The Bear's Tears (16 page)

Garden swing, daughter passing through a white beam of sunlight,
haloed… Aubrey on the rack… Hyde at risk…
collusion
—

He looked at the ways of escape - Reset key, Control key, Escape
key; the ways out.

The screen cleared, and then the request for his orders tiptoed
across the screen again.

Why do it? Why even be here? The commuter train is waiting - get on
it, retreat to Surrey. Did Massinger have the nerve to go through with
this? Wouldn't
he
be left, Joe Muggins, holding the baby or
caught with his trousers down when the lights went on? Why be there at
all?

Massinger, he understood, had been drawn back to the secret life.
There was something beyond friendship towards Aubrey or a concern with
truth. Another junkie of the secret life, as Hyde had once described it
to Aubrey, who had pursed his lips in disownment of the colloquial
epithet. Massinger, Hyde, Aubrey, most of all… and himself. Junkies.
Secrets direct into the vein; pure, uncut, as Hyde had said. Yes…

It was simple to explain his being there. The smell and taste and
touch of a secret. The passion that swept away reason, caution, nerves,
sometimes even self.

Shelley typed in his request with eager fingers. First, the general
code. Visitors. Then the more precise identification, KGB. Then,
London. Then Home Base to identify the Soviet Embassy. Finally, Team
Manager to identify the Rezident, Pavel Koslov. Then he typed in the
request for All Information - Digest.

The screen went blank for a moment, then began spilling its
information in a green water fall. Age, place of birth, education,
training - Shelley watched the past unroll with indifference. The VDU
screen filled and emptied, filled and emptied again and again like a
glass bowl, with green, luminous water.

The years fled - early postings, successes, contacts - Paris, Cairo,
Baghdad, Washington. Each place had its appropriate reference number
for extracting the full files on each period of operational residence.

Vienna —

Shelley looked at his watch after he had stopped the progress of the
information. Then he entered the request for the full Vienna file. It
was a childish precaution; someone enquiring into Shelley's logged use
of the computer, however, might just be put off by the London
Rezident's idem and look no further. Now, he had jumped sideways, into
Vienna Station's records.

He was aware of the clatter of another keyboard in a neighbouring
booth, and could not shrug off the sense that he was being checked upon
by whoever was operating that second terminal. He shivered. In the
distance, the central heating clunked.

Vienna, during Pavel Koslov's period as deputy Rezident. Shelley
knew that the current Vienna Rezident, Karel Bayev, had been Koslov's
superior during that time, and his friend. He tapped the keys,
demanding access to Koslov's biography and record in Vienna. Then, he
summoned information on Koslov's relations with his superior, then
information on that superior.

Finally, he called for an update on the Vienna Rezident, under
contacts with Koslov in recent years. Trips by one to Vienna, the other
to London, holidays, meetings throughout eastern Europe…

The information unrolled, cancelled, sprang up again; none of it
betrayed what Shelley had hoped for. He summoned surveillance reports
by SIS on Koslov and the Rezident in Vienna - as recently as the
previous year, a long weekend visit by Koslov.

Women - professional? Reference earlier reports, same woman -? Yes.
Regular visits by the Vienna Rezident, a long-term strictly
professional arrangement. A file number was supplied.

Shelley exhaled, inhaled deeply. If someone followed him this far,
they would guess. If they took the next step with him, they would
know
—

And he might kill Hyde and Massinger, because he had found what he
wanted, and he knew what they would put into effect on the basis of
this information; Massinger's crackpot plan.

He demanded that section of the Vienna Rezident's file dealing with
Social/Sexual Contacts, looking once more at his watch. His tension
flickered in his mind, short-circuiting him to an image of his wife
waiting to serve dinner, and the clock at eight-thirty; it wasn't
important, but expressed his desire to leave Registry, get out of the
place, finish this.

There it was. The girl's name, address, security check, together
with the decision that she could not be used. The Vienna Rezident
visited her once a week; a prostitute. No other involvement, no
leverage. Payment in US dollars, equivalent to a hundred and fifty
pounds sterling. The girl supplied him with nothing but her body and
her ersatz passion. Even the sex was uncomplicated. No deviations; no
kinks. Sex without strings, sex without danger of compromise.

Shelley memorised the address and the other details, and then
pressed the Escape key. He had to force himself to return the screen's
interest to Pavel Koslov. His fingers trembled. It was a futile bluff,
but it might just confuse a bored officer assigned to keep surveillance
on Shelley. The screen supplied information concerning Koslov's
relationship with the Vienna Rezident until the section of file was
completed.

Shelley logged off and shut down the terminal. He had read none of
it, simply sat there until the programme had ended; a man waiting for
the end of a previously-seen and not-much-liked film.

He stood up, feeling cramped and chilled. He had to force himself to
walk at a leisurely pace past the desk, to nod a goodnight to the
clerk, to pass the two duty men in the corridor with a neutral
expression on his face, hands thrust casually into his pockets. He felt
cold, suppressing an almost feverish shiver until the doors of the lift
had closed behind him.

Thursday. The day after tomorrow. The Vienna Rezident visited his
whore on Thursdays, without a security escort.

Thursday.

Shelley realised he would have to hurry to catch his train.

Eldon had lost patience with him, but Aubrey could not begin to
exercise any control over the situation. He had, instead, to hold his
hands together in his lap to still their tremor. He was desperately
tired, lost in a maze of protestations and evasions and denials. He was
increasingly edgy and uncertain. It was the third day of his
interrogation by Eldon - his 'debriefing' as they persisted in
labelling it, with manifest irony - and they had no intention of
lessening the pace or increasing the time-span. He was to be worn down
as quickly as possible, made to admit, agree…

To confess and confirm, Aubrey reminded himself as he watched
Eldon's darkened, handsome features. Yes, the man had lost patience;
but his anger was groomed and fresh-looking, not shirtsleeved and
weary. It might be no more than pretence, but Aubrey did not think so.
Eldon believed in his guilt, and he was now angry that the old man
opposite him wriggled and lied and evaded evident truths - the facts of
the case. During the past few days, Aubrey had seen the glow of Eldon's
righteous indignation. He was passionate in his loyalty and honesty. He
despised traitors, and he was convinced that Aubrey belonged to that
detestable species. His passion made him the most dangerous adversary
Aubrey could have encountered, and revealed how well he had been chosen
by Babbington. Eldon was Aubrey himself, but younger and stronger.

"Sir Kenneth," he observed in a clipped, even tone which yet managed
to sound repressed, held back, "you have lied and prevaricated for two
days. You ignore evidence that points to your complicity - you deny
everything, you answer only the questions you choose." Aubrey summoned
an ironic bow of the head. Eldon's eyes glittered. "You have, in fact,"
he continued, "no friends or allies - anywhere…" Aubrey realised that
the anger had at first flared up like a spot-fire but was now under
control and being used by Eldon. "Of course, we monitored all your
calls yesterday." Eldon employed a smile.

The information did not surprise Aubrey, but to be reminded of it
weighed on his weariness like an immovable stone on his chest.
Increasingly desperate telephone calls, all the previous afternoon.
Grasping at straws, or lifelines. The Foreign Office, the Cabinet
Office, the PM's office. All had fended him off or turned him aside.
Each individual, each department; not at home. Only Sir William Guest
had received his call in person. That in itself had alerted Aubrey.
Contempt, rejection, dislike had come down the telephone line to
Aubrey; seepages from his life-support system, fatal damage to it. Sir
William had abandoned him as all the rest had done.

And this man knew it, this dangerous, clever man opposite him. Eldon
knew and approved, and felt his own obligation to produce the
admissions and agreements which would confirm the evidence against him.

He could not hold Eldon's gaze, and dropped his eyes. His feet
shuffled irresolutely on the carpet, a signal which Eldon did not fail
to notice. Aubrey was daunted - frightened, yes, he could even admit to
that - by his sense of isolation. He was unnerved by the subtlety and
cleverness and completeness of the trap into which the KGB -
Kapustin!
-
had led him.

"It isn't quite like 1974, is it, Sir Kenneth?" Eldon enquired
silkily.

"I don't understand —" Aubrey blurted, startled.

"We should have had you in 1974," Eldon said, his hand closing
slowly into a fist on his knee. "We must have been within a hair's
breadth of exposing you then."

"What —?"

"Bonn, dammit!" Eldon snapped, his impatient contempt revealing
itself again. "In April - after they arrested Gunther Guillaume. You
recall the
fuss
?"

"That was a ridiculous rumour," Aubrey protested.

"It lacked proof, but not credence. Someone in your service tried to
tip off Guillaume just before the Germans got him. I became convinced
of that during my enquiries."

"You were forced to clear every member of the SIS staff at the Bonn
embassy," Aubrey retorted, feeling a landslip of confidence within
himself. Another old bogey now to be laid at his door. It was true,
there had been rumours that an officer in British Intelligence had
tried to help the Russian double, Guillaume, to escape the net closing
around him. Gunther Guillaume had been Willy Brandt's closest adviser
during his period as Chancellor of West Germany - and Guillaume had
been a Russian spy. His arrest had caused Brandt's downfall. Eldon had
been part of the
MI5 team of investigators who had been drafted to Bonn at the end of
April to enquire into the truth of rumours that there was a British
double-agent in league with Guillaume. Nothing except the innocence of
Aubrey's officers in Bonn had been proven.

"We were evidently looking in the wrong place, Sir Kenneth. You were
not, yourself, subject to investigation."

"No, I was not."

"Evidently a crucial omission."

"It was never more than a foolish rumour."

"I wonder."

"I was in Bonn at the request of both the END and the BfV - you know
the circumstances. German security and intelligence required - oh,
information, instruction, coaching, call it what you will. They were
afraid that the World Cup in Munich that year might end up entertaining
the same kind of tragedy that attended the Olympic Games in 1972. They
did not want more dead on their hands. Representatives of almost every
Western intelligence agency were in and out of Bonn that year in
advisory capacities."

"And that's all there was to it?" Eldon enquired with heavy irony.

Aubrey nodded tiredly. "It was all you could yourself claim at the
time." He waved a hand in dismissal. "Guillaume is back in the East now
- all the matter seems to be good for is more mudslinging. Put it
aside, Eldon. There was no double-agent in my service helping Guillaume
to avoid arrest."

"It's a matter we shall go into again - very thoroughly," Eldon
warned.

"Really?" Aubrey remarked contemptuously. "However, for today,
perhaps we should return to the events of 1946?"

Aubrey realised that the subject of 1974 had been broached to soften
him, to expend yet more of his dwindling resistance and energy. This
was to be the meat of the repast - Berlin, 1946.

"Very well, Eldon," he replied at last. Sunlight was reaching across
the room, catching motes of dust and turning them to gold. "Very well.
Proceed."

Eldon inclined his head in a mocking gesture of thanks. "You arrived
in Berlin, attached to the Allied Control Commission, as an SIS officer
- in April '46, yes?" Eldon made a business of consulting his notes.
His briefcase lay, open-mouthed like Aubrey's Pandora box, next to him
on the sofa.

"That is correct."

"Robert Castleford was, at that time, a senior civil servant
transferred from Whitehall to the Commission, and had no links
whatsoever with SIS?"

"Again, correct. He did not. He was not a member, nor an associate
member, of the intelligence service." Aubrey's lips pursed as he
finished speaking, and Eldon's eyes gleamed.

"It seems to me that even now you speak with some disparagement, Sir
Kenneth? But, of course, there was friction between yourself and Robert
Castleford from the very beginning, was there not?" Without waiting for
a reply, he continued: "You resented the authority of any - civilian?
You resented any interference with your work. With your rather
high-handed methods, you crossed swords with Castleford more than once.
Your various encounters are a matter of record."

"I did object on occasion, yes… it would seem I possessed remarkable
foresight in being wary of him, considering my present situation."

Eldon did not smile. Aubrey's attempt at nonchalance irritated him.

"You immediately disliked, and resented, Robert Castleford?"

"No —"

"Sir Kenneth," Eldon breathed with evident, malicious irony. "That,
too, is a matter of record. There were other complications later, but
your antipathy towards Castleford was evident to colleagues from the
very first. You complained, time after time, of the manner in which the
civilian authorities presumed to override what you considered to be
important intelligence work. You seemed to consider your work of more
significance than the huge task of getting Germany back on its feet
once more. Catching ex-Nazis and spiking the Russians' guns seemed of
more importance to you than the rebuilding of Germany?"