Brian Freemantle - Kings of Many Castles

Okulov’s KGB background was public knowledge-a target sometimes for attack-but in passing Natalia wondered if the man knew she had also once been a serving officer. In so short a time it was unlikely but it was the sort of preparation automatic for a trained intelligence operative. Ahead of Spassky, she said, “We’re all aware of the reorganization and department divisions of the Komitet Gosudarstvenno Bezopastosti after the events of 1991. That included archives but it would appear that division was incomplete. I have …” she hesitated, bringing duplicated files from her briefcase and distributing them around the conference table of Okulov’s office“ … all that was available from the Interior Ministry files on the defector, Peter Bendall. There is only a two-paragraph reference to the son, at the time he was brought here by his mother. Bendall senior was paid a pension and was responsible to the former KGB until his death. You will see that the records are marked ‘Some Retained.’ Unfortunately I have not had the opportunity to discuss with General Spassky whatever files still presumably held by the Federal Security Service might contain … I hope he can help us with that now …?” She had no alternative, Natalia assured herself. Spassky was one of the old school-proud of his continued membership of the Communist party-and would have tried to bulldoze her into the ground if she hadn’t put the tank trap in his way first. Which she might not have done-not been alerted to do-if Spassky hadn’t studiously avoided her four attempts to reach him before this meeting. The normally vodka-blotched face was redder than normal from what she inferred to be his fury at being anticipated and she decided the tank trap metaphor was appropriate. The iron-grayhaired bear of a man could very easily have physically crushed her and probably would have liked to have done at that precise moment.

In front of Spassky an ashtray was already half-filled with the butts from which succeeding cigarettes had been lit. There was a snatch of what was intended to be a throat-clearing cough that took several moments to subside and when he finally spoke Spassky’s voice was initially threadbare. “We had insufficient time before this meeting … not enough indication from the Interior Ministry,” flustered the man. “The search is being made now.”

Okulov, intent upon identifying scapegoats, at once came back to Natalia, who was surprised at the obviousness of the intelligence general’s confusion.

“The first written, advisory memorandum was personally sent by me to the Lubyanka at 8:33 last night, within an hour of the gunman being identified and after the FSB duty officer informed me there was no senior officer available to talk to me personally,” she responded, quickly again. “That was followed by three more attempted telephone calls and two more memoranda, time-stamped copies of which are attached to what I have already made available.”

“I mean we can’t locate them,” corrected Spassky. “Not in the time we’ve had so far.”

“Are they lost?” pressured Okulov. The woman’s competence made Spassky’s inadequacy even more marked.

“We will have everything available later today,” said Spassky.

“I personally issued the order to round up all known dissidents, extremists and possible terrorists,” reminded Okulov. “Was the name George Bendall on any such list?”

“Not that I am aware of,” said Spassky.

“Not that you’re aware of!” echoed the politician. “Don’t you know !”

“It was not on any list made available to the Interior Ministry,” said Natalia.

“Nor to my service,” insisted General Leonid Sergeevich Zenin, Moscow’s militia commander, entering the discussion for the first time. “I have specifically re-checked, before this meeting.”

“Are you telling me we don’t know anything at all about a man who’s tried-and might even have succeeded-to kill the president of Russia and seriously wounded the wife of the American president!” demanded Okulov, incredulously.

Not a question for her, Natalia decided.

“I have appointed an investigatory team. The senior colonel is by Bendall’s bedside, waiting for him to recover from surgery,” said Zenin, hurriedly responding. “His belongings included a workbook, in the name of Gugin, Vasili Gugin. He was employed, in the name of Gugin, by the NTV television channel. He was a gofer, a messenger who fetched and carried. He got the rifle up to the platform in an equipment bag. The address in the workbook is Hutorskaya Ulitza ….”

“Where did we get his real name?” interrupted Trishin.

“From his mother, at Hutorskaya Ulitza. She uses the name Gugin, too. But has kept her English given name, Vera.”

“She in custody?”

“Of course,” said Zenin. “So far she’s denied knowing anything about what her son was doing or where he got the rifle. It is an SVD sniper’s weapon. It’s being forensically examined, naturally.”

“The mother must have said something more about him!” demanded Okulov.

“He’s been ill … mentally ill but she claims he got better.”

“Do you believe her?”

“It’s far too early to ask my people that.”

Okulov went to the chief of staff. “What about the British?”

“There’s been a formal approach through the Foreign Ministry, for information,” said Trishin.

“The Americans?”

“They want access to Bendall. Full investigative cooperation from everyone involved here.”

“Which we’ll give them. The British too,” decided Okulov. He was contemplatively silent for several minutes. “We have to emerge with unchallengable credibility. There will be maximum liaison between each and every investigatory department …” He smiled across the table. “And you, Natalia Fedova, will coordinate everything …”

Natalia’s first realization was that she’d been made the most vulnerable of them all. Another awareness was that no one had asked-was bothered even-about the other two victims of the shooting.

“The trial must be totally open, a media event,” declared Okulov, who’d insisted upon the chief of staff remaining after dismissing the rest. “I mean what I said about openness with the Americans and the British.”

“Of course.”

“There’s no danger of the Americans refuting the security lapses being their fault?”

“They won’t officially be in court,” Trishin pointed out. “There’ll only have observer status. We’ll have the stage, they won’t. And there really is a lot of confirming paperwork.” This was the man with whom, initially at least, he was going to have to work with more than anyone else. The second realization was that Okulov’s chances of being elected to the presidency was even more uncertain that Yudkin’s had been.

“Good,” accepted the other man, warming to the increasing personal possibilities. “We’ve got to discover a great deal more aboutthis man Bendall or Gugin or whatever he calls himself.”

“Whatever he calls himself isn’t important,” insisted Trishin, rebuilding his own bunker. “He isn’t Russian. He’s British, the son of a spy who was allowed to come here under the protection of an earlier communist government.”

Okulov nodded, smiling, content for the other man to spell out the further personal advantage he’d already isolated. “Which he doubtless represents. We need to know if he’s a supporter of the old ways. Anxious for their return. That could be useful.”

Trishin was encouraged by the direction of the conversation. “I didn’t get the impression from any of the hospital doctors that there’s a possibility of Lev Maksimovich making a full and active recovery, if he survives at all. Which will be a tragedy.”