Brian Freemantle - Kings of Many Castles

The Chinese smiled. “Twenty, fired at measured graduation from in front and from behind the measurable distance from which Bendall shot. Not a score mark on any of them. Not that distance has got anything to do with it. The best guess is that Bendall’s bullets went off somewhere in the park, behind the White House.”

“We’ve actually looked,” said Kayley. “I had guys examine the most obvious trees-anything that might have stopped a bullet-in the line of fire. Came up with nothing.”

There was a shift of increasing anger from Donald Morrison but before the younger man could speak Charlie said, “I need those testfired bullets. From the runaround I got from Olga Melnik this morning I don’t think I’ll get the rifle for my people to test.”

“You got it,” guaranteed Kayley.

“We’ll need testimony as well,” pressed Charlie.

There was a shrugged, head-nodding exchange between the two Americans. Kayley said, “You got that as well. It’ll be good to show the bastards how wrong they were, walking out on us.”

Charlie couldn’t quite adjust the reasoning but it wasn’t something to dispute. He didn’t physically need the rifle and Anne had her dramatic defense to at least one of the charges likely to be brought. One good turn deserves another, Charlie thought. Offering that morning’s tape he’d brought to be copied into the evidence collection, he said, “George Bendall wants to tell us all about it.” He wondered if Morrison imagined he was a team player or whether the man realized the rules were only applied one way: it might mitigate the humiliation of his being ignored by the Americans.

Kayley smiled as he listened. Halfway through he ignited an aromatic cigar. When the replay ended Kayley said, “He does, doesn’the?” Then he said, “You take Bendall just a little further down the road and we’re going to have the others. The bastard, whoever he is. And the Russian militia will come crawling back.”

The last part was further reasoning that Charlie found difficulty with but he didn’t dispute that, either. “Let’s hope I can take him further.”

Kayley said, “I’ve got to go upstairs. There are people who’ll want to hear this.”

“They’re bastards, too!” said Morrison, vehemently, as he and Charlie returned to the main incident room.

“Don’t take it personally,” soothed Charlie. “They’d have tried to fuck me if I hadn’t come up with it.”

“You sure?” demanded Morrison.

“Positive,” said Charlie, who wasn’t but wanted to help the other man.

“Hope I haven’t disturbed your room too much,” said Morrison, when they reached it.

To Charlie it didn’t appear to have been occupied by anyone else. He settled into his place with its convenient foot rest and logged on to his computer to bring himself up to date, scrolling patiently through the alphabetically assembled files, stopping abruptly at the name Vasili Gregorovich Isakov. It had been compiled by three named FBI agents and ran to twelve pages, although it wasn’t the written material that immediately interested Charlie. Three photographs had been scanned on to the disk.

John Kayley was again included with the ambassador and the secretary of state for the satellite link with Washington but only Walter Anandale and his chief of staff were waiting at the White House end. He’d have to wait, Kayley knew, but it was difficult.

“So we’ve got a new game,” opened the president.

“Which we need to play very carefully,” advised James Scamell.

“How?” said Anandale.

“I think you need to come back for Yudkin’s funeral.”

“You serious! There are still guys out there who tried to kill me!”

“As serious as it’s possible to be, Mr. President. Your not attending will be read every which way, all of them bad. One spinwill be that you’re too scared. Another that you’re abandoning Okulov, to be beaten by the communists. Who are, incidentally, demanding an immediate election to confirm an elected president. Then there’s the treaty. There’s growing media speculation that there was a hidden agenda, that we never ever really intended to conclude it and that it was a cosmetic dance to go on until Yudkin got confirmed for a second term.”

Wendall North admired the secretary of state’s diplomacy. Scamell wasn’t talking of Moscow’s media pressure. He would have got from his own people at Foggy Bottom that morning’s Washington Post story of a potential paper trail from oil contract firms finally being followed to Anandale’s election funding. The chief of staff said, “I go along with Jamie’s assessment, Mr. President. We’re in a box here, with only one way out.”

“What’s happening with the investigation, John?” avoided Anandale.

Kayley had risked holding back from either the secretary of state or the ambassador the Russian decision to arraign Bendall, wanting to present it ahead of any official announcement as his personal discovery, despite the breakdown with the Moscow militia. He also explained the ballistic evidence as an exclusive detection of the FBI team he headed. He had to concede the British would be the source of any statement from Bendall from which it might be possible to locate the others in the conspiracy, but did so inferring that Britain needed Bureau manpower and scientific expertise to continue the investigation.

“ Find the people who shot Ruth!” picked out the president, instantly.

“If we get the statement the Brits expect,” backtracked Kayley.

“Now we’re getting there!” enthused Anandale.

“I’m giving it to you as it’s come to me,” said Kayley, stressing the impression of urgency at the same time as shielding himself from questions he couldn’t answer. “There’s a lot I need explained further, pieces to fit together.”

“We’ve got things to talk about when I get there, John,” hinted Anandale. To the secretary of state he said, “Is it going to be a State occasion? World leaders?”

“I’d imagine so,” said Scamell.

“Find out,” ordered the president. “Here’s how we’ll run it. I’ll come early, for meetings with the British premier and the French president. Overnight either in London or Paris, so I can be in and out of Moscow from either city the same day as the funeral.”

“You need to meet with Okulov,” insisted Scamell.

“Not to do so would be worse than not going at all,” said North, in continued support.

“I’m not giving anything away for nothing,” said Anandale. “You make it clear, whichever way it’s necessary, that I won’t meet Okulov if their damned investigators don’t come back to the table.” He hesitated. “Everything else stands. I’m out of there the same day, OK?”

“It’s obvious the British are getting through to Bendall,” insisted Olga, taking the Russian copy of the interview tape from the machine on the table between her and Leonid Zenin.

“And we’re getting every word of it,” the militia commander pointed out.

“If we do get a lead to the rest of them, arraigning Bendall will be premature.”

“It’s out of our hands now,” said Zenin. “And it’s not a trial. It’s a public arraignment, for public consumption: the formal laying of the formal charges. The prosecutor can apply for adjournments as long as we ask him.”

“You sure it’s wise, shutting out the British as we’re shutting out the Americans?” pressed Olga. “They’ve obviously got something.”

“Or bluffing.”

Olga shook her head. “I don’t think he was bluffing.”

“We’ll see how their next interview goes,” decided Zenin. “We can easily get back together if it turns out to be really productive.” He was silent for several moments. “In fact it might be an idea if you were actually present, able to see as well as hear for ourselves. We’re going to come out well from this, Olga Ivanova.”