The Bear's Tears

'And then—?'

'I must talk to Peter Shelley again. We must consult. I wish I could talk to Kenneth again… but that's too dangerous.' He turned to face Hyde. 'You see, neither of us has anywhere to go at the moment. Babbington forbade me to go on with this — someone informed Vienna I was here, someone wants me dead along with you.'

'Babbington?'

'I doubt it. But — someone. Wilkes can't be the only rotten apple. Wilkes takes orders from someone else. This collusion is too smooth, too efficient and, according to our dead friend back there, too long-standing to be run by people like Wilkes. Someone, in Europe or in London — a senior officer, at least as senior as Shelley or one of Shelley's deputy directors, has to be in the KGB's pocket.'

'Christ! I hadn't thought about it… Shelley?'

'Well?'

Hyde shook his head vigorously. 'No, not Shelley.'

'I thought not.'

They had reached the portico of the Nord-bahnhof. A rank of taxis stood alongside the pavement. There seemed no one concerning themselves with Hyde and Massinger. Hyde's relaxation was evident.

Obsessed with his theory, he had forgotten their narrow escape, forgotten the dead body of Bayev in the back of the Mercedes; forgotten the men who wanted himself and Hyde similarly disposed of. Hyde would have to watch his back for him. He had to think—

He had to know. There was a KGB double in SIS, and it had to be someone fairly senior — it was the only explanation that made sense.

'OK, in you get.' Massinger struggled into the back of the taxi and ordered the driver to the Inter-Continental. He sighed with relief as he lay back in the seat.

'You accept the hypothesis?' he said as they crossed the Danube Canal. Hyde was silent for a moment, then he nodded. 'You have to be right. It has to be one of the high-ups. But who!'

'Yes, who indeed? The KGB have someone important in their pocket, helping to carry out Teardrop, If we knew why, we might know who.'

'You haven't any theories about that?' Hyde asked with evident irony. Beneath that tone, there was the indifference that springs from sudden and unexpected well-being. Hyde, out of danger, was shutting himself down like a complex series of circuits and relays.

Massinger, knowing that he was doing little more than thinking aloud, said, 'To make sure that Aubrey is finished off? To throw the service into confusion? To assist some huge operation we know nothing about? It could be any or all of those — and maybe other reasons. We've got who and why, and no answers to either question —'

But, I have an answer, he thought. Even more crazy than this Viennese business. And it needs you, he added to himself, glancing sideways at Hyde's lolling form. And you won't like it, not one little bit.

Margaret returned to him, then. He shut her out. Later, later, my darling, he told her image. This matter first…

Why? That's the real question. Who could be anybody — perhaps one of fifty, even a hundred… and they had no access, no leverage. There was no one who could, or would, tell them. Shelley might be able to draw up a list of possibilities, but it would be a long one.

And there was one man, just one man, who knew everything — who knew why—! Who knew the traitor's name… Petrunin knew everything. Teardrop was his creation.

He glanced at Hyde from slitted eyelids. 'Do you know where Petrunin is now — in disgrace, you said?'

'More than one report's confirmed he's in Afghanistan. At the Kabul Embassy. The roughest posting they could find for him, I suppose.' Hyde replied without considering the implications of either the question or his answer.

The taxi turned into the Johannesgasse. Hyde was relaxed. In a couple of hours, with luck, they'd be half- way out of Austria.

He patted his overcoat pocket. His new papers lay there, against his breast like a talisman. He did not consider the future beyond the next few hours, which were decidedly hopeful.

He was getting out of Vienna, where he might easily have died.

PART TWO THE LONGEST JOURNEY

… reassembling our afflicted Powers,

Consult how we may henceforth most offend

Our Enemy, our own loss how repair,

How overcome this dire Calamity,

What reinforcement we may gain from Hope,

If not what resolution from despair.

— Milton: Paradise Lost, Bk.

CHAPTER SIX: The Golden Road

Hyde was still dazzled by the snow-gleam from the mountains as the Douglas C-47 taxied noisily along the runway at Peshawar. There was thin snow on the plain, but the yellow earth revealed itself in patches, and the foothills beyond the town were stubbornly grey. But, as the old aircraft had circled and dropped towards the airport, he had seen, disbelieving, the mountains stretching northwards towards the Hindu Kush and even the Himalayas as if they would never end, never descend again to desert or plain.

It was cold in the aircraft despite the cabin heating. Most of the soldiers who were his companions, returning from leave in Karachi and Hyderabad and the southern towns, rubbed their arms beneath their greatcoats and shuffled their feet. They had taken little notice of him almost from the moment they had left Karachi's military airfield. He was foreign — English — and they probably guessed his purposes in journeying north towards the border with Afghanistan. They were refugee-camp nursemaids and policemen; he was probably a border-crosser, illegal, frowned-upon, tolerated but unofficial.

As the plane taxied to a halt, Hyde could see two trucks waiting for the returning troops. Drawn up perhaps ten yards from them was a Land Rover. A Pakistani officer who managed to appear neat, small, groomed even in green combat jacket and black and white scarf stood beside it. To Hyde, he might have been part of some ancient and romantic war film. He presumed it was Colonel Miandad of the Pakistani Bureau for the Border, a branch of army intelligence. He collected his hand luggage and followed the last of the disembarking soldiers through the huge door in the fuselage. Immediately he appeared on the passenger steps, Miandad's attention switched to him. Incongruously, the Pakistani officer raised a swagger stick in greeting and moved quickly to the bottom of the ladder, hand extended. The first of the trucks was already pulling away towards the low, shack-like airport buildings.

'Mr Hyde, I imagine?' Miandad said in clipped, almost accentless English. His features were narrow, dark, intense. His eyes glittered on either side of a hawkish, aristocratic nose. Hyde thought he appeared most like a civilised, assured pirate.

Hyde shook the extended hand, then they both replaced their gloves. 'Colonel Miandad?'

'That is correct. Please come with me. Some coffee, I think?'

'Please.'

Hyde climbed into the Land Rover. As Miandad got behind the wheel, he said: 'You look very lost, very out of