The Bear's Tears

'This — I think I should begin by making reference to your ministry in Bonn, Herr Zimmermann. And perhaps I should listen to Andrew Babbington's account of the affair. Frankly, I don't believe a word of it. Not one word —'

'For Christ's sake, shut up!' Hyde's eyes were wide, bright as if feverish. He was shaking inside the blanket. 'If you wait another bloody minute, sport, you'll kill Aubrey!'

'Don't be ridiculous.'

'And you'll kill your precious god-daughter, mate. Aubrey, Massinger, and Massinger's wife. They're all on the flight.'

'What—?'

'Don't you ever fucking listen to anything anyone says?' Hyde almost screamed, stretching forward towards the receiver, the muscles and veins standing out in his neck. 'I said Massinger and his wife are on that bloody plane to Moscow! Babbington's making sure there's no one left to testify! He's cleaning house, mate. Tidying-up! Understand? You're making sure he kills her — kills Margaret Massinger along with Aubrey!'

He slumped back into his chair, almost tumbling it and himself to the floor. Zimmermann started from his seat, but Hyde waved him to sit down. There was a gleam of calculation replacing the wild look in his eyes. His teeth chattered as he tried to grin. Then he said: 'It's up to that pompous old fart, now.' His voice was loud enough for Guest to hear. 'It depends if he gives a monkey's or not.'

In the silence, the minute-hand of the clock moved audibly. Nine-twenty.

Eleven seconds later — they had both counted them off — Guest said, 'Assuming, perhaps only assuming…' He cleared his throat. 'I must assume…' Again, he dried up. They heard him cough. 'If — what do you suggest, Hyde? Zimmermann — what do you suggest?'

Hyde dragged his chair to the desk. The blanket fell away once more. 'Heathrow — Special Branch must grab Babbington and hold him. Just hold him — and warn them to watch out for interference.'

'Yes—'

'Use all your emergency authority and make Euston Tower and Cheltenham transmit Priority Black signals to the embassy in Moscow, and Moscow Centre. They have to do that now. You have to try to stop them taking Aubrey off the plane. If you've got Babbington and they've got Aubrey, there's only one thing to do. Tell them you'll do a swap — exchange their man for ours. Understand?'

'But—'

'Look, if they agree, you've already got the proof you need! They wouldn't agree to hold the operation if Babbington wasn't their man — would they? Once they go on hold, it doesn't matter how long the tidying up takes!' Hyde growled. 'Just make sure they know you've got Babbington. They'll have to have him back — too bad for morale if they let him go to the wall. It'll work. It happens with small fry — and big fish. Get them to agree to a trade.'

'Euston Tower can—?' Guest began.

'Don't ask — they can talk to Moscow Centre any time they choose. Priority Black, remember. Just tell them to do it. Inform the Chairman you've got his favourite toy. He should choke on the news!'

Nine twenty-one.

'Very well — this is all provisional, of course. But, under the circumstances surrounding… surrounding the other people involved, I am prepared to go along with your suggestions to the extent—'

'Do it! And, while you're at it, get Godwin free in Prague. If the poor sod's still alive. Do it.'

Zimmermann said quickly, efficiently, 'We will ensure that the computer tape, the irrefutable proof, will be flown by helicopter to our computer centre in Munich at once. Our computer will talk to yours at Century House — an hour after Sir Andrew reaches London, you will have confirmation of everything we have told you.' As soon as he had finished speaking, he cut the connection with a brisk, decisive movement of his right hand. Hyde slumped his head on his folded arms and lay still, his damp hair staining the green blotter. Zimmermann watched him for a few moments, then said softly:

'Is there time, I wonder?'

'There'd better be,' Hyde mumbled into his sleeve. He was wearing a Grenzschutz uniform shirt that was too large for him. 'I don't even want to think about it.' He did not look up as he added: 'There's nothing we can do about it now, anyway. Nothing.'

Zimmermann glanced at the clock. Nine twenty-two. 'No,' he agreed. 'Nothing.'

* * *

As he descended the passenger steps, Babbington experienced a sensation that might have originated in some television news item. Speed, movement, action; the viewer relying upon the camera's point of view, that camera held by a running man. Vigorous panning — left, right, left, right — a desperate attempt to define the real, crucial focus of the scene.

He was three steps from the bottom of the passenger ladder. There was the expected black Mercedes and the uniformed civil service driver; this one with small-arms expertise and a myriad emergency driving skills. Eldon was there in his military fawn overcoat, present as one of the new influential deputies of SAID. He was standing erectly by the black car, and had not yet begun to react to the new arrivals.

Two other cars. Almost a traffic-jam. One of the cars — another Mercedes — was slightly nearer, and had arrived in more of a hurry. The second new car was — Special Branch. He did not even need to think about it. Two mackintoshes, two trilbies. Caricatures. The morning sunlight glanced off the windows of the terminal, highlighted the arrogant tailplanes of perhaps a dozen airliners. Gleamed on the windows of the three cars. Left, right, left, right — point of focus? Babbington was unsettled.

It would be the act of the next few moments. After that, events would be beyond his shaping. The two Special Branch men began their ponderous progress towards him across thirty yards of tarmac. Eldon began to absorb the scene, his left hand already gesturing to the security driver, who began reaching for his shoulder-holster. Yet Eldon was confused, made compliant by his recognition of the Special Branch officers.

And the Russians… He recognised his contact, Oleg, inside the car. A hand beckoning him down the last few steps towards the opened door of their Mercedes. One young man in a well-cut suit displayed by his opened overcoat — a gun there, too—

And he believed, for an instant, that they would kill him rather than allow Special Branch near him.

Babbington shivered. Passengers from first class pressed behind him on the steps, their respectful stillness because of the array of cars already evaporating. The air was chilly in his nostrils, scented with aviation fuel. His chest seemed to pound. Left, right, left, right — the mad panning continued.

Eldon raised his hand in a confused, troubled gesture of welcome that might have been a signal to bar his admission to some club.

Hyde—

He had time to think that. It couldn't have been Aubrey. He was already dead; prepared for death at the very least. Poor Margaret and her stupid, persistent husband were, without doubt, no longer living. But, Hyde—

His hands clenched into useless fists. The Russians gestured more frantically. He saw the sweep of the young man's arm, his readiness to risk even gunfire to salvage the focus of the scene, the focus of Teardrop …

A car chase, the embassy in Kensington or some hidden safe-house, a light aircraft to the Continent, then — Moscow…

The things with which he had mocked Aubrey. The Special Branch men were fifteen yards away now. The medals, the Pravda eulogy — and the bitter, never-forgotten taste of failure. The daily reminders that his rank, his rank, was little more than a joke, albeit a respectful joke, while their uniforms demonstrated the real power and authority—

Everything was clear to him. Eldon had started forward now, confused but with some intuition that he should be acting against Babbington. Both he and the driver closed upon the Russian Mercedes — closing that exit, unless he ran—

Ran, ran, run, run —

Special Branch were five yards from him. And he was already at the last step, as if to greet them with his surrender—!

'Sir Andrew Babbington?' one of them began, questioning and polite and final. His hands gripped the sides of