The Bear's Tears

downdraught as it descended.

CHAPTER TWELVE: Truth from an Old Man

'This whole matter has gone far enough to have become something of a shambles,' Sir William Guest, GCMG, Cabinet Office Chairman of the Joint Intelligence Committee and a former Head of the Diplomatic Service, appeared pleased with the opportunity to display his seniority. His leather swivel chair creaked under his considerable weight — Babbington noticed again that he had a fat man's enclosed eyes and expressionless facial flesh which suggested slowness of mind, even stupidity. At least, nothing more than a certain money-grubbing low cunning, Babbington added to his observation. It was, of course, a mask. Sir William was his master, and his mentor, and his intellectual capacities were considerable. SAID was his brain-child; its birth was the fruit of his persuasion of the PM and the Cabinet Committees concerned. 'A shambles,' Sir William repeated with heavy emphasis. Then: 'You will remember, Andrew, that I opposed the idea of lifting the 'D' Notices, and especially the idea of a prosecution for treason in Aubrey's case.' It was not a hand-washing exercise, rather a reprimand.

'Yes,' Babbington replied, waiting. It had suited his game, and that of Moscow Centre, that Sir William and others had seen him as the coming man, had assiduously encouraged his promotion and effected his seniority in MI5. It was an express-train, as Kapustin had once vulgarly put it, to the top of the mountain. The peasant Deputy Chairman of the KGB had laughed familiarly at that. The man always managed to remind Babbington that he thought of him as Moscow's man, Moscow's property, Moscow's creature—

Babbington suppressed his hatred. Sir William's thick right eyebrow had moved, as if he had already seen some expression on Babbington's face.

Sir William's office was a comfortable though drably coloured part of the warren of Cabinet Office rooms in Downing Street. As Sir William had said on one occasion: 'You may call it the factory floor — I prefer to call it the hotel annexe.' As he said it, his eyes had seemed to see through all the doors, along all the twisting, narrow corridors, towards the main house and the Cabinet Room and the PM's private office. His thoughts had then evidently returned to his own room with satisfaction, as if his description of the Cabinet Office's whereabouts was mere self-deprecation.

His chair creaked again as he shifted his bulk. 'I'm glad you agree, Andrew. This isn't in the nature of a reprimand.' There was cigar-ash on the lapel of his dark suit, and on the old Etonian tie. 'However, be that as it may, we are now, to some considerable degree — compromised.'

'I don't follow your logic.'

'The newspapers have the scent, and we have to leave them baying at the moon. You let Kenneth Aubrey—' There was a hint of amusement in the grey eyes that were encircled by folds of fat. ' — get away, not to put too fine a point upon it. You don't know where he is, and we have a charge of treason for him to answer. And my god- daughter, Heaven help her, has gone chasing off to Germany to discover the truth about her father!' He raised his hands in the air in mock horror. They descended with a drumlike beat on his desk. He was not smiling as he continued: 'I don't foresee great happiness for her there, whatever the truth of the matter…' He seemed to be remembering distant events, even old pain, then he shook his head. 'A strange man,' he murmured. 'Brilliant, but strange.' Then his enshrouded eyes blinked into attentiveness once more. 'The Prime Minister has changed her mind on this matter.' His voice and facial expression implied a sense of frustration, eternally that of the civil servant at the whim of the politician. 'There is to be no more fuss. Aubrey is to be found and persuaded to remain abroad. Unless he has plans to appear in Moscow in the near future.'

'He has nowhere else to go,' Babbington observed tartly.

'Whatever he has done, I cannot see Kenneth Aubrey enjoying a state pension and a Party flat in Moscow. Whatever… we do not want him back here. Understood?' Babbington nodded, tight-lipped. 'Good. It is the future we must now look to — and that will be your business, at least in part. A cleansing of the stables. That and a full enquiry. That should satisfy the House, and the Press. The PM's first puritanical flush of enthusiasm — nay, her sheer exasperation after Blunt and the others that there was more bad weather coming from the direction of the intelligence service — has died down. She has listened to wiser heads, to counsels of calm—' Sir William seemed to glare at that moment. Babbington, of course, had been one of the headhunters… the PM had listened with enthusiasm, had agreed. Now Sir William had changed his mind and his advice was being heeded.

'I see.'

'Excellent. You can bring Margaret back as soon as you wish — you have my blessing on it. That foolish man, her husband… but, when have we ever expected maturity from our Transatlantic cousins, mm?' Babbington was invited to smile, which he dutifully did. He was not still to be blamed, apparently. He would continue as Director- General of SAID, at the pinnacle. And Sir William, like everyone else, would continue to be unsuspecting in the matter of his real power. It could have been a great deal worse, he concluded.

Except for Massinger and Aubrey and Hyde and Shelley — the small party of the faithful. Sir William had made them inviolate — but they had to be silenced.

'When I return from Washington in a few days' time, I want to have a long talk with my god-daughter. Why she did not come to me at once I shall never understand!' Again, he threw up his hands melodramatically. 'Dashing off like that. She was to hostess a small party for me next week.' His full lips were twisted with indulgent humour. A confirmed bachelor, it was evident that Margaret Massinger had provided an easy, comforting surrogate child who had never cost Sir William money, time or tears and brought him some degree of easily gained pleasure. Parenthood without responsibility, Babbington thought sourly, an image of his own son, tie askew, dinner jacket stained, wildly drunk — a regular feature of the Tatler's picture pages. Ex-Eton, ex-Oxford, ex-, ex-, ex-

Suddenly, he hated Margaret Massinger and her husband. And sensed their danger to himself. What did they know, or suspect? The old ghosts of '74 had been stirring. If they knew, then…

Even if they suspected.

'I understand your concern, Sir William.' The studied introduction of cool deference stung the older man. He glowered.

'Andrew,' he said heavily, 'I am not concerned. I want this foolish matter closed, like a factory without orders, like an old file. Closed. Finished with. Bring them back. Have them put on a plane home — today.'

'Very well — William.' At last, Sir William began to feel comfortable with his role before this audience of one. 'Yes,' he continued with a sigh, 'I hope you can persuade her to desist in this affair. And her husband. The silly man persists in the belief that Aubrey may be innocent.'

'That's ridiculous. You should have been able to convince him.'

'I tried — dear God, I tried. This American passion for investigation… it blinds them to the most evident truths.'

'I quite agree.' Sir William's voice was lazier now, more drawling. They were two powerful members of the same exclusive club. There were no differences between them now. He smiled benevolently upon Babbington.

Kim Philby, Babbington thought. Or Guy Burgess. How they must have relished — loved, moments like this. Laughing into their sleeves. The cosmic joke. He trusts me, I'm on his side now that he's demonstrated his petty power. All pals once more. Club members for life, for eternity.

Yes, Babbington admitted to himself, there is a tang, a bouquet, to moments like this. The appetiser to the feast.

'But, if we talk to him together — forbid him to continue, I think he can be brought to his senses.'

'That ought not to be beyond us. Margaret will certainly have to be reminded of her duty.' He snorted. 'The silly woman could have put herself in danger, for God's sake. Amateurs!' The word was pronounced with the force of some profound imprecation. An association of outer darkness, excommunication. Babbington thought: You impossibly pompous, blind old man.

Sir William raised his hands, more limply this time. 'Ah, well,' he sighed, 'it's done now. There are no more than a few pieces to be picked up — and your job of cleaning house. Then we can move ahead. I want it all working like clockwork before I finally vacate this chair.' The voice purred, and hinted at the identity of the next occupant of that chair and that office. Babbington shrugged off the compliment, and in the same moment inwardly reviewed the prospect with satisfaction. This was beyond the laughter-in-the-sleeve, the nod-and-wink of secret knowledge. In