The Bear's Tears

Only the persistent thought of Hyde marred his satisfaction at his own nerve and daring. Hyde—

He'd received a long report of events in Prague, from the Soviet embassy. Hyde had rifled the Moscow Centre computers, gaining access to some secret database that Petrunin had hidden in the computer — evidence concerning Teardrop, hidden like incriminating documents or photographs for future use. Hyde had the whole thing; even his name. He must be stopped. How, where—? He'd been identified as having entered the country through Bratislava on a tourist visa. They were waiting for him now — though Hyde was too clever to come out by the same route. He had to be stopped. It was the one loose end—

The Tupolev turned tail-on to the windows, moving away from him towards the single main runway. Its lights winked in farewell. Babbington's satisfaction was marred. This, this very moment, should have been some kind of fulfillment; a climax, a conclusion. The Tupolev turned again, side-on to his view, pausing at the end of the runway. Kenneth Aubrey was about to fly east; a talisman to protect him. A guarantee of Babbington's future.

'Wilkes,' he snapped.

'Yes?' Babbington glared at him. 'Yes, sir?' Wilkes added in a less casual voice.

'Come with me.' Babbington led Wilkes perhaps ten yards or more before he turned to him and said: 'You have to lay hands on Hyde — eliminate him. He won't return here — not now that he knows Aubrey is on his way to Moscow. But he will try to get out with what he possesses. You're certain Godwin knows no more than he's told?'

Wilkes nodded. They would not be overheard, he realised, but spoke nevertheless in little more than a whisper. 'They know their business. He's told them everything he can. He doesn't know Hyde's plans, unless they're for Bratislava. He doesn't know anything except that Hyde's pinning his hopes on Guest.'

'Guest is the only one with the authority to do anything — except create doubt. Anyone could create doubt — even Hyde, if he can get some rag or TV station to listen to him. Anywhere in the world. He has to be stopped. And,' he added almost casually, 'ask your friends in Prague to get rid of Godwin. He mustn't appear in public again.'

'That's easy. Hyde — a little more difficult. Sir.'

The Tupolev appeared like a dog held back on its leash. Then the brakes were released and the aircraft jerked forward across the first yards of concrete, swiftly gathering speed. Aeroflot. Aubrey was safe. Babbington breathed more easily.

'What about Zimmermann?' he asked. 'You've checked on him?'

'We're still checking. He doesn't appear to be in Bonn. Don't worry, we'll find him.'

'Hyde might go to him — yes, he might well go to him. As soon as you locate Zimmermann, put on full surveillance. Hyde could show up.'

'Agreed.'

The Tupolev had reached take-off speed. Babbington studied it intently. The pool of colour from the belly light was spreading and diluting as the fuselage lifted away from the concrete. Nose up, further up, stretching—

The Tupolev heaved itself towards the sky. The muffled noise of the engines grew fainter. Aubrey was gone.

Immediately Babbington's tone was threatening.

'It's up to you, Wilkes. I'm relying on you to co-ordinate with our friends. Find Zimmermann — above all, find Hyde. Meanwhile, I'll deal with Guest. He'll be entirely satisfied by the time I've finished.' He grinned suddenly, staring down at the British Airways Trident. Passengers were straggling out of the terminal towards the aircraft. Luggage on a tractor-towed trailer had arrived alongside its cargo doors. He could smell coffee brewing behind the bar of the passenger lounge. A few more small, careful steps… the end of the tightrope, and safety, beckoned him. 'Yes,' he sighed. 'The immediate disposal of Aubrey along with the Massingers is the safest step.' He shrugged his shoulders. 'As long as we can put our hands on Hyde.' He turned once more to Wilkes. 'Purchase Hyde's eternal silence, Wilkes. Today!'

* * *

'From here, we walk,' Langdorf announced, turning round in the driver's seat.

Hyde stretched his legs, which were too stiff and weary to be supple. The journey in the back of the plumber's dirty, oil-smelling, tool-laden van had been uncomfortable. The suspension and the climbing tracks they had taken had conspired to jolt him continually from the sleep which threatened.

Hyde grunted.

'You are all right?'

'Great.' He pushed open the rear doors and dropped to the ground. He could smell the pines on the cold, damp air as the misty cloud almost settled on his head and face. It was lightless beneath the crowding trees. Langdorf closed and locked the doors of the van. It was parked deep under the trees. The thick carpet of pine debris and the thin layer of snow registered little trace of its passage. And the van was parked too far down the mountain to immediately arouse suspicion.

Langdorf flicked a torch-beam onto Hyde's face, then switched it off. He breathed deeply.

'Good. Now, we go.'

He turned and headed into the trees, immediately climbing upwards. Certain and unhesitating; on a familiar journey. Hyde hunched into his overcoat against the raw, chill damp that had folded around him, already pearling his shoulders and hair, and followed. Twigs crunched or cracked dully beneath the snow. He trod warily in the plumber's wake, his eyes gritty, his head heavy. His own movement was now keeping him from the sleep he craved. Thirty hours — more — since he had slept properly.

He shivered almost awake, and stumbled, sprawling full-length on the ground. Ankles, ankles—! he warned himself, jarring his elbows to save his hands and wrists from sprain.

'What—?' he heard Langdorf whisper before moving back. The torch flicked on, off. In the new, deeper darkness, he heard Langdorf say, 'You must stay awake. You must try to stay awake.'

Hyde got to his knees. Langdorf lifted him by his elbow until he was steady on his feet.

'Sorry.'

'Come. We have a long climb ahead. Perhaps thirty minutes. Soon it will be getting light. Very soon.'

'Yes, I know!' Hyde snapped. 'I'm all right now. Get moving.'

His night vision had returned. He saw Langdorf shrug, then turn and move off. Hyde plodded carefully in his wake. The trees above him were like low white clouds, heavy with snow.

Time clamped down like a fog. He measured his steps, but continually lost count. With Petrunin, he had registered each step, remembered the total, even with the dying man on his back. But not here. His hand went numb around the shape of the cassette in his pocket, the knuckles of his other hand ceased to register the presence of the pistol against them. His breathing was laboured. Occasionally, he bumped into Langdorf, colliding with him as the man halted to check his hand-drawn sketch or to listen intently for suspected sounds. Langdorf seemed impatient with him, yet not afraid. Having accepted the commission and agreed the price, he was more professional than Hyde.

Hyde remembered the man's reports as they drove through the small town and out into the countryside. More patrol cars… at one time, a helicopter overhead… a road-block which recognised his van and almost hurried him through. Time closing in.a More activity than usual, much more… They didn't stop the plumber, except at the one road-block. Motorcycle police recognised the legend on the van, so did the car patrols.

The advantage of working for Party members, Langdorf had told him almost gaily as another car speeded up and passed them on a narrow country road.! When they want their German bathrooms and Swiss double-sinks fitted, they want it done quickly and they want it to work! They don't use the approved plumbers — all the other poor bastards get their services. They need someone like me… I go all over — Marienbad, Karlovy Vary, Cheb… They allow me to be a capitalist. Work for myself- private enterprise, yes?

Hyde stumbled awake, steadied himself on the bole of a pine, and watched Langdorf's retreating back a little way ahead. He could see the man's outline, now possessing more depth and solidity than mere shadow. He looked at the luminous dial of his watch. Seven-twenty. Time closing in — running out…

He plodded on.