Brian Freemantle - Kings of Many Castles

Charlie looked around through his glass-partitioned cell in feigned casualness. Olga was now engrossed in her own screen. John Kayley’s room behind was empty. No one else appeared to be paying any attention to him whatsoever. He clicked on print, shielding the screen by lifting his briefcase on to his lap to take out what he’d brought from Protocnyj Pereulok. The comparison only took Charlie seconds: he didn’t even bother to take the Russian pictures fully from his briefcase, instead putting into it what he was now convinced to be the confirming printout of the American evidence. He closed the image of the bullets, clearing his screen to call up the ballistics menu. What he wanted-hoped for-wasn’t there, as it hadn’t been in what Olga Melnik had given him.

Charlie pushed his chair back, although not far enough to lose the foot rest. How to do it? So far the interference had been to KGB archives and possibly with papers belonging to both father and son which had, according to Vera Bendall, been removed from the Hutorskaya Ulitza apartment by intelligence and militia officers. The challenge-a positive confrontation-was inevitable. And essentially it had to be in front of witnesses, to prevent anything else going missing. Why didn’t he wait; persuade Natalia to guarantee that the complete Russian ballistic evidence be made available? Because it drew her too closely-too dangerously-into the active operational working of the investigation, which didn’t fit-wasn’t part of her remit and which, from what he’d just studied and compared, definitely was going to become more difficult. Would the actual, physical American evidence still be here, along the corridor? Or already back in Washington? Certainly something to discover.

Slowly, not wanting to attract Olga’s attention, Charlie stood, stretched and made his way out into the main room, smiling back at the few who looked up and smiled at him. He still couldn’t seeKayley. He sauntered past the unoccupied command area into the forensic linking corridor, hands deep in his pockets, a man orientating himself to new and unaccustomed surroundings. The forensic controller-Bill Savage, Charlie remembered easily-saw him approaching and rose to meet him as Charlie emerged from the tunnel.

“How’s it going?” There was no heavy, state-identifiable accent. Baldness-and the greyness in a compensating beard-made the man look older than he was.

“Good finally to be working in something of an organized system.”

“Pretty unusual situation all the way round,” agreed the man.

“How’s it with you?”

“Truth to tell, we’re kinda underemployed,” admitted the scientist.

“Russians haven’t given you the rifle? Or the recovered bullets, then?” anticipated Charlie. Looking beyond the American Charlie saw that two of the other four men in the improvised room were reading magazines and the other two appeared to be testing or tuning equipment.

“John’s asked for it.”

“You the ballistics expert?”

The other man shook his head, indicating one of the magazine readers. “Willie Ying’s our gun man. Why?”

Charlie began moving, taking the controller with him, not responding until he got within the expert’s hearing. When he did, Charlie said, loudly, “It struck me there was something missing from what’s on the computer about the bullets.”

The Chinese face came up abruptly from behind the magazine. It was Soldier , Charlie saw.

Aggressively Ying said, “What’s the problem here!”

Charlie smiled, ingenuously. “Lack of facilities. Britain being the poor relation, as usual.”

Neither American smiled back. Nor spoke.

Charlie said, “You got the bullets here that were taken from the First Lady. And Ben Jennings? Or have they already been shipped back to Washington?”

“Why?” demanded Ying, truculently.

“This is the scene of a crime,” said Savage, in a half-answer.

Maybe-just maybe-there was a God after all! “I must have missed it on the computer. I couldn’t find the grainage. Could you show me where it is?”

“I’m waiting for the Russian exhibits,” said the ballistics expert. “I need everything for a proper comparison.”

“Something I need to know about?”

Fuck, thought Charlie, turning at John Kayley’s voice. The FBI supervisor was coming out of the corridor like an elephant frightened of missing the sugar bun picnic, perhaps, remembering the ancestry, buffalo would have been a better analogy than elephant. He had to force it on, Charlie decided, risk the humiliation of being labelled the cocky Limey smart ass. Dropping the amiability-reckoning there might even be an advantage in antagonism-Charlie said, “Something we all need to know about, as quickly and accurately as possible.”

“What!” demanded Savage, exasperated.

“You do something for me- have something done for me?” asked Charlie, only just according Kayley his authority. “You get Willie to weigh the bullets you’re holding as evidence?”

“ What !” demanded Savage, again.

The Chinese ballistics expert didn’t immediately speak. Then he said, “I told you I was waiting. And why.”

“Don’t wait!” urged Charlie. “You’ve seen the photographs.”

Ying look enquiringly to his supervisor who said to Charlie, “You got something?”

“Weigh the bullets,” insisted Charlie.

Ying did so with the impact-distorted metal still encased in its plastic exhibit envelopes, the minuscule weight of which was known and easily subtracted to achieve the reading. He repeated the simple experiment three times before looking up directly at Charlie. The American said, “I won’t offer it as empirical until I’ve tested what the Russians have.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” said Charlie, as satisfied relief flooded through him. “But it’s quite impossible for those two bullets to have been fired from the same rifle, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” conceded the Chinese, quietly.

There had been no prior indication that it would be a smaller gathering but Natalia decided that despite Charlie’s ill-explained insistences she had no positive personal problem and from the previous evening’s rehearsal she was quite confident she was totally prepared for anything that might arise. The only unexpected although quickly understood absence was that of General Lev Lvov, whose function was now to protect acting president Aleksandr Okulov, the other absentee. In the nuance and rumor-fuelled hothouse of Moscow political uncertainty it isolated General Dimitri Spassky as the man responsible for the security debacle, which Spassky had already and very obviously recognized. The ashtray in front of the man was overflowing and the hand with which he lighted the continual replacements was more visibly shaking than usual.

“There is some encouraging news,” announced Yuri Trishin. “The president has recovered consciousness. The latest from the Pirogov doctors is that his condition is stable and that he is out of immediate danger, although still critical.”

“Encouraging indeed, great news!” hurriedly coughed Spassky, anxious to have his name first on record.

The impatience of the presidential chief of staff for Natalia and the fourth member of the group, Militia Commandant Leonid Zenin, dutifully to respond was almost palpable and as soon as they had Trishin said, “So what’s encouraging for me to hear in return?”

Nothing, conceded Natalia, accepting it was a question posed to her. According to the Lefortovo prison authorities, she said, there was nothing to suggest Vera Bendall had been likely to take her own life, although that did not excuse the oversight of not removing articles of clothing with which she could do herself harm. It was hoped to interview George Bendall later that day. The investigation had been centralized at the American embassy. Ruth Anandale continued to improve although the indications were that she had permanently lost the use of her right arm. A decision was being made in the next twenty-four hours whether to amputate the leg of Feliks Vasilevich Ivanov, the Russian security guard injured in the shooting. The likelihood was that it would be necessary.