Brian Freemantle - Kings of Many Castles

Olga was disoriented, although she didn’t allow any outward sign. Moscow was a prestige posting and Charles Edward Muffin had been knowingly accepted in Moscow as an FBI equivalent, a specifically chosen British contribution-like that of America-against Russia’s virtually uncontrollable organized crime. From his physical appearance she wouldn’t have believed the flop-haired, overweight man sitting opposite contributing anything more than a few kopeks to a charity rummage sale for down-and-outs for a suit to replace the sagged and pocket-bulged jacket and trousers and raft-like suede shoes that he was wearing now.

“Would you prefer English?” she offered, speaking it with little accent in a deep, oiled voice.

“Thanks but it’s not necessary,” Charlie replied, in Russian.

“I hope we can work well together?”

“I hope so too,” said Charlie. Her territory, her speed. Until he chose otherwise.

She pushed across the uncluttered desk what was supposed to be his first copy of the Vera Bendall interview. “It’s very preliminary.” The discomfort at having this shambling man judge her was worse than it had been with Leonid Zenin.

He matched her offering with the heavier MI5 dossier. “All we have on Peter Bendall. Nothing on the son.” He was not supposed to know Vera Bendall was in Lefortovo, he reminded himself “My embassy was told today the official application for consular access has been granted.” The information had been the only useful outcome of that morning’s encounter with Brooking.

“The man was injured in the fall. It’s not yet clear when he’ll be well enough to be interviewed.” There was obviously a diplomatic necessity for this charade but very little practical benefit, apart from hopefully recovering from the Vera Bendall debacle with an unsuspected transcript of this encounter. It was important to establish her supremacy on tape.

“The application extends to the family,” persisted Charlie. “As far as we are aware Vera Bendall, like her son, hasn’t applied for Russian citizenship.” Charlie nodded to the Russian folder, already knowing the answer. “I presume her address is there?”

Olga looked steadily across her sterile desk. “She is in protective custody.”

“Protected from whom?” asked Charlie.

“People who might take it upon themselves to exact revenge upon the mother of a man who shot their president.”

“So she hasn’t taken citizenship?” persisted Charlie.

It would be wrong to underestimate this shaman’s monster, decided Olga, who had no religion but in whom was imbued the inherent Russian respect for witchcraft and Holy Men who could cast spells. “There is no trace of her having done so. Certainly not of it being granted.”

Gently does it, thought Charlie. “I’m sure my embassy-my government-will appreciate that protection …”

“Thank you,” intruded Olga, caught out by Charlie’s inviting pause.

“ … Which of course in no way prevents our officially agreed access. I-and others from the embassy-can easily come to wherever she’s being protectively held. Where is that, by the way?”

The criticizingly dismissive inference of her empty interview would be unavoidable on this transcript! “As I said, my initial interrogation is only very preliminary.”

“Interrogation?” echoed Charlie. “You suspect she’s in some way involved? ”

Damn the man, thought Olga. He really did have a witchdoctor’s split tongue. “It’s too early yet to decide who might or might not be involved.” She paused, reluctant to correct herself. “I meant my questioning has only just begun.”

“We are cooperating fully, aren’t we?” coaxed Charlie.

“Yes,” agreed Olga, tightly, apprehensive of how Charlie Muffin could juggle such simple words but anticipating that he would.

“If we’re sharing there’s no order of priority?”

“It’s become a murder enquiry,” fought Olga. “Russian legislation must take precedence.”

“I’m not an international lawyer,” said Charlie. “It’s something I’ll leave to our legal attache to handle through diplomatic channels. Under such international scrutiny we shouldn’t go beyond our boundaries, should we?”

Olga wished the motherfucker wouldn’t keep inviting her opinion, to turn against her. Why oppose him? There was enormous international scrutiny under which the claim that Vera Bendall required protective custody might become even more transparent than it was now. In Lefortovo Vera Bendall was very positively her prisoner, whose every encounter and movement she could control. And totally monitor. It was conceivable some indication of Vera Bendall’s innocence or complicity might emerge if Britons were allowed access, access every minute and word of which could be taped and possibly even filmed. If there was something to be learned, she’d learn it, learn, too, from what the British offered whether their cooperation was genuine. And if the encounter was as unproductive as hers, there couldn’t be any criticism-internally or externally-of what now lay on the desk between her and Charlie Muffin, like a taunt. Better apparently to concede-be persuaded, at least-to an unimportant audience of one than to a much wider and more influential theater. “Don’t misunderstand me. I wasn’t arguing priorities. As far as I’m concerned there’s no reason whatsoever why you-and others from your embassy-shouldn’t see the woman.”

Charlie hadn’t expected the turnaround so quickly, hadn’t, in fact, expected it at all. “You haven’t told me where she is.”

He had a rat-trap, forget-nothing mind, acknowledged Olga. “Lefortovo.”

How many had gone into “protective custody” in that bleak, icily-walled fortress never to emerge and certainly never for a moment to be protected? The first transcript was that of an already cowed, frightened woman. By now Vera Bendall would be terrified to the point of the insanity she was suggesting for her son. “That’s conveniently central. Tomorrow would be good.”

It gave her more than sufficient time. “Eleven?”

“Fine,” smiled Charlie. “I could come here directly afterwards, to discuss anything that emerges.”

“All right,” agreed Olga, doubtfully, thrown off balance by the offer.

“None of the witnesses are in protective custody, are they?”

He was playing with her, his cat to her mouse! “No. Their statements are being translated.”

“I’d prefer them in the original.”

“Available tomorrow.”

“Excellent! I can collect them after I’ve seen Vera Bendall.”

“Yes.” This was going to read even worse than it sounded.

“What’s the progress of the forensic examination?”

“Just that, in progress. Therefore incomplete.” The satisfaction of the refusal was out of proportion to its effect: it was something she’d have to surrender eventually.

“Not available tomorrow?”

“I doubt it.”

“We haven’t talked about any positive lines of enquiry.”

“It’s too early to establish any.”

“I suppose the most important thing we haven’t talked about is the official record that would have been maintained upon Peter Bendall, throughout his time here. That would have included information upon the son, as he grew up.”

Olga thought it was like being stripped naked in a Siberian winter. “That would be classified.”

The already prepared excuse for their apparent loss? wondered Charlie. “You have officially asked for them, though?”

“Every investigatory procedure befitting the crime has been implemented,” insisted Olga, regretting the formal pomposity the moment she began to speak but too angrily frustrated to find other words.