The Bear's Tears (77 page)

He listened. Normal. He dialled feverishly. Godwin could be
talking
now, could have talked already —! The last three digits, what were
they? What —? What, damn you —? His finger quivered over the dial, then
he remembered. Four, two, seven.

He waited. Was Zimmermann in the bag, too, by now? Would a
younger
voice answer the call, smooth and dangerous? He waited. The receiver at
the other end was picked up.

"Yes? Zimmermann," he heard. The voice checked with his memory.

"It's me - Hyde."

"What is it?" Zimmermann asked immediately and in English. "You
are
in trouble?"

"Listen - I may not have much time. Godwin's disappeared -he
must
have been picked up. They can't be far behind me now."

"I understand. But, you have —?"

"I've got everything. The computer threw up the whole meal.
Everything… Babbington's name, even. Even his name. I've got
the whole elaborate frame…"

"Can you get the information to me in any way?"

"No. It's on a tape. And I can't rely on the post, can I?
Listen,
Zimmermann - I can't go out the way I came in. They'll be waiting for
me everywhere. Any suggestion's?"

Hyde felt the hand that held the receiver begin to pain him. He
studied his other hand. Raw new skin, still healing. It seemed a badge
of his fragility, his uselessness. He waited, willing Zimmermann to
provide an escape route.

Eventually, Zimmermann said, "Yes. You have to get out. Do they
know
what you have done?"

"Yes. I was almost caught."

"And Godwin, of course… mm." Zimmermann paused for a moment.
"There
is precious little time, if any. I can do nothing, we can do
nothing without the physical evidence. I am suspended. An enquiry is to
begin soon. I am to speak to no one. However, I can help you. There is
a plumber, a German, living in the small border town of Mytina, south
of Cheb. Less than three hours from Prague. You have a map?"

"Yes."

"Mytina. You will find him at this address… do you wish to write
it
down?"

"No. Go ahead… OK, I've got that."

"He has acted unofficially for us on a few occasions. There are
others like him, but not so close to the border or Prague. But, he
needs money. His name is Langdorf, and he does nothing without money.
Also, you will need to explain that you have his name from me. You have
money?"

"Godwin must have standard issue Krugerrands in the flat
somewhere,
or there's a cache of Swiss francs here. I'll find them. I can pay."

"Then go at once. You must cross tonight - before dawn. I will
be
waiting for you…" There was a pause. Zimmermann was evidently studying
his watch, making his calculations. "Yes, I can be there before dawn.
Very few people know of my suspension at the moment… I will be waiting.
Try very hard to be there, Mr Hyde. For all our sakes."

"I'll try. Thanks."

"Before dawn, remember. We do not have tomorrow."

"Yes."

Hyde put down the receiver and gently rubbed the hand that had
held
it. He listened to the street outside, then crossed to the window,
lifting the curtain gently to one side. Traffic thin, pedestrians few,
as if midnight had hurried them home. Man loitering in the dark
doorway… no, girl there, too. No one suspicious. No curtains wide for
surveillance, no muted lights. Hyde breathed deeply, clouding the cold
window-pane, expelling the air like a decision made.

He turned from the window to face the room, his mind flicking
through the rooms of the flat like a sequence of still pictures
projected upon a screen.

Urgency returned like the onset of a renewed bout of fever. Now,
he
was aware of the flat, of the street, of the roof that might have to
serve as his escape route…

And of Godwin, under a bright light, fending off the anticipated
moment when he would let something slip or would have to tell what he
knew.

The rooms were illuminated in his mind as starkly as if he shone
a
torch rapidly over the contours and contents of each of them. Where?
Godwin would have concealed his Krugerrands or Swiss francs like every
other agent posted abroad. The Sinking Fund, they called it in London.
A lifeline; a way out. To be used when not waving but drowning. In this
case, where?

Begin - come on, begin, he ordered his body. His hand flicked
the
curtain aside once more. The Skoda, a hundred yards away on the
opposite side of the Celetna, was passed, light thrown upon it for a
moment, by a late bus. At the far end of the street, beneath the Powder
Tower, blue sparks flashed from an overhead cable as a tram rattled its
way towards the river. Nothing else - there was still time, Godwin was
holding out or remained unsuspected. There was time, time —

Little or no time, little or no time, no time…

He got onto all fours and scrabbled around the circumference of
the
room, his hands feeling the carpet like those of a blind man searching
for something dropped. Nothing. He glanced under the dining table. He
touched the undersides of the chairs, tilted the armchairs and the
sofa… Godwin would, might need the money quickly, so it would have to
be easy for a cripple. No bending or lifting or crawling or climbing…

Hyde smoothed the curtains, but there were no lumps, no
rustlings.
No weights that might have been coins. The old sideboard - his fingers
touched and caressed the backs and undersides of drawers, lifted the
clock and the tray on which Godwin's bottles of whisky and gin stood.
He began, perhaps prompted by the clock, to glance at his watch after
handling or moving or touching each object; punctuating his search.

Bathroom. Cistern dirty but otherwise empty. No waterproof
package.
Shower offering no place of concealment. Back of the wash-basin -
twelve-twenty - edges of the thin, weary carpet on the bathroom floor.
Nothing.

Kitchen. Undersides of the wall cupboards, just the right height
for
Godwin the cripple - twelve twenty-one - the stove, the pedal bin, dust
and dead flies and a mummified spider on top of the wall cupboards.
Buckets and mops in a cupboard, tins of food, including those for the
neighbour's thin black cat. Behind the fridge - twelve twenty-two, no
three - freezer compartment of the fridge, only ice-cubes and a slim
package that contained some cold meat left from a meal.

Hallway. Cupboard. Hands slipping between folded sheets, shirts,
smoothing down the ironing board as if searching a spreadeagled
suspect. Suitcases in the bedroom, on top of the wardrobe. Bedroom.
Twelve twenty-five. He was missing things, he couldn't afford to be
really thorough, but he was still taking too long…

Gambling on Godwin holding out because he knew, with utter
certainty, that they had him and by now they would have become
suspicious. Some STB man would make the connection, bring the
questioning round to —

Twelve twenty-six. Nothing in the suitcases or their linings.
Nothing on the underside of the narrow bed that looked like a cot from
some institution. Nothing in the dressing-table or at the backs of the
drawers. Carpet - nothing. Twelve twenty-seven. Hyde's forehead was
damp and prickly despite the cold of the flat. He felt his body heating
up inside his clothes. He could smell the dust from beneath the bed and
in the carpet. Curtains -nothing. Nothing, nothing,
nothing —!

Twelve twenty-eight. He had been in the flat for two minutes
over
half-an-hour. There could be no more than a few minutes now. Godwin
would have had to supply his address - they'd know it anyway, from his
file - and a police or STB patrol would be dispatched; routine in a
workers' paradise. They'd be here for certain, and soon. They were
already overdue. He was sweating freely now, and he could hear his own
panting breaths. The exertion of tension, of frustration, was as great
as that of his flight down the Castle Steps.

It had to be within easy reach, easy reach - twelve twenty-nine.
Easy reach. Godwin couldn't even kneel easily, couldn't climb onto
chairs to reach up, couldn't overturn or move heavy furniture without a
huge, time-devouring effort.
It had
to be within easy reach —!

A car drew up in the Celetna. He heard the sound through the
drawn
curtains. He had heard it subliminally as it moved down the street,
coming from Old Town Square, but had fought to ignore it. Now, he
couldn't. He heard one of its doors close quietly and moved to the
window, lifting the curtain very gently. Two men. Uniforms. Police car.
Looking around, then beginning to lift their heads to look up - he
dropped the curtain. Routine patrol, diverted to check out Godwin's
address - twelve-twenty… no, twelve-thirty. Where? He heard,
or imagined, boots on the pavement's rutted slush, and the murmur of
voices. He listened. No other cars. A tram clanged over points in the
distance.

Where - easy - where, easy for Godwin - where?

And then he knew, as he heard the doorbell ring in the flat
below.
The flats were too few and cramped to have a concierge. Tenants
answered their own bells. But they'd rung the ground floor to confuse
and mislead anyone in Godwin's flat.

Godwin had given up. Hyde saw him as he had seen him at that
bus-stop in the suburbs. Waiting out the remainder of his crippled
existence. He'd never have expected or tried to escape. He would have
sat waiting for them whenever they came. No run for the border for
Godwin - he'd given up.

Hyde flung the old sofa over on its back as if wrestling with an
intruder. He ran his hands along the edges of the sacking covering its
base. Blood. A prick of blood on one finger. He heard the street door
open, and quiet voices. He sucked his finger, knowing that Godwin had
broken a needle that had been too light to perform the task of resewing
the sacking to the material of the sofa. Its broken-off end had
remained embedded in the frame. And the stitching was less neat, newer.
Godwin had really hidden the money - buried it. He ripped the sacking
away and the noise hid for a second the sound of boots ascending the
stairs. His hand fumbled with horsehair and springs, then withdrew the
expected package. He tore the brown paper. Swiss francs, high
denomination.

The doorbell rang. A voice immediately called out Godwin's name,
using the English prefix Mister. They'd seen lights, they
expected someone - perhaps even him. He stood up, shaking with relief,
and thrust the package into the inside pocket of the overcoat. He
snatched up the pistol from the table, and hurried into the kitchen.
Heavy knocking, then the short, ominous silence before forced entry. He
climbed into the sink and over the sill, hearing the lock tear free of
the door-frame as they entered the flat. His hands gripped the
window-frame, and his arms quivered. He tested the frosty tiles with
one foot, then stepped out onto the roof. Voices called behind him, but
not yet to him, at him.

He scuttled, bent almost double, along the sloping roof,
concealing
himself in a crouch behind a bulky chimney. Sleet whisked round him,
the clouds glowed from the lights of the city. Voices at the window,
issuing orders, then the crackle of an R/T as assistance was summoned.
Boots clattered on the sill, on the roof. He peered between the
chimney-pots.

There were only two of them - until help arrived. He withdrew
the
pistol from his pocket, feeling its barrel brush against his thigh and
side. He shuffled on his knees away from the chimney, saw the
policeman's face in light from the kitchen as the man's mouth opened.
Hyde fired. The Czech policeman buckled, fell onto his back, scrabbled
with dying hands, and then slid down the roof and off, disappearing.
Hyde heard the dull concussion as his body landed in drifted snow in
the alley at the side of the building. He fired twice more, and the
second policeman ducked out of sight.

Hyde, hunched over, scampered cautiously down the roof. When he
reached the gutter, he paused to look down. The snow was ghostly,
heaped in the alley. He could see a dark shape spreadeagled on a mound
some yards away. He crouched, then jumped. Air rushed, his feet sank
in, his body was chilled instantly, then he was rolling down a drift.
He was winded, still struggling to breathe, as he got to his feet, his
teeth chattering, his dark coat patched with lumpy snow.

Ankles? Yes, OK. Breath coming back - he gulped in air, his
lungs
burned, he exhaled. The second policeman's R/T crackled somewhere out
of sight above him, uttering indecipherable orders. Hyde looked up.
Nothing. Twelve thirty-three. He possessed the lapping athlete's sense
of passing time. Three minutes since he had ripped open the sofa. He
ran past the dead policeman towards the end of the alley. A car passed,
making him huddle in sudden terror against the wall. It moved away down
the street. He listened. A distant siren. He peered round the corner at
the door of the house. No one emerged.

He hurried down the street, past the Skoda, observing the empty
Celetna ulice. Even the lovers had gone. His breath smoked like signals
of desperation. He crossed the street, unlocked the Skoda's door and
climbed into the driving seat. The curtains in Godwin's lounge remained
undisturbed. The second policeman was playing it safe until help
arrived.

Twelve thirty-four. He started the engine. It caught at the
second
attempt. Driving mirror empty, nothing coming towards him from the
Powder Tower. He turned the wheel. Pain back in his hands as the icy
cold of the drifted snow faded and allowed feeling to return. He
grimaced, watching the mirror and the windscreen, and drove past the
police car outside the flat, then immediately turned off the Celetna
into a narrow sidestreet. Moments later, a wailing siren sounded behind
him, but the mirror remained empty. The windscreen was clouding with
the heat and tension he exuded. He turned left, then left once more. A
wide boulevard, tall streetlights at regular intervals. Wenceslas
Square. People, traffic. He was becoming anonymous.