Brian Freemantle - Kings of Many Castles

“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. “Therewas 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 themand 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 whileAnandale 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.