The Bear's Tears (85 page)

Kapustin was behind him - did he speak, whisper? No - but
propelled
him gently, firmly towards the door. Sunlight, a stiff, ambushing
little breeze, the expanse of grey concrete with heaped snow beyond it;
the glitter and dazzle of huge glass windows. Faces in and behind the
dazzle, watching him. The air he drew in choked him with its coldness.
He coughed, as if to clear his throat before addressing —

Addressing the broad scimitar of cameramen and journalists at
the
foot of the passenger steps. Roped back, the perched, portable TV and
film cameras bobbing behind them. Guards, rope - the distance of
deception. He could not call to them, they would not hear. They would
see him, see what Kapustin wished them to see and record and believe,
and then he would be hurried into one of the waiting black cars; to
disappear.

He could not have addressed them. The cough had left his throat
dry,
inoperative. Kapustin crowded onto the top step of the passenger ladder
behind him. A murmur like wind through tall dry grass, then the stutter
of lenses and the whirr of automatic winders. The dry, awful chorus of
crickets in a burned landscape. Aubrey hated it. The cameras went on
and on pointing, on and on exposing yards of negative and video tape
and film stock.

Kapustin's satisfaction enveloped Aubrey like a heavy,
suffocating
blanket. Kapustin held his arm, keeping him to the pose.

Then nudged him. He began to descend the steps. The chorus of
the
cameras loudened, became almost frenzied. Preying on his treachery,
devouring the deception. They did not expect him to smile - Kapustin
would, no doubt, prefer the scowl he gave the lenses. It would later be
taken to be a sign of illness and strain. A harbinger of his death. At
the least, the opening of millions of newspapers the following day
would lead to the conclusion that he still possessed perhaps a modicum
of shame and therefore could not summon a smile.

The day after that, they would read of his death and consider,
all
in all, that the world was well rid of him.

Someone moving, elbowing through the edge of the semi-circle of
the
press, from the line of black cars. Guards opening a way for a man in
uniform. KGB. A major. Hurrying. For one terrible moment, Aubrey
lurched sideways, as if the hurrying figure had blundered into him, or
intended to do so. It was the hurry of his assassin, just for the
moment.

The major did not pause at the bottom of the steps. The guards
were
herding the cameras and pressmen away from the cars, so that no one
might speak to Aubrey or be within hearing distance of anything he
might blurt out. The crickets continued their dry chorus.

"What —?" in Russian from Kapustin. It was the first spoken word
since he had donned his overcoat. The major gabbled. Aubrey turned
almost lazily, like a very old and frail man, to this new epicentre of
the scene. The crickets retreated, to become the noise of a log-fire
crackling in a distant room. The major's words were difficult - it was
as if Aubrey had forgotten his Russian.

He concentrated instead upon Kapustin's face. The chorus of
shutters
and winders further diminished, more hesitant now as if suspecting some
kind of pretense or swindle. He did not listen to the major's words, or
to Kapustin's denials, or his growing impatience and anger. He saw the
major's hands - one flapping glove held loosely by the other gloved
hand, making repeated, emphatic little slaps on the rail of the
passenger steps. He saw Kapustin's face. He glanced along the
airliner's windows but did not see the Massingers —

He registered the other aides near the cars; a desultory,
motiveless, chattering group. He heard the shutters falter, almost die.
As he turned, he glimpsed the hostess's smile die at the top of the
steps, and two KGB men bulk behind her.

Turned again, and saw glass dazzle, snow stretch away across the
airport, whiteness bordered by dirty slush. Saw an aircraft taxi, then
begin its rush down the main runway. A Western airline's symbol
blazoned on the flank and tail. It lifted, blue and white, into the
sky. Air France —

Saw Kapustin, watching him. And knew.

Something, something, something…

His head spun. He gripped the rail of the steps, tottering
slightly.
Instinctively, the major's ungloved hand held his elbow, supporting
him. The gesture seemed to enrage Kapustin.

"Inside with you!" he snapped in English. "Inside - back inside!"

Aubrey did not hear the words, but acted upon them, with the
major's
not-unkind help. Whatever, whatever had gone wrong — No — gone right,
gone
right!
— it must be over. Before long he would be calm enough to
guess at it, even to listen to any explanation they offered. But for
the moment it was enough to know that it was over. Finally over.

He ducked his head unnecessarily as he re-entered the door of
the
Tupolev. His eyes immediately, mistily sought the Massingers. Their
faces, above the backs of their seats, had turned to him, afraid.

He smiled. Kapustin was raging behind him. Babbington —? Hyde —?

He did not understand. There were no real words being spoken
there
behind his back. He understood only that it was over. Margaret returned
his smile, hesitantly, her swollen, discoloured lips finding the
expression difficult. Paul's face opened into a grin. Perhaps he
understood - he spoke Russian. It did not matter. He sat down
carefully, weakly, in one of the seats. The Massingers were coming
towards him. He had to sit still, just for a moment.

Time had become unimportant. It no longer mattered how long the
delay, how long they simply sat aboard the aircraft, for eventually it
would be refueled, and they would be cleared to take off on their
return journey to… to Vienna. Yes, they would return them to Vienna,
not London. He would wait for that, just wait for the aircraft to take
off…

Massinger's hand fell again and again on the sleeve of his coat.
A
comforting, relieved gesture. It lulled Aubrey. He felt very tired.
Margaret sat opposite him, across the narrow aisle; smiling at him, the
tears beginning, her throat bobbing almost continuously as she
attempted to swallow her welling feelings.

Aubrey nodded, in rhythm with the pats of Massinger's hand. Yes.
It
was over.