Bomb Grade (12 page)

Natalia's sole consideration was the diplomatic reason and cause of his being in Moscow, as it was of the diplomatic reason and cause for James Kestler being accepted. Which made her job doubly or maybe trebly difficult, compared to what Aleksai Popov was setting off probably at this moment to achieve. He had successfully to stop a staggering nuclear theft. The full accountability for which, if he failed, became hers. But she additionally had to satisfy two Western governments that every step of the investigation was carried out, successfully or otherwise, in accordance with the agreements that had been reached with London and Washington. As well as keeping that investigation very firmly under Russian control, which completed the circle to bring the eventual responsibility back to her.

Natalia abruptly remembered there'd been discussion between Aleksai and Charlie of his, and by implication that of the American, participation in the concluding stages of any seemingly worthwhile investigation. Was that something seriously to examine? To allow it would certainly meet any Western criticism of either Moscow's commitment or intention to co-operate. But at the same time open the door to the interpretation that Russia was unable to police its own most serious crime, which was inherent anyway in the fact that the two men had been posted to Moscow in the first place. So she was damned, whichever choice she made.

Sasha stirred, snuffling half-coughs and pushing away the covers, flushed by her fever. Natalia separated the blankets, just pulling the light sheet higher around the child. Which course was personally the safer? Neither, totally. If whatever happened ended in disaster, as much blame as possible could be apportioned to foreign interference. But if it succeeded, there would still remain the inevitable impression that it could not have been achieved
without
foreign involvement.

Natalia's mind moved on, to what had shocked her almost as much as the size and potential capability of the nuclear theft. Was it really conceivable that Interior Ministry departments could be as corrupt as Aleksai had almost glibly declared? Natalia knew well enough it existed at street level: that very evening, driving home with Sasha fitfully asleep in her rear-mounted seat, Natalia had seen a foot patrol Militia man extracting a bribe from a motorist preferring to pay the man off than later to waste an entire day in a traffic violation court. And it was unquestioned common knowledge that an enormous number of displaced KGB personnel had moved into organized crime. But for a district command to feel operations in his own regional headquarters were so insecure he had to work by personally visiting trusted informers and disguise the true reason for a trip to Moscow was incredible. As incredible as the ease with which Aleksai had questioned the security of their very ministry in Moscow. The potential robbery from the Kirs depot was more than sufficient to occupy her for the moment. And would be, until whatever its conclusion. But Natalia made a mental note that after its conclusion she would have Aleksai conduct the most stringent internal security check in Moscow and then extend it throughout their district establishments.

Natalia was asleep when Popov telephoned, apologizing at once for awakening her. ‘I thought you'd want to know where to reach me.'

‘Of course,' accepted Natalia, fumbling for the light. It was just after one-thirty. ‘Where are you?'

‘The National. Room 334.'

‘I'm glad you called'.

‘How's Sasha?'

‘She's got a chest infection.'

‘How bad?' The concern was obvious in the man's voice.

‘I've got medicine and it should be cleared up in a few days.'

‘Take good care of her.'

Natalia smiled. ‘Of course I will.'

‘I love you,' he said.

‘I love you too,' she said, meaning it.

chapter 10

C
harlie went to the ochre-washed US embassy on the Ulitza Chaykovskovo the day after his encounter with Aleksai Popov to tell the Americans of the Russian's undertaking. And was stunned by the Bureau chief's immediate reaction.

‘You've been here almost a whole goddamned year, fannying around and getting nowhere!' Lyneham erupted at Kestler, close to shouting. ‘He's here five minutes and he's promised participation!'

‘… I don't … I mean …' stumbled Kestler but Charlie hurried in, refusing to be the shuttlecock in any internal game he didn't want to play.

‘Wait right there!' he said, bringing both Americans to him. ‘There was no such
promise
Popov said he would consider the idea, with others. That's as far as it goes. I made it quite clear that if they agreed then both of us – you as well as me – would be involved. We're not competing to get a good end-of-term report. No one's being cut out, from my side. If I thought otherwise I wouldn't have told you, would I? I'd have kept it all to myself.' The rebuttal was much stronger than perhaps the situation required but Charlie was determined against any operational animosity and the man with whom he expected to operate was Kestler, not Lyneham.

It was Lyneham who coloured now, although only very slightly. It was impossible from the look on Kestler's face for Charlie to decide if his correction bad stopped any feeling growing between Kestler and himself. It was the younger American who broke the strained silence. ‘What do you think the chances are?'

‘You've been here longer than me,' reminded Charlie welcoming the chance to strengthen any weakened bridge. ‘What do you think?'

‘Zilch!' declared Lyneham. ‘He was going through the motions with a newcomer. He'll keep stalling and then say he'd like it to happen but people above him shat on the idea.'

Lyneham's response, a 180-degree about turn from the flare-up of minutes before, further confused Charlie. He was
sure
his initial impression of Lyneham as a hardened, no-overkill professional was right, but this encounter didn't fit. What
was
Lyneham so wrought up about? Charlie looked enquiringly at Kestler, for his contribution.

‘It could go either way,' said the still-discomfited Kestler. ‘I think you'll have to wait and see.'

‘
We'll
have to wait and see,' said Charlie, wanting to give the younger man all the reassurance he could. ‘I didn't quite expect the invitation always to deal with Popov himself. Arrival meeting maybe, for all the obvious reasons. But not on a day-to-day basis.'

‘It's access to the top. Close to it, at least, which is where it counts,' said Lyneham. He was furious at himself, well aware he'd made himself look an asshole but worse, that it had obviously made the Englishman sympathetic to Kestler when he'd wanted Charlie apprehensive, deferring to his opinions. It wouldn't help if Kestler moaned privately to those who mattered back home, either. He'd really ballsed things up.

‘How well does it work?' asked Charlie, talking directly to Kestler.

The young man shrugged. ‘Usually all right. Sometimes it takes a while to link up but then everything in Russia takes time.'

‘I'll give you any external lead I get from London, obviously,' promised Charlie. If the purpose of his getting information from London was to make it openly available to the Russians there was no reason why he shouldn't give it to the Americans in the hope of getting something in return. Anything he learned would probably come from the Bundeskriminalamt anyway, which seemed to be the FBI's primary source. All of which seemed uncomfortably alien to a man accustomed always to working by himself. But the time to operate alone hadn't come yet.

‘Like I told you before, we're both on the same side here,' assured Lyneham, working hard to recover. Unhappy at having to make the concession, he added, ‘You got any problem with that, Jamie?'

The younger American hesitated, nervous of the wrong reply. ‘None at all.'

‘Let's hope we all stay on the same side,' said Charlie.

‘Can't see any reason why we shouldn't,' said Lyneham, knowing Charlie's remark had been aimed directly at him.

Charlie judged Lyneham's outburst to be the sort of irrational upset that arose for no good reason in the constricted environment of overseas embassies, particularly somewhere like Moscow.

Charlie strove at maintaining the special influence pretence and was mostly successful, although the Head of Chancellery remained aloofly unimpressed, which suited Charlie just fine because he didn't want any more contact with the man than was absolutely necessary. The ambassador, a white-haired career diplomat named Sir William Wilkes, personally welcomed him with the hope that he'd be happy and that everything would work out well, making Charlie wonder if the man really knew what he was there for, and Thomas Bowyer and his wife hosted a party to introduce him to more legation people. Their compound apartment of plywood and formica convinced Charlie he'd made the right decision by living outside. Fiona was a bustling, rosy-cheeked woman who shunned make-up, wore hand-knitted cardigans and taught elementary English at the embassy school. She also matched Charlie's whisky intake, glass for glass and without any noticeable affect, and Charlie liked her. Paul Smythe had obviously been the chief grinder at the rumour mill and Charlie found himself under as much scrutiny for imagined roles as he did for what he was officially supposed to be doing. To keep the personal mystique simmering, Charlie deflected both the outright questions and the heavy innuendo by saying he couldn't, of course, talk about his work and left people believing they'd come close to a secret.

He welcomed Bowyer's suggestion of their going together to two foreign embassy receptions and at both, the first French, the second German, he was sought out by the respective intelligence heads, both of whom announced they wanted close working relationships. He was additionally button-holed at the German party by Israeli and Italian
rezidentura
officers saying the same thing. After a lifetime of being the left-in-the-cold outsider with his nose pressed to the window, Charlie found the sudden popularity as curiously amusing as it was unusual. With absolutely nothing to lose but everything to gain, Charlie assured each he wanted the contact to be as close as they did, particularly the German, Jurgen Balg, from whom he anticipated the most benefit.

Charlie followed up the German encounter with lunch the following day, exchanging private and direct line telephone numbers and fixed luncheon appointments with the others over the course of the succeeding fortnight. Although Charlie considered the contacts, at this early stage, little more than finger touching, it gave a semblance of activity to report back to London, which he did methodically. He also wrote fuller memoranda to himself about the men and their discussions, which he left in the unlocked cabinets in his office for Bowyer to discover and use as he felt fit. Charlie also logged daily a much-inflated expenditure, particularly out-of-pocket items like taxi fares, phone calls, gratuities and casual, bar-level hospitality for Bowyer to find. He knew it wouldn't allay the inevitable challenge from Gerald Williams, but it gave Bowyer and the financial director something to talk about.

And most of all he waited for the hoped-for call from Colonel Aleksai Semenovich Popov. Which never came. Charlie accepted in hindsight he'd invested far too much in what had, considered objectively, been little more than a diplomatic response that avoided outright rejection. But he
had
thought there was a chance. Maybe Popov had suggested it and been turned down. But Charlie would have still expected the man to come back to him, to tell him one way or the other. It would not, after all, have reflected upon him personally. Lyneham had even predicted such an outcome.

Charlie had to wait, with increasing frustration, until the beginning of the second week before he got an excuse to go against the imposed system and make a call to the Russian instead of waiting for Popov to contact him. It was scarcely sufficient and Charlie didn't doubt Kestler had the same information as he did, because the Bundeskriminalamt was clearly the source, but the impatient Charlie judged it reason enough. The British station in Bonn, with what looked like corroborative rumours in Berlin, picked up the suggestion of a nuclear shipment transiting Leipzig in the coming month. There was no indication of destination or source, although there was a hint it would originate from the Ukraine.

Popov's direct line rang interminably unanswered and the girl who finally responded didn't speak English and appeared unable to understand Charlie's groping Russian, just as he didn't get everything she tried to tell him. Despite the language difficulty Charlie attempted the main Interior Ministry switchboard, several times being plugged through to further unanswered infinity and twice reaching whom he thought to be the same secretary, on the second occasion understanding from her near-impatient insistence that Popov wouldn't be available ‘for a long time'.

‘The good old Russian runaround. I told you that earlier stuff was just so much bullshit,' insisted Lyneham, when Charlie finally confessed the failure. Charlie had developed the habit of practically daily visits to Ulitza Chaykovskovo, as much to get out of the British embassy and appear to the watchful Bowyer to be doing something as in the hope of gaining even a scrap of information from the Americans. That day Kestler confirmed they had virtually the same information about the possible Ukraine shipment and admitted that he, too, had been unable to locate the Russian colonel.

‘You ever had difficulty like this before?' Charlie asked Kestler.

‘A couple of times,' conceded the younger American. ‘You leave a name and a number?'

‘Finally, yesterday.' The atmosphere between the two Americans seemed easier.

‘He's normally pretty good at calling back.'

The thought of a continuing delay depressed Charlie: having provided even limited information London would anticipate a Russian response. And wouldn't be impressed at his inability to reach the operational chief with whom he'd already told them he'd formed precisely the liaison he'd been sent to Moscow to establish.