Brian Freemantle - Kings of Many Castles

“It was not a criticism! It was an observation,” said Natalia. “Of course the American director’s instructions is ill considered and reprehensible and I am not arguing against a protest if the feeling is that our making it is justified. But it also shows impatience, which I think is understandable. Let’s not forget that it is our FSB thatcan’t find files that could be important. Or that according to Vera Bendall, unknown people-people we can’t trace-took from her apartment what could be other evidence that might be equally, if not more, important. Or that the military still haven’t provided anything more than the most basic of George Bendall’s records. Or that in Russian custody Vera Bendall died in what could, at least, be suspicious circumstances …” She was going on too long, Natalia realized; almost appearing to offer a defense for the Americans, which she hadn’t set out to do. “Certainly this latest episode with George Bendall-coupled with our awareness of what would appear to be the official American attitude towards the investigation-should be our most direct concern. But I think there would be a benefit considering it in context with the other things I’ve set out.”

There was a momentary silence, heightening Natalia’s discomfort. It was the rotund chief of staff who moved them on. Yuri Trishin said, “There is a further purpose for this meeting: the establishment of the presidential commission …”

“I had already decided it should be concentrated upon the FSB …” took over Okulov. He smiled towards Natalia. “But which I’m now persuaded should be expanded to include the points you’ve just raised … perhaps others, as well …”

“ … Which will provide an answer to any complaints Washington might make against us for how the investigation is going,” said Trishin, completing the double act.

This was hardly the emergency meeting Natalia had believed it to be. From the expression on Zenin’s face, it wasn’t what he’d anticipated either. The police chief said, “When will that commission convene?”

“That’s a matter for its members,” said Okulov. He smiled again. “I’m appointing you, Natalia Fedova, to be its chair. I’m aware, of course, of your previous connection with the KGB, just as I am even more aware of the constant public reminders of my previous association. But I consider that a benefit rather than a disadvantage: you don’t have to be introduced into its workings nor, hopefully, will it be as easy to keep things from you as it might from someone unaware of those workings. I think speed is of the essence and you won’t need to be briefed on the progress of the investigation you’vebeen monitoring and liaising since it began. And you’ve given us ample evidence this morning of your impartiality …” The man switched his attention. “You, Pavl Yakovlevich, are obviously necessary for the legal application of the enquiry. The third member of the tribunal will be Yuri Fedorovich, which ensures I am fully aware of everything at all times. Yuri Fedorovich has the terms of reference. Quite simply they are that you have the presidential authority to bring before you whatever witnesses and material you demand, with physical imprisonment at your disposal for anyone who fails fully to cooperate. And I want a preliminary report within a week, sooner if that’s possible. Any questions!”

Natalia was sure there would be a lot but at that moment so complete was her astonishment that she couldn’t isolate one from another, her thoughts like dust swirls in the wind. Was she more exposed? Or better protected? Was her ability being recognized-rewarded-or was she being made a target? Did she really have the authority? Would it be acceded to her by Filitov and Trishin and whoever else she might now have to confront? Or was she a puppet, a totem? And-inevitably, the ghost always hovering in the corridors of her mind-would it, could it, endanger her and Charlie as much as she’d feared when she’d first learned there was going to be such an enquiry? The immediate positive, she urged herself again: all the other uncertainties could wait. “I appreciate the confidence. I will do everything I can to fulfill it.”

“If I hadn’t believed you capable, I wouldn’t have appointed you,” said Okulov.

The transition, from gray to black, was remarkable, Natalia decided. Answering-for the moment at least-one of her own questions she decided the appointment strengthened rather than weakened her.

Zenin said, “How will this affect Natalia Fedova’s liaison role, with the existing group of which I am part?”

“Not at all,” said Okulov. “For the reasons I thought I’d already made clear.”

Zenin’s face imperceptibly although only briefly tightened at the public rebuff. Before there could be any further reaction, one of Trishin’s aides came quickly into the ante-room and gave an obviouslypre-arranged signal to the militia chief, who’d started getting to his feet at the secretary’s entry.

There was a hiatus after Zenin’s departure. The Federal prosecutor said he would be pleased to serve on the tribunal, as if he had a choice, and Natalia sat trying to get her thoughts into order, deciding that while her appointment carried with it power-full access to the acting president himself-and prestige, it was also the path into an unmapped minefield in which she risked making many enemies, both known, which would be unnerving, and unknown, which could be potentially disastrous. And forcing the examination further, she honestly acknowledged that for once Charlie was not a primary, endangering factor. She’d been pushed farther across the swaying bridge between professionalism and politics. The reverie was broken by Zenin’s reappearance, the shoulders-back march to the table almost a parody of Okulov’s earlier entry.

“Well?” demanded the standby leader, before Zenin properly sat.

“There was provable traces of thiopentone in Bendall’s blood,” declared the militia commandant, stretching his announcement for its maximum effect.

“What’s that?” said Okulov.

“Pentathol,” identified Zenin. “A truth drug in common use in American agencies.” He extended a further pause. “But not available as such in this country.” He came sideways to Natalia. “Perhaps not as circumstantial as it was an hour ago?”

“Evidence, not proof,” refused Natalia, dogmatically. She wasn’t concerned at Zenin not being an ally. She hoped, though, that he didn’t become an enemy.

“Proof or not, we have to react in some way,” insisted Okulov. Consciously bringing the American expression to mind, he decided that whatever the outcome of the investigation-and long after-the FBI director’s message was going to be a smoking, quickly reloaded gun.

“And there’s a way readily to hand,” suggested Foreign Minister Boris Petrin. “Let’s not forget the American secretary of state stayed on, after the president’s hurried exit. I propose that I summon the American ambassador, and James Scamell, and ask them to explain their director’s message. And at the same time ask how theythink an unprescribed drug-a truth drug-was found to be in George Bendall’s system so soon after his interview with American officials.”

“Perfect,” accepted Okulov. He allowed a pause as theatrical as Zenin’s, earlier. “And make it clear we will do our utmost to prevent it being leaked to the media, which we were unfortunately unable to do about a second gunman.”

The Home Office pathologist was a nervously moving, distracted man named Geoffrey Robertson whose strained and bulged laboratory coat had clearly been bought before the weight gain from the sort of overflowing, doorstep-thick sandwiches he was eating when Charlie arrived. There was a dab of mayonnaise on the man’s chin. He frowned, seemingly unable to remember Charlie’s confirming telephone call before saying, “The Russian business!” and leading Charlie to a side table in his office on which everything that Charlie had provided was laid out in meticulously neat order, dominated by the Russian photographs.