Brian Freemantle - Kings of Many Castles

“Aren’t we losing sight of the fact that with the uncertainty that surrounds this department, we can’t afford to take a chance with Charlie Muffin!” said Hamilton.

“It’s a matter of opinion whether or not we’re taking a chance,” said the director-general, belatedly joining the exchange.

“I think I’ve expressed my opinion,” said Hamilton.

“You’ve certainly done that,” said Simpson. “I think we should leave things as they are.”

“I’d like to get more guidance from the ambassador in Moscow,”said Pacey. “This Russian Note has diplomatic implications.”

“We’ll give it twenty-four hours, to see what the guidance is from the ambassador and what Charlie gets from his calls to Moscow,” decided Dean.

“And then?” pressed Hamilton.

“Then we’ll talk again,” said the director-general.

The spare room Spence found for him reminded Charlie of the cell he’d occupied for so many years when he’d been permanently attached to the Millbank building. It was at the rear, the one dirty window overlooking a clutter-filled courtyard and other dirty windows. But it had a reasonably dust-free desk and a chair and a secure telephone and Charlie was totally uninterested in anything else.

He reached Donald Morrison immediately. Richard Brooking was still spinning in circles, reported the MI6 officer. The head of chancellery was blaming Charlie personally for what he complained to be criminal intelligence wrongly crossing the boundaries into diplomacy: the ambassador had sought Foreign Office instruction how to respond to the Russian Note. Morrison had spoken personally to John Kayley, who insisted the leak had not come from any American source. Olga Melnik had reminded him it was she who had demanded the second gunman remain secret. They, too, were therefore blaming the leak on Britain and in particular upon Charlie. Morrison was slowly working his way through the witness re-interviews. So far there was nothing new although other colleagues at NTV described Bendall as a loner, with Isakov his only friend.

“Doesn’t help your being there instead of here,” said the younger man.

“You denied it, of course?”

“No one believes me.” There was a pause. “It wasn’t you, was it, Charlie?”

“Thanks a fucking lot!” It most certainly didn’t help his being in London.

“You’d have asked the same question.”

It was true, Charlie conceded. “What else?”

“Isakov’s exhumation is scheduled for tomorrow. I’ll go, as our representative.”

There wasn’t a lot of purpose but Charlie supposed it was necessary. “What about Bendall’s medical records: psychiatric particularly?”

“Colonel Melnik says they haven’t heard back from the Defense Ministry.”

This was a wasted call, Charlie decided. “That it?”

“Brooking said he wanted to talk to you if you called.”

That would be an even greater waste of time. “Don’t tell him I called.”

“You haven’t told me what’s happening back there?”

“Not enough,” said Charlie.

“Anything more you want me to do?”

“Keep safe.”

Charlie asked for-and got-John Kayley first when he telephoned the U.S. embassy incident room and at once initiated the conversation about the second gunman, arguing the only beneficiary could be the FSB.

“It’s a possibility,” allowed the American. The reluctance was palpable.

“A damned sight more likely than me-or you-doing it,” insisted Charlie.

“You left out Olga,” accused Kayley.

“What’s she say?”

“That she was the one who insisted it be withheld.”

A carosel of denials, thought Charlie. “What’s new?”

“Technical guys came up with something,” said Kayley. “Got hold of a complete TV film of the presidents and their ladies from the moment they got out of the Cadillac until Yudkin got hit. They slowed it, virtually frame by frame. At that degree of slow motion you can see that Ruth Anandale moved-instinctively I guess-as Yudkin was shot. That movement put her in front of Anandale himself. She took the bullet which would otherwise have hit the president. Killed him, maybe. It was just a fluke that it didn’t.”

“Who have you told?” anticipated Charlie.

“You. Olga. Washington, obviously.”

As a leak test it was a pretty poor effort, Charlie decided. “When are you seeing Bendall?”

“Later today.”

“I might be here longer than two days.”

“You going to tell me what you’re there for?”

“I already did.”

“Yeah.”

“I’d better speak to Olga.”

Kayley brought her to his telephone rather than transferring the call. Charlie listened for the echo of the recording device but didn’t detect it. He couldn’t hear anything of Kayley in the background, either. Olga listened with matching, unspoken disbelief to his denial of the leak and to his FSB suggestion. Before he was halfway through Charlie asked himself why he was bothering and then abruptly realized there was an expanded question that should have occurred to him long before now. The awareness took away the pointlessness of establishing contact.

“Anyone Bendall knew-who might have been part of the group-failed to turn up at the television station?”

“No.”

“Anything else?”

“You know of the exhumation?”

“Yes.”

“What else were you expecting?”

“It was a general question,” sighed Charlie.

“No, there’s nothing else to tell you.”

“I won’t bother to repeat what I told John.”

“No,” the woman accepted.

The blinds were down and the lights were out, Charlie recognized. “What more do we know about Vasili Isakov?”

“I’ve got people on it. Nothing yet.”

“I’ll call again tomorrow. See how John’s interview with Bendall went.”

“Yes.” The Russian put down the telephone without saying goodbye. When Charlie got back to the upper floor Spence said the interrupted meeting had been further postponed until the following day, although Sir Rupert was available if there was anything he should know from Charlie’s contact with Moscow.

“There isn’t,” said Charlie, dejectedly.

Burt Jordan was with Kayley. So was the embassy lawyer, whose name was Modin and whose Jewish grandparents had fled from Kurybyshev to escape the Stalinist pogroms. On their way to the ward, after the security check, Nicholai Badim said that Bendall seemed greatly improved from the previous day and Guerguen Agayan agreed. Knowing of Charlie’s earlier confrontation Kayley had insisted Olga phone ahead and the inner security guards left the room unasked. There were chairs already waiting. The tunnel support was still over Bendall’s legs but the bed had been raised, propping the man up into a near sitting position. The lawyer identified the three of them more for the recording than for Bendall’s information.

Kayley said, “Good to hear you’re feeling better.”

Bendall smiled but didn’t reply.

Kayley took a pack of Kent cigarettes from a sagging jacket pocket and said, “You want a smoke?”

“I don’t,” said Bendall. The voice was far stronger than it had been on any previous recording.

“I won’t then.”

Jordan said, “Why’d you try to kill the American president, George?”

“My name is Georgi.”

“Why’d you try to kill the American president, Georgi?”

“Reasons.”

“What reasons?”

“Good reasons.”

“We’d like to hear them,” said Kayley.

“None of your business.”

“It is, Georgi,” said the FBI man. “The president’s wife got hit but we think you really tried to kill him. That’s what you did, didn’t you? Aimed to kill the American president.”