Brian Freemantle - Kings of Many Castles

Olga had just given orders for the multiple duplication of the dossier when Leonid Zenin called on the internal line from his office on the floor above. “The FSB can’t find all the references to George Bendall in his father’s KGB file. Looks as if there’s a lot missing.”

“A prosecution will hardly need it, from what I’ve just got from the army. Bendall’s a raving drunken lunatic.”

“That’s not really the point though, is it?”

“No,” agreed Olga, remembering their earlier conversation. “What are you going to do?”

“How’s it going with the British and the Americans?” queried Zenin, not replying.

“Well enough.” Olga felt a stir of uncertainty.

“Have they asked for KGB material?”

“Yes.”

“The orders are to cooperate fully. They should be told why we-or rather the KGB replacement-aren’t able to provide it.”

But she’d be the identifiable person telling them, Olga realized, uncomfortably.

“You’re right, Charlie. It’s a hell of a view!” Beyond the embankment the summer sun was striking diamonds off the Moskva, churned by follow-my-leader pleasure boats.

“Did you manage to catch Okulov’s Duma statement on TV?” Reciprocating the American’s hospitality of the previous day, Charlie had Islay malt on the desk between them.

“I thought Petr Tikunov chewed him up and spat out the bits he didn’t want.”

That was Charlie’s impression, too. “It was a pretty obvious inference that the security relaxations were imposed from Washington.”

“He won’t have made any friends with that.”

“That your diplomatic playback?”

The American shook his head. “Personal view. You?”

“Not yet.”

“Met the Russian gal this afternoon.”

Moving towards it, guessed Charlie. Would Kayley play his hand any cleverer than Burt Jordan had, with Morrison? It had been stupid of the man to lie that the Agency hadn’t tried to find Peter Bendall after his defection. What had amounted virtually to a joint operation would obviously remain on British file. Charlie said, “What do you think?”

“Attractive. Nice tits.”

“Professionally?”

“Difficult to judge, from one meeting. We agreed we need a working structure.”

“She suggest anything?”

“No. Gave me a whole bunch of stuff. Guess she gave you the same, when you met?”

“I hope so.”

“Thought the second meeting with the mother was better than the first?” suggested Kayley.

Not bad, Charlie conceded. Should he admit to not having seen it or play the bluff? “What did Olga think?”

“That there might be something in it.” The director had burned his ass for having so little to report about his conversation with the Russian colonel. It had been wise to hold back about the British access.

“You agree with her?”

“Difficult to say until I’ve gone through everything. You haven’t told me what you think.”

Time to try an ace, Charlie decided. “I’m keeping an open mind until I see her myself.”

“That’s best.”

“I think so.”

“Tomorrow, right?”

Correct on timing, wrong on tactics, gauged Charlie. “Right.”

“It’s good we’re like that,” said Kayley, extending a hand with his forefinger over his index digit.

“You’ll get it all,” promised Charlie.

“How’s about me coming along with you?”

That was practically desperate! “It’s British consular access! Diplomatic! I’m only being allowed in under protest.” It hardly qualified as diplomatic without Richard Brooking. But Kayley wouldn’t know that.

“You any idea what sort of pressure I’m under with the goddamned president sitting on my lap!”

“I told you, you’ll get it all. I can’t do more than that.”

“I was looking for a favor.”

Charlie recognized the inherent threat. “I’m going directly from the mother to Olga. Why don’t we establish the working structure then?”

“I’m disappointed, Charlie.”

Which was exactly what Colonel Olga Melnik intended the man to be, Charlie guessed.

Walter Anandale snapped off the remote control, blanking the screen upon which they’d watched the entire replay of Aleksandr Okulov’s parliamentary appearance and said, “That’s made me personally responsible for the whole fucking thing, including the maiming of my own wife, for Christ’s sake!”

“That would be an extreme interpretation,” said Wendall North, uncomfortable at the reappearance of security lapses he’d hoped safely swept behind him.

“We got people at home looking for extremes. You know that!”

“It certainly wasn’t necessary,” retreated the chief of staff.

“You get on to that guy … what’s …?”

“Trishin,” helped the other man. Why did the president have such a problem with that name?

“Trishin. And you let him know I don’t like what his guy’s justdone … that I don’t like it at all … And then you get on to our public affairs people and tell them to start lobbying, not just among the media travelling with us but back home in Washington, too. I want it countered … Okulov wants to play dirty pool he’s going to get his knuckles crunched …”

“We could suggest it’s the Russians trying to get out from under, which it is,” proposed North.

“Sounds good,” agreed the president.

“Doesn’t help the atmosphere,” suggested North.

“There isn’t any atmosphere to be helped, not anymore.”

It remained essential to both sides that there was no suggestion of an irreparable collapse but now wasn’t the moment to start talking of diplomacy and compromise, North decided. “I’ve spoken personally to the four orthopedic surgeons specializing in brachial plexus injuries recommended by Max Donnington. He’s made up complete case notes, together with the X-rays. We’re shipping it all back today …. And we’re also flying Ben Jennings’s body home.”

“What’s arranged?”

“Marines pallbearers from the embassy here taking the coffin to the plane. Honor guard at Andrews.”

“Is he married?”

North nodded. “Two kids, both at college.”

“I should write personally.”

“I’ve already made up a draft.”

“What about the vice president attending the funeral?”

“It would look right.”

“Fix it.”

Vera Bendall’s shoes were laced so Charlie presumed her bra had been returned as well, although she was shapeless beneath a badly knitted cardigan. The gray-streaked hair was straggled, no more than finger combed, and there was no make-up. There was a dirt smudgebeneath her chin and her hands were soiled, blackly dirt-rimmed beneath the odd nail that hadn’t already been bitten to the quick. Despite the laces, Vera scuffed into the interview room, stoop-shouldered, burdened by the unknown fears of whatever was going to happen to her next. She stopped apprehensively as Charlie stood, then gnawed in embarrassment at her lower lip when he held out the one remaining chair.

“Sorry,” she said, quickly.

“You don’t have to be frightened,” said Anne Abbott, in English. “We’re from the embassy.”

“Please help me,” pleaded the woman, at once.

“We’ll try,” promised Anne. “That’s why we’re here.”

“We’d like you to help us, too,” said Charlie. Vera Bendall had responded in English, so he did as well. He held out the small pocket recorder. “We’re going to tape everything. Is that OK?”

She shrugged at the continued politeness. “I suppose.”

Charlie hadn’t bothered to look for the most likely position of the Russian equipment, although he’d shaken his head to stop the horrified lawyer bursting out aloud at the conditions inside Lefortovo while they’d waited for Vera to be brought to them. If the standard fish-eye-lensed camera was mounted somewhere in the overhead light surround, which was normal, the warning would probably have been picked up. It was a starkly functional room, entirely bare except for the center table and three stiff-backed wooden chairs. The door was metal, with a circular peephole. There was a summoning button set into the wall. It was strangely, almost disconcertingly, quiet, as if the room had been soundproofed against either internal or external noise. There was a prison smell, though-urine, sour food, unwashed bodies, decay-to which Charlie thought Vera was probably contributing.