The Bear's Tears (52 page)

"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 Sir William's position, his treachery would be
pre-eminent; invaluable to Moscow. Kapustin would be little more than
an office-boy by comparison.

"I'll have it in hand, William, before your return from
Washington.
Eldon can take charge of the cleaning-up."

"Let's just have it over with!" Sir William remarked with sudden
and
unexpected testiness. "Unpleasant, time-consuming business… let's get
on
with it, and then on with more important matters." His voice reproved
gently and with immense authority. Babbington, like a tiresome junior
boy, was wasting the house-master's valuable time. As if to fulfil the
image that occurred to Babbington, Sir William added: "Let's not spend
too much time with the Colts, shall we, and neglect the First Eleven?
What's past is past."

"Quite." Babbington was satisfied with the self-control he had
displayed during their meeting. He looked at his watch. "I have a lunch
appointment, William," he explained deferentially.

"Of course, my dear fellow - as a matter of fact, so have I."
Sir
William stood up, and offered his large, smooth-knuckled hand.
Babbington took it, smiled.

"Spring-cleaning will be early this year," he promised. "And
comprehensive."

"I don't doubt it, my dear fellow - but, find Margaret and her
silly
husband for me, would you? I'd like to have a long, godfatherly talk to
that young lady."

"Of course."

Babbington envisaged the tightrope, the knife-edge. Timing would
be
important; daring crucial. Sir William would have to content himself
with eventually learning that his god-daughter and her husband had
walked into the very danger he had always feared they might meet.
Unfortunate, the meddling of amateurs…

As for Aubrey - if they once laid hands on him, he could be
shipped
to Moscow and his treachery displayed there for the world to see…
before he was quietly killed. Aubrey might yet have made his greatest
mistake. He had been safer in London than he was in any other part of
the world.

Yes. Who dares wins, he thought ironically. Who dares wins.

Paul Massinger was afraid. Not professionally, but in a deeper,
more
insidious personal sense which he could neither quell nor ignore.
Zimmermann's warning to employ his old training and instincts had
amounted to no more than a half-hearted attempt to avoid surveillance
at Schwechat airport when they reached Vienna. His awareness was
clogged and weary with the images of his sleepless night; the turning,
tossing body of Margaret lying in the other bed, pretending sleep. He
had been unable to discern any surveillance. He had made Margaret walk
with an American couple to the doors of the lounge while he held back,
watching the passenger lounge, the stairs, the doors. It was futile; a
branch of mathematics which he had forgotten and which would not
return. He was no longer an agent.

He had given up the attempt and rejoined Margaret outside the
glass
doors in a bitter afternoon wind that seemed to mock them, and they had
immediately taken a taxi.

Margaret talked quietly and obsessively in the back of the taxi.
Occasionally, Massinger glanced through the rear window but saw no
tailing car. The turning of his head was a duty rather than a skill.
His wife voice's endlessly refuted the accusation that her father might
have been a Nazi. There was Cliveden, of course, even an acquaintance
with Mosley. But it was nothing, nothing…

He had not been allowed to take a commission because of his
importance in the wartime civil service… no one had worked harder, no
one was more outspoken of the need to defeat Hitler and the Nazis…
people had trusted him… Churchill… Sir William would laugh at the
suggestion… it had to be the woman… the answer was with the woman.

Nonsense. Ridiculous. Foul…

Foul, foul, foul…

Massinger's head beat with the voice, with its almost mad
intensity.
Nothing had changed. His wife was still obsessed with her father's
death and the manner of it. There was nothing else. Nothing else,
nothing else, his mind began to chorus with her assertions and
refutations. Nothing else. The remainder of their lives together was at
stake, he admitted.

Sobs like the separate, recurring pains of violent toothache.
All
night. Yet, whenever he addressed her or sat up in his bed, she had not
replied but had instantly pretended sleep, holding her breath in the
darkness of the bedroom as if listening for the noise of intruders.
Until he, too, adopted a regular rhythm of breathing that imitated
sleep. After a while, the sobbing would begin again, punctuated by
sighs, and occasional stifled groans. The distance between the twin
beds was a gulf. He had never felt so separated and apart from her and
the sensation horrified him.

He recoiled from what they might find in Vienna, even as she
pursued
it fervently.

His call to Clara Elsenreith as he looked out at the Rhine
masked by
slanting, driven rain was one of the most reluctant he had ever made.
The woman had agreed, almost suspiciously, to see them, but only
because he was a friend of Aubrey whose name she recognised. She did
not promise help or revelation.

The Stephansdom, in the centre of Vienna.

He could not recall, except with difficulty, that this was the
city
of less than a week ago, the city of the drugged KGB Rezident, of
Hyde's danger.

It was hard to remember Hyde. He was a distant, drowning figure
in
the waves of his wife's anguish, his white hand raised for help. He
was, in all probability, dead.

The taxi stopped and the driver turned and indicated the
imposing
seventeenth-century fasade of the first and second floors of the
building that housed the elegant shoe-shop. Beyond the broad window of
the shop was a cobbled courtyard which would contain the entrance to
the apartments. Massinger paid the fare, tipping with unconsidered
generosity.

Margaret got out into the wind, which distressed the hair she
had
perfunctorily tidied in the taxi. She was heavily made-up, and the
effect was to make her look older rather than to disguise the tired,
drawn appearance of her features. The wind chilled and sculpted her
features into an expression of hopelessness. He took her arm, and, as
the taxi pulled away out of the Stephansplatz, led her beneath the
archway into the courtyard. A small fountain was toyed with by the
gusting wind. Green plants appeared drab and hardly alive.