Brian Freemantle: Kings of Many Castles

“I’ll obviously get a call,” pressed Morrison.

“I don’t know anything more than what was on television this morning,” said Charlie, which was almost true. Lev Maksimovich Yudkin had been described as critical after an operation to removebullets from his abdomen and right lung and Ruth Anandale was stable after having a bullet removed from her right arm near the shoulder. The American president was still at the Pirogov Hospital, where he’d slept overnight. Ben Jennings, the American Secret Serviceman who had been hit, was on a life support machine with a bullet possibly too close to his heart to risk removing. The fifth shot had shattered the leg of a plainclothes Moscow militia officer, Feliks Vasilevich Ivanov, which might possibly need to be amputated. The only additional information, which Natalia had reluctantly provided, was that George Bendall had not regained consciousness after operations to rebuild and pin his left shoulder and leg, both of which had been broken in his fall from the TV gantry.

“It’s not going to be an easy one,” suggested Morrison.

“Very few are,” agreed Charlie. It was like a dance to which he knew every stumbling step, which with his hammer-toed feet wasn’t a good analogy.

“We’re going to have to work together if London orders it,” said Morrison.

“Of course,” said Charlie, in apparent acceptance. He handed the other man a copy of Peter Bendall’s file. “That’s everything my people had. Might be an idea to see what’s in your archives, to make a comparison.”

Morrison smiled a relieved smile. “That’s a good idea. I’ll do that.”

They both turned at Richard Brooking’s arrival. The head of chancellery looked between them and said, “Yes. Of course. You obviously need to be together.”

Why, wondered Charlie, had the diplomat come to him, rather than the other way around with a summons like the previous night? Surely their separation wasn’t going to be as fatuous as worrying about which rooms they met in?

Morrison said, “That’s what I was just saying.”

“You heard from London?” demanded Charlie.

“I’ve been told to seek information,” said Brooking.

“From whom or what?” asked Charlie, impatiently.

“The Foreign Ministry. That’s our channel of communication.”

Who’d simply repeat the official announcement, guessed Charlie. “What about access?”

Brooking shook his head, as if he were denying an accusation. “Nothing like that until we get an official reply from the ministry.”

Needing to ride pillion with this man officially to get to George Bendall was going to be a wearisome pain in the ass, Charlie decided. “What about the Americans?”

Brooking hesitated. “Sir Michael is approaching their ambassador personally.”

“Am I …” started Charlie but stopped. “Are we going to be told what’s said?” It was important to establish ground-rule precedents.

There was another hesitation from the head of chancellery. “It would constitute a diplomatic exchange.”

Charlie’s direct-line telephone jarred into the room, breaking the conversation.

“What do you know, Charlie?” said John Kayley.

“Not enough,” replied Charlie. “What about you?”

“Think we need to get together.”

“Sounds like a good idea. I’ve got a room with a view.”

“I got so much heat I’m getting blisters.”

“Maybe I should come to you?”

“It would look better for me.”

Charlie was glad he’d taken the trouble socially to meet Kayley at various U.S. diplomatic functions, although he was unsure of the man’s by now familiar native American boast to be part Cherokee. It was fortunate, too, that he’d taken so many copies of Bendall’s file. “On my way.”

“Your contact?” enquired Brooking, hopefully, as Charlie replaced the receiver.

“FBI,” said Charlie, shortly.

“You’ll let me know what they say?”

“Not sure if it’ll constitute a diplomatic exchange,” said Charlie, straight faced.

There were several other titular generals in the Kremlin suite with her, although all were male, but Natalia acknowledged hers wasprobably considered the rank wielding the least influence. She wished she hadn’t been included at all. But not as much, she guessed, as the general next to her. Lev Andrevich Lvov had gained his rank in the spetznaz special forces before his transfer to the White House to head the Russian president’s bodyguard detail and still appeared vaguely uncomfortable in civilian clothes. It was an attitude reflected, too, by the man with whom he was drawn slightly apart from the rest of the group around the table. General Dimitri Ivanovich Spassky headed the counter-intelligence directorate of the FSB, the intelligence successor to the KGB.

“I want a complete assessment. I need to be fully prepared for the debate in the Duma,” declared the prime minister, who under a decree issued by the now stricken Russian president assumed the emergency leadership he had, before the communist party resurgence, been predicted to get by democratic election upon Yudkin’s second term retirement. Aleksandr Mikhailevich Okulov was a short, sparse-bodied man who, largely under Yudkin’s patronage, had risen to the rank of premier in the ten years since leaving the St. Petersburg directorate of the KGB. His supporters praised him as the eminence grise of the current government. His detractors preferred the description of lackluster and uninteresting grey man of Russian politics.

The combined concentration in the room was on chief-of-staff Yuri Fedorovich Trishin, a rotund, no longer quickly-smiling man. “It’s still too soon for any proper prognosis. The president’s condition is critical, and likely to remain so for days. There is considerable trauma. Heart massage as well as mouth-to-mouth resuscitation had to be administered in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. There was substantial blood loss, maybe as much as half his body’s capacity. There could be complications with the American president’s wife, bad enough to make amputating her arm necessary …”

“What about prior to that?” Okulov interrupted. “How was it allowed to happen?”

The question was addressed to Lvov who hadn’t broken the fixed stare he’d directed at the chief of staff. Accusingly, Lvov said, “There was too much interference in the security arrangements.”

“By whom?” insisted Okulov, who was still trying to adjust and equate in his mind the full personal possibilities so abruptly thrust upon him by the attempted assassination. He’d already recognized his previous KGB career could be an embarrassment in view of Bendall’s family history.

“The Americans,” said Trishin, quickly. “The Americans made demands and after consultation we complied.”

“Consultations with whom.”

“Lev Maksimovich,” said the plump man, quickly.

Who was too ill-might not even recover-to confirm or deny it, Natalia accepted, realizing she was witnessing a hurriedly conceived survival defense.

“Our own president agreed?” persisted Okulov. It was vital he didn’t make a single mistake.

“With everything,” insisted Trishin.

“Was there no professional argument?” asked the premier-cum-president. He was going to have to work with these men; decide who he could trust and of whom he had to be careful.

“A considerable amount,” said Lvov. Some of the tension had gone out of the man.

“There is documentary proof?” demanded Okulov.

“Yes,” said Lvov.

“Also that the pressure came from Washington?”

“Yes,” said Trishin.

Okulov settled back in his chair, visibly relaxing, looking between Natalia and the FSB counter-intelligence director. “So! What do we know about the gunman?”