The Bear's Tears (9 page)

Savagely, he stabbed his finger on the button to summon the lift. He
needed to retreat to the hideously expensive suite on the tenth floor
which he could not use any of his own credit cards to pay for. The
doors sighed open and he stepped in. The lift ascended, smooth and
swift, as if rushing him away from possible identification and arrest.
He felt fear; pure, undiluted and inescapable. He knew he was beaten.

Train, car, bus, boat…

The lift doors sighed open. He hurried along the corridor, passing
an open suite door. Two Arab women and two children sat there, a tray
of fruit and biscuits outside the door. They were prisoners of the
hotel, like himself. He fumbled his key into the lock, opened the door,
and closed and locked it behind him.

His breathing was loud and ragged. His body was heavy, wanting only
to sink into the cushions of the sofa or lie upon the bed in the next
room. His hands were shaking. There was no way out, his body urged.
Give it up…

Train, car, bus, aircraft…

All watched. All watched.

The telephone lay on the writing desk. He could ring, call Parrish
or Wilkes at the embassy, play along, ask them what they wanted —

Or just walk in. They couldn't execute him in cold blood. Whatever
they wanted or didn't want from him, he could listen to them, agree to
do it, forget what had happened…

That would be as easy as telling them about the tape he had dropped,
the tape they undoubtedly had by now. He damned his stupidity, his
gullibility, once more. Easy -

For them, killing him would be just as easy.

"Christ—!" he exclaimed in an explosion of breath. "
Christ
—!"

Then, involuntarily, he picked up the telephone and flicked over the
directory of international code numbers on the desk, running his finger
down the column of figures. He began dialling, first the code for the
UK, then the London number. He could see the telephone - perhaps his
cat was sitting by it, or looking lazily up at its summons. It was no
doubt ensconced in Ros's flat, above his own.

"Come on, come on…" he breathed.

Give up, some part of him suggested seductively.

"Sod that," he muttered, then: "Come on, Ros, come on, girlie…"

She knew where the other passports were, the money, the credit cards
in another name. Would she bring them? At least she could send them.

"Come on, darling…" he muttered urgently as the telephone went on
ringing in her flat in Earl's Court.

TWO
MEAT MARKET
The taxi dropped Paul Massinger at the corner of Philbeach Gardens and
Warwick Road and he walked quickly, his limp easing with exercise,
along the crescent of the Gardens. Through the spaces between the
houses he glimpsed the Earls Court Exibition Building that lay behind
the crescent. St. Cuthberts Church, though elaborately Gothic, seemed
shrunken and dwarfish by comparison as he passed it.

 

 

He felt a cold trickle of danger in his stomach as the afternoon closed
in. Gaps in the darkening cloud were blue-turning-black already. There
was a chilly sliver of fear in the small of his back. What he had
suspected in the taxi was now confirmed. He had collidid with reality
and the impact had snatched away his breath and his wits, but he was
certain that he was under surveillance.

 

 

The blue Cortina had stopped by the Church. It had pulled out behind
the taxi in Charlotte Street and, from time to time, he had seen it
during the journey to Earl's Court. Now, there could be no fudging, no
postponement of certainty. He could not remember having seen the same
car in the vicinity of Aubrey's flat, nor on the way to Antoine's. But
it had been there when he and Shelley left, and it was still with him.

 

 

God, he had done no more that call on an old friend and eaten lunch
with a second man, and someone already thought him worth tailing-

 

 

Shelly-? he thought, and dismissed the idea. Babbington? The KGB? Who?

 

 

He shook his head, ridding himself of the questions as a dog might have
done water from its coat. He studied the house numbers in the crescent.
Bare trees flanked the railings of the gardens themselves, trunks black
as iron. The grass beyond them was patchily white with old snow.

 

 

He climbed three steps to a front door, and studied the discoloured
cards below each doorbell.
P. Hyde
claimed one
of them. On the second floor, he was informed in a more flowing script,
lived
R. D. Woode
. He pressed the top floor bell. There was a
delay, and then a tinny voice with a distinct Australian accent issued
from the grille of the speaker above the bells.

"My name is Massinger - a friend of Kenneth Aubrey," he enunciated
clearly in reply to the enquiry. "Am I speaking to Patrick Hyde's
landlady?"

"You are, sport. He's away on business." Even through the
distortions of the speaker, the voice seemed pinched and tense with
knowledge.

"I know that. You know the name Aubrey, maybe?" Shelley knew nothing
of Hyde's relationship with the woman. But he had felt Hyde trusted her
- she might know Hyde's work… ?

"I know it."

"He's in trouble. He wants to know Mr Hyde's whereabouts, urgently."
Massinger felt the cold of the late afternoon seeping into him,
mingling with the chill knowledge of the watchers in the blue Cortina.
He was tempted to turn around, but remained hunched near the grille of
the speaker.

"I know that, too," the voice admitted. Then, rallying: "Shit, what
do you want, mister?"

"I'd like to talk to you. I assure you Kenneth Aubrey, Patrick
Hyde's - er, employer - sent me."

There was a long silence. Massinger heard a crow coughing in one of
the naked trees. Then, in a graceless, churlish tone, the woman said:
"I'll meet you outside his flat. First floor." There was a buzz, and he
pushed open the door, letting it close behind him on its security
springs. The hall smelt of cooking, but was carpeted and quiet. He went
up the stairs as confidently as he could, wincing at the pain each
tread caused in his hip.

Hyde's door was painted a garish crimson. Standing in front of it
was a woman of perhaps thirteen or fourteen stone in a kaftan that
billowed around her. She appraised him with keen brown eyes. Her dark
hair was dragged back from a broad forehead and held in a pony-tail.
She held a bunch of keys in her hand.

"Massinger?" she said.

"Yes." He held out his hand.

"Ros Woode," she acknowledged, gripping his hand firmly and then
letting it drop. He studied her face. It was impassive almost to the
point of boredom, but he sensed that the expression was adopted; a mask.

He gave up the puzzle. Carefully, he said, "Could I ask you to do
something for me?"

"Depends."

"Just listen, then," he instructed. "If you should hear from Mr Hyde
—" He held up his hand to stifle her protest. "— if you should hear
from him, would you please tell him of my visit, and tell him also that
I am trying to help Aubrey. Tell him - mm, tell him that I am trying to
establish why the KGB should have framed Aubrey, and that I believe it
is a frame-up." Massinger cursed inwardly. He needed something, a token
of good faith, a password that would convince Hyde. Yet he knew nothing
about him. What —? "Has Hyde worked for Aubrey for long, do you know?"

"He has - why?" The woman seemed subdued now. She appeared to wish
to believe him. He realised that she had been in touch with Hyde, and
had been warned against visitors.

"I'm trying to find something that will convince him I'm a genuine
friend, not a trap. But I can't. All I can tell you is that I'm the
husband of the daughter of the man Aubrey is supposed to have betrayed
to the Russians."

"Christ, mate…" the woman breathed.

"That either makes me Aubrey's bitter enemy, or his one real friend.
Hyde must decide. If he contacts you again, or if you can reach him,
please tell him everything I've told you - and that I must speak with
him. I'll do it from here, even from the call-box on the corner to keep
him secure. Will you do that?"

The woman hestitated for a long time, and then she finally
reluctantly nodded.

"I'll do it
-if I
hear from him," she grudgingly agreed.

"Thank you. Now, I'll leave you. Good afternoon, Ms Woode." He
inclined his head, and turned to leave the room. The woman made no
effort to recall him and Massinger was dubious as to his success. She
might just as easily warn Hyde off.

He closed the door of the flat behind him and went down the stairs.
A young woman passed him in the hallway, then opened the door of the
ground floor flat. The commentary of a Test Match issued into the hall,
together with the smell of pipe tobacco. The radio informed him of an
imminent English batting collapse before the door was closed upon the
commentator's voice. He had never learned the English trick of
passionate interest in such a sleepwalking game; especially not in a
recording of a game being played on the other side of the world.

He opened the front door.

The blue Cortina was clearly visible in the failing light, against
the black railings of the gardens. Two men, driver and passenger. He
noted the number, then descended the steps.

He had walked three or four yards in the opposite direction from the
parked car when he heard its engine start. A noise harsher than the
crow's coughing earlier. His body suffered a violent spasm of shock, as
if he had been dreaming the falling-dream and then suddenly awoken. The
car passed him. He forced himself to turn his head, and felt a chill of
recognition. A type, not an individual. A professional. The driver's
glance was vivid with threat.

The car turned out of Philbeach Gardens, and disappeared. Massinger
walked on in the chill dusk, his heart refusing to adopt a calmer,
more regular beating.

Margaret was perched on the edge of the armchair which faced the
door of the drawing-room. Her hands comforted and strengthened each
other on her lap. Babbington was in half-profile to Massinger until he
turned his head in greeting. Or perhaps it was no more than an
acknowledgement of his presence. Massinger felt himself an intruder,
the shoulders of his overcoat sparkling with melted snow that had blown
along the orange-flaring darkness of the street outside. The warmth of
the central heating seemed a barrier; a border he had yet to cross.

Babbington stood almost at once, and held out a hand. Massinger
moved towards him, conscious of an ache in his hip. Margaret's features
betrayed a little anxiety. Babbington seemed to weigh and discard him,
and to be almost amused at his infirmity.

"My dear Paul," he murmured.

"Sir Andrew," Massinger replied stiffly. Babbington smiled
sardonically and with infinite confidence.

Margaret stood up jerkily, her body that of a faint-hearted
conspirator in the moment of flight. "I - I'll leave the two of you to
talk," she murmured. Massinger allowed a look of pain to cross his
face. It was evident Babbington and she had been talking. She knew - if
not everything, then a great deal about how he had spent the day. He
could not but be hurt, and guilty, in the moment before other thoughts
crowded in.
Blue Cortina
. Babbington's people —? Why? He felt
breathless.

"Don't forget to leave yourself time to change," Margaret added as
she moved to the door.

Flowers - he was aware of a number of new flower arrangements that
must have been delivered that afternoon. The sideboard was laden with
drink and glasses.

"Why —?" he asked stupidly.

"Covent Garden," she murmured in a tight little voice, indicating
displeasure. Then she closed the double doors to the dining-room behind
her. Immediately, he could hear her supervising the activities of the
butler and housekeeper.

"Sit down, my dear Paul," Babbington murmured, indicating a chair.
It might have been the man's own room. Massinger lowered himself into
his armchair as vigorously as possible, casting the stick and his
removed raincoat aside. Babbington watched him with what might have
been greed rather than curiosity. "You're not well?"

"Fine, thank you, Andrew - and you?"

"Good health, thank God."

Massinger quailed inwardly. It was not knowledge of Babbington's
position, authority and reputation that made him do so. Rather,
Babbington exuded those things, they were palpably present in his
frame, his features, the room.

"You seem serious, Andrew?" he asked as lightly as he could.

"I am, Paul -I am. This Aubrey business. This affair of your friend
Aubrey. Deeply distressing." Babbington shook his head as an
accompaniment to his words. The scent of winter roses from near the
windows, where the central heating was opening the tight buds, was
sharp and warm in Massinger's nostrils. He had not noticed the scent
when he had come in from the cold, wet street. Now, he heard the sleet
patter against the windows behind the heavy curtains and, through one
window at the far end of the room where the curtains had not been
drawn, he saw it blow in a gust through the orange light of a
street-lamp. The image was almost identical to that of one of the two
Turners on the wall above the sideboard.

"Yes. My friend, as you say." It sounded like a confession of
weakness or guilt.

"I'm sorry for you, Paul. It must be very upsetting, caught in the
middle as you are."

"Yes."

"Especially when one is impotent, useless." The words had been
carefully chosen. "When one can do nothing to help, even though one
wishes to - however much one wishes to." Babbington spread his hands on
his thighs.

"You think nothing can be done?"

"I'm certain of it," Babbington replied sharply. His eyes held
Massinger's. "I'm sure of it," he repeated softly.