Brian Freemantle - Kings of Many Castles

“It’s good to belong to something: a proper-special-family, isn’t it?” coaxed Charlie.

The eyes closed, didn’t open.

“Georgi!” said Charlie, sharply. “Who are we? Why are we here?”

The eyes flickered open, although slowly. “Not going to tell you anything.”

“If I’m going to help defend you, you’ve got to tell me things I have to know,” said Anne, urgently.

“Too tired.”

“There’s a lot more time, as much time as you need,” said Anne. “All we need. We’ll come back again. For as long as it takes.”

Charlie didn’t totally believe Bendall was too tired to go on, but there was no way-no time because he was already aware of the doctors at the door-it could be challenged. Nor should it be. Over a life-time which seemed to begin when people had dinosaurs for pets Charlie believed he’d perfected an untrained ability to outpsychologize most psychologists. And the amateur Freudian diagnosis-even with the essential Freudian sexuality-encompassed wombs, although not physical ones, family dysfunction and surrogates, with generous outlets for mentally disturbed violence and an already beer-hall tested philosophy of foot-stamping marching songs and a lot of alcohol. Bendall had performed as much as he intended. And had unquestionably given away more than he wanted or imagined he had. It was important to leave Bendall thinking he’d controlled the encounter but with an eroding worm of doubt. “After you did it, how were they going to get you away, get you back safely among them?”

There was no obvious physical reaction but Charlie was sure Bendall wasn’t asleep and had heard him.

“Thank you, for being properly considerate,” said the waiting Badim, when they emerged. “I don’t after all think there’s anything officially to complain about.”

“This is probably the first of several sessions,” said Charlie. “One visit obviously isn’t enough.”

“I suppose not,” said Agayan, walking with them back through the cluttered corridors.

“You typed his blood when he was admitted, of course?”

“Of course,” confirmed Badim. “He needed transfusions. It’s AB.”

“Were there any other tests?”

Badim’s head came around sharply. “The only concern was to find the right blood group, for a safe transfusion.”

“You’ve still got some of the sample?”

“Yes?”

“Could we have some, now?”

Badim stopped. “Why?”

“We want to test for alcohol.” That was sufficient for the man to know, thought Charlie.

“It could be tested here.”

“And I’d appreciate a copy of those tests, just as I’m sure you’d like to know the result of our analysis. Which I’ll guarantee, for comparison.”

“I’m not sure I’m authorized.”

“It’s a medical request. I understood you to be the surgeon-administrator, the responsible authority?”

“I am!” said the easily offended man.

“A sample wouldn’t need any specific control. We could wait,” said Charlie, wanting to stop short of the heavily guarded vestibule. “And you know our authority is from the Kremlin.”

For several moments the man hovered, uncertainly. Then he gestured them into a room about two meters further along the corridor which they were never to know was from where Olga Melnik had the previous day gazed down upon the approach of her new lover. Agayan walked away with the other Russian.

Immediately inside Brooking said, “This has all been absurd, a total waste of time. The man is obviously mentally unwell. That will have to be the plea!”

“Obviously,” agreed Charlie. There was no way it could have been anticipated they’d be in this room so it wouldn’t be wired or cameraed but he still looked intently around.

Ignoring the diplomat, Anne said, “I told you we were a good team, didn’t I?”

“And I agreed,” reminded Charlie.

“What do you mean?” demanded Brooking.

“Just technical stuff,” said Charlie.

“I want a copy of that tape, to take with us to London,” said thelawyer. “It probably won’t be admissable in court but I want a psychiatric assessment.”

“So do I,” said Charlie.

“It’s much less of an embarrassment to the government if he’s certifiably insane, someone not mentally responsible for his actions,” offered Brooking. “That and the fact that he has lived here for twenty-six years.”

Charlie had to force himself to talk to the man. “Luck all the way along the line.”

Mikhail Badim reentered the room alone carrying a phial in his outstretched hand. “We’re testing for alcohol, too.”

“A comparison is essential, for an empirical result,” accepted Charlie. He was contributing more towards a mitigating defense than to the continuing investigation, but then that was the primary purpose of today’s interview.

In the car on the way back to the embassy Anne said to the diplomat, “Do you feel there’s any reason for you to come with us, for the next meeting?”

“Not at all,” said Brooking, hurriedly. “I think I fulfilled everything I had to do in today’s visit. I thought it all went very well, despite the unfortunate fellow’s obvious madness.”

“Very well indeed,” echoed Charlie.

Walter Anandale ended the urging of both Wendall North and the secretary of state for a diplomatic compromise by rejecting their suggestions in preference to his own, which didn’t include acting Russian president Aleksandr Okulov, and just as curtly ordered them to fix it.

Jeff Aston, the now unquestionably-obeyed head of presidential security, insisted they needed a highway-cleared, intersection-controlled route from the embassy to the hospital but gave the embassy as the return destination in the demand to the GIA traffic police. The Secret Service chief also insisted upon being in total media charge, once more restricting the still picture and television coverage of Anandale’s meeting with the Russian leader to American White House cameramen. It also guaranteed his being in total controlof their release, which was to be timed to give the impression that the American leader, his wife and entourage were still in Moscow when the intention was for them to be already high over the Atlantic, on their way to Washington.

The American president spent the first thirty minutes at the Pirogov hospital being reassured beyond the already promised reassurance from Admiral Donnington and a support group of Russian physicians that Ruth Anandale was sufficiently fit and recovered to be medevacced back to America. Only then did he go, completely encircled by agents and with the towering Aston by his side to the other wing of the hospital where North and Aston had spent those same thirty minutes hurriedly arranging the photocall with the Russian president’s protection squad.

Lev Maksimovich Yudkin was fully conscious, although still attached to drip-feeds and line-waving monitors-which made for fittingly dramatic pictures-but too weak for any conversation, which was not the intention anyway. Anandale was, however, posed as if they were in discussion as well as solicitously standing by the man’s bedside. It only took fifteen minutes.

As they made their way back to the American-commandeered wing James Scamell said, “This is going to be interpreted as a snub to Okulov.”

“Fix it with the statement we’re going to issue,” demanded Anandale. “Abrupt departure for urgent medical treatment for the First Lady … no time for official farewells apart from seeing the president whose recovery we’re delighted about …” He looked sideways at the secretary of state. “And your staying here-plus the unattributable briefings you’ll give-establishes that everything’s still on track.”

“You know what we’ve just shown by being allowed in like that?” demanded Aston, rhetorically. “That Russian security is godamned awful and that they haven’t learned a thing. Even you, Mr. President, shouldn’t have been allowed in. I wouldn’t have permitted it, if the situation had been reversed.”