The Bear's Tears

'Mm… nothing there… big knockers is right… Boris and Doris, the terrible twins. Caught London just right for the January sales… no, nothing in those two… thanks — mm, not bad for a beginner. Too much sugar.'

'So sorry, Wilkes. What did your last servant die of?'

'I don't recognise him — ah, Ivan the Dreadful, on duty-go at Schwechat again, I see. It must be his boils they don't like… no, no… nothing, nothing, nothing… stop bloody whistling, will you, Beach, it goes right through my teeth… no, no, and no… almost done — hello, do I know you from somewhere?'

'Found something?'

'No, shouldn't think so. Just a face I thought I knew… mm? Can't place it. Just a look-alike, I expect… where's that bloody glass? Ah, let's blow you up a bit… no? Now, who the hell is that? I'm sure I know him.'

'Let's have a look, then—'

'You're too young to remember. I think this face goes too far back for you… there. Recognise that bloke with the small suitcase, tall one?'

'Looks British to the core. Banker? Company director? Civil servant? I don't recognise him.'

'Back in time… years ago… civil servant, you said? Like us or the 'Yes, Minister' mob? Now, who the bloody hell are you? No — I don't think he's anything to do with us. Come to think of it, I don't think he's British. But I'm just sure there's some connection with Aubrey.'

'More coffee?'

'Oh, Christ!'

'What is it?'

'I've just remembered who this bloke is!'

'Go on, let's have another look.'

'You won't know him. Paul Massinger — yes, that's right, he's a Yank — CIA years ago. A friend of Aubrey. I've seen him with the old man. Aubrey's used him unofficially as an adviser from time to time. Paul Massinger.'

'What's he doing here, then?'

'I don't know — but I'll bet London would be interested. What time was this — bloody hell, he's been here half a day already. You hang on here, I'm going to signal London now. Someone's bound to think this isn't a coincidence.'

* * *

The silences between their words were little islands of civilised living. As soon as either of them spoke, the mellow whisky and the subdued lighting and the rich velvet curtains retreated, and Aubrey was once more fighting for his survival and Andrew Babbington was his declared enemy.

Staring into his crystal tumbler, Babbington said with a pleasurable finality: 'I really came to tell you that JIC and the Cabinet Office and myself are to meet the PM early next week to formalise the setting up of the new Security and Intelligence Directorate. SIS and MI5 will no longer continue their separate existences.' He looked up. There was a flinty, satisfied calm in his eyes. 'And I have been instructed to prepare papers in your own case for the DPP as soon as possible.' His eyes gleamed like those of a cat.

Aubrey felt winded. He studied his own whisky greedily, but did not drink. He silently cleared his throat and drew saliva into the roof of his mouth from his cheeks so that his voice would not betray him when he spoke. Then he said, 'So, you have it all. King, Cawdor, Glamis, all as the weird women promised.'

'Do you fear I have played most foully for it?' Babbington countered, his teeth appearing mirthlessly between his lips.

'No. Foolishly and dangerously, perhaps.'

'How so?'

'Andrew, if you do not see that I cannot be guilty of these things, then I cannot persuade you. You are blinded by your own supreme ambition, and your blindness has served you well. What you may, by omission, have done to my service and your own, I can't say.'

'Your service?'

'My former service. They mean to send me to trial, then?'

'Perhaps. Cooperation could forestall that…?'

'How can I cooperate? I do not know the script of the play!' Aubrey snapped, getting up from his chair and topping up his whisky. Babbington refused the proffered decanter.

'I see,' he said.

'How far will they take this matter?' Aubrey asked, his back to Babbington, shoulders slightly hunched as if he were leaning heavily on the sideboard for support.

'I'm not sure — no one is at the moment.'

'I don't want a trial. I don't think I could face that,' Aubrey murmured.

'Then—'

'I have nothing to offer as cooperation!'

'Then — let me say this to you. There are elements — not necessarily in the majority — who consider a trial, in camera, of course, but certainly a prosecution before the law, could be useful. A cleaning of the stable, purification of the house — reconsecration, so to speak. Good for Security and Intelligence Directorate at its inception.'

'And, of course, there is always the PM's stern, Noncomformist morality to deal with. The PM would be inclined to a trial, no doubt. After all of them, all the old bogeymen who've been let off, allowed to go free, brushed under the carpet, kicked upstairs and even honoured for treachery — the buck stops here!' He turned to face Babbington. His face was drawn and tired, but animated. 'The wrong place at the wrong time. One traitor too many to stomach, mm?'

Babbington shrugged. 'Perhaps…'

'And, of course, my background isn't quite what it might have been.'

'That is nonsense—'

'Is it? Is it really?'

Aubrey appeared about to continue, but the telephone, ringing in the hall, silenced him. Babbington got up immediately.

'Probably for me. I gave them your number—'

Aubrey shrugged and Babbington crossed swiftly to the door, closing it behind him. It moved ajar slightly, but Aubrey had no desire to listen. There was no motive for suspicion. Babbington was keeping nothing secret from him. His end had been prescribed; etched in clean, deep lines. They were determined that he should be finished, and that he should be seen to be finished. The king must die. His ashes would fertilise the new seed — SAID. And Babbington, who would be Director-General of the new organisation, would then possess supreme power in his country's secret world.

Resentment died, to be replaced by a hollow, deflated feeling. Emptiness.

He realised that they had succeeded in taking his life from him. Not simply his past, or his reputation and credibility; not his achievements or his probity; not his rank or his honours. His life. More important even than his good name. He was not Othello. He could no longer do as he had always done, he could no longer involve himself, belong…

They had taken away his reason for living.

'I warned him — I warned him,' Babbington was saying heavily in the hall. There was a brutal power in the man's voice; naked strength. Babbington was too strong an opponent and Aubrey had no will or allies with which to fight him. Kapustin had known all this, had known everything that would follow from the instigation of his damned Teardrop!

Aubrey's eyes were damp with rage and self-pity. Damn Kapustin. He had guessed correctly at every turn of the cards, every throw of the dice. Teardrop was cast-iron, watertight, unsinkable. There was nothing he could do.

'You've done that? Good,' Babbington was saying. 'Yes — oh, no, it was no coincidence. He went deliberately, to make contact. Yes. No risks. Yes.'

The receiver clicked back onto its rest. Aubrey straightened his slumping tired old body, forcing it to replicate a former self.

Babbington entered the room again, his face dark with anger. A domestic tyrant facing a squeaking, fearful