The Bear's Tears

expressionless features. '… Foreign Office has tonight refused to comment on the veracity or otherwise of the film. We have been unable to confirm the identities of the two men…'

It was Aubrey. Body, head, build, profile, full-face — Aubrey. And the other was Kapustin, no doubt… Teardrop himself. He moved quickly to the television set and switched it off, almost wrenching at the controls. An image of Pavel's satisfied, confident features floated in front of his eyes, then melted and reformed into the features of Sir William, then Babbington and then the others, followed by Aubrey's shrunken, defeated old face. Finally, the professional mask of the driver of the blue Cortina.

They had him now. Aubrey. Tape, film, public exposure, trial by television and newspapers. They had wrecked him. Anger rose like a wave of nausea in Massinger.

He moved into the dressing-room, piled with coats and umbrellas and raincoats and furs and capes. He picked up the telephone swiftly and dialled Peter Shelley's number. The tone summoned, again and again. Massinger perspired impatiently, guiltily. Sir William's face appeared again in front of his eyes, but then he saw Margaret — a multiple image of her face that afternoon, before she left him and Babbington alone, and her face that evening, glowing.

He felt sick with betrayal.

'Come on, come on—!' he urged, as if afraid that the new and unexpected determination would desert him, seep away down the telephone line. 'Come on.' His head kept swivelling towards the door.

Why, why? he asked himself. Why am I calling?

'Yes?' Shelley answered. He sounded the worse for drink.

'Have you seen the late news programme?' Massinger demanded.

'Yes.' Shelley's voice was young and bitter, almost sulky. 'What do you want?'

Massinger knew he was poised above a chasm. All he had was an anger caused by some faked film and the smug, insulting, deliberate indiscretions of a KGB Rezident — and threats and bribes. They did not seem to justify this — this commitment. His shame had been revitalised, but, even as he had dialled Shelley's number, bribery and love had reappeared to restrain him. Then he leapt over the chasm.

His old debt to Aubrey gave him some of the energy he needed to make that leap. But anger, pure hot rage, finally drove him. They had threatened him, threatened his future with Margaret, his happiness with her… Babbington and Guest. Threat and bribe. Stick and carrot… and he had been prepared to go along, to begin to forget… and it was a lie! Pavel knew that—! Buried professional instincts, wider loyalties than the personal one to Aubrey, began to surface. He thought of Margaret, hesitated, swallowed, clenched his free hand. Then he said, 'I want that file tomorrow.'

'Why the sudden change of heart?' Shelley asked haughtily.

'Never mind. Tomorrow, at eleven. Meet me outside— outside the Imperial War Museum — yes?'

'I–I'll have to have the file back by one.'

'You will. Just be there, Peter. It's very important.'

'Have you heard from Hyde?'

'No — you?'

'No.'

'I'll talk to the woman again tomorrow. Now, good night.'

The door opened as he put down the receiver. His hand jumped away from it as from an electric current. He automatically adjusted his tie in the cheval-glass before turning. Margaret stood there, with Pavel.

'Pavel wanted to say good night,' she announced. The noise of the party swelled through the open door behind them. Her hand was on the Russian's arm like the touch of a fellow-conspirator. Yet it was he who was the real conspirator, the real traitor.

'Good night, Pavel.'

'Good night, my friend — good night, and thank you.'

Pavel turned away as he approached, poised to be escorted to the door. Then Massinger said, before he could weigh or recall the words: 'Not one teardrop, Pavel?'

The KGB Rezident's shoulders stiffened. Then he turned a bland and smiling face to him.

'Perhaps just one,' he said. There was an amusement in his eyes. Then he laughed. 'No, I really must be going.' He held out his hand. 'Take care, my friend.' The warning was precise. 'Take good care of yourself. Good night, Margaret.'

His handshake was firm and hot. He pecked Margaret's cheek, and was gone. Massinger closed the door behind him. The noise of the party loudened. His head had begun to beat. Impulsively, he put his arms around Margaret and pulled her to him, holding her tightly against him.

Eventually, she pulled gently away, smiling. Glowing, he thought once more with black, ashy bitterness.

'Back to the party for you,' she instructed humorously. 'You're becoming much too self-indulgent.'

She took his hand, and led him back towards the drawing-room.

God, he thought with the fervency of prayer, don't let me hurt her. Don't let me lose her — don't let me hurt or lose her…

* * *

'Hyde?'

The word seemed to hang somewhere in the air between London and Vienna. The static and distance seemed like eavesdroppers. Paul Massinger hunched over the telephone receiver in the woman's flat as if to conceal his voice and movements from prying ears and eyes.

The call from the woman, Ros, had come while he was shaving. The dressing-room extension had been nearest; the receiver of betrayals. He had picked it up fumblingly with a wet hand, the mouthpiece immediately whitened by his shaving foam. He had been aware, like a fear along his spine, of Margaret's still-sleeping presence in the bedroom. The call had not woken her.

The woman had persuaded Hyde to talk to Massinger, when could he come…? Would ten—? Hyde seemed nervous, on edge, wanted to talk to him urgently… He had swallowed all betrayals, all fears, and agreed to come to Earl's Court before ten.

… to sit in a large room decorated in deep warm colours, the walls of which were hung with prints of Australian landscapes, often bleached and bleak, his body already half-turned to the telephone beside the sofa, anticipating the call.

He had seen no blue Cortina; he had seen no other tail. They had accepted his surrender, they did not guess at this renewed rebellion. Betrayal…

Beyond this telephone call, Peter Shelley and the transcript of the Teardrop file lay ahead of him like an ambush in the bright, cold morning.

Then the call had come. Ros had answered, nodded and handed the receiver to him. He had taken it like a thing infected or booby-trapped. At the other end of the connection, Hyde waited like a malevolent destiny. He was certain of it; certain no good would come of it. Then he plunged.

'Hyde?' he repeated.

'Massinger? Is that phone bugged?'

Involuntarily, he looked up at Ros, and repeated Hyde's question. Ros stood like a guardian near the sofa, arms folded across her breasts. She shrugged, and then she said, 'I'm just his landlady. He knows that, so do they.'

Massinger nodded. 'We don't think so — we're pretty sure.'

'Who's we?' Hyde asked in a worryingly unnerved way, then he added: 'Oh, Ros. OK. I've heard of you, Massinger. You were CIA, a long time ago, but you've been out of things since then. You're a teacher now. What's your angle?'

Hyde mirrored his own emotions, Massinger realised. He, too, anticipated exposure, capture, the death of something. In his case, his own demise. Why? Why was Hyde so evidently at the final extremity, in fear of his life? Damned, betraying professional instincts prompted him to reply. He was helpless to contain or suppress them.

'I'm trying to help Aubrey. Why are you afraid for your life, Hyde? Who's trying to kill you?'

Ros's large, plump hand covered her mouth, too late to hold in the gasp she had emitted. Her body seemed to quiver beneath the kaftan with a sudden chill.

'You don't know, do you?' Hyde replied. Massinger sensed that he, too, had come to a decision, but his had