The Bear's Tears (78 page)

As he headed for the motorway to Kladno, Karlovy Vary and Cheb -
his
route to Mytina - he began to think about Aubrey. Once out of immediate
danger, self receded. Twelve-fifty. Into a scrubby industrial suburb
with few lights and no traffic and an abiding sense of grey, dirty
stone and uncleared slush. He could not fend off the growing fear that
he was already too late. Babbington must know by now; Babbington
wouldn't waste a moment, not a single moment, in disposing of the
evidence against himself. He would be too late to save Aubrey's life.
His journey to the border was meaningless. Hopeless.

Twelve fifty-nine. Aubrey would be gone before daylight. On his
way
east, perhaps even dead along with the Massingers. One o'clock. It was
too late to save them.

"Where are they, Voronin?"

The question was involuntary. The Russian's features were
burned-out
in the centre by the retinal image of the light bulb above the narrow
cot, into which Aubrey had been staring. Aubrey moved his head. The
glowing filament, haloed in yellow-white, moved aside from Voronin's
face. The man's sallow complexion was pinked with pleasure. He stood
near the door of the tiny cell, watching Aubrey. Aubrey rubbed his
eyes. How long had he been staring at the bulb? The retinal image was
still as fierce as an eclipse.

"They are being made ready for transit to the airport," Voronin
replied.

"How?" Aubrey's voice croaked. His throat was dry and
constricted.
He cleared it. "How will you smuggle them aboard?"

Voronin shook his head. "That has been taken care of - diplomatic
luggage. No one will see them. Absolutely no one."

"But then, no one can be allowed to see them, can they? They
are—"

"Never to be seen alive again - yes."

"You've killed them —!" something made him cry; terror or grief
he
did not know.

Voronin shook his head slowly. "As yet, they are alive."

Aubrey felt the rising guilt choke him. "How - how do they
travel?"
he asked, fending off other, darker thoughts.

"As part of the luggage of a returning trade mission. It is not
a
problem. No one searches the transport we use." Voronin smiled, moving
forward to stand at the side of the bed. Aubrey was made to feel
vulnerable in his shirtsleeves; prone and old. "I remember some scandal
in your own country, some years ago. When the American President Carter
visited - oh, where was it?"

- "ah, Newcastle-upon-Tyne… the Secret Service and the CIA tried
to
drive a container lorry full of - souvenirs? - directly onto
the tarmac and into a transport aircraft. Our people are known to do
the same. No one cares."

"I remember the incident," Aubrey replied softly.
"Unfortunately,
someone forgot to inform the local constabulary and Customs that that
sort of thing always happens." He nodded sagely, with fierce
concentration. "Of course it will work…" He looked up at Voronin and
blurted out: "Do you have to have them killed once they're in Moscow?
Do you have to do it?" Immediately, he recognised the
utterance as merely another bandage for his conscience. He was going to
have to live with the guilt, and knew he was trying to erect sandbags
against an expected flood. It would be terrible, terrible, to
face himself after they had been disposed of. He shook his head.

"You see," Voronin said. "You realise quite clearly that nothing
else can be done. They know everything. It will be - quick and
painless."

"Oh, jolly good!" Aubrey snarled, surprising the Russian. "And
me?
What about me?"

"You have an important job to do - in Moscow." Voronin grinned.
His
face was still tinged with colour. The retinal image had faded now, and
Aubrey could see the narrow, confident features clearly.

"You're sure of that?" It was blurted out, and it was nakedly
fearful.

The Russian nodded. "Of course."

"What Babbington said - his threats. You're going to use me to
protect him, yes?" Again, Voronin nodded. Aubrey loathed himself, but
it was like pentathol. He could not control the rush of his words. "You
need me? You do need me, don't you?"

His lips were trembling. He wiped at them.

Voronin looked unconcernedly at his watch as he said; "Of
course,
Sir Kenneth Aubrey. You are very necessary." The meeting was over. For
whatever reason the man had come, that reason had been satisfied.

"Kapustin —" he began, but did not continue. The drug of fear
had
lost its overpowering effect. He sat more upright on the bed, leaning
on one elbow. "What time do we leave?" he asked with forced lightness.

"It is now three-fifteen. We leave for the airport in thirty
minutes. Do you wish shaving materials, hot water?"

Aubrey nodded. "Yes," he said breathily. Thirty minutes —!
"Yes," he
repeated, more strongly.

"Good. I will have them sent to you." Voronin nodded, almost
clicked
his heels together, and left the cell. Aubrey heard the key turn in the
lock. He felt perspiration spring out on his forehead, despite the
temperature of the cell. Felt his hands begin to tremble. Felt nauseous
- sick as a dog. He fought it. Fought the nausea. Fought his own
cowardice, and faced the fact of his death. He had been terribly
afraid, seated before Voronin, so afraid he had been on the point,
several times, of pleading to be told that, unlike the Massingers, he
at least was safe, would be allowed to live. Thank God he had not
fallen quite that low—! Thank God…

He wiped the already chilly sweat from his forehead. Rubbed his
bald
head.

And resolved.

He squeezed his eyes very tightly shut. In the darkness, some
ghost
of the light-bulb's filament still glowed. It had been a bad moment.
His worst moment. Perhaps worst ever. But, a moment. Only a
moment —

Yes. He would try. If they were to keep him alive for a short
time
for their benefit, he would try to resist…

Try, in front of a sea of strangers' faces and in the flash and
wink
of lights, to dredge up the truth. Try to struggle through the chemical
bonds with which he would be tied, and say something - create some tiny
suspicion, some sense of the truth, some sense, semblance, fragment,
sliver, atom of the truth —! Try to regain, if only for a
moment, one fragment of himself.

He would owe the Massingers more than that, but it would be the
only
coinage in which he could make any repayment.

He heard footsteps outside and the key turn in the lock. His
hands
gripped one another and became still. Stronger, even as the door
opened. Steam. A bowl of hot water. A towel.

A beginning.

Hyde watched the policeman get out of the patrol car and saunter
across to the empty Skoda. He had been in the process of dialling Sir
William Guest's flat when he had seen the car turn onto the forecourt
of the all-night garage outside Karlovy Vary. His free hand touched his
overcoat, smoothing across his chest to reassure him. Package of Swiss
francs. Pistol. Pockets - spare clips of ammunition, cassette tape.
Teardrop.
The map was still in the car…

Useless to assume he could run. He was still thirty-five miles
from
Mytina.

Kill them if you have to. The policeman had reached the Skoda.
He
rubbed at the driver's widow and peered into the car. Inside the patrol
car, the flash of a cigarette lighter. Hyde remained inside the
telephone booth, half-turned to watch the Skoda.

The patrolman straightened and walked back towards his car.
Wait,
wait —

His companion got out, stretched away stiffness, offered his
packet
of cigarettes. Then the two of them walked towards the dimly-lit office
where Hyde had paid for his petrol. He forced himself to continue
dialling. The moment the number began to ring, he returned his gaze to
the two policemen. The receiver rang in his ear, an empty sound. He
glanced at his watch. Three-fifty. There was no cover between the
telephone booth and the office. They would walk towards him, clearly
exposed but able to see his every movement inside the glass box. He
must wait, and when they moved, he must walk slowly, slowly
and unconcernedly towards the Skoda. Then turn and kill them. Two
shots, perhaps three before fire was returned. His free hand twitched,
as if it had already entered the future. He drummed on the coin box.
Mirror —

Yes, leaning on the coin box casually, he could see the office
in
the mirror. The telephone continued to ring. The two policemen were
talking. An arm pointed towards the Skoda, the garage manager pointed
in Hyde's direction. One of the policemen turned lazily, then looked
away again. Towards a cup he was raising to his lips.

Hyde sighed, clouding the mirror. Furiously, he rubbed it clear.
No,
they hadn't moved, both drinking with the manager. A regular nightly
call. There was a little time left —

Go. The telephone rang unanswered. Go.

Little time —

He knew it was close. Almost over. They didn't need to monitor
Guest's telephone any longer. They'd almost finished whatever they had
in mind for Aubrey. Babbington was sure of himself.

Policemen smoking, drinking coffee or tea. The manager leaning
on
his counter. Go now —

He cancelled the number and began to dial at once. He had to
know.
Two men might have to be killed, he might have to run. He had to know.
He finished dialling SIS's Vienna Station. The number began ringing.
Three statues in a close group under the dim bulb in the manager's
office. Still time.

"Yes?" Hyde did not recognise the voice.

"Listen to me," he blurted out. "It's Hyde - who the bloody hell
are
you?"

"Beach," came the surprised reply. Then: "What the hell do you
want
—? You've got a fucking nerve calling —"

"Shut up and listen, you stupid bugger!" Hyde snapped. "I
haven't
got time for the niceties. Just tell me what's happened to Aubrey."

"My God - his
Russian pals
have got him, that's what!"

"What —?"

"Two good men died tonight, you bastard!
Two good men!
All
because the fucking KGB wanted their ball back! Do you understand,
Hyde? His pals came and took him back! And they killed two of my mates
doing it!"

Christ —

Too close. Already too late —

"Listen to me, you moron! It's not Aubrey - it's Babbington!
Don't
you understand,
Babbington
is
Moscow's man!"

"What? You're crazy, Hyde… Babbington caught Aubrey.
Handed him over for us to guard - and we buggered it up. Lost him.
Understand? He's going back to Mother Russia, and good fucking riddance
to him!"

"What's happening to the old man?"
Hyde yelled into the
telephone.

Rub the mirror clear. Smoking, drinking in the office. Heads
lifted
in laughter.

"He's already left for the airport - just had the report." Beach
was
calmer now, almost pleased.

"Then stop him!"

"Babbington's letting him go, Hyde. Your mate's not to be
touched.
Better for everyone. Even you —"

"Christ - don't you
listen?
"
Mirror. Small, tight,
relaxed
group in the office. New cigarettes being lit. The sense at the other
end of the line that someone else had taken - snatched? - the receiver.

A pause, then: "Hyde?" He recognised Wilkes's voice. "It's
Wilkes,
Patrick." Then: "OK, Beach, I'll deal with this. Get some coffee up
here, will you?"

"Wilkes - where's the old man?"

"Where are you, Hyde?" Wilkes's tone was amused, certain.

"Never mind. I've got it all, Wilkes. Everything. Even his name.
Of course, no one mentioned anyone as small-time as you."

"Everything, eh? Still in Czecho, are you? You won't get out,
old
son. That's certain."

Mirror —!

Group breaking up, one of the two policemen nearer the office's
glass door, turning back to speak, hand outstretched to the ear-shaped
handle of the door. Time —

No time. All over. Hyde ground his teeth audibly as he struggled
to
contain his rage.

"You know what I've got," he said, certain that Babbington
already
knew of his interference with the computer. They'd have tracked down
and run Petrunin's programme themselves by now.

"You don't matter, Hyde. You're a dead man. You won't get out."

"And your boss is running for London already, is he? Wiping his
shoes on Guest's doormat, full of the news that he's lost the old man
to his Russian friends?"

"First businessman's flight this morning to Heathrow. Your pal
Aubrey's just about to leave. He'll be in Moscow before it gets light."
Wilkes chuckled.

One policeman through the door, the second replacing his cap and
following. The manager's hand raised in farewell. Too late to move now.
Wait until they get close —

"And then —?"

"He goes on show, old son. Press call - the whole shocking
story.
Terrible ordeal for the poor old sod. Can't say the same for the Yank
and his wife, of course. They'll just disappear on arrival."

"I'll have Babbington, Wilkes. I swear it. And you. I don't care
how
long, or when and where. I'll have you both."

Both policemen near their car. One, hands on hips, staring
towards
the telephone booth. Cap pushed on the back of his head. Glance towards
the Skoda, then back to Hyde —

"If you hurry, Hyde, you'll catch him before he boards the seven
o'clock to Heathrow. First-class lounge, of course. I'll give him a
call, shall I, tell him to be expecting you?" Wilkes laughed.

Seven o'clock. Heathrow arrival time, nine-thirty. He glanced at
his
watch as he cut off the call with his free hand. Retaining his grip on
the receiver to allay suspicion. Policemen unmoving. Aubrey would be in
Moscow even before Babbington's flight reached London.

Three fifty-five. Five and a half hours. Guest must be arriving
from
Washington on the early morning flight.