Brian Freemantle - Kings of Many Castles

Natalia forced the reflections back, willing her concentration entirely upon the more impending demands, almost as unsettled by the behaviour of the two men supposedly conducting the enquiry with her. Federal Prosecutor Pavl Filitov had tried as hard that morning as on every other occasion to be conciliatory and nonconfrontational towards the recalled intelligence chairman but Yuri Trishin’s attitude had been quite different and she still didn’t understand it. “It’s time to finalize our opinion and make our recommendations to the president, agreed?”

Yuri Trishin didn’t respond to Filitov’s inviting look. It was the chief of staff who said, “Yes.”

“Were either of you better satisfied with Chairman Karelin today than on previous occasions?”

“I was not impressed at all,” said Trishin.

Natalia felt the slightest lift of satisfaction at what, small though it might be, was the first positive opinion Trishin had volunteered since the commission had opened. Which he wouldn’t have offered if there hadn’t already been some discussion between the man and the acting president whom he represented. “Pavl Yakovlevich?”

“I believe there has been serious infiltration-sabotage-of which the disappearance of any details of Boris Davidov having once been an officer in the KGB or the FSB is a part,” said the Federal Prosecutor, stating the obvious-but avoiding a commitment-with a lawyer’s pedantry.

“That wasn’t the question, but let’s explore your answer,” said Natalia. “It isn’t simply records of Boris Davidov that disappeared from the federal intelligence archives! The man got into court using official identification from the Federalnaia Sluzhba Besopasnosti and shot dead with an officially issued weapon a man accused of murder. Wouldn’t you agree that’s an appalling lack-and breach-of internal security?”

Filitov stirred uncomfortably at the pressure. Before the lawyer could speak, Trishin said, “That’s very definitely my assessment.”

Further guidance from another Kremlin suite, Natalia recognized. From the quick look he gave the other man, she suspected Filitov at last realized it too. The lawyer said, “There are unquestionably grounds for criticism.”

“Not censure, for maladministration?”

Filitov waited for the chief of staffs lead but Trishin remained silent. Finally Filitov said, “That might be an extreme judgment.”

“We’ve been made to look internationally ridiculous,” said Trishin. “And throughout these hearings we-and the acting president-have been treated with contempt by everyone we have summoned from the intelligence community.”

Now it was Natalia who hesitated, surprised at the virtual confirmation of pressure from Aleksandr Okulov. But it was more than that. They were being told which way to go but the responsibilitywould be theirs, not Okulov’s. “What about an external investigation?”

“I do not believe the situation can be left to an internal FSB enquiry, which is very obviously and clearly Chairman Karelin’s intention,” declared Trishin.

“What recommendations do you propose?” invited Natalia, intent on the answer. She’d never expected to get this strength of argument, from Trishin’s earlier prevarication: wasn’t sure she wanted it after her earlier doubts about her and Charlie.

“What are your suggestions, Pavl Yakovlevich?” retreated the chief of staff, at the moment of commitment.

The Federal Prosecutor looked across the room at the note-taking secretariat.

“There should be criticism, for the lapses. And a request to Chairman Karelin to publish the result of the internal enquiries.”

“And yours, Yuri Fedorovich?” said Natalia, quickly, before the chief of staff could identify her as the proposer.

“There should be a totally independent, external investigation, with its result published,” set out the portly chief of staff. “It should be made clear to Chairman Karelin that he and his officers are legally required to respond to every enquiry, a requirement that has been blatantly ignored here. And our findings should also be that the existing senior command structure of the Federalnaia Sluzhba Besopasnosti is guilty of serious failings in its administration and that steps necessary to correct it should be made public.”

Was it conceivable that his political ambitions had turned Aleksandr Mikhailevich Okulov so totally against his former colleagues? Or was the determination to reject the speculation that the same ambition implicated him in some way with the attack upon the two presidents? Or something altogether different, an agenda she couldn’t guess at? She said, “What’s your feeling upon those proposals, Pavl Yakovlevich?”

The Federal Prosecutor stared for several moments at Trishin. “I believe they are too draconian. And you haven’t responded yourself yet?”

“I believe the attitudes and the events justify them.”

“Which gives you a two to one majority in favor,” acknowledged Filitov.

“Unless you care to make it unanimous?”

“I don’t,” said the lawyer. “I also wish to register a minority disagreement.”

“That’s your right,” recognized Natalia.

“I know it is.”

Charlie reached his decision-the only one there realistically could have been-long before he got to the American embassy. It was going to be the first time in his never-lose, never-be-beaten life that he’d turned his back on a half-finished operation. And he didn’t give a shit. Integrity was Natalia’s problem, not his. He didn’t care if she was even peripherally, unwittingly, involved: the suspicion was probably an aberration, like so many other bloody stupid things he’d done in the last few days. But he couldn’t take the chance. The only consideration was bridge building: keeping himself and Natalia and Sasha together. And to do that he was prepared to make any compromise and every concession.

Anne Abbott would expect an explanation. Which would be easy. He’d simply lie and insist that Bendall didn’t have a tattoo. Not tell her about Davidov or Agayan at all. Which only left Vladimir Sakov, whom she did know about. Easy again. She was more aware than he was that he had no legal authority to arrest or interrogate the cameraman. He’d tell Anne he’d done the only thing possible, alerting the Russians, and leave it at that. It wasn’t important anymore to impress Anne. Madness to have tried-wanted to-in the first place, to have been flattered by the adventure.

Should he admit it to Natalia? Confess to the madness that it had been and plead her forgiveness: flagellate himself, if that’s what it took? What if she couldn’t forgive him? Consider it his final betrayal, to go with all the rest. Too dangerous a strategy. Safer to say nothing, neither deny nor confirm. It was, after all, only intuition, remarkable though that had been. The next few days-he hoped not the next few weeks-weren’t going to be the best fun he’d ever had but he’d brought the ashes on his own head so he’d have to livewith it. Just as long as Natalia was living it with him.

There was an atmosphere of flatness-of everything being on half power-about the American incident room. John Kayley came odorously from his side office and said, “Tell me you’ve come up with something to keep this investigation on the road.”

“Like what?”

Kayley shook his head, in defeat. “We’re stymied. I’ve got everyone carrying out a total review but we’ve done that already, days ago. Now everything’s under Russian control.”

“Where is Olga?” asked Charlie, looking into the empty office.

“Hasn’t shown. I’ve got calls in. What are your people saying in London?”

“I’m to sit and do nothing, until told otherwise. Yours?”