The Bear's Tears

too long in a deckchair, unaware of the incoming tide, occurred to him. He dismissed it.

'You were interrogated, of course?'

'Yes — for three or four days.'

'And released?'

'I escaped.'

'During your interrogation — which could not have been gentle, by any standards — you supplied information to the NKVD.'

'I did not.' Aubrey was suddenly too weary and dispirited to inject any force into his denial.

'But — you did…'

Aubrey, sensing the clear anticipation in Eldon's voice, the knowledge of surprise, narrowed his eyes and steeled himself. What—?

'What do you mean?'

'Castleford disappeared the very day you — escaped — back to the British sector,' Eldon said. 'No one ever saw him again. He vanished from the face of the earth — utterly and completely. His remains were eventually found in 1951, during the digging of the foundations for a new office block, and finally identified by a ring, his dental record, and a fracture of the leg sustained in a rugby match at Oxford. Remember, Sir Kenneth?'

Aubrey could not disguise a shudder.

'There was a bullet hole in the skull. His remains were brought home, and honourably interred. And that was the end of the story — was the end…'

'Was?' The skull grinned up from the carpet, from the spot where Aubrey had seen the dead face minutes earlier. His hands were shaking.

'We now know what happened.'

'You know?'

'Read this if you would, Sir Kenneth.'

Eldon removed a number of enlarged photographs from his briefcase and passed them to Aubrey. They goldened in the sunlight, as did Eldon's hand. Aubrey took them with a premonitory shiver.

'Perhaps you would confirm that this is your signature, Sir Kenneth?' Eldon murmured.

Aubrey turned to the final print. What kind of transcript had been photographed? Old, certainly… yes, that was his writing, his signature. He flicked back through the sheaf of prints, rapidly reading the faded Russian, the badly-aligned, inexpert typing — question, answer, question-answer, answer answer answer—

It was an account of his interrogation by the NKVD — and it purported to be signed by himself as being supplied voluntarily and freely, for use in evidence at some unspecified future trial.

Fake, fake—!

'It is, isn't it?' Eldon prompted. There was almost a purr of satisfaction in his voice. 'That, of course, is part of the Teardrop file, supplied by our friends in Washington.' He smiled wintrily beneath the moustache, 'Your file. Experts have confirmed the genuineness of the signature. If your Russian is still as expert as it once was, you will see that you are represented in the text as having supplied Castleford's name and his current whereabouts in Berlin to your interrogator.'

Aubrey looked up. 'Patently a forgery,' he managed to say. His chest felt tight. He could hear his racing heartbeat in his ears, feel its thump in his chest.

'I see. You will also discover, as you read on, that you explain it was Castleford who operated all your networks, presenting yourself only as a minion in SIS's organisation. You deliberately suggested to the NKVD that it was of the utmost importance for them to stop him. Even to get hold of him. You claim in that document that Castleford was your senior officer in SIS. You lied so effectively to the NKVD that they had Robert Castleford murdered as a British agent!' Eldon cleared his throat, then added quietly: 'It was at that point, when you had betrayed Castleford, that you decided to throw in your lot with the NKVD and become a Russian agent!'

Aubrey felt choked. He could not speak.

They had him.

* * *

The telephone rang and Massinger snatched up the receiver. Ros's plump hand hovered near his for a moment, and then she stepped away from him, as if to dissociate herself from the conversation to come. She gathered the tortoiseshell cat to her large breasts.

'Yes?'

'Massinger?'

'Yes.' It was Hyde. He felt flooded with relief. He had spotted no tail on his way to Philbeach Gardens, but he wondered at the extent of his own competence. It had been too long since he had needed those old skills to be certain he still possessed them.

Hyde was evidently using a call box, yet there was the sound of music in the background which Massinger strove to identify. A string quartet — Mozart? 'Where are you? Are you safe?' he asked.

'Just. They're getting closer. I'm at a recital, chamber music. No one would look for an ignorant Ocker in a place like this.'

'You're keeping off the streets?'

'Yes. And away from the bus depots and stations. Last night, it was close.'

'How close?'

'Inches. A coat of varnish.'

'But you're all right?'

'I'm still operational, if that's what you mean. But it can't last much longer. Vienna Station tried to kill me again last night.'

'My God, you're certain? Sorry, yes, you're certain. I — must come to Vienna. I'm seeing Shelley later today. He should have some information for me that could be of use. Tomorrow. I'll arrive tomorrow.'

'A room at the Inter-Continental, then.'

'Is there anything else? Anything I should be aware of?'

'No…' Hyde replied relucantly.

'Anything?' Massinger demanded.

'All right — last night, I had to kill one of them. One of ours.'

'Damn!'

'It wasn't open to choice.'

'I understand. Look, I have a copy of the file on Aubrey — the frame-up. It looks very bad for him.'

'It's bloody worse for me, mate!'

'Yes, I know that, I have a plan, something we might be able to do to change things. In Vienna — '

'Christ, mate, all I want to do is get out of Vienna!'

'I'll have papers to make that possible, Hyde. But, perhaps you won't be able to leave at once.'

'Christ—!'

'Look, hold on. This matter is — it's so big, Hyde, that we may have to take risks, greater risks than ever, if we're going to help Aubrey. You understand? It's not simply a question of your life any longer.'

Yes, Mozart. One of the 'Haydn' quartets. A door had opened somewhere near Hyde and the music had swelled out. The B flat quartet, the 'Hunt'… door opening…?

'Hyde? Are you all right?'

'Yes. Don't get jumpy. Just hurry it up, will you?'

'OK. Tomorrow.' Aubrey's signature at the bottom of a full confession, naming Castleford. For a moment, the document he had read at his club — so that Margaret would have no idea of what he was doing — was vivid in his mind. Very clever, very tight; noose-like. The document had taken his breath away, removed for perhaps ten minutes any facility to believe it a forgery. In Vienna, the Mozart quartet had ended. He could hear muted applause.

'Tomorrow,' he repeated. 'The Inter-Continental.'

He heard Hyde's exhalation of relief.

'See you.'