Brian Freemantle - Kings of Many Castles

So why was he threading his way through the lesser-used passages between the functioning embassy and its residential compound, until this moment so determinedly avoided that it took all his concentration to negotiate? A lawyer’s question, although hardly appropriate: never ask a question-even to yourself-to which you don’t know the answer. Back-responding to Kayley’s earlier question-to square one. Don’t ask, don’t get a reply you don’t want. Go, for the moment, with the flow: wherever it goes. He was copping out, Charlie honestly acknowledged at last; hoping for something without being the provable instigator.

Anne was barefoot, in a sheer beige silk and cashmere sweater beneath which she obviously wasn’t wearing a bra and jeans, and which didn’t betray a panty-line, either. The Islay malt, properly offered without either ice or water, was alongside the Stolichnaya, which did have an ice bucket, on a low table between matching piece of leather furniture too large correctly to be described as easy chairs but just slightly too small to be miniature settees. The apartment was pastel-shaded modern, grays and blues, which was hardly a choice considering its newness, and the curtains were drawn back for the ships’ marker river illumination and the lights of unseen traffic necklacing Tapaca nabereznaja beyond.

Anne said, “You pour for yourself, I’ll pour for me. Sorry I couldn’t manage Liberace’s piano; you didn’t give me time to ship it over.”

As he generously served himself Charlie said, “It wouldn’t have gone with the decor, too much glitter.”

“Do you want to eat? I could fix something with the miracle of microwave.”

“That’s not why I’m here.”

Anne hesitated. “The foreplay’s been tantalizing. Shall we get to the point of whatever you are here for?”

Now it was Charlie’s turn to pause. He decided against picking up on the sharpness. Holding up the cassette as he crossed to Anne’s VCR, Charlie announced, “The entire film of the presidential shooting.Don’t look at anything but the struggle between Bendall and Sakov.” He was defending himself against his oversight, Charlie recognized, and wanting to impress her, at the same time. “And here’s this morning’s: the very moment that Bendall, then Davidov was shot ….”

“We’ve watched so much so often that there’s nothing more to see,” dismissed Anne.

“Which was my problem-our problem,” admitted Charlie. He passed her a transcript. “I’ll play the White House shooting again and this time follow it with what Bendall and Sakov are yelling at each other, which I’ve had London extract verbatim with Russian-speaking lip readers …”

“ What !”

“Watch.”

“Jesus!” exclaimed Anne, staring down at the paper in advance of the film being run. “You’re …”

“Watch,” repeated Charlie, taking up the commentary. “They’re on the camera platform. They’re fighting, for possession of the rifle: Sakov’s preventing Bendall shooting again, fire at anybody. That’s what we all thought. But he wasn’t doing that at all. Read what Bendall’s saying. ‘Stop shoving …. Got to get away, you cunt …! You know I’ve got to get away ….! They’re waiting for me ….! Stop pushing … shoving me ….! Too near the edge ….! Can’t hold on … Stop!’ But that’s what Bendall was doing- holding on to prevent himself being thrown over the edge …”

Charlie glanced across at the lawyer, who was coming up and down between the film he was describing and the transcript of what the struggling men were saying to each other. “And here’s Sakov, when they swing around as he’s hit by the swivelling camera and what he’s saying can be lip-read. ‘You’re dead, Georgi. Done what you’re here for … down you go, like Vasili Gregorovich … no use anymore … let go the fucking rifle …’ Here’s the helicopter marksman. ‘Get the fuck out the way … need a clear shot …’ and you see that Sakov tries to do that and Bendall says ‘No, you fucker. You’re coming with me, everyone’s coming with me.’ And that’s when the bodyguards get to him up the ladder but that’s something else I missed. Bendall doesn’t fall, not really from the true heightfrom the pod. He slips under the rail, grabs at the edge and for a second hangs suspended before his hands are kicked away, kicked away by Sakov. But Bendall’s lessened by a good two meters, maybe more, how far he’s going to fall. So the drop doesn’t kill him ….”

“Which it was intended to,” came in Anne, understanding.

“Which it was intended to,” agreed Charlie. “Instead it badly hurts him.”

“But leaves him alive, the holder of the smoking gun, to tell all when he gets his moment in court,” said Anne, with her customarily quickness.

“Which he thought he had this morning,” continued Charlie “Here’s today’s transcript …” He scrolled through, for the moment he wanted. “Here! Here’s Davidov, turning away from killing Bendall. The gun’s by his side, not in any firing position. He sees the militiaman for the first time, standing in front of him. Now look at the words. ‘Not me …. Get out of the way …. That’s the door … get out of the way of my door …’ Not the door. My door. The door he’d been told he’ll be able to use to get away. Just like Bendall had been told he’d be able to get away from the camera platform and lose himself in the crowd-helped by whoever it was waiting for him below-before anyone properly realized what had happened. Which he would have been able to do if Vladimir Petrovich Sakov hadn’t grabbed him and tried to throw him over the edge.”

There was a long silence. Then Anne said, “That it?”

“No,” said Charlie. He slid across the table towards her two of the photographs the FBI obtained in their background investigation of Vasili Gregorovich Isakov. The clearer showed the young man in shorts and a singlet, smiling into the sunlight at a beach bar with a wine glass half-raised towards his lips, as if he were responding to a toast. “Bendall’s closest-only-friend who died on the Timiryazev level crossing too drugged and drunk literally to know what hit him. Look at his left arm-the one holding the wine-just above his wrist …”

“I can see it,” said Anne.

“Now look at this,” said Charlie, restarting the presidential shooting tape but very quickly into the struggle pressing the pause button and pointing with his finger right against the screen. “The sametattoo, two parallel lines with an arrow, like a fulcrum, in between them, on the same place on Sakov’s wrist. London’s done the comparison, although it wasn’t really necessary. They’re identical.”

“You any idea what we’re talking about here?”

“Some,” said Charlie. Her admiration was obvious and he enjoyed it.

Anne insisted on stopping to get crackers and cheese and changed to wine, although Charlie stayed with scotch, and asked for both films to be shown again against their transcripts.

“Why let Bendall live!” Anne demanded, when the transmission finally stopped. “Sakov fails, the first time. But they-whoever ‘they’ are-have got Bendall at their mercy, in hospital ….”

“Maybe they tried, with the injection,” reminded Charlie. “Pentathol and alcohol: alcohol we thought-because we were supposed to think-was residual in an alcoholic. An abnormally high level, injected directly into a vein, into the blood stream, to kill a man suffering advanced cirrhosis. Except that it didn’t. And afterwards he was under heavier guard, surrounded by doctors and nurses. It was too dangerous to try again.”

Anne shook her head. “I think you’re close but not close enough.”