Kings of Many Castles (34 page)

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Authors: Brian Freemantle

BOOK: Kings of Many Castles
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Charlie said, “Sorry I wasn’t here yesterday, Georgi. You had something you wanted to talk to me about?”
“No,” said Bendall.
“You kept asking for Charlie,” reminded Anne.
“Not important anymore.”
“It might be,” said Charlie. “Why don’t we just talk it through.”
“I don’t want to.”
“There aren’t the facilities for us to talk in a court cell,” said Anne. “That’s why we’re here.”
“OK,” said Bendall.
“I mean we’ve got to talk about anything here,” said Anne.
“There won’t be another chance.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“You remember our telling you yesterday that this isn’t the full trial? It’s just to formally list the charges.”
“I know.” There was a tinge of irritation in Bendall’s voice.
“You’ll have to stand, for a few moments, while the charges are put.”
“I can do that.”
“Arkadi Semenovich will enter the plea. You don’t have to say anything. You’ll be allowed to sit when that’s over. The prosecution will ask for an adjournment and that will be that, OK?”
The faintest smile pulled at the corners of Bendall’s mouth.
“You don’t say anything, Georgi,” stressed Charlie. “You let your lawyer say it all. You got anything to say, say it to me here, now.”
“Changed my mind.”
“Don’t!” urged Charlie, the frustration burning through him. Bendall said, “I want to go now. I’m ready.”
“Let’s talk about it some more.”
“No!” refused Bendall, his voice raised.
There was movement from the outside corridor. Olga said, “The prison transport’s waiting.”
Charlie said, “We don’t want any outbursts in court, Georgi.
You’ll get your chance to say all you want, but not today. You understand?”
Bendall said, “I want to go.”
“We’ll come here afterwards,” promised Charlie. Back in the embassy car, he said, “I fucked up yesterday.”
“Badly,” agreed Anne, at once.
So many roads were closed or restricted because of the funeral security that they had to make an elaborate, looping detour to get to the Central Criminal Court building. There was a bristled hedge of television cameras, stills photographers and sound and print journalists blocking its front and Charlie too late regretted the identifiable embassy car. He shouldered a path for Anne, wincing at the klieg light and flashbulb glare, both of them ignoring the shouted demands, in English, for them to identify themselves. None of the uniformed, lined-up militia officers made any effort to help them. The yelling, jostling scrum pursued them into the pillared vestibule and Charlie only picked out Noskov because the man towered over everyone else.
When they reached the Russian lawyer Charlie, to whom public identification was anathema, said, “Let’s get into court, out of this!”
It was a comparative oasis of calm and quiet beyond the heavy doors. It was the first time Charlie had been inside a Russian court and his initial impressions was that it was very similar to those he knew from England, apart from the more functional raised bench for the five examining judges being necessarily longer but without any carved canopy. The centrally positioned dock was raised the same as in England, topped with a familiar surrounding rail, and to its sides and rippled out in front were benches for lawyers, their support advisors and court officials. Two rows were cobwebbed with headsets for simultaneous translation and at the second sat the sixstrong American legal team, selecting their channels and testing the sound. The rest of the court was already nearly full. A stenographer was at his table, beside the one facing row directly beneath the judges’ bench. To one side was the press enclosure, from which reporters were overflowing into a standing line in front. There was a lot of noise coming from an overhanging balcony into which Charlie couldn’t see but which he assumed to be the public gallery. The
glassed booth from which the proceedings were being televised was at the same height as the public gallery, adjoining the translators’ pod. Olga was seated next to a tightly bearded, impressively uniformed and medalled man, with other officers attentively around them. At his entrance Charlie saw her bend to the man, who turned expressionlessly to examine him. Olga gave no facial reaction, either. There were two uniformed militiamen at every door into the well of the court and a further two at each of the two doors leading on to the judges’ bench. John Kayley was away from the rest of the Americans, in one of the shorter rows to the side of the dock. When he saw Charlie he gestured that there was a seat beside him.
Noskov said, “Anything?”
“He’d changed his mind,” said Charlie.
Noskov sighed. “You warned him about histrionics.”
“As well as I could.”
Noskov led Anne to the first row facing the bench and Charlie eased himself next to the American. Kayley said, “What’s new?”
“Nothing,” said Charlie. “You found any of those missing from our fifteen?”
“Not a one.”
“Have the militia added any?”
“Nope. Going to talk to Olga about it, later. You coming straight back?”
“Returning to the hospital first, to talk to Bendall.”
The noise abruptly increased and there was a turning of heads and Charlie turned too, to see Bendall’s wheelchair being lifted from an unseen stairwell into the dock. Seated, the man’s head scarcely came level to the rail. Bendall looked alertly around him, smiling up at the television position, and Charlie thought, an actor. He was sure Bendall would attempt his promise to be sensational, which it probably would. From the slight smile on Kayley’s face, the American guessed it too.
There was the usher’s demand, in Russian, to stand for the crocodiled entry of the five judges. The dock warders supported Bendall until he got his balance on the single crutch beneath his right arm and prodded him to remain upright, after everyone else sat, for the
charges to be read. Bendall stood tight against the dock edge, showing no discomfort.
The clerk set out the charges in both names, the chosen Russian identity first, beginning with the conspiracy to murder and finishing with the intent to endanger or take life. Throughout Charlie sat twisted towards the dock, waiting, although he was aware from the corner of his eye of the huge lawyer levering himself to his feet for the equally formal pleas. He saw, too, that Anne was turned completely towards the dock, as expectantly as he was.
Noskov got as far as, “My client’s pleas to these …” before Bendall’s shout drowned him out.
“I want to tell …” started Bendall but then Anne screamed, “No!” and from behind Charlie there was an ear-ringing explosion and then another and the side of Bendall’s head burst in a cloud of scattered red debris.
Charlie swivelled to see a man already running, lowered pistol still in hand, from the first of the continuous rows back towards the door through which Charlie and Anne had entered, fifteen minutes before. And then he saw one of the guarding militiamen with his Markarov drawn, crouching and now Charlie shouted, “No! Don’t …” but the policeman fired, jerking the running gunman to a complete stop and in the split second in which he remained like that, frozen, the court guard fired a second time to send the man crashing backwards.
Charlie and Kayley instinctively moved together, and reached the gunman at the same time. Both shots had hit him in the chest, smashing so much into a pulp there was nothing left to show if he were capable of breathing, which he wasn’t.
So deafened was he by the shots that Charlie lip-read more than heard Kayley say, “Now what the fuck have we got?”
“Nothing,” said Charlie, not able to hear his own voice, either.
The initial panic was only slightly less than the aftermath of the presidential shooting. There was a pandemonium of shouting—screams even—and a melee of people milling without direction apart from getting away from the killer now lying harmlessly dead. Every militiaman had his weapon drawn and were adding to the noise, shouting to each other for instructions, and briefly-frightened-Charlie became conscious that the officer who had killed the gunman had the Makarov trained upon him, as if about to shoot and Charlie yelled for the man to turn the gun away.
It was Leonid Zenin who restored order. The bearded militia chief clambered up on to one of the benches, to become the focal point of the court, and bellowed for quiet and when the noise began to subside bawled again for order. By the time he achieved it the judges were being bustled out of the court. Zenin told all his officers to holster their weapons before calling upwards, for those on duty upstairs to empty the public gallery ahead of gesturing others to shepherd lawyers and officials from the well of the court.
Still partially deafened, Charlie lip-read more than heard Anne ask if there was any reason for her to stay and shook his head and told her to leave. Anne smiled and nodded. Arkadi Noskov and the American attorneys were anxiously filing out without protest. Charlie felt a prod against his shoulders from another officers clearing the court and shook his head again, now in refusal, identifying himself as an investigator. There was another shove, with the order he did hear to leave, as Olga arrived and told the policeman Charlie could remain. Kayley was arguing with another uniformed man by the dock and Charlie walked with her as Olga crossed to them, to repeat the permission. Olga gazed without any emotion at the nearly headless body of George Bendall crumpled in one corner of the dock. The man lay with the bandaged arm oddly thrown up, as if
to protect himself. The warder over whom most of Bendall’s brain debris had scattered had been sick and was slumped in the furthest corner from the body. Caught by a thought, Charlie turned and looked towards the television position, realizing that these killings would again have been caught on camera.
“We back to square one?” wondered Kayley.
Charlie was relieved to begin hearing properly at last. “I wish I knew.” There was, he thought, too much he wished he knew.
They all turned, at Zenin’s approach. Olga made the introductions. When Kayley offered his hand Olga said, “No! You don’t shake hands in the presence of death, it’s bad luck.”
Charlie saw that Zenin had held back from responding. “Everyone’s getting more than their fair share of that, George most of all.”
Zenin looked between the dock and where three uniformed officers—one a major-were standing in a semi-circle around the dead gunman and said loudly that nothing was to be touched or moved until forensic examiners got there.
Beside Charlie the American said, “What’s that saying about stable doors and bolting horses?”
Charlie recognized how immediately Zenin had adopted command. He even followed the man himself as they went back to the body. The gunman, blond-haired and heavily moustached, was lying on his back, his eyes still open. His left leg was folded beneath his right and both arms were spread out. His gun, a Makarov, was about three feet from his right hand. Both militia shots had caught him fully in the chest, caving it in. His shirt, red to begin with, was totally soaked in blood that was seeping into the lapels of an already crumpled fawn suit.
“I’d like to include my forensic people,” said Kayley.
Zenin’s hesitation was momentary. “Of course. I think that would be a good idea.”
The American smiled to find battery power on his cell phone within the confines of the court. The staccato conversation with the embassy incident room was very quick.
“I want every guard officer assembled,” Zenin told the major. As the uniformed squad began filing back into the court Zenin said, “Who called out ‘No’?”
“Alive he might have given us something. Dead he can’t,” said Charlie.
“A gun …” stumbled the militiaman who’d shot the assassin. “He had a gun … in his hand … I thought he was going to fire again … .”
“You behaved totally correctly,” reassured Zenin. “I’ll approve a commendation.” He looked around the assembled officers. “How the hell did an armed man get into the court!”
There was no reply.
“I asked a question!” demanded Zenin.
“He had authority. A shield,” said a man half-hidden at the rear of the group.
“Come forward. Say that again,” ordered Zenin.
The officer was young, his face still actually pimpled with youth. “He had a shield. Authority.”
“What shield!”
“Federtnaia Sluhba Bezopasnosti.”
“Search the body!”
It was Olga who instantly stooped, not repelled by the gore and careless of her formal militia dress uniform getting blood-smeared. It was an expert body search. She lifted the jacket pockets open with a pen tip, more easily for her fingers to go inside with the minimum of displacement. She found the FSB shield in the left side pocket. The congealing blood made it difficult to get the jacket away from the body. She found the wallet in the inside, right pockets, using the pen to flick it open. The photograph was official, the man front facing according to regulations, his name neatly printed beneath it.
“Boris Sergeevich Davidov,” she read out, unnecessarily.
“Knew he had to be around somewhere,” said Kayley.
 
Air Force One was just clearing Russian air space when the news was patched through from the embassy, relayed by the American lawyers.
Anandale said, “I was right! It is Dallas, November 1963. Oswald kills Kennedy, Ruby kills Oswald, Ruby dies … .”
“And no one ever finds out what it was all about,” said Wendall North, finishing the historical comparison.
There was a babbled surge when they emerged from the court. John Kayley was swallowed up by the waiting American attorneys and Charlie once more found Anne by using Arkadi Noskov as a marker visible above all the rest.
Charlie identified Davidov as the killer and said, “Don’t ask me where that leaves us because I don’t know.” Don’t know, don’t know, don’t know, he thought. It was a constant mocking chant.
“Bendall’s dead?” queried the Russian lawyer.
Charlie thought Noskov would have been able to see into the dock as he’d passed. “Very dead.” Charlie’s ears had cleared completely but they ached.
“I want formally to place on the court record-and publicly announce—the absolute proof of Bendall’s defense to murder,” declared Noskov. “Left as it is the prosecution have an assumption of guilt.”
“Does it matter now?”
“That’s how it will be left on file,” said Anne. “We know—and can prove-he didn’t do it so the consideration is natural justice.”
“You’re the lawyers,” said Charlie. Justice, natural or otherwise, scarcely seemed to fit any of his most pressing considerations. Natalia would hardly be able officially to conclude her enquiry now, although with Davidov dead he couldn’t see how it could be taken any further: how anything could be taken any further. Which was, of course, the intention.
The
intention? Or Natalia’s intention? It seemed very easy-automatic even—for the suspicion to be part of every thought now.
“I can’t professionally act,” Anne reminded Noskov.
The Russian nodded, understanding her point. “I’ll call you later.”
In the embassy car, Anne said, “I know you told me not to ask where this leaves us but where does this leave us?”
“Beaten,” said Charlie.
“That sounded personal.”
“It is.”
“With Bendall dead—and with the Russians determined that Vera’s death was suicide—there’s nothing more officially for me to
do; everything’s down to the Russians,” Anne pointed out. She hesitated. “Isn’t it all over for you, too, Charlie?”
“I don’t like being beaten.”
“Come on, Charlie!”
“I missed something. Two more people are dead.”
“We went through it all,” she said.
“Not properly. I’m going to do it again and again until I find what it is.”
Charlie insisted that Richard Brooking’s demand for an immediate meeting at Protocnyj pereulok could only concern legal matters, which Anne could easily handle by herself, nodding in agreement when she called him a bastard, and actually locked the door of his office against any interruption. He’d been right about the court television, although he hadn’t expected it to be made available so quickly or to every Moscow television channel. It was even on CNN, which used the new footage as an excuse to rerun—sometimes side by side on a split screen-their film of the presidential shooting. Charlie’s initial, total concentration was on the courtroom film, feeling an odd discomfort as his own very clear and visible part of it. He saw himself flinch at the first explosion, his head swivelling between the dock and the gunman. Davidov’s shooting was very quick and accurate, the bucking of his hands the clearer definition between the two shots than the noise itself, which virtually merged into one sound. There didn’t appear to be any separate impact, either, Bendall’s head simply disappearing in one burst. Charlie was turned towards Davidov, facing the camera, when he shouted, able clearly to see his lips form the word, his memory was of calling “No” only once but there were two separate utterances before Davidov was shot by the militiaman.
At that moment CNN split their transmission again between the two films, running the courtroom killing of Davidov against the camera pod struggle between Bendall and the NTV cameraman, Vladimir Sakov, for possession of the sniper’s rifle.
And at that moment the awarenesses engulfed Charlie. He was physically chilled, although the shiver was more in frustration at what he’d missed for so long than from the feeling of coldness.
His internal telephone momentarily distracted him but Charlie ignored it, strained forward for a repeat of the comparison between
the two films, sure that he was right, sure that he’d seen things properly for the first time-had most certainly for the first time seen what was most important but which he’d consistently overlookedand allowed the scourging personal annoyance. It had been there all the time, like a banner in the breeze, and he’d missed it and it didn’t matter that everyone else had missed it as well: what mattered was that it had taken him so long-too long-and too much
still
remained unexplained. The rerun began and Charlie looked now at what he knew there was to see, the annoyed chill of belated awareness changing to a warmth of satisfaction as it unarguably showed on the screen. And then he remembered how, momentarily deaf, he’d had to understand what people had said in the court in the initial minutes after the shooting and saw something else he should have recognized. But hadn’t.
London had the film. It would only take an hour, two, three at the outside. The photographic evaluation shouldn’t take any longer. But with an addition, Charlie thought, as his problem with Vasili Gregorovich Isakov finally slotted into its long overdue place. Charlie snatched up the internal telephone on its third demand, talking over Richard Brooking’s demand that he come at once to the chancellery. He would, Charlie promised, when he’d finished liaising with London, which at that moment had the higher priority. He depressed the receiver, to disconnect the protesting diplomat, but left the handset off its cradle to prevent the man intruding a fourth time.
Charlie had the FBI-collected photographs of Vasili Isakov before him for the next rerun-determined against any wrong or misconstrued assumption—and afterwards, quite positive, he gave himself thirty minutes to compose the fax to London to ensure there could be no misunderstanding about what he wanted.
Richard Brooking was tightlipped, white with fury, when Charlie eventually reached the man’s office. Anne Abbott sat quite relaxed on the other side of the desk. Brooking said, “You were specifically told to report to me the moment you entered the embassy.”
“I’m not permitted to report operationally to you, to avoid any awkward diplomatic crossover,” reminded Charlie. “I report to London, which is what I’ve been doing.”
“About what?” insisted Brooking.
“Hasn’t Anne told you?”
Brooking’s face became a mask. “I meant what, precisely, have you discussed with London.”
“Getting everything ass about face for far too long,” admitted Charlie. “But now I think we’re on the right track.” Track was the apposite word, decided Charlie. He still needed a hard, metalled road, preferably stretched out in front in an uninterrupted straight line.
 
The assembled men sat quietly around the communal table, the identical photographs and transcripts in front of them. Before each place was a photo-analysist’s magnifying glass but only Jocelyn Hamilton had found the need to use it. He kept it in his hand when he looked up and said, “It’s a great pity it took so long to discover.”
“We’ve each of us had it here, practically from day one,” said Patrick Pacey. “A great pity that you didn’t pick it up for us and saved everyone a lot of time.”

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