Brian Freemantle - Kings of Many Castles

“Was anyone else hurt?”

“The Russian president. Some guards.”

“They going to be all right?”

“We don’t know, not yet.”

The woman’s eyes flickered and drooped and Anandale felt Donnington’s hand upon his arm. As they scuffed out of the room Anandale said, “I didn’t lie. I will find the surgeon to fix her arm.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” said Donnington.

Charlie didn’t hurry responding to the internal messages that had finally arrived when he got back from the viewing theater. He first read what had come in from London and checked his e-mail and even then detoured to Donald Morrison’s office, just for the hell of it.

“I know it’s your assignment,” greeted the MI6 man.

As Morrison grew older and wiser he wouldn’t be so eager, Charlie thought. “It’s not quite that definite.” The assignment decision had been one of the waiting e-mail messages from Sir Rupert Dean.

“I’m to assist in any way necessary.” The younger man offered a package. “Everything Vauxhall Cross has got.”

Charlie took it. “Thanks, for getting it so quickly.”

“You won’t ask, will you?” anticipated Morrison, sadly.

“I don’t know,” said Charlie, honestly. “No one can guess which way this will go. It’s better to limit any possible diplomatic damage by keeping it to one service.”

“I expected them to send in a team.”

“Limitation, like I said.”

“I’d like to do something, if I can.”

“I’ll remember,” promised Charlie, who was still digesting the London edict. It put him as much in the firing line as he would have been on the White House podium with the two presidents. He’d have to be bloody careful-more careful perhaps than he’d ever been-that he didn’t become the fifth casualty.

Charlie hadn’t bothered to tell Richard Brooking he was on his way. When he arrived the head of chancellery seemed lost in thought behind a desk totally clear of any activity-actually appearing polished-with blotter, pen set and telephones regimented precisely in place.

“No one knew where you were,” accused the diplomat, abruptly aware of Charlie’s presence.

“Making enquiries,” said Charlie, unhelpfully. He had no intention of telling the man what he suspected and Anne Abbott had agreed it would be best to wait until the confirmation of the technical analysis.

“We’ve had Foreign Office instructions from London,” announced Brooking. “We’re formally requesting access …” The man paused, coming to unpleasantness. “ … And you’re to be included.”

“I’ve been told that independently, from my people,” said Charlie.

Brooking made obvious his head to toe examination of Charlie. “You’ll have inferred diplomatic status. Do you have another suit? And some half decent shoes?”

Charlie grimaced. “I’ve got one for weddings and funerals.” “There’s a chance for you to wear it,” scored the other man.

“We’ve just been officially informed that the American Secret Serviceman has died.”

“So now it’s murder,” said Charlie, no longer glib.

“There was another message,” continued Brooking. “A formal offer of investigating cooperation from the Russians. There’s the name of the officer you’re to liaise with. A woman …”

Charlie’s hand was quite steady as he reached forward for the note that Brooking was proffering but his stomach dipped. Then he looked down and saw the name of Colonel Olga Ivanova Melnik.

It didn’t begin confrontationally. Charlie actually set out to achieve the opposite-to convince her it was ridiculous for them not to discuss the case-by announcing he had brought Peter Bendall’s records back to Lesnaya for her to read and was encouraged when Natalia said she had Vera Bendall’s initial interview for him. She already knew about the meeting Charlie had the following day with Olga Melnik and said the FBI Rezident was also scheduled to meet the senior investigating colonel.

They’d established a routine of undivided, shared time with Sasha whenever it was possible, and the two dossiers remained unread on a lounge table for the hour they spent taking her slowly through an early reader book and discussing what Sasha referred to as going to grown up school. It wasn’t until Natalia went to bathe and settle their daughter that Charlie got to the Vera Bendall interview. He read it twice before setting it aside, slouched with the second Islay malt resting on his chest, his mind more upon Natalia than upon what he’d just read.

He couldn’t make any judgment on that evening’s fifteen-minute conversation so far-although she had given him a head start identifying Peter Bendall the previous night-but he was encouraged by Natalia’s apparently changed attitude. And not just professionally. That, for once, was a secondary consideration. The first need was for their personal erosion to stop. There’d been no thought of sex-thoughts of sex didn’t seem to occur too often to either of them anymore-but he knew Natalia hadn’t been asleep when he’d got into bed the previous night. Not something to challenge her with; he had to be careful not to challenge her about anything while he remained uncertain.

Charlie lifted his glass in invitation when Natalia emerged fromSasha’s bedroom. Natalia shook her head, taking the chair on the far side of the low lounge table. For several moments she stared down at Peter Bendall’s waiting dossier and Charlie wondered if the seeming reluctance to pick it up was the final hesitation at committing herself. Wrong to say anything-to speak at all-he told himself. It was obviously much thicker than the interview and took Natalia longer to read. While she did, he made himself a third drink. That was almost gone, too, by the time she put the manila folder back on the separating table.

“Nothing about the son, apart from his existence,” she said.

“The mother’s disappointing, too, don’t you think?” The question went beyond wanting to keep the conversation going. Natalia was amazingly intuitive, one of the best debriefers he’d ever encountered and he wanted her professional opinion.

She nodded. “I’ve also listened to the actual recording. I don’t get the impression she was lying, holding anything back. But then again I’ve known some very clever liars.” Natalia got up and poured herself a glass of the Volnay Charlie had opened for dinner.

“I offered you a drink,” said Charlie.

“Half an hour ago. I didn’t want one then. Now I do.” Why had she snapped like that! “And no, I wasn’t referring to you as a liar, when we first met.”

Back off, thought Charlie. “So most likely George Bendall’s a mentally unstable loner that no one knows anything about.” In no way did he think himself a hypocrite. At the moment all he had was a suspicion about the sound of the gunshots. If it was confirmed, he’d tell her.

“Not the first high profile murderer to be just that, a total nonentity seeking his fifteen seconds or minutes of fame.”

“But always the worst to try to investigate.”

Natalia shrugged but said nothing. Why did it have to be so difficult for her to reach a compromise when their jobs overlapped! Because of the past: always the past which she could never completely forget no matter how hard she tried or how much she loved him. Charlie was making a very obvious effort. Couldn’t she-shouldn’t she-try harder?

Charlie didn’t want to lose the flow. “We’re talking?”

“Total cooperation is the instruction. You’d have got the transcript from Olga Ivanova tomorrow.”

“Would you have shown it to me, if it hadn’t been officially ordered?”

“Hardly the disclosure of the century, is it?” This wasn’t helping.