Brian Freemantle - Kings of Many Castles

“‘The only person we’ve got to keep alive is George Bendall,’” Zenin quoted back at her. “You did brilliantly. But we pushed him. Keep him the right side of sanity, we’ll get the others. Push him over, we’ve got what you said he was, a chosen idiot. George Bendall isn’t important. I want the people who manipulated him. The conspirators.”

Minutes, thought Olga, infuriated, in just minutes Bendall wouldhave given them the lead. “The British are invoking their access agreement tomorrow. I want to see him again, before they do.”

“Good idea,” agreed Zenin. They were nearing the exit on to Gospital’naya Ulitza. “I am going back to the Kremlin. They’re waiting.”

“Yes?” she said, curiously.

“We need to talk more. Please wait for me, at headquarters.”

“Of course.”

“I meant what I said, Olga Ivanova. You did brilliantly.”

“I told the militia everything,” said Vladimir Sakov. “I told the Yanks to go to hell. Now I’m telling you. You want to be helped out, I’ll help you.”

A bravado-and vodka-fuelled bully, thought Charlie. But definitely able to fight, from the evidence of the television struggle with George Bendall that the world had watched. The NTV camera room was cluttered with equipment, discarded cups and food containers, cigarette debris and protective outdoor clothing.

Charlie said, “I’ve read what you told the militia.” It had occupied less than one page. The man had been jolted by Bendall, knocking the camera off focus, turned to yell at him and seen the rifle. He’d thought Bendall was going to shoot him and fought him for the gun. No one liked Bendall and Bendall didn’t like anyone in return. He tried not to work with the man.

“So fuck off!” Sakov was lounged in an ancient armchair leaking its stuffing into the rest of the mess, glass in hand, wearing only a sweat-stained singlet hanging over even dirtier jeans. There was a lot more of the crude tattooing along each arm than Charlie had seen on film and Charlie was sure he was right, although he didn’t put the Russian older than thirty-five, despite the near baldness.

He was probably gambling with his front teeth. But Charlie was in no mood to be told to fuck off. He’d ascended floor by floor the former Comecon skyscraper and two smaller towers blocks from which the second gunman could have got an elevated firing position before abandoning the chore to the recognized FBI group outside the fourth possible location. The pain from his feet had reached his knees and was climbing. “You’re not old enough.”

“What?” frowned the man.

“You’re not old enough to have been in a gulag. And those are gulag tattooes, aren’t they?” identified Charlie. “And if you had been you wouldn’t have got this job. Your workbook would have been marked.”

“Smart fucker.” The man lifted a clear, unlabeled bottle Charlie hadn’t seen from beside the chair and added to his glass.

It was the yellow of street-distilled potato vodka, harsher-and stronger-than that sold in shops. All part of the macho image. But the remark was less belligerent. And his teeth were still intact. Charlie said, “Father? Grandfather?”

The man shrugged. “Father.”

“Pretty dramatic testimonial,” said Charlie, in apparent admiration.

“He wasn’t guilty of anything. None of them were.”

Family suffering explained a hostility to authority or officialdom. Continuing the flattery Charlie said, “Still a brave-unusual-thing to do.”

Sakov shrugged, not speaking.

Having eased past the barrier Charlie didn’t want to lose the momentum. “Quite a difference from Georgi. He hated his father.”

“Bastard hated everyone.”

“Can’t imagine that worrying you.”

“It didn’t.”

“Why didn’t you like working with him then?”

“Morose fucker.”

“He drank.”

“Not properly with the rest of us.”

“Not with anyone?”

“Maybe.”

“He did have friends here, didn’t he?” chanced Charlie.

“Vasili Gregorevich, I suppose.” The man made a vague gesture, crossing himself.

A religious gesture? “Vasili Gregorevich who?”

“Isakov,” completed the Russian. “He was a good guy, never understood what it was with him and Gugin. No one did.”

Was, picked out Charlie. “What happened to Vasili Gregorevich?”

Sakov looked surprised at the question. “Dead.”

Charlie felt a stir of satisfaction. “Dead how?”

“An accident. His car got hit by a train on the level crossing near Timiryazev Park. That’s where he lived, near the park.”

Association with George Bendall seemed to bring with it a high mortality rate, reflected Charlie. “When was that?”

“A few months back. Four, five maybe.”

“How’d it happen?”

“Don’t know. Tried to race the train, that’s what they said.”

“Who said?”

“People here. Talk. You know.”

“What did Vasili do here?”

“Senior cameraman, like me. That’s what I am now-why I got the White House position-since Vasili Gregorevich died.”

“They were good friends?”

“Couldn’t understand it,” repeated Sakov. He lifted the bottle again. “You want a drink? Private stuff. Good.”

Charlie had never refused a drink in his life and wasn’t going to now, because it marked his acceptance, but he mentally apologized to his liver. The Russian poured almost three fingers into an already print-smeared tumbler, added yet again to his own and said, “To the witches being kindly ones.”

Charlie touched glasses to the traditional Russian toast, wishing the witches had been kinder when he was tramping pointlessly around the high rises. The liquid burned and went down his throat like a clenched fist. “They work together a lot, Vasili and Georgi?”

“Permanent team, most of the time.”

“Is that usual?”

“Suited everyone else.”

“Did they know each other, before Georgi started working here? I heard someone helped Georgi get a job? Vasili maybe?”

“That’s the story I heard. I never asked.”

Charlie wetted his lips with the drink. It stung. “There a favorite bar everyone drinks in around here?”

“Elena’s, on Tehnicskij.”

“Did Georgi and Vasili use it?”

Sakov took his time. “Sometimes.”

“They spent time together outside of work, then?”

“Seemed to.”

“What about Tuesdays and Thursdays?”

The Russian looked blankly at Charlie. “What?”

“His mother said Georgi used to do something every Tuesday and Thursday but she didn’t know what it was.”

Sakov shook his head. “Neither do I.”

“How’d it come about that Georgi was your gofer on the day of the shooting?”

“Rostered, I guess.”

“He didn’t ask for it particularly?”

“Not that I heard. You’re not drinking?”

Charlie brought the glass to his lips again. “You didn’t like working with him?”

“I already told you that.”

“Why didn’t you ask for a roster change?”

“It wasn’t that bad! He fetched and carried OK.”

“How many days ahead were the rosters fixed?”

“A week. This was regarded as a big job.”

“He brought the rifle up to the gantry in an equipment bag?”

“That’s what they say.”

“You decide what equipment you want?”

“Of course.”

“What was it supposed to be?”

“Spare tripod stand.”

“You didn’t check it?”

“I told you, he did the job OK. You told him what you wanted and he did it.”

“So that’s what happened? You told him what you needed and left him to get it ready?”

“Yes. Nothing wrong with that!” The belligerence was back.