The Bear's Tears by Craig Thomas Read Free Book Online Page A

knot of men appeared at the corner of the narrow street,
moving urgently. The figures he had identified spread outwards, like
seed cast from a hand. The net spread; men began running. In that
moment, it was already too late. A second earlier, they had been
evident by their immobility in the wind that hurried the innocent
across the square like leaves; now, they were moving more swiftly,
projectiles rather than detritus. Hyde was trapped in the doorway of
the cathedral, the door locked against him.
    His thoughts raced but held no form. Adrenalin offered itself, but
with the crudeness of a one-swallow drink. Dark overcoat moving to the
cathedral's north side, dark overcoat to the south side, skirting the
square. Doorways checked. Two men coming across the square towards the
west door and its concealing shadow, two more descending into the light
of the metro station. Other, disregarded shapes drifted or hurried
across the Stephansplatz, as unimportant as the sleet blown through
the light of the lamps. Two men coming towards him, north side man
closer than the man on the south side. Eight men altogether; nothing
being left to chance. Substitution,
collusion -
now when he
didn't want them the images came to accompany the word. Wilkes's voice,
the accentless English in the palace grounds, Kapustin watching,
Babbington arresting Aubrey for treason - the arrangement of his own
capture and murder.
    Now
—
    South side man perhaps thirty yards from him, the two men crossing
the square, one taller than the other, broader, striding more quickly -
they were fifteen yards, fourteen, twelve…
    He ran.
    Hyde's boots skidded on the little accumulation of sleety snow on
the bottom step, then he turned to his left, thrust away from the
sooty, crumbling stonework, head down. A shout, other shouts like
answering hunting horns. The south-side man hurrying almost at once,
without noticeable shock-delay. Hyde rounded the west facade into
deeper shadow, hearing the footsteps behind him over the pounding of
his heart; over the drumming realisation that he was running into a
narrowing canyon behind the cathedral where the pedestrianised streets
on the north and south sides converged. At that instant, men were
running along the north side, beneath the unfinished, capped tower of
the Stephansdom, to head him off. It was a race. There would be no
doubling back, no luck of deception. Point of convergence - himself. He
would have to outrun them.
    Lights from fashionable, expensive apartments above fashionable,
expensive shops. Shoes gleamed and primped in a soft-lit window. A
couple huddled in a chilly passion in the shop's doorway. The shadows
along the cathedral wall were deep, almost alive. Hyde skidded again,
and his hand rubbed against cold stone as he righted himself. He could
hear the beat of footsteps ahead and behind him.
    Shop window, doorway, couple, dark side street…
    He turned, saw the three men bearing down on him, and then fled down
the narrow street, away from the cathedral. Their pursuit resounded
from the blank, grey walls of the tall houses. Left into a narrow alley
with light at the other end, then right and across the street, hearing
a car moving away from him and the sudden, chilling screech of a cat,
then another alley, then a lightless street after the loom of a church.
    He paused and listened. The car's noise had faded. There was the
noise of someone blundering into a dustbin, music from an upstairs
window, and the beat of footsteps - splitting up, the noises moving
away. He crossed the street and walked swiftly, hands in his pockets. A
man emerged from the alley into the dark street. He was alone, and no
more than a shadowy lump. Then he moved off in the opposite direction.
    Sausages hung in the unlit window of a delicatessen; fat, ripe,
Daliesque. His dark, narrow features stared out at him in reflection.
He looked abandoned, inadequate. He had no cover, no luggage, no hotel,
no back-up. Wilkes had set the KGB on him.
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