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Authors: Brian Freemantle

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BOOK: Kings of Many Castles
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“Perfectly,” said Charlie. Bollocks, he thought.
“Of course,” said Anne, accepting her inclusion in the caution.
As she walked from the head of chancellery’s office with Charlie, leaving the two diplomats composing their alert cable to the Foreign Office in London, she said, “It’s illegal under the Copyright Act to duplicate videos.”
“Let’s not tell anyone we’re going to do it.” Charlie had never told anyone in advance what he was going to do. Or hardly ever afterwards. It was better that way for their propriety, ulcers, general state of health and overall peace of mind.
Charlie’s mind as he emerged into the darkness of a slumbering Moscow night was anything but peaceful. He hadn’t properly started yet and there were already things that worried him, one more obviously than the others. He didn’t even need the warning ache from his talisman feet to tell him all was not right.
 
 
“We’ve got everything to consider, to protect ourselves against,” protested Sir Michael Parnell, guiding the discussion.
“I understand what you’re saying,” agreed the about-to-be-promoted head of chancellery.
“We’ve got to be careful.”
“Absolutely.”
“If it gets to consular access, it’ll be you, Richard.”
“I know,” accepted Brooking, uncomfortably.
“That intelligence fellow’s a problem. I know he’s not officially recognized here as such but that’s what he is. Or was. And a confounded nuisance as well, from all the stories I heard before I arrived.”
“He’s caused a lot of problems in the past,” confirmed Brooking.
“I won’t allow him to cause any in the future. If London wants their own investigation, let them send someone from there to do it, separate us from that part of it. We’re going to have enough difficulties as it is.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t ask for someone from London, for precisely that reason?” suggested Brooking.
Parnell allowed a half smile. “What’s your thinking?”
“Muffin’s already got the reputation in London as an uncontrollable troublemaker. Politically and diplomatically we couldn’t be in a more unmapped minefield, with what’s happened. There will be mistakes, no matter how hard we try to anticipate, mistakes we don’t officially want to be associated with.”
Parnell’s smile broadened. “We’ll have to watch the bloody man very carefully, of course.”
“We might actually in the final analysis get rid of him altogether. It’s still an experimental posting, despite his having tricked his way successfully so far.”
“
That
would be good!” said Parnell, enthusiastically. There was a pause. “So! What do we tell London?”
“That we’ve inherited another intelligence embarrassment,” insisted Brooking, at once. “Let’s start from the very beginning preparing the way to distance ourselves.”
 
 
The eruption was inevitable, the only uncertainty its timing, and Burt Jordan, the CIA station head, and the FBI Rezident, John Kayley—both of whom felt themselves safely beyond the endangered fall-out area—found much to occupy them in the initial file photographs of the shooting while Wendall North outlined the situation he’d just left at the Pirogov Hospital. They were in the
chef du protocol
’s office at the American embassy on the Novinskij Bul’var section of the inner ring road, even his desk surrendered by the local diplomat, David Barnett. Barnett considered himself the safest of them all in the aftermath and sat trying to guess when the explosion would occur.
“So that’s it,” concluded North. “A …”
“Total disaster,” completed Jeff Aston, director of the White House Secret Service detail.
“We all know that,” tried North. “The immediate need is to prioritize: evaluate and anticipate.”
“Just how much do we all know to evaluate and anticipate, Wendall?” persisted Aston, who was black, six and a half feet tall, weighed two hundred and twenty-five pounds and had protected two previous presidents before Walter Anandale. “Give us an idea of your prioritizing. How would you assess the fall-out? Would you put a treaty that isn’t going to be signed more or less important than the maiming of the president’s wife? And where would you put the likely death of a Russian president against the possible resurgence of a communist government? And whereabouts in all of it would you put the fact that the shooting was allowed to happen in the first place because that’s something that personally and professionally interests me a hell of a lot … .” Aston had hassled Barnett into including both the CIA and FBI, determined there should be witnesses. They’d already been waiting when the unsuspecting Wendall North arrived from the hospital, making it impossible for him to exclude them.
“I don’t think that’s very constructive, which is what we’ve got to be,” protested North, conscious that he had no defense against the Secret Service chief’s attack.
“Right again, Wendall,” goaded Aston. “But I’m still a little curious about things being destructive. Which it’s my job to prevent … providing, that is, I’m not prevented or obstructed from doing it.”
“There’ll be an enquiry,” said North. He was red-faced and visibly sweating, despite the air-conditioning.
“I’m sure as hell glad to hear that, Wendall. Your office kept all the preparation and planning details for this trip, all the way back to when the negotiations first started? I don’t want you or any of your staff to worry, if you haven’t. We have, in the Secret Service. Every memo, notes of every discussion, telephone logs of every call and what the outcome was. And not just in English. Russian, too. I’ve already cabled Washington for it all to be handed over to counsel. Important, to keep everything intact. You know how these rumors start after something like this, suggestions of things getting lost or tampered with. So if you’ve got any problem finding anything, you just let me know because it’s important that all the facts are established by whoever investigates the worst cockamamy screw-up since God knows when …”
“I’ll remember that,” said North, tightly. “But at the right time. Which isn’t now.” He’d hoped having George Bendall’s identity, which he’d learned at the hospital, would have deflected this obvious attack.
“Don’t you worry about remembering, Wendall. I’ll remind you often enough.”
“There
are
other things to talk about,” prompted the bespectacled, fair-haired diplomat whose office had been taken over and who had decided Aston had sufficiently established blame.
“Absolutely,” agreed Aston. “Let’s try to make sure we get it right this time.”
“There’s going to be a lot of balls in the air,” warned the CIA’s Burt Jordan. “From what Washington has rounded up so far this guy’s father did a lot of damage to the American nuclear program as well as to the British. Which was bad enough at the time. This is a hell of a lot worse. My guess is they’ll hunker down. Throw George Bendall to the wolves, which the bastard deserves anyway,
and say he’s Russia’s problem by adoption, not theirs.”
“There’s some sound political reasoning in that,” said North, relieved the inquest had moved on.
“Not for Moscow,” challenged the locally-based diplomat. “Making them responsible for the man who’s probably killed their president and badly wounding our First Lady throws detente right out the window.”
“That’s a fight between London and Moscow,” challenged North, in return. “A fight we’ve got to stay on the outside of but do everything to make swing in our direction, to our president’s benefit. There’ll be a tide of sympathy now. And our missile shield planning is still in place, whatever happens here.”
There was no reaction to the cynicism.
Kayley said, “So politically we don’t need Russia or the treaty anymore?”
“Not as much as we did,” qualified North. “What we do need is to ride shotgun on the British, particularly with whatever they do here …” He looked directly at Jeff Aston. “And to make damned sure there’s no rebound on us.”
“You mean get into bed with the British … ?” Jordan began.
“ … And fuck them every which way,” completed Kayley.
Wendall North winced at the coarseness but said, “Yes, that’s what I mean.”
 
Charlie padded softly into the darkened bedroom, letting his clothes lie where they fell. He was careful easing himself under the covers to avoid any disturbing contact with Natalia, who lay with her back to him.
Natalia was fully awake but didn’t turn. And remained so long after Charlie had settled into occasionally snuffled sleep.
The naming of traitor’s son George Bendall was to bring a very changed world—some changes predictable, some not—to Charlie’s door and for the first time in a permanently precarious life Charlie could rarely, if ever, remember the uncertainty he felt sitting in his river view office awaiting the first approach.
Natalia’s giving him to within thirty minutes the timing of the official announcement ended, as far as Charlie was concerned, the futile pretense of keeping their professional lives entirely separate. Charlie’s argument that morning had been that this attempted assassination
needed
their personal cooperation, but Natalia had equally insisted there should always be the mitigating defense of their never having colluded, which no tribunal would or could ever accept.
Charlie’s confusion was not being sure where, if anywhere, it left he and Natalia. They both recognized the answer to the problem. It would, quite simply, be for one of them to quit their conflicting jobs. Which wasn’t in any way simple. To both such a sacrifice was unthinkable. There was nothing else Charlie could do. Wanted to do. Was able to do. And he knew—as Natalia knew—that what was already stretched to near breaking point between them would snap beyond repair within weeks of Charlie becoming a house-husband, in title if not in legal fact.
Which put the onus on Natalia, upon whom the onus had far too often and far too heavily already been imposed in their uneven relationship, a burden Charlie readily recognized, just as he recognized her reservations after so much forgiveness and so many allowances.
She’d accepted as professional his first deceit, convincing her when she’d been assigned his KGB debriefer that his phoney operation-wrecking defection to Moscow was genuine. In those first, getting-to-know each other weeks and months she’d have turned him
over to face trial as a spy if he hadn’t managed to do so. Their problem—so much, unfairly, Natalia’s problem—was in the direct aftermath. Although he’d maneuvered to avoid her being arrested for professional negligence, his return to London—essential professionally, wrong personally—had been an abandonment because by then they had been in love. Natalia had proved that love by being prepared, just once, to defect herself during an escort assignment to London. Trusted him more than he’d trusted her, despite loving her. He’d watched Natalia at their arranged meeting point but been unable to believe she wasn’t bait—knowing or unknowing—in a repayment trap for the damage he’d caused Moscow. So he’d held back from the rendezvous and let her go, neither of them knowing then that she was pregnant.
It was a virtual miracle that she’d deigned even to acknowledge him—let alone be persuaded there was a second chance of finally being together—when, with the old, defunct KGB records necessarily self-cleansed to protect herself and their daughter and Natalia’s elevating transfer to the ministry, he’d been officially accepted back by a totally unaware and unsuspecting Russian government too overwhelmed by organized crime to match an American FBI presence in the Russian capital.
There could be no blame—no surprise either—for Natalia insufficiently trusting him. He’d done nothing to deserve it. Little, indeed, to deserve Natalia. Which was a long-realized awareness that did nothing to resolve—help even—their escalating problem. Perhaps nothing could.
Charlie’s irresolute reflections were broken by the first of the predictable announcement-prompted arrivals. MI6 station chief Donald Morrison flustered jacketless through the door, scarlet braces over monogrammed shirt, an unevenly torn-off slip of new agency copy in his hand. Offering it to Charlie, the man said, “Have you seen this!”
“I heard about it last night,” said Charlie. “The ambassador knows. London too.”
Morrison stopped abruptly halfway across the room, as if he’d collided with something solid. “How?”
“Contacts in the militia,” avoided Charlie, easily.
“A call would have been appreciated,” complained Morrison, cautiously. He was an enthusiastic, eager-to-please man at least fifteen years Charlie’s junior whom Charlie guessed to have got the sought-after posting through family influence. His predecessor had been part of an inter-agency determination to get Charlie removed from Moscow, badly misjudged Charlie’s thumb-gouging, eye-for-an-eye survival ability and now occupied a travel movements desk at MI6’s Vauxhall Cross administration department. From the wariness with which Morrison had treated him since his arrival—and the immediate reaction now—Charlie suspected Morrison knew of the episode.
Charlie said, “It’s a criminal investigation, more mine that yours under the redefining.”
“It would still have been useful to know about in advance, if I’d got a query from London.”
“Did you?”
Morrison shrugged, his argument defeated.
“So you haven’t lost any credibility,” Charlie pointed out.
“You intend running it as a one man show?”
Charlie hadn’t yet decided how he was going to run anything, only that by the end of a long day there were probably going to be more people running about and getting in each other’s way than in a whorehouse on pay-day when the fleet’s in. Which Charlie philosophically accepted. Initially welcomed in fact. Despite his director-general’s eagerness to control whatever involvement was achievable it was even possible London’s edict would be for a jointly shared investigation, which would provide a sacrificial diversion if one became necessary. Which wasn’t ultimate cynicism. It was an essential, practical rule of what the inexperienced or ignorant referred to as a game but which was not. Nor ever had been. Charlie actually liked the younger man and didn’t want to cause him any disadvantage or harm. He hoped the need wouldn’t arise if Morrison was accorded any part in what was to follow.
“I’ll obviously get a call,” pressed Morrison.
“I don’t know anything more than what was on television this morning,” said Charlie, which was almost true. Lev Maksimovich Yudkin had been described as critical after an operation to remove
bullets from his abdomen and right lung and Ruth Anandale was stable after having a bullet removed from her right arm near the shoulder. The American president was still at the Pirogov Hospital, where he’d slept overnight. Ben Jennings, the American Secret Serviceman who had been hit, was on a life support machine with a bullet possibly too close to his heart to risk removing. The fifth shot had shattered the leg of a plainclothes Moscow militia officer, Feliks Vasilevich Ivanov, which might possibly need to be amputated. The only additional information, which Natalia had reluctantly provided, was that George Bendall had not regained consciousness after operations to rebuild and pin his left shoulder and leg, both of which had been broken in his fall from the TV gantry.
“It’s not going to be an easy one,” suggested Morrison.
“Very few are,” agreed Charlie. It was like a dance to which he knew every stumbling step, which with his hammer-toed feet wasn’t a good analogy.
“We’re going to have to work together if London orders it,” said Morrison.
“Of course,” said Charlie, in apparent acceptance. He handed the other man a copy of Peter Bendall’s file. “That’s everything my people had. Might be an idea to see what’s in your archives, to make a comparison.”
Morrison smiled a relieved smile. “That’s a good idea. I’ll do that.”
They both turned at Richard Brooking’s arrival. The head of chancellery looked between them and said, “Yes. Of course. You obviously need to be together.”
Why, wondered Charlie, had the diplomat come to him, rather than the other way around with a summons like the previous night? Surely their separation wasn’t going to be as fatuous as worrying about which rooms they met in?
Morrison said, “That’s what I was just saying.”
“You heard from London?” demanded Charlie.
“I’ve been told to seek information,” said Brooking.
“From whom or what?” asked Charlie, impatiently.
“The Foreign Ministry. That’s our channel of communication.”
Who’d simply repeat the official announcement, guessed Charlie. “What about access?”
Brooking shook his head, as if he were denying an accusation. “Nothing like that until we get an official reply from the ministry.”
Needing to ride pillion with this man officially to get to George Bendall was going to be a wearisome pain in the ass, Charlie decided. “What about the Americans?”
Brooking hesitated. “Sir Michael is approaching their ambassador personally.”
“Am I …” started Charlie but stopped. “Are we going to be told what’s said?” It was important to establish ground-rule precedents.
There was another hesitation from the head of chancellery. “It would constitute a diplomatic exchange.”
Charlie’s direct-line telephone jarred into the room, breaking the conversation.
“What do you know, Charlie?” said John Kayley.
“Not enough,” replied Charlie. “What about you?”
“Think we need to get together.”
“Sounds like a good idea. I’ve got a room with a view.”
“I got so much heat I’m getting blisters.”
“Maybe I should come to you?”
“It would look better for me.”
Charlie was glad he’d taken the trouble socially to meet Kayley at various U.S. diplomatic functions, although he was unsure of the man’s by now familiar native American boast to be part Cherokee. It was fortunate, too, that he’d taken so many copies of Bendall’s file. “On my way.”
“Your contact?” enquired Brooking, hopefully, as Charlie replaced the receiver.
“FBI,” said Charlie, shortly.
“You’ll let me know what they say?”
“Not sure if it’ll constitute a diplomatic exchange,” said Charlie, straight faced.
 
There were several other titular generals in the Kremlin suite with her, although all were male, but Natalia acknowledged hers was
probably considered the rank wielding the least influence. She wished she hadn’t been included at all. But not as much, she guessed, as the general next to her. Lev Andrevich Lvov had gained his rank in the
spetznaz
special forces before his transfer to the White House to head the Russian president’s bodyguard detail and still appeared vaguely uncomfortable in civilian clothes. It was an attitude reflected, too, by the man with whom he was drawn slightly apart from the rest of the group around the table. General Dimitri Ivanovich Spassky headed the counter-intelligence directorate of the FSB, the intelligence successor to the KGB.
“I want a complete assessment. I need to be fully prepared for the debate in the Duma,” declared the prime minister, who under a decree issued by the now stricken Russian president assumed the emergency leadership he had, before the communist party resurgence, been predicted to get by democratic election upon Yudkin’s second term retirement. Aleksandr Mikhailevich Okulov was a short, sparse-bodied man who, largely under Yudkin’s patronage, had risen to the rank of premier in the ten years since leaving the St. Petersburg directorate of the KGB. His supporters praised him as the
eminence grise
of the current government. His detractors preferred the description of lackluster and uninteresting grey man of Russian politics.
The combined concentration in the room was on chief-of-staff Yuri Fedorovich Trishin, a rotund, no longer quickly-smiling man. “It’s still too soon for any proper prognosis. The president’s condition is critical, and likely to remain so for days. There is considerable trauma. Heart massage as well as mouth-to-mouth resuscitation had to be administered in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. There was substantial blood loss, maybe as much as half his body’s capacity. There could be complications with the American president’s wife, bad enough to make amputating her arm necessary …”
“What about prior to that?” Okulov interrupted. “How was it allowed to happen?”
The question was addressed to Lvov who hadn’t broken the fixed stare he’d directed at the chief of staff. Accusingly, Lvov said, “There was too much interference in the security arrangements.”
“By whom?” insisted Okulov, who was still trying to adjust and equate in his mind the full personal possibilities so abruptly thrust upon him by the attempted assassination. He’d already recognized his previous KGB career could be an embarrassment in view of Bendall’s family history.
“The Americans,” said Trishin, quickly. “The Americans made demands and after consultation we complied.”
“Consultations with whom.”
“Lev Maksimovich,” said the plump man, quickly.
Who was too ill—might not even recover—to confirm or deny it, Natalia accepted, realizing she was witnessing a hurriedly conceived survival defense.
“Our own president agreed?” persisted Okulov. It was vital he didn’t make a single mistake.
“With everything,” insisted Trishin.
“Was there no professional argument?” asked the premier-cum-president. He was going to have to work with these men; decide who he could trust and of whom he had to be careful.
“A considerable amount,” said Lvov. Some of the tension had gone out of the man.
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