Brian Freemantle - Kings of Many Castles

Zenin said, “So he’s worse?”

“I don’t think there’s an actual deterioration,” said the psychiatrist. “I think that was today’s game.”

“Has he spoken coherently to you?” asked Olga. There hadn’t been a chance to listen to the permanently maintained recording.

“Barely. But he understands what I’m asking him.”

“What’s he say about the injection?”

“He can’t remember it being done. Whether or not it was the Americans.”

“I’m surprised he’s out of bed?” said Zenin, turning to Badim.

The surgeon said, “Physically he’s healing remarkably well. I didn’t want any lung congestion from his being kept in bed.”

“How long will he be confined to a wheelchair?” pressed Olga.

“The problem is the conflicting injuries,” said Badim. “His shoulder isn’t strong enough to support his weight on crutches and he can’t use his fractured leg unsupported.”

“So how long?” insisted Zenin.

“Several weeks; three at least,” said the surgeon.

“But he’s recovering well?”

“Very well,” said Badim, although doubtfully, knowing there was a point to the questioning.

“And he understands what’s being said to him?” demanded Zenin, of the psychiatrist.

“I believe so,” said Agayan.

“So there’s no reason why he shouldn’t be arraigned in court, in a wheelchair-appear in public and be formally charged?”

Badim looked uncertainly to the psychiatrist and then back to Zenin. “No medical reason,” allowed the doctor.

“The public don’t know what’s going on,” Zenin said to Olga. “So it’s the militia who are getting all the media criticism for the investigation making no progress. I’m going to move for a court appearance.”

The British Airways flight began its descent over Moscow’s flat, firdotted western plain towards Sheremet’yevo and obediently Charlie and Anne secured their seat belts.

“It’s been a trip of discovery,” declared Anne. Her legal briefing had been as Jeremy Simpson anticipated but she was excited at the drama of the defense to murder.

“In all sorts of ways,” agreed Charlie.

The wheels snatched at the ground and they were pushed back in their seats by the reverse thrust of the engines.

“Thanks for showing me Liberace’s piano.”

“It’s a must on every cultural visit.”

“Readjustment of friendship now that we’re back on home territory?” she suggested.

“It might be an idea.”

“Let’s see.”

The impatient embassy chauffeur on the arrival concourse said Charlie was to contact Donald Morrison as quickly as possible, so Charlie used the car phone.

Morrison said, “President Yudkin died an hour ago.”

The death of Lev Maksimovich Yudkin ratcheted up by varying degrees the pressure upon everyone and marked the beginning-although at the time unrealized-of eventual awareness of a few of them.

Sir Michael Parnell personally, unavoidably, reinvolved himself and was waiting with Richard Brooking when Charlie and Anne Abbott reached the embassy. The premature relief of both diplomats to their overeager, overinterpretative acceptance of the ballistics information was abruptly tempered by Anne’s explanation that there still appeared a prima facie case of conspiracy against George Bendall. That explanation stretched to a detailed summary of accusations possible under Russian law up to and including terrorism, which, like conspiracy to murder, carried the death penalty. She hoped to be able to give them better guidance the following day, after her initial meeting with the Russian lawyer engaged to lead Bendall’s defence.

Charlie used the same need-to-bring-myself-up-to-date escape finally to end the empty encounter, which he did with a hopefully self-benefiting assurance to both knicker-wetting-or perhaps more distastefully knicker-fouling-diplomats that he would alert them to anything professionally relevant. Charlie had actually left the embassy and was making his way past the zoo before he realized that in their totally consuming objectivity he and Anne had parted in the embassy as professionals, making personally disassociated arrangements for the following day, and not as lovers who had explored every sexual depth and height together.

It was at about the same time of the still unembarrassed return that Charlie remembered, too, he hadn’t followed up his embassy arrival message on Natalia’s personal Lesnaya answering machine that he was finally on his way home and by then there wasn’t anyoint in calling. She was at the mansion apartment when he got there. She looked tired, positively careworn, the skirt of her suit creased from several day’s wear. It was still water-pocked from bathing Sasha and her hair was straggled. For the first time Charlie was conscious that although there wasn’t any gray Natalia’s once lustrous auburn hair was fading.

She gestured towards herself and said, “I expected you to call again. Tell me you were on your way.”

“I was … it was a heavy meeting … you look wonderful.”

“I’ve had a heavy day, too. Sasha’s asleep. I didn’t tell her you were coming home in case you were delayed. She’s missed you.” It came out like a read-from-a-card statement.

“What about you?” demanded Charlie.

“What about you?” returned Natalia, in an echo.

“Do you have to ask that?” Bastard, he accused himself.

“It was your question.”

“Yes I missed you. And worried about you. And missed and worried about Sasha, as well.” Double-treble-bastard.

“I’m glad you’re back.”

“This is for you.” It was a diamond bar brooch he’d bought from the don’t-forget jeweller’s shop in the Dorchester foyer.

She stared into the box for several moments. “It’s lovely. And thank you. But I told you not to.”

“I’ll leave Sasha’s beside her bed, to be there when she wakes up.” As he positioned the ribbon-tied package Charlie saw an identical doll already perched on the edge of Sasha’s toy box, one eye collapsed in what looked like a wink. “I forgot. It was from the last trip, wasn’t it? Shit!”

Natalia, who’d come into the bedroom with him, said, “We can say it’s a sister.”

“Or that her father is an idiot!” To what-or involving whom-did that excoriation apply?

“It’s a sister,” insisted Natalia. Why was he so on edge?

The awkwardness between them wasn’t entirely of his making, Charlie tried to assure himself. There was an over-politeness, two people who didn’t know the other very well each anxiously waiting for the other’s lead. He said, “We didn’t kiss hello.”

“No we didn’t, did we?” she agreed. She sounded uninterested.

When they did kiss that was polite, too. Dutiful. Back in the main room he went through the familiar drink making ritual and as he handed Natalia her wine he said, “You’ll have more to talk about than me.”

She did and it was thirty minutes and another drink later before she finished, ending with the decision to arraign Bendall in open court.

“You’ve got the monkey, not the organ grinders!” protested Charlie.

“I don’t know what that means.”

“We haven’t got the real assassins, just their performer.”

“It’s publicly-politically-necessary now that the president has died.”

“Who’s pushed for it to be so quick?”

“The militia, initially. Now the Kremlin’s taken over.”

“We know it wasn’t Bendall’s bullet that killed Yudkin,” reminded Charlie, urgently. “In fact it doesn’t look as if Bendall shot anybody.”

“Doesn’t look like it to whom?” demanded Natalia.

She listened to Charlie’s account as intently as he’d listened to hers. When he finished she said, “I see what you mean.”