The Bear's Tears

'Sir?'

Zimmermann immediately reached for the intercom switch and flicked it.

'Yes?'

'Sir, I have your call. I gave your name, sir — was that…?'

'Yes, yes — put the call through, man!'

Hyde's head came up. His whole frame was quivering. 'Is it—?' he began.

Zimmermann clipped the receiver to a desk speaker/amplifier so that both he and Hyde could hear Guest and speak to him without having to transfer the receiver to and fro.

'Sir William Guest? Am I addressing Sir William Guest?' Zimmermann asked breathlessly, his voice light and strange.

'Who is this? My telephone has been ringing ever since—' With a silent movement of his lips, Zimmermann queried the voice with Hyde. He had slumped in the chair, the blanket falling open, disregarded. He nodded. His clenched fists beat at his thighs. His head bobbed. It was Guest, was Guest — impossibly, it was—!

Zimmermann identified himself to Guest in a formal, polite manner. Then he said, 'I have someone here, Sir William, who must speak with you — only with you. It is of the utmost urgency. You must listen to him—' Zimmermann's tone had changed to one of pleading. He was no longer able to control his voice.

Nine-twelve.

'Yes? What is all this, Herr Zimmermann? Of course, I understand you, but not the mystery you seem intent on creating. I have just arrived after a very unsatisfactory aeroplane journey, I am very tired—'

'Shut up and listen!' Hyde shouted into the telephone, leaning forward on his chair, his face bent towards the receiver. 'It's Hyde — Patrick Hyde. And I want to talk about Aubrey. Now, listen—'

'Hyde!' Sir William's voice blared from the receiver. 'Hyde — how dare you…' Hyde grinned at Zimmermann. His teeth had begun to chatter once more, and his shaking seemed well beyond control. Zimmermann realised that the Australian was without reserves. He was forcing himself not to subside completely. Zimmermann prepared to take command of the situation. Hyde pulled the blanket back around his shoulders and hunched his body. Somehow, diminishing the physical space he occupied seemed to assist him; as if he were squeezing some sponge within him which still held a few last drops of energy. 'This conversation must end at once, Hyde,' Sir William continued, his habitual tone of authority fully recaptured. 'There are channels — and you are persona non grata, as you are only too well aware.'

'For Christ's sake—!'

'Sir William,' Zimmermann interjected, waving Hyde to silence. The Australian glared at him. And obeyed. 'Sir William — time is very short, as you will understand once you have heard what we have to tell you. I beg you to listen.' Zimmermann's tone was edged with obsequiousness, which Hyde loathed. The German adopted the role of a subordinate, but one with his own degree of rank and authority. 'I really must insist—' he continued.

'What is it, Herr Zimmermann? Really, what is the cause of this unexpected, uninvited conversation?'

'Proof!' Hyde exclaimed. 'Proof that Aubrey's innocent and your pal Babbington's been a very naughty boy behind your back! And from the same fucking school, too—!'

'Hyde! Be silent!' Zimmermann barked. He pressed his finger to his lips, then pointed to himself. 'I'm sorry, Sir William. Mr Hyde's loyalty is not in question, as you can—'

'But it is, Herr Zimmermann — I don't know what tale he has told you, but I'm afraid you are in the company of a renegade. One of our rotten apples, I'm sorry to say…'

'Forgive me, but I don't think so.'

'Really. With the kind of accusation he appears to be making? You surely don't believe him?'

Nine-fourteen. Both of them glanced in the same moment at the clock on the wall, the coffee from Hyde's mug an elongated, drying splash beneath it on the cream paint.

'I am afraid that I am forced to do so,' Zimmermann replied with studied deference and conviction.

'Herr Zimmermann — I really am very tired…'

'Please, Sir William—! You have been in Washington for a matter of days now…'

'Yes?'

'You are then not familiar with what has happened — that Sir Kenneth Aubrey is in the Soviet Union at this moment?'

There was a silence, then Guest said, 'The news does not surprise me. I will, no doubt, be receiving a report in due course. From Andrew Babbington.'

'He'll be on your doorstep within the hour, mate, with his version of events. You can bloody count on it!'

'Sir Andrew has been in Vienna. Aubrey was captured by your intelligence service there—'

'Ah.'

'But, they lost him. He was allowed to fall into the hands of the KGB. They spirited him at once to Moscow. His flight will have landed by now.'

Nine-fifteen. Yes, Hyde admitted, banging his thighs with clenched fists. Landed by now. Zimmermann had checked with Vienna before leaving Waldsassen for the border. The Aeroflot flight had left Vienna at six-fifteen. Three hours to Moscow. It was down by now. Red carpet, the boys in the band, the forced handshakes and back- pattings, the black car — finis. Gone. Tomorrow, all you have to look forward to is a heart-attack and the obituary in Pravda.

'And?'

'Sir William, I am convinced that Sir Kenneth is in the gravest danger—'

'From his own people?' Guest remarked with studied irony.

'No — from the Soviets. He is not one of them.'

'But Andrew Babbington is? Preposterous!'

'Hyde has evidence, Sir William. The man is named specifically. The whole — scenario, shall we call it, whereby Sir Kenneth was made to appear a Soviet agent… Mr Hyde has this on a computer tape. He has obtained definitive evidence of Sir Andrew Babbington's treachery and the Soviet attempt to disgrace Sir Kenneth and replace him with their own agent.'

'I promoted Andrew Babbington,' Guest replied. The tiny click of the clock's minute hand moving was audible in the room. Zimmermann's words had fallen emptily, with a dull, hollow noise. The cassette lay, still wrapped in polythene, on the captain's desk. It was mute; might have been blank for all the use it appeared to be.

Zimmermann shrugged, lacing his fingers, unlacing them. He appeared at a loss.

Guest said, 'Preposterous. Quite preposterous. What kind of twisted mind invented this rubbish? Hyde? Aubrey? The Russians? It really is ridiculous, you know, Herr Zimmermann.'

Nine-sixteen.

'Christ, I'm cold,' Hyde murmured.

Zimmermann looked up from his fingers quickly. Hyde's face was pale; the skin quivered on his cheeks, his lips echoed the constant movement of his clenched teeth. His hands, gripping the edges of the blanket and folded on his chest, were bloodless and shaking.

'It is not preposterous!' Zimmermann snapped.

'I beg—'

'Listen to me, Sir William. Please listen—' He lowered his voice. Nine-seventeen. 'That was obviously the factor that dictated their timing… your support of Sir Andrew. The new service you have conjured into existence…'

'You suggest I have played into Soviet hands?'

'No, no — believe me, no. Merely that Babbington and his masters took advantage of the circumstances you helped to create. The scenario had lain idle for some years—'

'And how, precisely, did you learn of it?'

Hyde moaned softly, but whether with cold or something akin to despair Zimmermann could not tell. The man's head was hanging. Wrapped in his blanket, he looked like a refugee or a prisoner who had been beaten.

'I — the evidence is here, Sir William, with us. Please believe that we have the evidence.'

'From a computer?'

'From Moscow Centre itself. Everything…' Zimmermann sighed. He could not grasp the next word or phrase. There seemed no more he could usefully say. Guest did not believe him. Nine-eighteen. Twelve minutes. Guest could not act now, even if he believed—!