Authors: Brian Freemantle

Kings of Many Castles (6 page)

BOOK: Kings of Many Castles

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What he wasn’t so personally sure about was where in the name of Christ and His dog his conviction complicated an investigation already more than complicated enough.

As totally absorbed and externally soundproofed as he was, Charlie was initially, briefly, unaware of Anne Abbott easing herself beside him, physically starting at her touch on his arm.

“Shit, you frightened me!” admitted Charlie, who didn’t like admitting fear or being startled. He depressed the remote control to stop the transmission as he took off the earphones.

“I’ve been looking for you!”

“What is it?”

Anne frowned at the obvious irritation. “I was hoping for an update.”

“What’s yours?” There hadn’t been any contact messages from Donald Morrison or the head of chancellery when he’d got back from the American embassy.

“I’m to arrange legal representation-be part of whatever is set up—when we’re allowed consular access.”

“Has it been asked for?”

“You didn’t know?”

“No.”

“Brooking’s already made the application. Maybe he had the same trouble finding you as I did.”

“Maybe,” dismissed Charlie.

“You got anything I should know about?”

Friend or foe? wondered Charlie, wearied that he had to pose the question. She’d have to be the first to know, if he were technically proved correct. He explained what he wanted her to listen for in advance of handing over the sound-enhancing earphones and gave her his clipboard and stopwatch, for her to make her own time comparisons.

Anne Abbott stopped after only twenty five minutes-only a third of the time Charlie had taken-and looked to him in astonishment. “You could be right!”

“So?”

“So I don’t know what to say.”

Olga Melnik snapped off the tape recording of her insufficient encounter with Vera Bendall and for several minutes the room was silent apart from the rewind whirr.

General Leonid Zenin said, “No one can be that unknowing. She’s lying.”

“She’s of a type,” balanced Olga. “A permanent victim.”

“You believe her!”

“Not yet.” On the recording her interview had sounded worse—unproductive, unprofessional—than she’d personally admitted it to be at the time.

“What have you done?”

“Asked the military for his army records, particularly medical. And the official reason—the papers—for his discharge. There’s a team at NTV. He must have friends—acquaintances—there.” Olga paused, regarding the tightly-bearded, hard-bodied man with whom she decided it might be pleasurable to ascend bedroom stairs. “There
was certainly KGB control, after the father defected.”

“Of course there was,” said Zenin, who had told Olga of the emergency committee meeting. “That’s why it doesn’t make sense for Spassky to say they can’t find files. In his time Peter Bendall would have been important.”

There was another silence, longer than the first. Olga said, “You’re surely not … ?”

“It’s a question I’m going to ask if records aren’t found,” anticipated Zenin. “Spassky is KGB. Aleksandr Mikhailevich Okulov, already predicted to follow Yudkin as president, is former KGB. And the Federal Security Service—which is responsible for presidential protection—is nothing more than a convenient cosmetic name change, like all the others since Dzerzhinsky.”

Olga felt a stir of unease. “We could be personally destroyed, trying to prove that … by even making the accusation.”

“I wouldn’t be making an accusation,” insisted Zenin. “I’d be asking for an investigation into missing dossiers.”

“Even if we could prove it, it wouldn’t be politically acceptable.”

“It would prevent us, the militia, being accused of any negligence or culpability.”

“I suppose it would,” agreed Olga, although doubtfully.

“What are you going to do about the Bendall woman?”

“Keep her as terrified as she is. She could still have her uses.”

“So could the Britons and the Americans who’ve got to be officially involved.”

It was performed as a political necessity, like so much else. Both Walter Anandale and Irena Yudkin wore deep black and posed for the Washington White House’s official stills photographer against identifiably different backgrounds described in the accompanying caption as adjoining the emergency wards of their respective spouses,
which neither were. Both Russian and American surgeons refused to allow the most minimal disturbance so close, which the protection services of both countries also argued against. The setting was, in fact, in the same room a block away from either victim, with a fifteen-minute interval to switch the medical equipment backdrop to make it look different. There were other stills of the American president and the Russian First Lady in an adjoining lounge, with Anandale holding Irena’s hand, each consoling the other. Irena had frequently to use the handkerchief she kept in her free hand and Anandale was drawn and gaunt faced and had earlier dismissed the suggestion of camera make-up. The photocall was posed. Their visible, genuine anxiety was not.

Aleksandr Okulov was included in some of the lounge pictures but carefully kept out of shot otherwise, as were loosely paired entourages of matchingly ranked, soft-voiced politicians, diplomats and functionaries exchanging promises for undertakings and undertakings for promises. Wendall North and Yuri Trishin were joint ringmasters, moving smoothly between the groups, each enacting recovery operations of their own.

There was an instinctive American dominance, personified by the physical presence of the elected Walter Anandale against the emergency-elevated Russian premier, although there was no deference from Okulov since his security-cleared, back-door arrival at the Pirogov Hospital an hour earlier. It was the American chief of staff who orchestrated the final five minutes of the photo-shoot to just Anandale and Okulov, seemingly engrossed in deep continuity discussions. It was also North who directed the White House photographer and backed the protective services against admitting television. Only two organizations—CNN for America, NTV for Russia—were allowed within the precincts of the hospital to record Anandale briefly leaving the building for the first time since the shooting. He did so with a comforting hand on Irena Yudkin’s elbow—Aleksandr Okulov followed slightly behind—and kissed her lightly on the cheek before personally handing her into her car.

Only Wendall North rode with Anandale in the lead vehicle of the American convoy to Novinskij Bul’var, sitting on the jump seat to face the president. The glass divide was fully raised between them
and the driver and Secret Serviceman in the front. The rear section in which they sat was soundproofed and voice-cleaned.

“Spell it out for me,” demanded Anandale.

“Additional communications were brought in as a matter of course, for the visit,” reminded North. “Because of what’s happened NSA is repositioning a geostationary satellite. We’ve got the Secretary of State and his people already here with us and a full secretariat. You’ve got the ambassador’s office and a three-roomed suite in the embassy compound, already checked and cleared by the Secret Service. The embassy’s a temporary but fully operational and functioning White House for as long as we need it to be.”

“Donnington’s lessening the sedation. If I can speak to Ruth I might sleep over at the hospital again.”

“The ambulance plane’s ready at Sheremet’yevo and we flew a fuel tanker in with it, for an unbroken flight back to Washington.”

Anandale nodded approval. “What’s the immediate schedule?”

“A meeting in an hour, to include the ambassador. That gives us time to set up a voice and visual satellite link with Washington, for a full cabinet session. I’ve called everyone in to Pennsylvania Avenue. And the CIA and FBI Directors.”

“The Russians are talking total cooperation and exchange?”

“Absolutely.”

Anandale looked briefly through the limousine window. They were using the cleared, intersection-controlled central lane again, with outrider escorts, moving so fast the buildings were blurred. Coming back inside the car he said, “Is it too early for any poll readings?”

North hesitated. “You’re riding a sympathy wave. You’re up fifteen points and rising.”

“Anything about the other business.”

North was glad he’d spent most of the early hours on the security-swept telephone link to the local party caucus in Austin as well as to Washington, bringing himself as up to date as possible on the independent enquiry by the hostile Texas senate into undeclared cash donations for Anandale’s first term election from four separate corporations granted oil drilling and development contracts while
Anandale was state governor. “There’s no irregularities showing in the audited accounts that were subpoenad.”

Anandale smiled, fleetingly. “Much national coverage?”

“Paragraphs here and there, tagged on to the shooting here.” The Moscow visit had been coordinated to overwhelm the Texas enquiry.

“What’s the word?”

“That we’re not to worry,” said North, who’d been with Anandale from his days as Texas governor and worked as his campaign manager for that initial term success.

“That’s good to hear,” said Anandale. He looked out of the window again as the car swept over the Krymskij Bridge to get on to Zubovskij Bul’var for the final approach to the American embassy. “Okulov was KGB, right?”

“Right.”

“You think there could be any link?”

“I’ve asked around already. The ambassador doesn’t think so.”

“They got the death penalty in Russia?”

“Yes, sir,” said North, glad he’d anticipated that question along with all the rest.

“Good,” said the other man. “I want the bastard who did this to fry.”

North decided against pointing out that in Russia the death penalty was exacted by firing squad.

One of the larger reception rooms at the U.S. embassy was assigned for the gathering mainly because the satellite screen was large enough to encompass the seated, waiting Washington Cabinet members. It dominated virtually one entire wall, and most of a connecting corner overflowed with cameras and relay equipment to ensure the exchanges were simultaneous. Wendall North resolved the Washington hesitancy at the president’s preoccupied, head-down filmed entry into the Moscow meeting by standing. Everyone followed, in both cities. Anandale waved them down, without speaking, and before sitting himself discarded his jacket and loosened his tie with another gesture for anyone to do the same if they wanted.

From Washington, Vice President Robert Clarke said, “I want to
extend the sympathy of everyone here for what’s happened, Mr. President. And wish the First Lady a very quick and full recovery.”

There was a verbal scramble to be placed on record from others in the room, which Anandale curtly stopped with a series of “Thank you, thank you,” after Secretary of Defense Wilfred Pinkton repeated practically word for word what the Treasury secretary had managed to say seconds ahead of him.

“I met with Acting President Aleksandr Okulov earlier today,” announced Anandale. “He wants to continue the treaty negotiations. Suggested that at least we could agree a Protocol of Intent.”

North said, “There needs to be a statement, to go with today’s pictures. Trishin’s proposing a joint press conference, you and Okulov together.”

“Which establishes my supporting Okulov as the successor,” said Anandale.

“He is, under their constitution,” said the secretary of state. James Scamell was another old time ally from Anandale’s governorship.

“Emergency,” qualified Anandale. “Temporarily, until proper elections if Yudkin doesn’t make it. If Okulov runs and loses against the communists, I’m shown to have endorsed the wrong guy.”

“If he hadn’t been shot and Yudkin had still lost to the communists you’d have been doing that coming here,” Scamell pointed out. “We’ve got to say
something
about the treaty.”

Anandale looked directly at the camera. “What’s Defense’s feeling on this?”

“The Joint Chiefs are nervous about a communist succession,” said Pinkton. “We sure Okulov’s got the following to take over?”

“Maybe we should have the local opinion on that?” avoided Scamell, turning to the ambassador.

Cornell Burton was a career diplomat who’d believed himself on the fast upward track the presidential visit could only further speed up but now he wasn’t so sure. What he
was
sure about was that he couldn’t afford one misstep. “Okulov’s a closed-doors manipulator. Respected for it in the Duma but he’s alienated some of the smaller parties he’d need for a coalition if the communists do anywhere near as well as is being predicted.”

“So how well
will
they do?” demanded Anandale.

“Yudkin would have carried a peace vote, with a successful treaty. I’m not so convinced that Okukov will.”

“What’s the KGB story?”

The attention switched to John Kayley. The FBI man said, “Yudkin forced the reforms through and Okulov showed him how to do it. Word is among the old guard that Okulov’s regarded as a traitor, turning against them.”

“Which could be a very clever double-bluff,” suggested Burt Jordan.

“Explain that,” demanded Anandale.

“Okulov was the heir-in-waiting. What if he got too impatient to wait any longer?”

“Keep on top of that,” ordered Anandale. “Okulov’s KGB connections worry me.”

“Aren’t we leaving something hugely important out of the equation?” suggested North. “The guy who did it. And
why
he did it? If he turns out to be a protesting communist we’ve got a whole new picture to color in.”

“Is he?”

Anandale put the question to those around him but the answer came too eagerly from Washington, from an FBI Director determined the American investigation should be Bureau-led. Paul Smith, a burly former circuit judge, said, “I’ve got twenty more agents on their way to Moscow, arriving later tonight. They’re bringing with them all our files—Agency and Bureau—on Peter Bendall, the father. He was British counter-intelligence’s disaster. I understand from John, who’s with you there Mr. President, that their guy’s let us have all he says they’ve got. The son’s still unconscious, maybe even in a coma. The mother’s in custody. We’ve been promised details of her interrogation but we’ve asked for our own access. And for the witnesses list. They were all rounded up by Russian security directly after the attack. We’ve asked for the rifle, for our own forensic examination here at Pennsylvania Avenue and …”

“We’re not making our own, independent investigation!” cut off Anandale.

Smith unconsciously bit his lip, at once regretting not letting Kayley take the original question. “That’s what I’ve got men on
their way to do, under John’s command. I think, though, it would be useful for me to come over personally.”

Speaking with ominous quietness, Anandale said, “I want the attempted murder of the American president’s wife investigated by Americans. Until I’m satisfied that’s happening-satisfied that Aleskandr Okulov is keeping every cooperation promise he’s made to me today-any treaty discussions are on the back burner, with the heat down low …”

North and the secretary of state exchanged brief, frowning looks. Scamell urged again, “There has to be a statement of some sort, Mr. President.”

Anandale remained silent for several moments. “Here it is. We’re in consultations with the emergency Russian leadership … need to consider the implications of the attack … our pledge to continued cooperation and detente unaffected … that sort of stuff. It’ll fit the hospital pictures. We don’t agree any joint media event with Okulov until we get all we want.” He went to the secretary of state and the ambassador. “I want you to liaise with Wendall.
Really
find out the communist strength. It might play better back home to go hawkish and keep the defense system.” He looked around the table. “Any thoughts?”

“Yudkin—or his successor—need the treaty to survive. That’s why we’re here,” reminded Scamell. “We leave them with nothing, we’re edging the door open to the opposition.”

“We don’t leave them with nothing,” said Anandale. “You find the words, Jamie. The only thing they don’t get is the final signature. We’ve surely blown enough smoke about how difficult it all is to make that totally believable!”

“I guess so,” accepted Scamell.

Anandale went to Wendall North. “Get on to Yudkin’s chief of staff.” He stopped, snapping his fingers.

“Yuri Trishin.”

“Trishin,” picked up the prompted president. “I don’t want him—or anyone he’s got to tell—left in any doubt who’s going to run this investigation as far as my wife is concerned. You clear on that?”

“Quite clear,” said North.

“Would you like me to come over personally, Mr. President?” hopefully asked the FBI Director over the satellite link.

“No!” rejected Anandale, at once. “We’ve got enough chiefs here already. What we need is Indians.”

John Kayley, with his early settler family legend of part-Cherokee ancestry, didn’t like the smoke signals he thought he was reading.

BOOK: Kings of Many Castles

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