Red Star Rising (14 page)

“McDonald’s is very popular here in Moscow,” offered Pavel.

“And our victim wore cheap clothes and shoes, so a man with a limited income would eat in a fast-food outlet, wouldn’t he?” said Charlie, familiar with the menu from his own London diet, eaten more for disinterested convenience than economy. Going back to the pathologist, Charlie said: “There is another thing I need to establish. Your first report didn’t give a blood grouping?”

“It’s in the addendum,” said Ivanov, defensively, picking up and letting drop the manila folder at the bottom of the slab. “It’s AB.”

Charlie nodded, head momentarily forward on his chest. “Of course it is.”

“What?” exclaimed Pavel, frowning.

“It’s what the British forensic people recovered from the separate soil samples from the area we examined,” Charlie lied. Five
minutes earlier he hadn’t even thought of the need to match the Russian blood findings.

“We really do need to hear what you’ve got to tell us!” insisted Guzov, the earlier bombast weakening.

“As we really do need to examine one thing at a time,” argued Charlie, instantly registering Pavel’s apparent smile of approval at the confrontation. “What about toxicology?”

“Also in the report,” sighed Ivanov, tapping the folder. “There’s evidence of barbitumiv acid in the blood.”

“How concentrated?” demanded Charlie, identifying another Russian-convincing bonus.

“Weak.”

“Not barbiturates of anaesthetic strength?”

“Definitely not. Is that what your toxicologists found?” asked Ivanov, making it even easier for Charlie’s improvisation.

“They wouldn’t positively commit themselves,” tiptoed Charlie, cautiously. “My impression from the conversation was that it was a little stronger than sedative level?”

“I’d go along with that,” agreed the pathologist.

“Are you saying this man was sedated before he was tortured?” demanded Guzov, too eager again.

Charlie was almost too eager himself to put the Russian down but held back for the pathologist. “No, of course not!” rejected the doctor, careless of the obvious exasperation.

“Whoever did what they did to him certainly didn’t want to spare him pain,” picked up Charlie. “It’s an outside guess that his killers used sleeping pills or draughts to sedate him
after
the torture to get him into the embassy grounds without risking an alarm, once the CCTV was out of action.”

“It was too faint for that,” argued Ivanov. “It’s a sleeping preparation.”

“I called it an outside guess,” reminded Charlie, an escape route prepared. Having established far more than he’d hoped, Charlie turned to Guzov and said, “Why don’t we talk things through now?” putting the impending exchange very firmly under his, not Guzov’s, control.

The room was a marginal improvement upon what Charlie had at the British embassy, but it would have required a micrometer to measure that margin. At least the smell of formaldehyde and disinfectant was less. And his success in reversing how Guzov had clearly intended their meeting to go had done a lot to ease the tightening alcoholic band around Charlie’s head: in fact, there was hardly any ache troubling him any longer. Determined to build upon what he had already achieved and using his newly acquired folder as a prompt, Charlie said at once, “This has been an extremely useful, confirming discussion. Our respective scientists have positively but independently matched the blood as well as the barbitumiv content within the victim’s body. There has been a very calculated and well-planned attempt to conceal the identity, not just upon the body, but by cutting all the labels from the clothing as well as emptying its pockets. . . .” He looked between the two Russians, refusing to accord seniority to Guzov. “London believes there could be a lot more discovered from the clothes and so far we haven’t discussed them. I’m told forensically they could be far more productive, providing dust, fibers, hair other than that of the victim, under detailed analysis. I’ve been asked formally to request that everything the man was wearing be made available to London when your detailed examination is concluded, so that we can continue the cooperation that we’re enjoying now—”

“Let’s stop right there!” halted a now very red-faced Guzov, unable any longer to contain the indignation at being so completely steamrollered. “What cooperation? So far everything has come from us, nothing from you. I do not know anything about cooperation being agreed. And—”

“I thought I had explained my operational difficulty very clearly and fully,” blocked Charlie, in turn. “And understood from what you told me earlier today that Secretary Kashev was currently involved in trying to resolve that difficulty.”

“Until which time and until there is some reciprocity from
your side, I do not consider a case for cooperation has been established or agreed!”

Hardball or softball? Somewhere in between, Charlie decided. “You also told me this morning that you were representing your ministry. Is the view you have expressed that of your ministry? If it is, then it is obviously a matter I shall have to raise with London.”

“I am talking of the lack of reciprocity.” The man backed off.

Which wasn’t an answer to his question but certainly was to Guzov’s bombast, thought Charlie. “I find myself at a loss to know how to continue this conversation. I believed I had made very clear the matching medical findings I shall be able to provide from London. As well as the CCTV enhancements that we talked about at the meeting at Petrovka. We’re at a stalemate here.”

“I am sure it is something that can be resolved, although perhaps not today,” came in Pavel, whose irritable looks at the other Russian, as well as annoyed shifting in his seat, Charlie had been aware of during his exchange with Guzov.

“I would certainly hope so, as soon as possible,” said Charlie. He’d achieved everything and more than he’d hoped, and there was still time to keep the luncheon appointment with Bill Bundy. He hoped he’d do as well there, too.

It was virtually instinctive for Charlie to check for unwelcome company, particularly when he was on foreign assignment, and after that morning’s confrontation with Mikhail Guzov, Charlie ratcheted up the concentration, not going directly to the Pekin but taking the taxi by a roundabout route to the Arbat shopping area and holding it while he briefly toured the stalls and outlets, ready actually to buy something for Natalia or Sasha if anything caught his eye. Nothing did, but a small BMW he’d isolated close to the mortuary continued three cars behind when the taxi moved off again. The detour and the traffic buildup on the freeway delayed his arrival and Bundy was at their table, mineral water already poured, by the time Charlie got there.

“Bad traffic,” apologized Charlie.

“Just got here myself,” said the American, which Charlie doubted, guessing someone as old school as Bundy would have given himself at least an hour to clear his trail.

Although not a hair-of-the-dog advocate, Charlie decided the success of his morning—and the gradual settling of his stomach—justified a preprandial vodka. Raising it to the other man in a toast, Charlie said, “To the death of all our enemies.”

“Difficult to pick them all out these days, don’t you think, Charlie?”

“I guess white hats against black hats or vice versa was easier,”
encouraged Charlie, relaxing back in his chair like a confident boxer before the first round.

“I think it’s more interesting now in many ways.”

“How’s that?”

“Take your reason for being here. You’ve got to admit we never had anything like this, right in our own front garden, in the old days.”

“You’re talking about the murder at the embassy, right?” asked Charlie, unable to find a connection to what Bundy appeared to consider logic.

“What the hell else do you think I’m talking about?”

“I don’t recall telling you that’s what I’m here for,” fenced Charlie.

The American spread his hands in front of him, as if he were pleading. “Charlie! It’s me, Bill Bundy, remember? We’ve been here since the beginning: know all the tricks.”

“Difficult to remember them all sometimes,” said Charlie, refusing to contribute to whatever the other man was trying to establish.

“It’s true,” insisted Bundy. “But if you tell me you’re here for something else then I’ll take it you’ve got another agenda you can’t tell me about.”

“Bill!” exclaimed Charlie. “We’re not running a joint operation here!”

“Maybe I could provide some input.”

“And maybe get burned in the effort.”

“I’ve always thought myself pretty fireproof.”

“I’m not,” refused Charlie. He found this entire exchange absolutely bewildering except for one thought: Bundy could be a convenient sacrificial escape if the need arose.

“There’s a nostalgia about the murder, don’t you think?” persisted the American. “Guy gets whacked at the moment of his defection.”

“Is that how you think it happened?” queried Charlie, remembering some of the newspaper conjecture.

“I’d give the idea some room to run. How do you see it?”

The waitress’s arrival spared Charlie’s need for an instant reply, although he didn’t need time to consider one. He was enjoying the verbal ping-pong, the vaguest idea of its purpose forming in his mind but in no hurry to confirm it. In deference to the abuse he’d inflicted upon himself the previous night, Charlie restricted himself to pancake-wrapped duck, crispy beef, and spicy noodles, with boiled rice and a bottle of rice wine, despite Bundy’s protests that he wouldn’t share the alcohol.

“So how do you see it?” repeated Bundy, when the girl left.

“I’m keeping an open mind. Everything’s at a very early stage. Still a lot of technical and scientific stuff to be analyzed and assessed.”

“So you are here for the murder?” openly demanded the American.

“It’s not carved in stone,” avoided Charlie. “There seems to be a lot else happening.”

“Things good with the local homicide guys?”

“There’s some diplomatic protocol to work through; you know what it’s like.”

“Not helped by your guys finding a big bunch of bugs nesting right there in the ambassador’s phone system.”

“Not helped one little bit,” agreed Charlie, without pausing at the alarm bells that rang in his mind.

“Surprised you don’t have help,” pressed Bundy. “Something as serious as this, with the bugging on top, strikes me as a heavy workload.”

“I’m just about keeping a handle on it,” claimed Charlie, hoping his voice conveyed the conviction he didn’t feel at that moment.

“I’ve still got a few open lines here. You wanna bounce anything off me, feel free.”

Charlie needed his control to hold back his surprise at that remark. “That’s very good of you.”

“Maybe it’s jealousy at everything happening on your patch and nothing on mine.”

Charlie recognized the perfect opening. “I got the impression
that you guys were very much caught up with the new presidential elections here?”

“I guess your political section was, too, until last week,” said Bundy.

“You keeping out of it?” asked Charlie, risking directness himself.

“Tex has been keeping a tight watching brief.”

“You would have been on station here the first time, when Lvov was with the KGB, right?” demanded Charlie, direct again.

“Right, I was here in Moscow,” agreed Bundy. “Stepan Grigorevich Lvov was in charge of St. Petersburg. It’s a long way away. And I got moved to Cairo after about six months, so I didn’t do much but add him to the list of known KGB personnel.”

“You run a file on him?”

“We knew who he was, basic biog stuff. Wish we had managed more, now that he’s emerged to be the rising star and promised friend of the West.” The American shrugged, expansively. “But there it is, all down to the political analysts now!”

Their food arrived. Charlie couldn’t remember the last time he’d ever knowingly helped another foreign country intelligence agent he trusted as little as he trusted Bundy. Predictably for someone who never drank anything but mineral water, Bundy had ordered the blandest possible food, steam-cooked vegetables, scallops, and bean curd.

“You want to try anything of mine, go ahead,” invited Charlie, wondering why someone who ate like an invalid suggested such a restaurant in the first place.

“I’m okay but thanks,” refused the man, measuring out his water.

“You keep in touch like this with Paula-Jane and Halliday?”

“Not on a regular basis. P-J’s a cute kid.”

“Tex seems to think so,” risked Charlie.

“The guy’s thought very highly of back at Langley,” said Bundy, cleverly choosing an alternative gossip from that offered by Charlie. “I knew P-J’s daddy. Davy Venables was a very formidable operator. You ever come across him in London?”

Charlie shook his head, tipping the last of his wine into his glass, eager to get back to the embassy to set up everything he now knew he needed London to arrange. “It’s been a good meal. Let’s do it again. My treat next time.”

“I’ll keep you up to that,” said Bundy. “It’s good to talk to someone who’s been around the block a few times.”

“I’ve got your number,” said Charlie, enjoying his own double entendre, confident he’d got more from the encounter than the other man.