Brian Freemantle - Kings of Many Castles

Charlie said, “I liked it in the movie.”

Kayley allowed himself a tight smile. “This isn’t make-believe.”

“I hope it isn’t,” said Charlie.

Kayley’s smile went.

“Vera Bendall’s dead. The son’s come round.” The words collided almost comically in Olga’s eagerness to get them out.

Charlie allowed the apparent surprise. “Dead? How?”

“Hanged herself, with underwear that was returned to her for your visit.”

It was a poor attempt to spread blame. “Why wasn’t it taken away, afterwards?”

“It was a mistake,” conceded Olga.

Should he hit them this early? The suspicion was justified, particularly in view of the incomplete KGB file and he’d forewarned Natalia, for her to be ready. “Did she hang herself?”

“Her neck didn’t break, if that’s what you mean. She suffocated, choked to death,” said Olga.

“That wasn’t what I meant,” said Charlie. “Under whose administration does Lefortovo come, militia or FSB?”

“Jesus!” said Kayley, understanding.

Olga did, too. “The FSB,” she said, flatly. It was a suggestion she had to pass on as quickly as possible to Leonid Zenin. The crisis committee were meeting that morning.

Charlie said, “She was, officially, accorded embassy recognition. We’d like a copy of the autopsy report. And for that autopsy to be as detailed as possible.”

Olga wasn’t sure a post-mortem was planned. One certainly had to be carried out now. “Of course.”

“I listened to your meeting with her, read it, too,” said Kayley. “She was upset, being kept there.”

“Suicidally so?” demanded Charlie.

The American shrugged. “Who knows?”

Charlie talked looking around the prefabricated installation in apparent admiration, wondering how long it would take him to find what he wanted, if indeed it was here to be found. And then how to proceed. He was still working more from instinct than fact: the Russian forensic photographs were inconclusive and by themselves were insufficient. It was inevitable, he supposed, that the Russians would take offense at the questions that had to be asked. Others were necessary first. Or were they? Was he working-planning to work-for the possible benefit of George Bendall? Or to prove wrong experts who’d dismissed what he’d been so sure of? Wasn’t it paranoia, in fact, to imagine he had to behave like this at all, saying nothing until he was sure in the belief he might prevent the convenient evidence of an open and shut case being tampered with, as the old KGB files in his opinion had clearly been tampered with? The self-doubt surprised Charlie. But it wasn’t just self-doubt. It extended, as always, to Natalia. If his instincts were only half right she risked being caught up in open organizational warfare, even. She hadn’t positively accused him of exaggeration but he knew that’s what she was thinking, having warnings heaped upon her without having them fully explained. It was important, Charlie had determined, for Natalia to reach the conclusions for herself, without prejudging by having his opinions thrust upon her. Which didn’tanswer his immediate uncertainty. Follow the tried and tested instinct, he told himself. “What about Bendall? Can he be interviewed?”

“The recovery’s intermittent,” said Olga. “I’m going back to the hospital this afternoon.”

“You’ve already seen him?”

“He wasn’t aware of me, aware of anything. Didn’t respond to anything I said.”

There was no hurry for them to see the man, Charlie decided. He was aware of Olga moving from foot to foot, as if she was impatient to be somewhere else. He was probably more impatient, for other reasons. He looked around the room again. “So what’s the set-up?”

“Heads up, everybody!” Kayley called. “Meet-the-folks time.” The tour of the installation was conducted with the pride of a man showing off a new house. To most the acknowledgement was smiles and head nods, although the scientist controlling the forensic section and the man in charge of archives were introduced by name. The circuit finished at the side offices surrounding the main room, where two adjoining annexes were specifically set aside for Charlie and Olga.

“And I’m right behind you,” declared the American, indicating the office directly after Charlie’s.

I bet you are, thought Charlie. “Very hugger-mugger.”

“You going to need any help with the computers?” Kayley asked, solicitously.

“If I do, I’ll ask,” said Charlie. All access would be monitored. So would telephone calls. The rooms were glass-sided, too. It was very definitely going to be a goldfish bowl experience. Olga was still shifting from foot to foot. Time to resolve both their impatience, he thought. “Everything already logged?”

“Just finishing off programming the witnesses’ statements,” said Kayley.

“Then we’re totally up to date?” pressed Charlie. “Everything available to be accessed?”

Kayley was immediately attentive. “Unless you’ve got something additional?”

Charlie shook his head.

“Or have something specific in mind?” persisted the American.

“No,” said Charlie. He smiled. “Guess I’d better familiarize myself.”

It was impressive. There was no dust or debris from the hasty construction-rather there was the discernible and pleasant smell of the perfumed polish that had removed any-and in a corner beside his supposedly personal cabinet the operating lights of an air purifier glowed, although there was no noise. The answer to a prayer and Kayley’s cigars, thought Charlie. The desk appeared to be genuine wood, although it probably wasn’t, and the side table upon which the computer was mounted had an angled, padded rest upon which Charlie at once and gratefully eased his never comfortable feet. It was IBM hardware, predictably operating the latest-and same-Microsoft Word program installed on his machine at the British embassy. Charlie checked the drawers for back-up disks but couldn’t find any and was unsurprised that he wasn’t expected-or intended-to download anything to take away. As he took off his jacket-for which a convenient hanger was waiting on the coat pedestal-he saw Olga Melnik talking animatedly into the telephone in her adjoining office.

Mindful of his earlier expectation of any access being monitored, Charlie did not immediately boot up what he was most interested in but instead scrolled through the witnesses’ statements already on disk until he found that of Vladimir Petrovich Sakov, the tattooed cameraman who had wrestled with George Bendall for possession of the sniper’s rifle. It was the Russian transcript produced the previous day by Olga Melnik, with no additions from a second FBI interview, which meant the Bureau either hadn’t bothered-which Charlie didn’t believe-or didn’t intend a meeting of their own, which he thought even more unlikely. The third possibility was that they hadn’t got around to updating it, despite Kayley’s assurances that everything was logged.

He didn’t need the reminder but he pulled up the verbatim record of his own encounter with Vera Bendall, scrolling through the stumbling words. Again there were no additions-nor explanations for the obvious questions-cross-referenced from Russian sources.

Charlie felt an instant stir of excitement-a positive throb in hisleft foot, which was always the most sensitive-at the visual ballistic images of the bullets that shattered the shoulder of the American First Lady and caused the death of Secret Serviceman Ben Jennings. They were mounted against calibrated measuring grids in exactly the same way as the Russian evidence photographs he’d already studied of those extracted from the Russian president and his bodyguard and which Charlie had brought with him.