The Bear's Tears (65 page)

"Good." Godwin said. "I'm glad you approve. Your Russian will
hold
up, I suppose?"

"Probably. But not my Czech."

"You're Russian, not Czech."

"OK, I'm Russian."

"You're afraid, Hyde."

"No —"

"You don't like it - you don't think it'll work."

"It's not that —"

"It is, Hyde. Just sit and listen. I've thought of everything. I
promise you -
everything
."

"OK. Tell me."

"Because they'll be expecting you. Their tame post office
engineer
will call the embassy for a system tester when he's finished checking
the landline - when the temporary fault's disappeared."

"So, I turn up and the real one's right behind me."

"You're already on the premises… appear in the computer room
before
he finishes work and calls the embassy. The embassy will already know
all about the fault on the landline, but they'll wait until the
engineer reports before sending the system tester. You forestall that,
and just take over when he finishes."

"And the fault - it just disappears?"

"It will - believe me. We set that up tomorrow morning. You go
in
during the afternoon. The fault actually occurs about eight or nine.
The engineer won't finish before eleven - you should be out of there by
twelve. And on your way home."

"Who's the post office engineer?"

"He's genuine. Has to be. But he expects you, remember. A
Russian
system tester. Only you will make you suspicious - if you
can't act the part well enough."

"I need written proof."

"No cameras. Too risky, snapping away at the screen. The hard
copy
coming out of the printer will be too bulky. You'll use the recorder
that's already wired in. They call it a streamer tape drive. Think of
it as a cassette recorder. You switch on and it's just like recording a
movie on TV!" He grinned. Almost boyish, for the first time that
evening. Godwin as Hyde had previously encountered him. A man of
promise and good nature. "Guest can play it back in the comfort of the
Cabinet Office with no trouble at all. Most of the Czech equipment was
made by ICL, or IBM under another label, anyway! Government contract
some years ago."

"OK. And when I've finished, I just walk out again the way I
came
in?"

"Yes. Just walk out. You'll pronounce your tests complete, sign
a
few forms, and pack your bag and go."

"And if I blow it?"

"You'll shoot your way out, I should imagine, with your usual
subtlety."

"It's as easy as that?"

Godwin nodded. "Computer security needs a genius to set up - and
a
crooked moron in possession of one or two vital passwords to break
down. Even you can do it, Hyde." He rubbed his chin. "You'll need luck.
What Petrunin was about to tell you - the moment he passed on to the
great Centre in the sky - was a shortcut to
Teardrop.
We
don't know what that was. You'll have to sit through everything that
comes out of his secret file until you hit the right stuff."

"How long?"

"Can't be too long. Petrunin would have thought of that - he
might
have needed the stuff himself in something of a hurry. He might have
been like you - somewhere he shouldn't have been, accessing a security
computer's records." Again, Godwin grinned.

Hyde nodded. "I don't have any choice, anyway." He stood up.
"All
right - show me what to expect on the screen, then tell me what a
system tester does and how he does it." He held out his hand to Godwin,
who moved his own hand forward. Disturbed by the movement, the cat
leapt lightly from his lap. Hyde gripped Godwin's hand and felt the
hard skin on the palm; a badge of long service with his crutch. He
pulled Godwin from the armchair and handed him the crutches. Godwin
stumped heavily towards the table and the computer that rested on it.

"Come here," he said. "Come on. I've got it ready for you." Hyde
followed him. "Sit down, sit down —" He was impatiently instructed.
"Now, on the screen you've got the —" He tapped at the keyboard. A list
unrolled on the small screen in luminous green letters. "— the usual
Menu. That's what you'll see on the terminal in the Hradcany - on all
of them. Waiting for you to request something… That's where you use the
first password."

Godwin leaned over Hyde's shoulder, his thick finger pointing
almost
with accusation at the screen. His breathing was stetorious. Hot
against Hyde's cheek. "See here - from everything we know about the way
the Central Records computer works, this Menu is accurate. Everything's
stored in a database, and material is accessed by choosing one of these
items from the Menu - Personal Records, Military, Education, Criminal,
Career Details, and so on."

"Criminal?"

"Every scrap of information on everyone
, anyone and everyone
who's ever
had anything to do with the KGB - or the MVD and the
NKVD, even as far back as OGPU, if they had the records - is in the
database. Millions and millions of items of information… all there,
waiting to be accessed even by an idiot like you. Dissidents,
psychopaths, thieves and murderers - and that's just the enlisted
personnel —" Godwin chuckled.

"OK - how do I find what I want?"

Godwin tapped at the keyboard. The screen requested more
information
from him. He typed once more. The screen cleared and then a graphic
display appeared. What was it like? A family tree, Hyde decided.

"There," Godwin said with studied nonchalance, straightening up
on
his crutches. "That's something like the schema they'd have. See, this
is the driver, as it were, that controls the database represented by
this top box here." It was labelled System. Lines connected it with
other boxes below. More lines connected the second, third and fourth
rows of boxes, to the System and to each other. The box below System
was marked Name Identification, below that three boxes labelled
Assignment History, Education History and Personal Background. Near the
bottom of the screen, below perhaps another half-dozen boxes, all
labelled, were two which remained blank. "Clear?"

"Yes. What about these?"

"I can label these now, from what you've told me. Let's call
them —"
He tapped in his instructions. "
Teardrop
and - oh, Dirt, mm?"
The words appeared in their boxes after a few moments. "This is a
simplified model - there are hundreds, thousands of these boxes of
information in the schema for Personnel Files."

"What do the connections mean - they're numbered, why?"

"They mark the sets, the pathways whereby you retrieve the
information. These two boxes, the ones Petrunin added secretly, are
linked only to each other and to his Assignment History - see? That's
how I imagine he did it. Once you've requested information on Tamas
Petrunin and given the correct code to access the information, you'll
have to provide the legitimate password, just to prove you're
kosher. Then you ask for his assignment history, and so on… if you are
kosher. But, since it's you, when you access his assignments
you'll use his password, those postings in reverse order -
and this calls up a completely different access programme, and your
request will follow this route…" His forefinger traced the line from
the System box to Name Indentification, then to Assignment History,
then to the
box he
had labelled
Teardrop
.
"Except," he said heavily, "you'll
have the password to Dirt, which you'll have to run all the
way through before you can get to
Teardrop
.
From what
Petrunin was about to tell you, I'm sure he had shortcut passwords to
each part of his secret files, but you'll have to access the lot to
make sure you find
Teardrop
.
OK?"

Hyde nodded. "OK." He felt a tremor in his hands, and pressed
them
between his thighs, thrusting them out of sight. "How long could it
take?"

"Depends. On how much he had stored and whether he's been adding
to
it over the past few years. Minutes, perhaps."

"All displayed on the screen or coming out of the printer?"

"Yes."

"I might have to be alone for —"

"Ten minutes. You don't know how to go to
Teardrop
direct
-only through all the other dirt he stored away."

"A real Chance card - go directly to jail, do not pass Go," Hyde
murmured.

"It's the safest way."

"I think," Hyde began, looking up at Godwin, "that bastard
Petrunin
might have the last laugh - don't you? He could kill me yet. And the
bugger's been dead for days already!"

Godwin said nothing except: "Let's do a test run on accessing
the
computer, shall we? I've set it up for that."

Hyde looked down at the keyboard of the small computer. Godwin
had
patiently stuck small pieces of address label on each of the letter and
function keys. On each, the letters of the Cyrillic alphabet had been
inscribed. Russian words now indicated the functions of the computer.
He had made Hyde practice over and over, before their meal and while he
noisily prepared it, in order to become familiar with the Cyrillic
keyboard he would meet in the Hradcany. Now, Hyde stared at it in
profound mistrust as Godwin cancelled his graphic and reinstated the
Menu on the screen. Thanks to Godwin, he could cope with the jargon,
with the tasks he would be set to access the information he sought. But
he did not think he could cope with the situation, its danger and
isolation.

He would be too alone, too exposed for too long… passing time
was a
series of tripwires. It was going to take too long, too long — "Ready?"
Godwin asked. "Then begin."

The moment she saw him, still seated at his desk, the telephone
now
replaced on its rest, Margaret quailed at the prospect of deceiving
Babbington. The room was warm against her cheeks, flushing them with
the colour of confession and guilt. The guards still held her arms, and
the dog scrabbled on the wooden floor of the corridor behind her.
Restrained by its choke-chain, its breathing was loud and threatening.
Babbington was smiling broadly.

Her lies were pale and unsubstantial now. Babbington knew
everything
and would not be persuaded of her innocence.

"Margaret - my dear Margaret!" he said, rising. One of his hands
signalled her release. Her arms fell numbly to her sides. Was there
hope —? No. The tone was mocking, confident. Babbington came towards
her, hands held out. Her body flinched from his embrace. "Margaret —?"
His eyes hardened as he studied her face. Then he turned from her and
said, "You've caused me a lot of concern, Margaret - a great deal of
pointless worry." The mockery of a stern parent's voice.

"Andrew —!" she blurted, her body trembling as if the hot room
was
cold.

He turned on his heel. "Yes?"

He made another gesture with his right hand, and she heard the
door
close behind her. Even through the wood, she could hear the reluctant
slither of the dog's heavy paws as it was tugged away down the
corridor. It barked once as if to remind her of her danger.

"I —" she began. Then: "Where's Paul - Paul's alive, isn't he?
You've got Paul here, haven't you?"

Babbington looked grave. He gestured her to a seat and she ,
moved
nearer the fire to avoid his touch. The armchair invited; ! insisted.
Her legs seemed without strength. Babbington sat I opposite her.

"I'm afraid —" he began.

"No —!" she wailed immediately, then thrust the knuckles of her
right hand into her mouth. Her eyes misted. Babbington's gaze glinted.
"Oh, no…" she breathed. "No, no, no…"

"I'm sorry —"

"He didn't know anything - he couldn't have been any harm to
you!"
she protested, finding the deception she had planned now available as
something to fend off reality. "We didn't know anything! We
didn't, I swear we didn't, I swear we didn't know anything, we didn't
know…" Her voice subsided into sobbing.

It was as if she wrenched at the hands of a great clock. Heaving
time backwards. If she went on protesting, on and on, Paul would be
alive. "We didn't… nothing… nothing…"

It was difficult to see Babbington's expression when she looked
up.
She wiped her eyes, and saw that his face was moved only to a clever
smile of satisfaction.

"I'm sorry, Margaret - it won't do." He sighed. "I toyed with
the
idea. I didn't believe you couldn't know. I hoped it, at first. Believe
me. Then I hoped I might delude myself into such a belief… but, all to
no avail. I can't escape the truth - you know everything. About Aubrey.
About myself."

She wanted to protest, to stop him. He'd gone too far, too
swiftly.
There were moves to be made, gambits to deploy. Not this, this
nakedness
,
beyond which Paul's death was utterly real.

"No," was all she said, dropping the hand she had extended to
try to
silence him.

"I'm afraid it has to be, Margaret." His voice was soft, almost
a
caress. She saw his bulk move from the chair towards her. Slowly, she
looked up. Again, it was difficult to see his expression clearly. He
cupped her chin in one large hand. "Paul's alive, my dear. Wounded, but
alive —"

"What —?"

He struck her, then. Her head twisted, her jaw was shot through
with
pain, her neck burned with the jolt from his closed fist. She heard him
walk away, heard the fire grumble and spit like an old man. She touched
her jaw, tasted blood in her mouth; spat.

"He's alive, and will stay alive if you tell me why you're here.
Tell me where you've been, what you know, who's with you - and he
lives.
Understand me?" He turned to her and shouted:
"Do you understand me?"

"Yes, yes —!" She caught the blood that spilled from her open
mouth
in the palm of her hand. Blood and saliva. She stared at it, horrified,
then returned her gaze to his face. He did not seem to regret the
violence, or shrink from it.