The Bear's Tears

* * *

Margaret was perched on the edge of the armchair which faced the door of the drawing-room. Her hands comforted and strengthened each other on her lap. Babbington was in half-profile to Massinger until he turned his head in greeting. Or perhaps it was no more than an acknowledgement of his presence. Massinger felt himself an intruder, the shoulders of his overcoat sparkling with melted snow that had blown along the orange-flaring darkness of the street outside. The warmth of the central heating seemed a barrier; a border he had yet to cross.

Babbington stood almost at once, and held out a hand. Massinger moved towards him, conscious of an ache in his hip. Margaret's features betrayed a little anxiety. Babbington seemed to weigh and discard him, and to be almost amused at his infirmity.

'My dear Paul,' he murmured.

'Sir Andrew,' Massinger replied stiffly. Babbington smiled sardonically and with infinite confidence.

Margaret stood up jerkily, her body that of a faint-hearted conspirator in the moment of flight. 'I–I'll leave the two of you to talk,' she murmured. Massinger allowed a look of pain to cross his face. It was evident Babbington and she had been talking. She knew — if not everything, then a great deal about how he had spent the day. He could not but be hurt, and guilty, in the moment before other thoughts crowded in. Blue Cortina. Babbington's people—? Why? He felt breathless.

'Don't forget to leave yourself time to change,' Margaret added as she moved to the door.

Flowers — he was aware of a number of new flower arrangements that must have been delivered that afternoon. The sideboard was laden with drink and glasses.

'Why—?' he asked stupidly.

'Covent Garden,' she murmured in a tight little voice, indicating displeasure. Then she closed the double doors to the dining-room behind her. Immediately, he could hear her supervising the activities of the butler and housekeeper.

'Sit down, my dear Paul,' Babbington murmured, indicating a chair. It might have been the man's own room. Massinger lowered himself into his armchair as vigorously as possible, casting the stick and his removed raincoat aside. Babbington watched him with what might have been greed rather than curiosity. 'You're not well?'

'Fine, thank you, Andrew — and you?'

'Good health, thank God.'

Massinger quailed inwardly. It was not knowledge of Babbington's position, authority and reputation that made him do so. Rather, Babbington exuded those things, they were palpably present in his frame, his features, the room.

'You seem serious, Andrew?' he asked as lightly as he could.

'I am, Paul — I am. This Aubrey business. This affair of your friend Aubrey. Deeply distressing.' Babbington shook his head as an accompaniment to his words. The scent of winter roses from near the windows, where the central heating was opening the tight buds, was sharp and warm in Massinger's nostrils. He had not noticed the scent when he had come in from the cold, wet street. Now, he heard the sleet patter against the windows behind the heavy curtains and, through one window at the far end of the room where the curtains had not been drawn, he saw it blow in a gust through the orange light of a street-lamp. The image was almost identical to that of one of the two Turners on the wall above the sideboard.

'Yes. My friend, as you say.' It sounded like a confession of weakness or guilt.

'I'm sorry for you, Paul. It must be very upsetting, caught in the middle as you are.'

'Yes.'

'Especially when one is impotent, useless.' The words had been carefully chosen. 'When one can do nothing to help, even though one wishes to — however much one wishes to.' Babbington spread his hands on his thighs.

'You think nothing can be done?'

'I'm certain of it,' Babbington replied sharply. His eyes held Massinger's. 'I'm sure of it,' he repeated softly.

'You think he's guilty?'

'Perhaps. It doesn't look good. In fact, it looks very bad, from whichever angle the light strikes it. Very bad.'

'But you know he's not a traitor—!'

'I know nothing of the sort, neither do you. You don't believe he is. Nothing more than belief.'

'Nonsense.'

'My God — if he is allowed to remain as DG of the intelligence service, Paul — the havoc, the absolute, irreparable harm of it!'

'I don't believe it. Any of it. You shouldn't believe it either.'

'Aubrey's day is over, Paul, whatever the final outcome. I assure you his sun has set.' Babbington's eyes gleamed with an undisguised ambition.

'Whatever the truth really is?'

'I'm sorry,' Babbington murmured insincerely. 'I realise he is a very close friend…'

'And if it is a KGB set-up, as Aubrey believes?' Massinger asked, feeling warmth ascend to his cheeks. He felt foolish, hot and angry and not in control of his situation. And he felt insulted and unnerved by the threats that had underlain each of Babbington's remarks. 'Don't you wonder why the KGB might want to help you achieve your ambitions — why they should want Aubrey ditched like this?'

Babbington was silent for a time, as if genuinely considering Massinger's theory. Then he studied the cornice, and the central moulding above the chandelier. Plaster pastoral, shepherds and shepherdesses against pale blue, like a piece of Wedgwood. Then he returned his gaze to Massinger.

'You're not going to go on with this, of course?'

'What?'

'This misguided attempt to assist someone who cannot be helped.'

'The truth doesn't matter?'

'That is the second time you have asked me that. It still sounds just as naive.'

'My God—'

'Aubrey is as guilty as hell!' Babbington snapped. His powerful hands were bunched on his knees as he leant forward in his chair. 'When we get to the bottom of it — to the centre of the web — Aubrey will be seen to be as guilty as hell. He's a Soviet agent, dammit, and he has been for nearly forty years. Ever since he betrayed your wife's father, and had him disposed of by the NKVD.'

'Why should he have done that?' Massinger disputed hotly, his face burning with anger and with the effect of Babbington's unsheathed determination.

'A proof of his loyalty — or because Robert Castleford was a convenient way to save his own skin — take your choice.'

'That's crazy—' Massinger replied, a perceptible quaver in his voice.

Babbington sat back as if weary of the discussion. His eyes, unlike his cheeks and lips, were not angry. They studied Massinger in a cold, detached manner.

'As you will,' he said finally. 'But he did it — your wife's father. A man whose bootlaces Aubrey wasn't fit to tie.'

'Is that blackmail?' Massinger asked quietly. His voice was breathy, nervous.

'Just remember your happiness, and that of Margaret, Paul. Please…' It was no more than the mockery of a plea.

'As I thought — blackmail.'

'No, Paul. Sound advice. If, in your Harvard, CIA and King's College priggishness, you wish to see real blackmail — then think of this. You might expect a number of City directorships to come your way. You might expect a decent number of Quango appointments. None of it will happen if you go on with this. I can assure you of that. Belgravia, everything that might have come with the job, so to speak—' He gestured around the room. It was obscene. Massinger choked on his silent anger. ' — will come to nothing. I really do assure you of it.'

'Great God,' Massinger breathed.

'But, above all, you will lose your wife's love. I am certain of that. As you must be.' Babbington stood up quickly. 'Don't bother to see me out. Say goodbye to Margaret for me. Tell her that Elizabeth will be in touch — a