Brian Freemantle - Kings of Many Castles

“World attention will be upon us, for the funeral of President Yudkin,” said Trishin. “Politically it is necessary for there to be a publicly witnessed court appearance …” He hesitated. “ … And there has been some overnight communication from the Americans that make that even more essential.”

She was wasting her time, Natalia acknowledged: she didn’t have either logic or law on her side, quite apart from political necessity which more often than not wasn’t affected or influenced by either.“The order is from the Kremlin, from Okulov’s office itself!” said Zenin. He was red-faced, pacing his crumbling office, needing movement to exorcise his fury.

“Why?” asked Olga. She pushed the indignation into her own voice but was secretly glad at the instruction to resume cooperation. What little progress had been made-far too little though it was-had been through association, particularly with the Englishman. There was more professionally-by which she meant career enhancing-to be gained than sacrificed by linking up again.

“No reason was given.” Zenin slumped in his seat. “It’s a personal rebuke, to me.”

Olga had momentarily forgotten the withdrawal had been Zenin’s decision. “No it’s not. If it had been considered a mistake it would have been overruled immediately; you were actually supported. Something’s happened, to change things.”

Zenin’s smile was as brief as it was reluctant. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

She was the person who had to crawl back, Olga abruptly realized, her own anger surfacing. “Am I expected just to walk into the incident room, as if it was all a big misunderstanding!”

“I’m sorry,” said Zenin, unhelpfully.

“So am I!” It wouldn’t be as difficult with the Englishman, despite the previous day’s argument at the hospital. Her personal difficulty would be openly descending into the American embassy basement with everyone’s eyes upon her.

“Today’s hospital meeting …” Zenin started to remind but stopped at the tentative entry of his personal assistant, a uniformed major.

The man extended the package he carried and said, “It’s been couriered from the Kremlin. For immediate and personal delivery.”

Olga saw the smile, no longer reluctant, settle on Zenin’s face as he read. It remained when he looked up. “We’ve got names of people from Bendall’s unit who could have been his KGB case officer. The commission wants us to trace every one. It’s your entry back. I’ll assign the investigators, you provide the list as part of the combinedinvestigation. And we’d already decided you should be at the British interview this afternoon.”

It wouldn’t make any easier her humiliating embassy reentry, thought Olga. She said, “The militia will be directly and identifiably investigating the FSB, what we agreed would be dangerous.”

Zenin’s smile faltered. “Not our decision. Provably ordered, by the presidential enquiry.”

“We’re still being sucked in too close,” warned Olga.

She was waiting directly outside George Bendall’s ward when Charlie arrived, with the two lawyers. Five chairs were set out in readiness in the room already emptied of guards who hovered further along the corridor. Beyond the woman Charlie saw Bendall was in a chair, too. Charlie was sure the bandaging on the man’s leg as well as the swathe around his shoulder and arm was less than the previous day.

Handing Charlie the list Olga said, “Names you might want to put to him, they’re the men moved out of Bendall’s unit in the first six months of his army service.”

“You haven’t put them to him already?” demanded Charlie, at once. They had to have been. Perhaps they had but she wanted Bendall’s failure or refusal to respond to be on his recording, not on their no longer shared duplicate.

“I’ve only just got them,” Olga replied, honestly. “Only just arrived here myself.”

Would she risk the lie being exposed by Bendall protesting he’d already been asked? It wasn’t important, Charlie dismissed. He had them, to put to the man. He nodded further into Bendall’s room. “Have you interviewed him today?”

Olga shook her head, speaking more to Arkadi Noskov. “Professor Agayan and two colleagues conducted their psychiatric assessment this morning-I’ll see you get them, of course. But I haven’t taken my questioning any further.”

Charlie saw Anne’s eyebrows lift at the name familiarity but didn’t give any reaction himself. He wouldn’t have imagined the previous day’s British protests would have brought about such a totalreversal. Another reflection that wasn’t important. He ushered the two women into the room ahead of him and set up his tape. Noskov overflowed beside him.

“You’re looking better, Georgi.” The schedule was again for Charlie to lead the questioning, although for the lawyers to come in at once if there was something they wanted to pick up upon.

The man’s eyes went to each of them in turn but he didn’t respond. Assessing his audience for the latest performance, Charlie decided. “You feeling OK?”

Bendall shrugged.

“Can’t imagine someone like you found this morning’s meeting too difficult?”

“Didn’t know what they were talking about: rubbish, most of it.”

“That’s what I told you before, you’re cleverer than any of us. But we do need to understand more ourselves, to make it easier for others to get the complete picture of what it’s all about.”

“They’ll find out.”

“It’s the complete picture that’s important,” joined in Noskov. “We mustn’t leave anything out.”

“I don’t intend to.”

It had been a useful interruption, judged Charlie. “It just could happen. Your not being able to remember the name of the man the KGB put into the army with you, for instance. People might not believe that if you can’t recall a name, think you were making it up.” Bendall’s face darkened and his mouth opened for the shout but before he could Charlie said, “We don’t think that, of course. That’s why we’ve done what we can to help you.”

Bendall’s mouth closed but the expression remained suspicious. He needed to be aware of every expression, Charlie realized. Which he couldn’t do and read out the fifteen names at the same time. Without looking at Anne he passed the list across the bed to her, at the same time saying, “We’ve got some names that might jog your memory. People who were in the army with you.”

Anne’s take-over was seamless. “Kirril Semenovich Kashva?” she began.

Bendall remained blank faced, blank eyed.

“Yevgenni Iosifovich Ibrimacimov?”

No reaction whatsoever.

“Sergei Leonidovich Golovkin?”

“Lost his nerve,” broke in Bendall. “Was good at first, had a good eye. But then he developed a shake. Can’t be accurate if you shake.”

“Not like you,” flattered Charlie, wanting to break the recitation.

“No, not like me,” smiled Bendall.

“Ilya Aleksandrovich Dolya?” resumed Anne.

Bendall shook his head, swirling the lank hair. There was no grimace of discomfort from the injury.

“Boris Sergeevich Davidov?”

There was a recognition! Almost imperceptible, a fraction of a second, but Charlie was sure he’d seen the movement in Bendall’s eyes, the vaguest tightening around the man’s mouth.

“Igor Mikhailevich Amosov?” continued Anne, her concentration entirely on the list.

“Had a breakdown, like Sergei Leonidovich. Weak,” sneered Bendall.

“Yakov Ivanovich Lomakin,” persisted Anne, to Bendall’s further head shake. After the following two identities the man stopped bothering even with that rejection, listening but giving no response. The only exception was with the last of the fifteen-Vladimir Grigorevich Pigorov-whom Bendall once more dismissed as weak, unable physically to endure the training.