Free The Bear's Tears by Craig Thomas

professor of
European history has to bring to this thing, I'm not sure." Massinger's
smile was rueful, and he added: "Though I was a good operations
controller in the field, back before the Flood!" His face darkened when
he said: "You always involved yourself too
personally
in
operations. You should never have gone near that Deputy Chairman - not
within a mile."
    "Meals with the Devil and the virtues of a long spoon, you'll be
telling me next."
    "Exactly."
    "Another drink, Paul?"
    "Mm? No thanks. I guess I'd better be going —" He looked at his
watch. "— if I'm to talk to Peter Shelley today." He hoisted himself
stiffly to his feet. Aubrey rose. Massinger, leaning on his stick,
looked down on the older man. He smiled slightly, sardonically. His
eyes were lidded and he appeared weary. "OK, Kenneth. I'll do what I
can…" Something evidently still nagged at his mind. He said
diffidently: "I feel - like a traitor myself." Aubrey winced at the
word. "Margaret wouldn't forgive me, even though you didn't do it… ?"
He ended on an interrogative note.
    "I swear to you, Paul, I did not betray Robert Castleford to the
NKVD," Aubrey said with finely-judged solemnity.
    Massinger seemed relieved. "I know."
    "Tell Peter to find Patrick Hyde," Aubrey instructed urgently. "And
- and tell him I shall need a transcript of that file our defecting
friend took to the CIA - that damned
Teardrop
file, as it's
called! I need to see that."
    "Very well. I'll be in touch tomorrow." He looked once more at his
watch. An expensive gold watch on a thick gold bracelet, Aubrey
noticed. Subtle wealth. Castleford money.
    Aubrey shook Massinger's hand. Light flashed from the face of the
watch.
    "Thank you, Paul - thank you!" he said.

    The upstairs room of Antoine's in Charlotte Street was almost empty.
Peter Shelley watched Massinger over the rim of his glass, and then
sniffed the armagnac. He sipped at it, savoured it, and sensed his
moment. He shook his head firmly. Massinger's hand, about to pick up
his demi-tasse of black coffee, quivered. The tiny cup rattled in its
saucer.
    "I'm sorry, Professor Massinger - there's nothing I can do. There's
a shutdown order on everything. Christ, I'd like to help the old man -
but he's out of bounds. They're watching me, for God's sake!"
    "Who?"
    "Babbington's chums. I'm near the top of the list of potential help
the old man might try to employ. I couldn't fart without them knowing
about it."
    Massinger stared into his coffee, then absently swilled the pale
armagnac in his glass. From the moment the lobster had been served, he
had known this would be the outcome. Aubrey's fall had left Shelley
still in the directorship of East Europe Desk, but his hold upon his
new office was precarious. He was an Aubrey man. He might yet go.
Shelley was keeping his head down until the gunfire stopped.
    "Babbington intends to control both services, finally?"
    Shelley nodded. "Oh, yes. He's ambitious, and he's favoured. It's
happened before, in the sixties, and since then. One man doing both
jobs. Babbington's the man, apparently."
    "You must owe Aubrey a great deal," Massinger suggested.
    "I do," Shelley replied frostily, his face twisted into an ugly
grimace as he drained his glass. He evidently disliked being reminded
of his debts, especially by someone outside his service, and an
American, at that. Massinger controlled his anger. "And I'm aware of
it, and I'm grateful. But, I can do
nothing
." He leaned
confidentially towards Massinger. "To begin with, JIC has impounded all
the papers, the tapes, everything. Sir William sent in some people and
they took stuff away by the lorryload. And I just
can't
get
you a transcript of the
Teardrop
file. It's much too hot and
much too jealously guarded. I haven't even
seen
a copy. Any
one of the few copies in existence would be missed immediately. I can't
do it. The old man's being sent to the wall, Professor. There's nothing
to be done about it."
    Massinger sighed impatiently, admitting