Brian Freemantle - Kings of Many Castles

The faintest smile pulled at the corners of Bendall’s mouth.

“You don’t say anything, Georgi,” stressed Charlie. “You let your lawyer say it all. You got anything to say, say it to me here, now.”

“Changed my mind.”

“Don’t!” urged Charlie, the frustration burning through him. Bendall said, “I want to go now. I’m ready.”

“Let’s talk about it some more.”

“No!” refused Bendall, his voice raised.

There was movement from the outside corridor. Olga said, “The prison transport’s waiting.”

Charlie said, “We don’t want any outbursts in court, Georgi.You’ll get your chance to say all you want, but not today. You understand?”

Bendall said, “I want to go.”

“We’ll come here afterwards,” promised Charlie. Back in the embassy car, he said, “I fucked up yesterday.”

“Badly,” agreed Anne, at once.

So many roads were closed or restricted because of the funeral security that they had to make an elaborate, looping detour to get to the Central Criminal Court building. There was a bristled hedge of television cameras, stills photographers and sound and print journalists blocking its front and Charlie too late regretted the identifiable embassy car. He shouldered a path for Anne, wincing at the klieg light and flashbulb glare, both of them ignoring the shouted demands, in English, for them to identify themselves. None of the uniformed, lined-up militia officers made any effort to help them. The yelling, jostling scrum pursued them into the pillared vestibule and Charlie only picked out Noskov because the man towered over everyone else.

When they reached the Russian lawyer Charlie, to whom public identification was anathema, said, “Let’s get into court, out of this!”

It was a comparative oasis of calm and quiet beyond the heavy doors. It was the first time Charlie had been inside a Russian court and his initial impressions was that it was very similar to those he knew from England, apart from the more functional raised bench for the five examining judges being necessarily longer but without any carved canopy. The centrally positioned dock was raised the same as in England, topped with a familiar surrounding rail, and to its sides and rippled out in front were benches for lawyers, their support advisors and court officials. Two rows were cobwebbed with headsets for simultaneous translation and at the second sat the sixstrong American legal team, selecting their channels and testing the sound. The rest of the court was already nearly full. A stenographer was at his table, beside the one facing row directly beneath the judges’ bench. To one side was the press enclosure, from which reporters were overflowing into a standing line in front. There was a lot of noise coming from an overhanging balcony into which Charlie couldn’t see but which he assumed to be the public gallery. Theglassed booth from which the proceedings were being televised was at the same height as the public gallery, adjoining the translators’ pod. Olga was seated next to a tightly bearded, impressively uniformed and medalled man, with other officers attentively around them. At his entrance Charlie saw her bend to the man, who turned expressionlessly to examine him. Olga gave no facial reaction, either. There were two uniformed militiamen at every door into the well of the court and a further two at each of the two doors leading on to the judges’ bench. John Kayley was away from the rest of the Americans, in one of the shorter rows to the side of the dock. When he saw Charlie he gestured that there was a seat beside him.

Noskov said, “Anything?”

“He’d changed his mind,” said Charlie.

Noskov sighed. “You warned him about histrionics.”

“As well as I could.”

Noskov led Anne to the first row facing the bench and Charlie eased himself next to the American. Kayley said, “What’s new?”

“Nothing,” said Charlie. “You found any of those missing from our fifteen?”

“Not a one.”

“Have the militia added any?”

“Nope. Going to talk to Olga about it, later. You coming straight back?”

“Returning to the hospital first, to talk to Bendall.”

The noise abruptly increased and there was a turning of heads and Charlie turned too, to see Bendall’s wheelchair being lifted from an unseen stairwell into the dock. Seated, the man’s head scarcely came level to the rail. Bendall looked alertly around him, smiling up at the television position, and Charlie thought, an actor. He was sure Bendall would attempt his promise to be sensational, which it probably would. From the slight smile on Kayley’s face, the American guessed it too.

There was the usher’s demand, in Russian, to stand for the crocodiled entry of the five judges. The dock warders supported Bendall until he got his balance on the single crutch beneath his right arm and prodded him to remain upright, after everyone else sat, for thecharges to be read. Bendall stood tight against the dock edge, showing no discomfort.

The clerk set out the charges in both names, the chosen Russian identity first, beginning with the conspiracy to murder and finishing with the intent to endanger or take life. Throughout Charlie sat twisted towards the dock, waiting, although he was aware from the corner of his eye of the huge lawyer levering himself to his feet for the equally formal pleas. He saw, too, that Anne was turned completely towards the dock, as expectantly as he was.

Noskov got as far as, “My client’s pleas to these …” before Bendall’s shout drowned him out.

“I want to tell …” started Bendall but then Anne screamed, “No!” and from behind Charlie there was an ear-ringing explosion and then another and the side of Bendall’s head burst in a cloud of scattered red debris.

Charlie swivelled to see a man already running, lowered pistol still in hand, from the first of the continuous rows back towards the door through which Charlie and Anne had entered, fifteen minutes before. And then he saw one of the guarding militiamen with his Markarov drawn, crouching and now Charlie shouted, “No! Don’t …” but the policeman fired, jerking the running gunman to a complete stop and in the split second in which he remained like that, frozen, the court guard fired a second time to send the man crashing backwards.

Charlie and Kayley instinctively moved together, and reached the gunman at the same time. Both shots had hit him in the chest, smashing so much into a pulp there was nothing left to show if he were capable of breathing, which he wasn’t.

So deafened was he by the shots that Charlie lip-read more than heard Kayley say, “Now what the fuck have we got?”

“Nothing,” said Charlie, not able to hear his own voice, either.

22

The initial panic was only slightly less than the aftermath of the presidential shooting. There was a pandemonium of shouting-screams even-and a melee of people milling without direction apart from getting away from the killer now lying harmlessly dead. Every militiaman had his weapon drawn and were adding to the noise, shouting to each other for instructions, and briefly-frightened-Charlie became conscious that the officer who had killed the gunman had the Makarov trained upon him, as if about to shoot and Charlie yelled for the man to turn the gun away.

It was Leonid Zenin who restored order. The bearded militia chief clambered up on to one of the benches, to become the focal point of the court, and bellowed for quiet and when the noise began to subside bawled again for order. By the time he achieved it the judges were being bustled out of the court. Zenin told all his officers to holster their weapons before calling upwards, for those on duty upstairs to empty the public gallery ahead of gesturing others to shepherd lawyers and officials from the well of the court.