The Bear's Tears (76 page)

He doubled up in shadow, gasping for breath. Skidded slightly,
dragging his cheek against cold stone. The shadow opened up in front of
him like a cliffs edge. The Castle Steps. Voices, public address, the
bouncing ball of light, heels clicking on frost, the roar of engines.

Godwin —?

His car was near Godwin's flat, damn.

He looked at the steps for a moment, clutching the stone of the
wall
as if affected by vertigo. Light bounced over him and he hunched his
shoulders as if under a weight. The light moved on, someone shouted; it
bounced back towards him, slithering along the wall and pavement.
Orders were bellowed. He ran.

In tens. His gloved hand skated down the frosty, dead-cold
railing.
Steps were in tens. He skipped down them, reached the level, then the
next ten steps before the next level. Old street-lamps threw a muted,
dusty light, making his shadow enlarge to monstrous size then quickly
diminish. Blaring his shape against the walls.

He paused to look back. Torches, noise - they'd seen him, damn.
He
ran on, hearing the first pairs of boots clattering in pursuit. The
noise of a rifle dropped —? The glow of a television set through open
curtains as he passed the window of a tall, narrow house. A door
opening —

He cannoned into someone, the body soft and yielding, perhaps
that
of a woman. He heard breath escape like an explosion, smelt a strong,
cheap perfume, then hurried past, hearing the breathing begin again and
the abuse commence. The steps zig-zagged, and he lost the sounds of the
woman's voice and the footsteps of the pursuit.

Another ten steps, then the level, then another ten steps.
Level,
steps, level. Street-light, looming shadow, shrunken dwarf on the
peeling stucco of the wall, darkness, steps, level, shadow, giant,
dwarf, shadow, steps, level —

Crumbling stucco, treacherous, icy steps. His breath was
laboured,
legs almost gone. He was slowing and was aware of it. A pool of light
seemed to open fuzzily ahead of him, like the opening of a door into a
brightly lit room. He hesitated, afraid of what might be a searchlight.
Then he plunged on, hearing once more the clatter of boots and the
scraping of metal funnelled down the Castle Steps after him.

He staggered as he reached the bottom of the steps, clinging to
the
railing as a bout of coughing seized him. A narrow street, more light
at the end of it. He forced himself to run, his feet noisy on the
cobbles. Then he turned the corner into Little Quarter Square. The
church of St Nicholas rose in front of him. A rank of black cars stood
outside the palace that had become the Regional Party School. The
headquarters and the church outfaced one another across the cobbles.
Hyde crossed the square into the deep shadows beneath the church —

Shadows?

Lights, suddenly, as if they had waited in ambush for him. He
gazed
around him wildly, clutching the gun in his pocket, clutching the tape
cassette. The doors of St Nicholas swung open. Noises, footsteps and
tali. An audience emerged. A notice-board near his head advertised a
recital that evening. He shook with relief as he began pushing into and
through the audience as it descended the steps, dispersing into the
square. He crossed the facade, the west door, bumped and hidden by
people talking in loud, delighted voices. The recital had been a
success.

He eased ahead of the small crowd and his shadow began to jog
with
him along the southern wall of the church as he turned into Mostecka
ulice. He loped easily, almost with a lightness of mood. A car passed
him innocently, its colour a drab fawn. People were behind him, others
ahead, emerging from what might have been a club - yes, raw music, a
saxophone and drums behind a wall of chatter as he passed the closing,
door. He slowed, then. Looked back. People. Overcoated, hatted,
scarved. Cover. A few cars moved at a sedate pace along the narrow
street, the cobbles jolting their axles. Sirens in the distance, but no
uniformed men in the Mostecka. They'd been caught up by the crowd from
the church. They'd have to block the exits from Little Quarter Square
as a first priority. The pursuit was diluting with each second that
passed. Hyde walked on, not too quickly, hands thrust into the pockets
of his overcoat, scarf wound round his face, partly to mask his hard,
strained breathing. The bridge stretched away ahead of him across the
Vltava. One gloved hand gripped the cassette in his pocket.
Teardrop
—

He'd done it. He had Babbington, clutched in his gloved hand.
Everything; the whole scenario; and Babbington's name. The frame, the
predicted consequences which perfectly matched the reality, the double
agent who was Moscow's man. He'd done it. The knowledge made him catch
his breath, bare his teeth in a triumphant grin.

He hurried beneath the dark tower at the end of the Charles
Bridge.
The wind from the river was icy and he hunched against it. The lamps on
the bridge glowed, sleet flying through the haloes of chilly light. The
black statues lining either side of the bridge leaned over him,
hurrying his pace as if they whispered his lack of time to him. His
hand gripped the cassette more fiercely. Now that he possessed the
proof he realised, with a growing, gnawing urgency as palpable as
extreme hunger, that Babbington would waste no time. Margaret Massinger
he no longer considered or cared about. She could well have gone into
the bag with Aubrey and her husband. There was only himself, blown
across the bridge like a black scrap of paper beneath the gloomy,
magnificent crucifixion figure, the gold of its crown and of the
inscription gleaming in the sleety lamplight. There was only himself
now. The bridge tower loomed over him and he passed through its arch
into the Old Town. The wind disappeared. He walked through rutted slush
on the pavement, unpursued but hurrying more than before. There was
only himself.

Within minutes, he had reached Old Town Square, had passed the
astronomical clock and reached the shadows of the Tyn Church. Then he
paused, studying the Celetna ulice. Neon lights, hard. Traffic thin,
pedestrians few. He could see the bulk of the Powder Tower at the other
end of the street. Where was Godwin? He could pick out the darkened
windows of his flat. At the back, in the kitchen —?

Hyde knew the flat was empty. Hunching his shoulders, he began
to
drift along the street, looking for surveillance; ready to run and
feeling the Celetna close in on him and the weight of the streets
through which he had come press like a net trawling him in. He was
alone. He could go to no embassy. He had a tape, nothing more. They
wouldn't believe —

Stop it —

He drew level with the Skoda and passed it. The doors and
windows
did not look as if they had been forced, but he could not check those
on the driver's side. He glanced up at the dark windows of Godwin's
flat, almost bumping into a young man, who apologised to him at once.
Hyde, shivering, mumbled something to the young man's retreating back.
Then he continued walking.

He crossed the street a hundred yards beyond the flat and two
hundred from the Skoda, then retraced his steps back towards the
square. Then once more towards the Powder Tower - the driver's side
doors and windows had looked intact - then back towards the flat. There
were no parked cars containing waiting men, there were no open windows,
no drawn-back curtains. One hand clutched the tape, the other Godwin's
spare key. He reached the doorway, almost passed it, then ducked into
its shadow. He fumbled for the lock and turned the key. The door
creaked slightly as he touched it open. He glanced back at the street,
then passed quickly into the narrow hall and mounted the stairs. He
listened ahead of him as he reached the first floor. There, he paused.
Nothing; no noises from the street, either. Where was Godwin?

He paused again at the front door of the flat, then reached the
key
tentatively towards the lock, inserted it, held his breath, turned the
key - kicking open the door the moment he did so, bundling himself
inside the flat and pressing himself against the wall, the gun in his
hands. The vz.75 pistol was close to his face, barrel pointed at the
ceiling. His thumb moved the safety catch. Fifteen rounds. He listened,
holding his breath.

Nothing. He reached out and silently closed the door. Then he
moved
the few paces to the flat's main room. He banged open the door, gun
extended, his weight supported by the door frame. The room was
lightless, empty. He flicked on the lights. Neat, orderly - unsearched,
no signs of a struggle. Where was Godwin? Swiftly, he checked
the other empty rooms. No crutches, no overcoat hanging in the hall.
Bed undisturbed, empty coffee mug in the kitchen sink. Godwin had left
the flat of his own volition - to keep his appointment at the Hradcany.
Where was he?

And who was asking him questions, and what was he saying… ? His
mind
continued with nervous inevitability, completing the scenario. Someone
had Godwin under the lights by now —

And he had only the time it took for one mistake, one
contradiction
- or a confession because they had become impatient with evasion and
lies and used force.

He went back into the kitchen. The rear of the building was two
storeys lower than the part which contained Godwin's flat. Its roof
stretched back on a level with Godwin's kitchen window. He slid the
window up and checked the sill and the slope of the roof and the width
of the gap between this roof and its neighbour. Then he went back into
the lounge and picked up the telephone. He tensed immediately, but
there was no betraying double click. Godwin kept his telephone swept
clean of bugs. It was as secure as the apartment. He placed the pistol
carefully near the telephone and slumped onto the edge of an armchair;
immediately feeling the last strength in his legs drain away and his
calves begin to tremble with weariness. He dialled the long series of
digits with a quivering forefinger. The flat was already growing cold
from the open kitchen window.

London. Should he move the car now, while there was time —?
London.
He dialled the final digit of Sir William Guest's number in Albany that
Margaret Massinger had given him, and wondered again about the car. The
connection was made, the number began to ring. Three, four - come on…
the car? He listened to the noises from the street. A vehicle passed,
he held his breath, but it did not stop or turn. Five, six, seven… come
on - go and move the car —! He felt trapped now, as if bound to
the chair and the telephone, unable to free himself. Then —

"Sir William —!" he blurted before his caution stopped him.
Relief
flooded him, making him weak and shaky, even as he warned himself to
say nothing more until the recipient of the call identified himself.

"Who is that?"

The voice is too young —.

"Get me Sir William."

"Who is that?"

Did he recognise the voice? Did he, or was it just the tone, the
accent? Who —?

"Is Sir William there?" he insisted.

"You sound as if you've been rushing, old man," the voice
drawled.
"I'm afraid Sir William's not yet returned… we're expecting him
sometime today. Can I help you?"

"Who are you?" His free hand clutched the cassette in his
pocket, as
if to crush it. Useless now —

"One of his staff. He asked me to call, collect some papers…
lucky
to have caught me, really. Who is speaking? Where are you calling
 from…
?" The words were affectedly indifferent, no more than a polite
enquiry, yet Hyde sensed the tension beneath the facade.

"Fuck you," he whispered and slammed down the receiver. It
didn't
matter who it was, Babbington's man or Sir William's flunkey. It wasn't
Sir William…

Useless. He bit his knuckles, enacting his rage as he stared at
the
telephone. Useless —

Before Sir William returned, the old man would be in Moscow,
ready
to go on show, maybe even dead.

"Oh,
fuck
it!" He slumped
back in the armchair, his
eyes
pressed tightly shut and damp in the corners, his face raised to the
ceiling. He was deeply, utterly weary. He had the evidence - and now
they knew it, or they would know it soon… Babbington would be told
before morning. Then he'd waste no time in getting rid of Aubrey and
the Massingers. The consignment for Moscow would be on its way east.
Babbington would know it was him and Aubrey would disappear, just as if
he, Hyde, had given them a warning, time to act. Babbington would want
to be on Guest's doormat to explain Aubrey's disappearance the moment
Sir William returned. He'd speeded them up, hurried them to a final
course of action —

He sat for whole minutes, still and silent, face raised and eyes
pressed shut. His hands gripped the arms of the chair, his body slumped
into its sagging container.

And he'd done for himself, too. They knew he was here, they knew
what he'd done, and he wouldn't be able to get out the way he came in.
He'd not get as far as Bratislava, in all probability. They'd shut the
country up to keep him in.

He continued to sit in silence, unmoving. There seemed no point
to
activity, movement, decision. Part of his awareness listened beyond the
flat to the noises from the street, the noises above and below him in
the house. Normal. All normal. Someone playing a radio upstairs,
walking from lounge to kitchen and then returning to the lounge. His
heartbeat settled, his breathing calmed.

He sat bolt upright in the chair.

Zimmermann. Hyde stared at the telephone, then at his watch.
Fifteen
minutes since he had entered the flat.
Fifteen —!
He cursed
himself. He had to get out. Survival. Continued living and breathing.
They'd kill him, not just put him in the bag. They'd kill him for
certain —

Zimmermann.
Call me if anything
goes wrong - very wrong.
The German had volunteered his services as emergency case officer.
if
it's
too much to handle, and you can't get out…