Brian Freemantle - Kings of Many Castles

Charlie saw the record light was rhythmically throbbing on the heavy, antiquated Russian equipment beside the bed. “We want you to go.”

“We have our orders.”

Charlie moved to the dirt-fissured window to get a better signal on his cell phone and dialled the direct line into the American embassyincident room. Olga was very quickly on the line. Charlie said, “I’ll put you on to your people,” and passed the telephone to the clerk-like man, who listened without responding until the very end, when he said, “I understand.” He handed the telephone back to Charlie as he stood and still not speaking led the other Russians from the room.

Charlie was careful to place their recorder on a table on the opposite side of the bed to the still operating Russian machine, to avoid conflicting disturbance, gesturing Anne to the solitary chair vacated by the Russian recordist. There were two other chairs waiting at the door by the time he went to fetch them. Both Badim and Agayan lurked in the corridor. Charlie accorded Brooking the seat closest to the eyes-tight man, depressed the start button of their machine and nodded for the diplomat to open the encounter.

It was several moments before Brooking did so, not initially anticipating the invitation. He stumbled, several times calling Bendall by name in the hope of waking him. He looked sideways in confusion when the bandaged man remained with his eyes closed. Charlie made rotating movements with his hands for Brooking to continue, which the diplomat awkwardly did although limiting his contribution to setting out the consular representation. By the time he’d finished Brooking was visibly sweating and his starched, cut-away collar had garrotted an unbroken red line around his nervous throat.

“Do you understand everything I’ve said, Mr. Bendall?” concluded Brooking.

The feigned sleep continued. Brooking looked helplessly at Charlie and Anne.

Charlie said, “Vladimir Petrovich Sakov calls you a fucking idiot. Useless with it.” Although Charlie was concentrating intently upon the man in the tunnelled bed he was aware of Brooking’s wince. Bendall’s eyes remained steadfastly closed. Thirty minutes, remembered Charlie. “Vasili Gregorevich wouldn’t have said that, would he?”

There was a lid flicker, a stirring.

“You think Vasili Gregorevich died in an accident? I don’t. I think he was killed, probably by the same people who murdered your mother.” Olga Melnick should easily be able to recover all thedetails of the Timiryazev railways crossing crash by the afternoon. Hopefully with all the other officially tracable queries he’d raised earlier that morning. Charlie was aware of Anne’s uncertain frown across the raised bed covering.

Bendall’s eyes opened. At once Charlie said for the benefit of the tape, “George Bendall-Georgi Gugin-appears to have recovered consciousness,” and nudged Brooking into a repetition of the consular guarantee. Brooking reacted as if he were waking up too, but echoed virtually verbatim what he’d earlier registered on tape. Anne Abbott picked up the moment he finished, identifying herself as a lawyer there to formulate a defense, which would have to be presented in court by a Russian attorney.

“I don’t want any help from the British embassy. From the United Kingdom,” announced Bendall. His voice wasn’t as weak as it had been on the previous day’s tape to which Charlie had listened.

“Why are you going down for everyone else?” demanded Charlie, ignoring Anne’s fresh look of concern at what amounted to their dismissal by the man.

“No one else.”

“When did you get together?” asked Charlie. “It was the army, wasn’t it?”

Bendall began to hum, very softly, a tuneless wailing dirge that reminded Charlie of Middle Eastern music. Or Afghan, he reminded himself. “That where you met Vasili Gregorevich, in Afghanistan? Was he in the army with you?”

Bendall said something Charlie didn’t hear, his head turned, but Anne did. “Brother?” she queried.

There were no brothers! thought Charlie.

It was Anne who carried it on, understanding. “Is that where you formed the brotherhood? Joined it in Afghanistan?”

There was a moment’s more humming, then “Never knew.”

“You must have laughed at the officers, their not knowing?” said Charlie, taking Anne’s lead. The army record was one of drunken loutishness. It didn’t fit.

Bendall didn’t reply but he sniggered.

“You sure they didn’t know?” pressed Charlie. “You got punished a lot.”

“Didn’t understand.”

“What didn’t they understand, Georgi?” He didn’t like his English name, Charlie remembered.

“Didn’t understand.”

“Were you tricking them in the army … pretending …?” suggested Anne.

“Didn’t know.”

“That was clever,” said Anne, persuasively. “Good to stay together afterwards, too, when you left the army.”

“Meeting old friends … old comrades … every Tuesday and Thursday?” added Charlie. He was conscious of Brooking frowning in bewilderment between himself and Anne.

“Comrades,” said Bendall.

“Not at first, though,” prompted Charlie, recalling Vera Bendall’s account. “You didn’t meet up with them at first when you left the army, did you?”

The wailing hum rose and fell.

“Was that your song, what you sang when you were all together?” asked Anne.

It stopped, abruptly.

“Tell us the words, Georgi? It does have words, doesn’t it?” Fifteen minutes left, Charlie saw. He checked that their recorder was revolving smoothly.

“No one knows.”

No one knows what? thought Charlie, desperately. “Secret, like the brotherhood?” he guessed.

Bendall smiled. “Special.”

“You were, weren’t you Georgi?” said Anne. “A special person in a special group … special, secret group that noone knew about.”

“Shan’t tell you.”

“Did you swear an oath, Georgi?” asked Charlie. “Promise to be loyal to each other … protect each other?”

Bendall smiled but didn’t speak.

He said that it was right. That he had to, remembered Charlie. Bendall’s words when he was struggling for possession of the gun, according to Vladimir Sakov. “Was that what you were doing when you shot at the president, protecting the brotherhood?”

Bendall’s face clouded. “Had to.”

“Why did you have to?” pressed Anne. “What was the president going to do to hurt you and your friends?”

“I knew.”

“Tell us what you knew,” urged Anne.

“Right to do it.”

Even the same words, isolated Charlie. “Who told you that?”

“Someone who helped.”

“ Who helped you?”

“Friend.”

“How many shots did you fire?” Another of Charlie’s reasons for going first to the U.S. embassy had been to discover how many cartridges had remained in the rifle’s ten-round magazine when it had been recovered, an obvious questions he was irritated at himself for not finding out earlier that it had been empty when it had been picked up after the fall.

“All of them.” The man’s eyes were becoming heavy.

“How many’s that?”

“Two.”

“Only two?”

“Special bullets. All they had.”

“Who’s ‘they’ Georgi?” came in Anne.

“Special,” said the man again.

He wasn’t referring to the cartridges, Charlie decided. “They’ll be very proud of you.”

“Yes.”

“Are you proud of them, to be one of the brotherhood?” asked Anne.

The smile was of a satisfied, proud man. He didn’t speak. Brooking was sitting back in his chair, legs extended full length in front of him, mind obviously elsewhere. Probably up his ass, thought Charlie.