The Bear's Tears (26 page)

Peter Shelley had brought his family by hovercraft on a day's
shopping expedition to Calais. Massinger had spent the wet morning
patrolling the beach and seafront of the Pas de Calais like an exile,
as if simply to catch some distant, half-illusory glimpse of his
adopted country. His damp hair had been blown over his forehead, into
his eyes, by a chill, searching, salty wind, his body had shivered and
his raincoat had become sodden. Yet he had remained on the seafront
until it was time to meet Shelley because across the grey, uninviting
water he could sense Margaret's existence, know precisely the distance
that separated them, thereby lessening it.

He had telephoned, of course. Eager to establish his health and
safety, she had, once worry had been assuaged, allowed their last
meeting to flood back, filling the present. She had ordered him home;
he had feared she might have spoken to Babbington; the gulf between
them had yawned open again. He had put down the receiver with the
sensation of a physical pain in his chest and a hard lump in his throat
which he was unable to swallow.

"Some smoked ham, darling?" Shelley asked absently. A short,
dumpy
woman with a thin, moustached, grey-featured husband in tow passed
them, her arms laden with the weaponlike shapes of half-a-dozen long
French loaves. The tip of one of them had already broken off. She held
them protectively to her ample bosom, eyeing the two trolleys
malevolently. Massinger turned his aside for her to pass.

"Very well," Alison replied, tight-lipped. She had accepted the
fiction of the shopping expedition, yet her tension was evident. She
appeared to blame Massinger for her situation, for Shelley's situation.

Shelley pointed at a large ham. The French delicatessen
assistant
flung it into a bag, twisted the neck, and then priced the item.
Shelley dumped the parcel in Massinger's trolley, and seemed reluctant
to leave the hanging rows of sausages, their skins crimped and wrinkled
and provocative. Massinger read off the names of dozens of pates in
earthenware bowls. There seemed singularly little point in the meeting,
as if their tension and urgency had been separately expended and lost
during their journeys to Calais, or during the past days when they had
been in almost constant telephone contact.

"You think Hyde has any chance?" Shelley asked, reaching up to
finger one of the dark, thick sausages. Liver, with herbs. Pate
Ardennes, Massinger read automatically. Coarse. Suddenly, he did not
feel hungry, because pates became pate-bread-wine and the occasion of
picnics. He did not wish to remember them.

"I don't know," he replied. "It was some sort of
chance -
he had to be sent. Besides, it keeps him out of Europe at a period when
he's in great danger."

Shelley's eyes narrowed, then he nodded. "I just don't see how
—" he
began.

Massinger's eyes glared. "Neither do I!" he snapped, his
Bostonian
accent more pronounced, as if he wished to dissociate himself from
Shelley's very English doubt. "Hyde's a dead man if he's caught - maybe
I am, too. Did you ever think of that, Peter Shelley?" His voice was an
urgent, hard whisper. "I'm laying it out for you now, just as it is.
Unless Hyde and ourselves can discover who and what is behind this -
behind what happened in Vienna and what's happening to Aubrey - then
we'll never be safe again. I don't intend to spend the rest of my life
looking over my shoulder."

Shelley's face was smooth with disquiet, youthful and somehow
incapable. After a moment, he said reluctantly: "I still can't see —"

"Look, I want Hyde to kidnap this Russian, Petrunin - I admit
that.
At the very least, he can be exploring the possibility. These Afghans
have raided Kabul before, even the embassy. Miandad knows almost all
there is to know about Petrunin - dammit, it could happen!
There are moments when the man leaves Kabul, when he's vulnerable. It
could happen…" Massinger's whisper tailed off into a doubt of his own.
Then he shrugged off the mood, and said in a normal speaking voice: "It
could, Peter. It just could."

"Perhaps…"

"All right - instead of that, what have you got for me? What do
you
think? Have you any suggestions to make - the rotten apple, I mean?"

Shelley shook his head.

"Hadn't we better keep moving?" Alison whispered fiercely, as if
afraid they would become some kind of target in the next moment. Her
body was curiously hunched over her daughter as she sat unconcerned,
finishing the last of the chocolate. She had left fingerprints on the
glass counter of the delicatessen. Massinger wondered whether Alison
Shelley might want to remove them, for safety's sake.

"Yes, perhaps we should," Massinger replied as soothingly as he
could. Alison's features distorted in resentment. Bottles clinked
against each other as Massinger pushed his trolley away from the
counter. "But, at least you agree that we're dealing with someone in
your service who's helping the Soviets?" he said to Shelley with some
asperity. Alison walked a little way ahead of them now, glancing to
right and left at the shelves as if they concealed surveillance
equipment. Massinger felt sorry for her, dragged into Shelley's world
of perpetual mistrust.

"I have to - after your account of Vienna."

Massinger nodded vigorously. Shelley deposited some tinned
mussels
in the trolley. "Good," Massinger said. "There is a traitor, and he has
to be a senior officer."

"Yes…" Shelley sounded alarmed.

"It's hell for my wife," Massinger blurted, perhaps angered by
Shelley's reluctance, or because he simply could no longer ignore the
imperative of his own future. He wished to be selfish at that moment.

"I'm sorry —?"

"After the whole business in '51 - being told he was murdered,
the
long pointless investigation, as pointless as the search for him in '46
and '47 - after all that, now to believe that Kenneth murdered him…
pointed the NKVD at him, as good as killed him with his own hands…"
Massinger's disconnected narrative tailed off into silence. His
raincoat still smelt of damp and salt water. He felt bedraggled and
defeated.

"Yes - I'm sorry," Shelley said eventually. "Yes, I agree with
you.
There is someone high up who wants Aubrey out of the way and is helping
the KGB achieve their object."

"Then, what do we do?"

"Helsinki - could you manage that? I —" Both of them looked
involuntarily at Alison Shelley, a little ahead of them and in the act
of rescuing a can of motor oil from her daughter's grasp. The
implication was clear to Massinger. His wife was already lost to him,
Shelley's was not and he would not lose her if he could prevent it.

Massinger looked at Shelley, who averted his glance, then
shrugged.

"Very well," Massinger said. "Why Helsinki?"

They followed Alison as she turned right, then paused as she
halted
almost immediately and began inspecting racks of children's clothes.
Her nose seemed to wrinkle with disapproval as she examined the
garments, glancing time and again in her daughter's direction.

"There's someone there who might talk to us - to you, if there's
anything to talk about. Phillipson used to be station chief in
Helsinki, and one of Aubrey's appointments. He was always loyal to the
old man. He retired six months ago. He likes Finland and the Finns, so
he didn't come home. He's still there, and out of things."

"Yes?"

"But he organised some of those meetings between Aubrey and
Kapustin
- the one on film, the one with the soundtrack… ?" Shelley's voice was
filled with temptation. They moved on again. A dress had been measured
against the little girl, and found acceptable. Shelley's daughter was
craning round in her seat to keep it in view.

"You mean, if there was any funny business, this Phillipson
might at
least have suspected it - noticed something out of the way?"

"Exactly. Oh, what about funds?"

"I'll take whatever you have. Credit cards leave traces. I
haven't
had time to make a transfer."

"I brought - well, quite a bit. Petty cash, you know…"

"Good. What will you do in the meantime?"

"We need a list of possibles."

"We do."

"I can't get access - it'll have to be memory work. It has to be
- someone on East Europe Desk doesn't it?" Shelley looked crestfallen;
a
youngish bank manager whose head office is seriously displeased with
him.

"Or higher still," Massinger said heavily.

"You'll come back to London, after Helsinki?"

"Yes, I think so." Margaret intruded, and he knew that to return
to
London was dangerous and inevitable. "Yes," he sighed.

"Where will you stay?"

"Hyde's flat," he replied without hesitation.

"It might work."

"Hyde thinks it will - temporarily, at least."

Alison Shelley was absentmindedly loading long French loaves
into
her trolley. Shelley appeared to be calculating the number of bottles
of wine he might add to his present purchases without paying duty.
Eventually, he reached for a claret from one of the higher shelves.

"Look at that," he said lightly. "Less than three pounds and
perfectly drinkable. I shall have to talk to my wine merchant." He
smiled. Massinger felt unnerved by the casual remark.

Instead of simply dispelling their grave mood, its reminder of
normality brought images of Margaret flooding back. His hands were weak
as they gripped the pushbar of the trolley. The bottles rattled softly
against one another. His eyes were misty as he stared at his
damp-stained sleeves. Shelley gently placed the claret in the trolley.
Alison was waiting for them, impatient and decisive.

"Helsinki, then," Massinger murmured.

"Better than Afghanistan at this time of year," Shelley chided,
insensitive of the causes of Massinger's gloom.

Massinger pushed the trolley forward with an abrupt, noisy jerk.
Ahead of him, beyond the checkouts, rain streaked the glass doors of
the hypermarket. Ahead of him more clearly was Helsinki and a man
called Phillipson. Projected upon those images, as if they were no more
vivid than a blank white screen, was the sense of separation from
Margaret, even her hatred. He could see no end to that, no conclusion.

The ancient, gleaming Lee Enfield rifle was inlaid with gold and
filigree work. It was cradled in the Pathan's folded arms almost like
the sceptre of a king. The weapon, a relic or museum piece in age, was
only the final assertion to Hyde that he was seated opposite one of the
few men he could be certain was capable of killing him. Not desirous,
not even an enemy - though certainly no friend - but simply
sufficiently skilled, sufficiently strong.

Mohammed Jan shook his head once more as Miandad translated yet
another of Hyde's pleas for assistance. The scarf of his green turban
fluttered, emphasising his refusal. His blue eyes were hard and
expressionless, startling amid the kohl on his eyelids and beneath his
eyes. It was almost as if he did not see the Australian and his
Pakistani companion. His lips, within the greyed sable of his beard,
were a thin line of refusal. Mohammed Jan and his Pathan mujahiddin
were interested in Petrunin - indeed they hated him and devoutly wished
his slow death - but they had no interest in any scheme that Hyde might
propose. Hyde's interest in the Russian was no concern of theirs.

For two dozen SLR or NATO FN rifles, for three launchers and
their
accompanying missiles, they would have raided the central barracks in
Kabul where Petrunin had his quarters. But Hyde had no bribes, and
therefore no leverage.

Hyde was cold. They had not even been invited into the man's
lean-to
hut of wood and corrugated iron, but had been required to squat on the
ground outside its door. The afternoon was wearing away and the
temperature dropping. The shadows across the refugee camp were long and
the mountains beyond Parachinar were tipped with gold. It had been a
drive of four hours from Peshawar, and the journey had been completely
in vain.

"He repeats that Kabul has become a much more dangerous place,"
Miandad translated. Hyde tossed his head.

"I'm not asking him to go into Kabul," he replied. "You've
already
told him that. I want a plan of Petrunin's routine -I want to catch him
away from Kabul, out in open country. God, you'd think these blokes had
never set an ambush before!"

Mohammed Jan's eyes flickered at the angry frustration evident
in
Hyde's voice. His face, however, remained expressionless. He seemed to
be patiently awaiting the departure of his uninvited guests. They had
received tea, served by one of his daughters-in-law, he had listened to
their arguments, and he had rejected them. Now only their departure was
unaccomplished.

Hyde stood up and walked away. Miandad followed him, and the
Australian turned on him.

"Can't that stubborn old bugger see —?" he began.

"You have given him no reason to help you."

"Christ - he hates Petrunin! What more excuse does he need?"

"You offer neither weapons nor help. You only want something
from
him. Something he is not prepared to give - lives."

"He's over there - the man with all the answers!" Hyde bellowed.
He
waved his arms. "The man with my life in his hands," he added more
softly.

Miandad nodded. "And Sir Kenneth Aubrey's life, perhaps, and
that of
my old university teacher. I understand. But Mohammed Jan does not.
Your concerns are not his - this is his concern, here…"

Miandad gestured around the refugee camp. It dropped slowly away
from them down the hillside, not unlike the slow slide of rubbish down
the slope of a tip. It had long since lost its appearance of
temporariness and become permanent; the kind of village expected amid
that scenery and so close to the border with Afghanistan. Its tumbled
lean-tos and tents and hovels contained the remnants of perhaps three
or four different Pathan tribes, predominant among them the tribe whose
chieftain was Mohammed Jan. This was his territory, this heap of refuse
flung into a narrow valley which led towards the border town of
Parachinar and the Kurram Pass into Afghanistan. He ruled the place and
its inhabitants autocratically, and he lived to kill Russians and
Afghan troops. He was an exile, more certainly and with far more
purpose than Hyde himself.