the damp receiver and opened the fogged glass door. He hurried towards the Skoda. He fumbled in his pocket for the car keys. Dropped them, then scooped them out of a pool of petrol-rainbowed water on the point of freezing.

He wanted Babbington arrested as he got off the flight from Vienna. He wanted it. If he could talk to Guest, persuade him—

Before the old man disappered. Why should they put him on display at a press conference like an old bear at the zoo? That could backfire. Everyone knew the old man had been taken to Moscow. A few snaps of him getting off the plane would be enough.

He wrenched open the door, climbed into the driver's seat, started the engine. The windscreen clouded immediately. He rubbed it clear, turned the wheel, pulled away from the garage.