The Bear's Tears (19 page)

For the moment.

"I see," Babbington murmured. "But, with what result?"

"Enlistment isn't fashionable these days," Massinger replied
bitterly. "Leastways, not for lost causes."

"Ah. And you - do you feel Aubrey's cause is lost?"

"I don't believe he's guilty."

"That's not what I asked."

Massinger shrugged. "There's - nothing more I can do, either
way,"
he admitted grudgingly.

"I agree." Babbington stood up. "Thank you for being frank with
me,"
he said, crossing to Massinger and extending his hand. Massinger held
his drink for a moment, as if in defiance, then Babbington added: "I'll
just pop and have a word with Margaret. Don't worry. She'll be fine.
Her father was a very special man, you know," he added.
"Especially to her." Massinger shook his hand. "I'm glad things are -
cleared up, Paul. Thank you for being so honest." There was an evident,
cruel amusement in his eyes. And visible contempt —

"Margaret's been through enough already, Andrew," Massinger
warned.

"Quite. Goodbye, Paul."

He went through the door to the dining-room, closing it behind
him.
Massinger swallowed at his drink. Yes - the contempt of power
for emotion, for sentiment - yes. He was warmed by the
passage of the drink and by a fierce delight in his own skill and
intuition. He resented Babbington's returning Margaret to him like a
borrowed gift, but he waited for her to come through the doors, smiling.

"Paul," she said. Yes, she was smiling. "Paul, Andrew's
explained
everything! I understand what you've been trying to do." There was a
superiority about her understanding, almost a maternal, comforting
sense of his being patronised. He ignored it, holding her close against
him, feeling her breathing against his throat and neck. He had beaten
Babbington.

And Babbington had shown him his power over Margaret and, once
more,
the power of dead Robert Castleford. Babbington would use Castleford
without hesitation against him as he was using him against Aubrey; to
fulfil his own ambitions. What he held, he would keep; the joint
Director-Generalship of MI5 and SIS. Absolute power in the secret
world. Babbington would stop at nothing to retain that power. The KGB
had provided him with the means to finish Aubrey. Babbington cared
nothing for the truth of the matter, for the
KGB's motives,
for the rot
that might have set in, for collusion …

He'd see none of it. He'd see only his chance, his success.

Massinger felt anguished. Slowly, he held her at arms' length.
Her
eyes were still bright with dismissed tears. Her face glowed. He ached
with love for her, with fear at losing her. He couldn't let
her go - wouldn't…

Had to.

"Darling," he murmured.

Her left hand, the one with the rings he had given her, the
diamond
flashing in the subdued lighting, reached up and stroked his temple,
then his cheek. It could not help but seem to him to be some kind of
final, parting blessing. He caught her hand as she murmured: "Darling…"
Her lips pouted. He was aware of her sexual attractiveness in a swift,
piercing way. He knew that she had begun to entertain images of their
lovemaking. He could envisage her face smoothed, whitened, dreamlike at
climax, and felt roused.

He clutched her hand, but prevented her from moving close to him
again.

"Margaret," he began guiltily. "Margaret, listen to me, please."

"What is it?"

He led her to the sofa, made her sit down. She was half-puzzled,
half-amused. He lowered himself into the cushion, his body separated
from hers. He held her hands solemnly.

"It's not over - whatever I told Babbington, it's not over," he
murmured. She looked struck, even wounded. "No, just listen to me
before you say anything, please —" He held up one hand to silence her.
"Please listen before you say anything, before you judge me."

Eventually, she nodded stiffly, a little bob of her head. Her
fair
hair fell across her cheek, her brow. "Very well."

"This isn't about Aubrey," he began. "At least, it's not just
about
Aubrey. No, don't make that face, you can't hate him that much…" He
abandoned the argument, and continued: "I have evidence - from Aubrey's
man in Vienna, and Peter Shelley's convinced too - that the KGB are
behind this business. Whatever the truth of the matter, they're using
it. More than that, Aubrey's man could well be killed by his own side."
He paused. There was little reaction other than puzzlement, a sense of
unfamiliarity; then a sense of dismissal, of the light of common sense
falling on this dark corner of experience and making it seem
ridiculous; incomprehensible and incredible. "No one else believes it.
No one else is interested. Babbington is blinded by his own ambition,
Sir William is content to see Aubrey go to the wall because he's
persuaded the Cabinet Office and the Joint Intelligence Committee that
they want and need a unified security and intelligence service." Her
eyes revealed that she was dismissing each of his statements even as he
made them. He waved one hand loosely to indicate his helplessness. "You
see," he pleaded, "why I can't give up on this?"

She was silent for a long time, and then she said simply, "No, I
don't see."

"But, you must —!"

"I can't! All I can see is that you're still willing
to
help the man who betrayed my father - who caused his death!"

"You don't even know if it's true!"

"And you don't care! You'll help him anyway!"

"My darling, I promise you - I promise, that if I find
it
is true, I'll abandon him like everyone else. If Aubrey helped to kill
your father, then to hell with him. I won't lift a finger to help him."

"I can't bear this…" she murmured.

"There's nothing else I can do."

"Why can't you talk to William about this - please?"

"Because he's convinced that Aubrey's a traitor. Just like
everyone
else. They don't want to look any deeper into it."

"But you do —" she accused.

"I must."

"So, only Paul Massinger can be right, only Paul Massinger's
priorities are important."

"You know that isn't true —!"

"How do I know? Dear God, it isn't even your country!"

He stood up, unable to bear her hot gaze, her accusing mouth. He
crossed the room, then turned to look back at her.

"I'm trusting you with my life," he said quietly. "I've told you
because I had to. I promised Babbington that I'll go no further. Only
you know I'm continuing with it. I - have to go to Vienna for a couple
of days, to see this man of Aubrey's." She averted her face. His body
had taken on a supplicant's stoop, arms akimbo. "I ask you to tell no
one. If anyone asks, then I'm in Cambridge for a couple of nights. Out
of harm's way," he added cynically. "When I get back, I'll tell you
everything. I'll let you decide —"

She turned to him, her face reddened, her hands clenched on her
lap.
She shook back her hair.

"Don't come back," she said. "Just - don't come back." She, too,
stood up. Her body was rigid with determination. "If you leave this
flat on that man's behalf —" He groaned inwardly. She had accepted
nothing of what he had said. "— then you need not bother to come back.
I don't care if I'm being unreasonable, or stupid, or even malicious -
but I can't bear it! If you go on helping that man, then
we're finished. It's over."

Immediately, she left the room, closing the doors to the
dining-room
behind her with a firm, quiet finality. Massinger's eyes immediately
transferred their gaze to the portrait of Castleford. It watched him
with what he could only consider malevolence, accusation. Castleford's
eyes were her eyes. They had always had the same eyes; now,
they possessed the same stare. He rubbed his forehead and groaned aloud.

Finished —

The British Airways Trident dropped towards the snowbound
landscape
amid which the south-eastern suburbs of Vienna straggled out towards
the pattern of Schwechat airport's runways. The scene was uniformly
grey and white to Massinger's red-rimmed, prickling eyes. Bodily, he
was little more than a lump that had sleeplessly occupied a hotel bed
near Heathrow and then a taxi and then a departure lounge and then an
aircraft seat next to a window; a lump that had previously performed,
like an automaton, the tasks of packing, gathering passport, credit
cards, wallet, Hyde's papers, ordering a taxi, avoiding all sense of
Margaret in other rooms in the flat, avoiding him.

His mind was numbed. Not free, or released, merely numbed. He
could
no longer think of her or about her. He had lost her. That realisation
was like a wall in his mind, preventing other images and thoughts.

The wheels bumped, and snow-covered concrete and grass rushed
past
the window; a moonscape produced by snowploughs. Then the aircraft was
taxiing, turning right then left, back towards the strangely
provincial, miniature airport buildings.
Schwechat
was like any
airfield in eastern Europe; a bare, flat child's model of a grown-up's
real airport. He and Margaret had flown into
Schwechat
often, visiting
concerts, operas, galleries in Vienna . . .

The thought drifted away, as if he had no powers of retention
left.
The landing music switched off and the hostess wished him a pleasant
stay. People began to gather baggage hurriedly, tumbling it out of the
overhead lockers as if prompted by an escape timetable limited to
split-seconds. He followed them slowly across the pooled, windy tarmac
into the terminal building.

Passport control, luggage, customs; a largely empty hall,
echoing,
modern, aseptic. He tried to anticipate the events to come, the evening
and night ahead, but all he gained was a sense of foreboding and
weakness, and he surrendered the idea. He had begun, he knew, to lose
interest, not to care.
Teardrop
,
Hyde, Aubrey the old man,
the KGB, all became figments of a melodramatic dream, as they had been
for Margaret. There was only one thing he now cared about, one fragment
of the truth upon which he must lay hold; had Aubrey betrayed Robert
Castleford, had him killed in Berlin almost forty years ago?

That could animate him; that question obsessed him. That
he would pursue, whatever else…

The doors slid back and he walked into the freezing air outside
the
arrivals hall. Immediately, a grey Mercedes displaying a taxi sign
pulled out from a parking space and, jumping the queue of vehicles
drawn up, halted directly in front of him. He was startled into
clutching his suitcase more tightly.

"Massinger," Hyde said. It was a recognition, not a question.
"All
right. I'm Hyde. Note the accent?" Hyde smiled grimly at Massinger's
relief.

"How did you —?"

"Money. What else? Just borrowed it. Get in." He pushed open the
rear door and Massinger climbed in, sliding his suitcase in front of
him. The moment he shut the door, Hyde pulled the Mercedes away, down
the ramp towards the main road. "I thought a taxi might come in useful
- oh, better be kosher and put the clock on." He turned his head to
glance at the American. "You strong on tipping, Massinger?"

"What? Oh —"

"What's the matter?" Hyde asked urgently.

"Everything," Massinger began, then noticing Hyde's alarm, he
added,
"And nothing. No need to worry. I wasn't spotted and followed."

"I know that. I've been here two hours waiting. No face I know,
not
even one I suspect I ought to know, has shown up." Hyde grinned
suddenly, showing his profile once more. "You're not doing too bad for
an old man."

"And you - how are you doing?"

"Ahead. Just. It's only real professionals we have to worry
about.
Brought my papers?"

"Yes."

On the wide empty road raised above flat white fields, they
passed a
grey, lumped-together factory complex. A red and white chimney belched
dark smoke.

"Good. Well, what's the plan?" Hyde was clearly enjoying a human
contact he did not have to fear or suspect. He was almost blithe.

"We - we're going to kidnap the KGB Rezident in Vienna. A simple
job
—"

"You what?"

Massinger was offhand, almost satiric, because he did not care.
He
was unable to concern himself closely with the matter. It was no more
than a preliminary task to be executed before he could return to London
to discover the truth concerning Aubrey and Castleford; he might even
confront Aubrey, after he had dug around, yes he might…

Hyde was stunned by his apparent nonchalance. "Did I hear you
correctly, Massinger? Did you say kidnap the Rezident? Hands up
everybody in the Soviet Embassy, all right, come with us, sunshine?
You're talking through your backside!"

"There's no other way. The Rezident must know - I am certain he does
know what's going on here. He knows about
Teardrop
, and
what's behind it."

"Of course he bloody does! So what?"

"I know where he will be tonight, and I know he will be alone."

"Without a screen." Massinger was amused, in a detached manner,
at
the signals of competence and superiority he was hoisting. "Shall I go
on?"

"Oh, please do," Hyde replied with thickly spread sarcasm.

"Very well."

Small, peeled-paint houses and farms, a flour mill, then newer
bungalows, pebble-dashed or faced with grey concrete. Pink or light
green, many of them. Then the city began rising to two and three
storeys and closing in around the car. The river was dark and sluggish
to their left. The wheels of the Mercedes clunked over tramlines. Dingy
shops bearing weather-beaten nameboards and advertisements, new cars,
tall new buildings. Then the heavy, monumental buildings lining the
Ring.

They were in the Johannesgasse and close to the
Inter-Continental
before Massinger had completed his narrative.