Brian Freemantle - Kings of Many Castles

“Your mother’s dead, too. She would have suffered, poor woman.”

There was a spurt of blinking, swallowing. A nearly imperceptible-instantly corrected-head movement towards her.

“The story of your life, isn’t it Georgi? Always failure. Failed father, failed mother, failed son. End result: total, miserable failure.”

“How?” The voice croaked, dry-throated.

Now it was Olga who stayed silent.

“How?”

She allowed her eyes to flick to Zenin. The man was leaning forward with both arms on his knees but not looking directly at her, concentrating entirely upon the words.

“How did she die?”

The crack had been made in the dam; it had to be widened from inside, not out. “Hanged.”

“Shouldn’t have been hanged.”

He’d have lost track of time, believed it to be official punishment. She’d let it go for the moment. “Why not?”

“Didn’t know anything.”

“I thought she did.”

“No!”

“What didn’t she know?” The crack was creaking apart.

“Anything.”

“About what?”

The muscles stood out on Bendall’s jaw, so tightly did he bite his mouth closed.

“Died for nothing then?” Bendall had sealed the crack. And she didn’t know how to prise it open again.

Nothing.

“She knew you hated everything. Didn’t believe you hated her though, after what your father did to her. Bringing her here.”

“Fucking bastard!”

Another weakness in the wall, Olga recognized. “He was the one who should have died, not her.”

There was the faintest of sounds from the doorway, where Zenin shifted in his chair. Bendall gave no indication of hearing anything.

“Should have been him.”

“Did you want to kill him?”

“Yes.” The word hissed out, emotion for the first time.

“Why didn’t you?”

“Didn’t.”

This man was her only hope, thought Olga, the only one who could provide a lead. She had to break him. Trick or tilt the already unbalanced mind, however and whichever way she could. British consular protests were irrelevant, if there was a complaint. All she had to concern herself with was getting a Russian conviction in a Russian court and she could get a confession and evidence any way she liked to achieve that. “Frightened of him, were you?”

“No!” It was a shout. Proper anger.

“Of course you were.”

“No!” He jerked his head around to look directly at her for thefirst time, wincing at the pain the movement caused. “Was going to kill him. Died first.”

Olga shook her head theatrically, disbelievingly. “Why didn’t you get the others to do it, like they killed your mother.” It was convoluted but got her to where she wanted to be.

The eyes upon her noticeably focused, clearing. “What?”

“Why didn’t you get the others in this with you to kill him, like they killed your mother?” repeated Olga.

“You said she was hanged.”

“Not sentenced, by a court. Strangled. Murdered,” invented Olga.

“She didn’t know!” The denial this time wailed from him.

“They thought she did. The court won’t believe you didn’t know they were going to do that. I don’t believe you didn’t know they were going to do that. You’ll be considered an accomplice.”

“No!” Another wail.

“You’re right to be frightened.”

“Not frightened.”

“They’ll try to kill you, if they can.”

“Not frightened !”

“They would kill you, if they could.”

He was looking at the ceiling again, lips tight together.

Mistaken direction. He wasn’t rambling, either. But then why should he? Mentally deranged people didn’t necessarily ramble. Wrong to have started with that preconception. There was sudden noise from the door, a muffled voice. Olga saw the doctor gesticulating from beyond the wall of security men. Zenin turned at it, too, making waving away motions with his hand.

Olga went back to the embalmed man. “The other sniper was a lot better than you, Georgi. Should have practiced more.”

“No one else.”

The words jolted through Olga. She was aware of Zenin coming further forward on his chair, too. She said, “We know there was. Two different rifles, different bullets.”

“Liar!”

Which way to go! “They couldn’t leave it to you. Knew you weren’t good enough to do it by yourself.”

“Not true.”

“You think you’re a good sniper, Georgi?”

“Trained.” For the first time there was an inflection in the man’s voice, a whisper of pride.

Olga thought she saw a pathway. “You killed people before?”

“A lot.”

“How many?”

“A lot.”

“When was that?”

“In the army.”

“Did you train every day when you were in the army?”

“Course I did. Had to.” Now there was a hint of indignation.

“But you’ve been out of the army a long time now, haven’t you?”

Bendall’s face clouded, in an effort to understand. “Good sniper,” he insisted.

“Do you still train every day, now you’re not in the army?”

The smile was knowing, crafty. “Maybe.”

“You do, don’t you?”

Nothing.

“Who with?”

Nothing.

“Where did you get the rifle?”

The smile remained but he didn’t reply.

“Did you fire as quickly on Wednesday as you did when you trained every day in the army? And since?”

“I’m good.”

“Two shots, over eight seconds? That’s not fast, not for a trained marksman.”

“Less than eight seconds.”

Got it with the wrong correction! snatched Olga, triumphantly. She actually looked at the slowly revolving tape spool. “There were five shots, Georgi. Not two. The other man really did do better than you. Hit our president twice. And the American First Lady. You were rubbish.”

“No one else,” He wasn’t blinking anymore; the eyes were positively drooping now.

“We know there was. You know it, too.”

There was fresh outburst from the corridor outside and Olga saw the doctor and the psychiatrist both arguing with the guards outside. She distinctly heard “enough” and “protest” over the barricading heads and shoulders of Bendall’s protectors and this time Zenin stood up and gestured the two men through. Badim flustered into the room, still protesting, and Olga snapped off the recording just before he got to “outrage.”

Zenin blocked the man just inside the door. “Shut up! We’ve stopped. He’s OK.”

“Stalin’s not in the Kremlin anymore, this isn’t a police state.”

“You want to prove that enlightened opinion, doctor, you just go on shouting and yelling and making too much noise. I’ll even give you your own choice of camp at Kolyma.”

The professional anger seeped from Badim like air from a punctured balloon. “This man is still officially in intensive care!”

Olga saw George Bendall’s eyes were shut, not twitching with feigned sleep. The man’s chest rose and fell, evenly.

“Which is precisely where I want him kept,” said Zenin, looking between the two hospital officials. “If anything goes wrong-if he dies under your intensive care-then neither of you will even get a choice of Kolyma camp. You hear me loud and clear?”

The small, stained-coated surgeon-administrator momentarily remained in eyeball to eyeball confrontation, his mouth and throat working with unspoken words. Finally, pitifully, he said, “You proud of what you do?”

“Hardly ever,” said the militia commander. “It’s something that has to be done.”

Zenin led the hurried pace to get out of the hospital, trailing Olga with him. Short-breathed she said, “I was almost there! I could have broken him!”