Brian Freemantle - Kings of Many Castles

“It means our negotiations are continuing to a hopeful conclusion, that hope being that no unexpected, insurmountable difficultyarises,” said Anandale, as the cavalcade swept across the cleared Red Square for the televised entry into the Kremlin.

American television had a simultaneous feed from the Russian coverage of Anandale, flanked by Scamell and North, solemnly filing past the open coffin of the assassinated Russian president. Aleksandr Okulov was already in place by the time they reached the receiving line, in the center of which stood a black-suited Raisa Yudkin, her two sons either side of her. She smiled at his approach and Anandale leaned forward to kiss her.

“How’s Ruth?” said the woman, her voice heavily accented.

“Getting better.” He gave a slight movement towards the coffin. “I’m so sorry.” He shook the hands of both boys and moved off.

There was a preinterment reception, also televised, in an adjoining state room and Anandale allowed Scamell to steer him into two appropriate groups-German and Italian-before settling briefly with the British. Anandale said he was looking forward to the following day’s working lunch and the prime minister said he was, too.

It was not until they were back in the armored Cadillac, slotting into their prescribed position in the cortege, that Wendall North said, “You happy how it went?”

“Hear for yourself,” invited Anandale. Through the now lowered separating screen he said, “You get it all, Jeff?”

“Loud and clear, Mr. President,” assured the Secret Service chief, slotting the recording of Anandale’s conversation with Okulov into the Cadillac’s cassette deck.

Everyone’s concentration was totally inside the vehicle, oblivious to everyone and everything outside. When the tape snapped off Anandale said, “Well?”

“Couldn’t be better,” said Scamell.

“Thank you, Jeff,” said Anandale, pressing the control to raise the screen. “You know what I’m thinking? I’m thinking that now we’ve got the Texas problem out of the way, we don’t need the goddamned treaty, we’d do better carrying on perfecting the shield technology.”

“Let’s take pause on that, Mr. President,” advised the chief of staff.

“OK,” agreed Anandale. “But carry out some very discreet soundings: see how further developing it plays on the Hill.”

Charlie was able to see the first five minutes of Anandale’s televised arrival at the military airfield before leaving for the hospital and watched with an impression of deja vu, wondering what emotion the American president would be having. The reflection went at once driving to the hospital with Anne beside him, responding perfunctorily to the occasional remark from the lawyer bent over her case papers in final preparation, his own concentration fully upon the lingering doubt about Natalia. She’d come to him the previous night, wanting him, but he hadn’t been able to respond which had never happened before. The only excuse he’d been able to think of was tiredness from the investigation and she’d turned away tight with frustration and the tension had still been between them that morning.

Impossible though it was-ridiculous though it was-what if Natalia had been drawn in, not in the actual shootings but in some cover-up afterwards? George Bendall had unchallengably been involved in a murderous conspiracy but they had a guaranteed defense against the murder charge itself, so there was no risk of an innocent man being wrongly convicted. She would be obstructing justice, certainly, but how many times had he done that-and worse-any means always justifying a practical end? A lot, although always with more of an episode resolved and more of the opposition punished. What ever, he had no moral or integrity grounds from which to criticize or question. Which wasn’t his problem, he forced himself to admit. His problem was entirely personal, the thought of her holding a distorting mirror in front of him. Which was the most absurd of all. But not all, he thought on, relentlessly. His doubt wasn’t solely about the investigation: maybe not even a major part of it. He was stirring into the mix all his own uncertainties about himself and Natalia: changing the metaphor, holding up his own distorting mirror in front of himself.

“Charlie!”

He started at her demand, realizing he’d missed a question the first time. “Sorry. What?”

“You think you can keep Bendall quiet?” repeated Anne

“That’s what we’re going to the hospital for, but I don’t have a magic formula.”

“Do you really want to keep him quiet?” she demanded, turning to Charlie in the back of the embasssy car. “He promised sensation, remember? He could unlock everything.”

“I want it for myself first, not for a herd that would include the world’s press,” said Charlie.

Olga, Nicholai Badim and the psychiatrist, Guerguen Agayan, were outside the ward when Charlie and Anne approached after passing through the entrance check, which Charlie noted to be as stringent as it had been on the first day, minus only the disputed body check. The regular three-man team was inside Bendall’s room, but there was a much greater number-a lot in militia uniform-further along the corridor, waiting to escort the man to the court.

Anne said, “We need prehearing consultations.”

“A condition was made, about a protective presence,” said Olga.

“Which you can be,” said Charlie, curtly. “There is no need for the guards within the room or for any medical attendance.”

“That’s for us to decide,” said Agayan.

“Is he fit to appear in court?” asked Charlie.

“Yes,” said Badim.

“Can he stand?”

“Sufficiently. There’s a crutch.”

Looking more closely into the room Charlie saw there was an old fashion, T-shaped support propped against the side of the wheelchair in which Bendall was already seated. “Then you’ve fulfilled your function. We want the room empty except for attorney Abbott, myself and militia colonel Melnik.”

Agayan moved to protect further but Olga said, “That’ll be all right. We haven’t a lot of time.”

There was a shuffle of passing people. Inside Charlie recognized that Bendall was dressed in the jeans and long-sleeved sweater the man had been wearing during the tussle on the TV gantry, although they appeared to have been cleaned. He didn’t recognize the faded fabric windcheater in which Bendall only had his right arm, the left side pulled over the man’s injured shoulder. There was scarcely anybulge from the bandaging and Charlie guessed it had been further reduced. There didn’t appear to be a particularly thick dressing at the man’s hip, either. The routine of arranging their own recording was practically automatic.

Charlie said, “Sorry I wasn’t here yesterday, Georgi. You had something you wanted to talk to me about?”

“No,” said Bendall.

“You kept asking for Charlie,” reminded Anne.

“Not important anymore.”

“It might be,” said Charlie. “Why don’t we just talk it through.”

“I don’t want to.”

“There aren’t the facilities for us to talk in a court cell,” said Anne. “That’s why we’re here.”

“OK,” said Bendall.

“I mean we’ve got to talk about anything here,” said Anne.

“There won’t be another chance.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“You remember our telling you yesterday that this isn’t the full trial? It’s just to formally list the charges.”

“I know.” There was a tinge of irritation in Bendall’s voice.

“You’ll have to stand, for a few moments, while the charges are put.”

“I can do that.”

“Arkadi Semenovich will enter the plea. You don’t have to say anything. You’ll be allowed to sit when that’s over. The prosecution will ask for an adjournment and that will be that, OK?”