Kings of Many Castles cm-13

by Brian Freemantle

  Charlie said, “I’ve read what you told the militia.” It had occupied less than one page. The man had been jolted by Bendall, knocking the camera off focus, turned to yell at him and seen the rifle. He’d thought Bendall was going to shoot him and fought him for the gun. No one liked Bendall and Bendall didn’t like anyone in return. He tried not to work with the man.

  “So fuck off!” Sakov was lounged in an ancient armchair leaking its stuffing into the rest of the mess, glass in hand, wearing only a sweat-stained singlet hanging over even dirtier jeans. There was a lot more of the crude tattooing along each arm than Charlie had seen on film and Charlie was sure he was right, although he didn’t put the Russian older than thirty-five, despite the near baldness.

  He was probably gambling with his front teeth. But Charlie was in no mood to be told to fuck off. He’d ascended floor by floor the former Comecon skyscraper and two smaller towers blocks from which the second gunman could have got an elevated firing position before abandoning the chore to the recognized FBI group outside the fourth possible location. The pain from his feet had reached his knees and was climbing. “You’re not old enough.”

  “What?” frowned the man.

  “You’re not old enough to have been in a gulag. And those are gulag tattooes, aren’t they?” identified Charlie. “And if you had been you wouldn’t have got this job. Your workbook would have been marked.”

  “Smart fucker.” The man lifted a clear, unlabeled bottle Charlie hadn’t seen from beside the chair and added to his glass.

  It was the yellow of street-distilled potato vodka, harsher-and stronger-than that sold in shops. All part of the macho image. But the remark was less belligerent. And his teeth were still intact. Charlie said, “Father? Grandfather?”

  The man shrugged. “Father.”

  “Pretty dramatic testimonial,” said Charlie, in apparent admiration.

  “He wasn’t guilty of anything. None of them were.”

  Family suffering explained a hostility to authority or officialdom. Continuing the flattery Charlie said, “Still a brave-unusual-thing to do.”

  Sakov shrugged, not speaking.

  Having eased past the barrier Charlie didn’t want to lose the momentum. “Quite a difference from Georgi. He hated his father.”

  “Bastard hated everyone.”

  “Can’t imagine that worrying you.”

  “It didn’t.”

  “Why didn’t you like working with him then?”

  “Morose fucker.”

  “He drank.”

  “Not properly with the rest of us.”

  “Not with anyone?”

  “Maybe.”

  “He did have friends here, didn’t he?” chanced Charlie.

  “Vasili Gregorevich, I suppose.” The man made a vague gesture, crossing himself.

  A religious gesture? “Vasili Gregorevich who?”

  “Isakov,” completed the Russian. “He was a good guy, never understood what it was with him and Gugin. No one did.”

  Was, picked out Charlie. “What happened to Vasili Gregorevich?”

  Sakov looked surprised at the question. “Dead.”

  Charlie felt a stir of satisfaction. “Dead how?”

  “An accident. His car got hit by a train on the level crossing near Timiryazev Park. That’s where he lived, near the park.”

  Association with George Bendall seemed to bring with it a high mortality rate, reflected Charlie. “When was that?”

  “A few months back. Four, five maybe.”

  “How’d it happen?”

  “Don’t know. Tried to race the train, that’s what they said.”

  “Who said?”

  “People here. Talk. You know.”

  “What did Vasili do here?”

  “Senior cameraman, like me. That’s what I am now-why I got the White House position-since Vasili Gregorevich died.”

  “They were good friends?”

  “Couldn’t understand it,” repeated Sakov. He lifted the bottle again. “You want a drink? Private stuff. Good.”

  Charlie had never refused a drink in his life and wasn’t going to now, because it marked his acceptance, but he mentally apologized to his liver. The Russian poured almost three fingers into an already print-smeared tumbler, added yet again to his own and said, “To the witches being kindly ones.”

  Charlie touched glasses to the traditional Russian toast, wishing the witches had been kinder when he was tramping pointlessly around the high rises. The liquid burned and went down his throat like a clenched fist. “They work together a lot, Vasili and Georgi?”

  “Permanent team, most of the time.”

  “Is that usual?”

  “Suited everyone else.”

  “Did they know each other, before Georgi started working here? I heard someone helped Georgi get a job? Vasili maybe?”

  “That’s the story I heard. I never asked.”

  Charlie wetted his lips with the drink. It stung. “There a favorite bar everyone drinks in around here?”

  “Elena’s, on Tehnicskij.”

  “Did Georgi and Vasili use it?”

  Sakov took his time. “Sometimes.”

  “They spent time together outside of work, then?”

  “Seemed to.”

  “What about Tuesdays and Thursdays?”

  The Russian looked blankly at Charlie. “What?”

  “His mother said Georgi used to do something every Tuesday and Thursday but she didn’t know what it was.”

  Sakov shook his head. “Neither do I.”

  “How’d it come about that Georgi was your gofer on the day of the shooting?”

  “Rostered, I guess.”

  “He didn’t ask for it particularly?”

  “Not that I heard. You’re not drinking?”

  Charlie brought the glass to his lips again. “You didn’t like working with him?”

  “I already told you that.”

  “Why didn’t you ask for a roster change?”

  “It wasn’t that bad! He fetched and carried OK.”

  “How many days ahead were the rosters fixed?”

  “A week. This was regarded as a big job.”

  “He brought the rifle up to the gantry in an equipment bag?”

  “That’s what they say.”

  “You decide what equipment you want?”

  “Of course.”

  “What was it supposed to be?”

  “Spare tripod stand.”

  “You didn’t check it?”

  “I told you, he did the job OK. You told him what you wanted and he did it.”

  “So that’s what happened? You told him what you needed and left him to get it ready?”

  “Yes. Nothing wrong with that!” The belligerence was back.

  “Nothing wrong at all,” agreed Charlie, quickly. “How many trips did he need, to get everything up?”

  “Two. He took the camera and mount up first and put down a line to gather up the leads. Then went back for the rest of the stuff.”

  “What about security checks?”

  The man shook his head. “We had our identity discs, of course.But we arrived in an NTV van. The security people saw us: knew who we were.”

  Charlie sighed. “He would have got the rifle up on the second trip?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he have to do, when you were filming?”

  “Keep out of my way until I asked for something.”

  “Tell me what happened, from the time you heard the cavalcade was coming.”

  “Got the warning from the scanner … from other cameras along the route … Picked the cars up as soon as they crossed the Kalininskij bridge on to Krasnopresnenskaja nabereznaja. Tracked them all the way to the White House. Refocused, for the tight shots, as they got out of the car. Saw the president go. The blood splashes. Then the fucker went into me. That’s when I saw the gun. He was bringing it towards me, I thought, so I grabbed at it …”

  “I saw the f
ight,” broke in Charlie. “What did he say, when you were fighting. You were saying things, both of you? I saw you!”

  “I don’t remember, not properly …” Sakov cupped a hand to each ear. “I still had the cans on at first, to the scanner. Then they got knocked off. We were swearing. Calling each other cunts. I think I said what the fuck was he doing and he said it was right. That he had to. He said he’d kill me, to get me out of the way. Tried to turn the gun. I couldn’t hear much when the helicopter came over, only to get away from him but I couldn’t. When I tried, he started to turn the gun.”

  “How many shots did you hear?”

  “None.” He cupped his hands to his ears again. “I told you I had earphones on, to the scanner.”

  “Did you know Georgi was trained as a sniper, in the army?”

  Sakov snorted, disbelievingly. “No.”

  “Did he ever talk to you about himself … about the army … what he did in his spare time …?”

  Sakov shook his head. “Didn’t even know his father was a spy until I read it in the papers.”

  Bendall would have absorbed the language from the age of four, remembered Charlie. “What about politically. Did he talk about hatingthe new regime … the Americans … anything particular?”

  “No.”

  “Why do you think he did it?”

  “Because he’s fucking mad … useless.”

  Mad maybe, thought Charlie. But not useless.

  “Is it a long way away?”

  Not by Russian distances but Sasha would probably think it was. “Yes. A long way,” said Charlie.

  “Do you have to go by aeroplane?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you be gone a long time?”

  “No more than two days.”

  “Will you bring me back a present?”

  “Sasha!” corrected Natalia, sharply.

  “Maybe if you’re good,” said Charlie. There was a tightness about Natalia but they hadn’t had chance to talk yet. “And being good is going to bed.”

  “It’s not time yet,” protested the child.

  “It will be when you’ve finished your milk and cleaned your teeth.”

  “Not fair,” pouted the girl.

  “Bed,” insisted Charlie. “I’ll be back by the weekend. We’ll do something. You choose.”

  “The circus!”

  “The circus,” agreed Charlie.

  Charlie had drinks ready-his Islay malt, her Volnay-when Natalia returned from Sasha’s bedroom.

  She said, “You spoil her.”

  “That’s what fathers are supposed to do.”

  Natalia didn’t smile. “Don’t buy her anything expensive.”

  “What would you like?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What’s tonight’s problem?”

  Natalia’s disclosure of a presidential commission was hurried, disjointed, but Charlie let her talk herself out. “I’m being dragged in, deeper and deeper. We’ll be discovered, you and I,” she concluded.

  Charlie regarded her for a moment in total bewilderment. “Natalia! It’s a commission into how-and why-things disappeared from old KGB archives! How can that extend to us! You cleared all the records of anything to do with us.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “It’s not!” She could make monsters from every shadow; sometimes from no shadows at all.

  “It’s a risk!” she persisted.

  “It’s not.”

  “I’m more in the middle-more the object of everyone’s attention-than we ever anticipated. I’ll be seen an an enemy of the KGB successors.”

  “Nothing’s changed!” Charlie insisted. But it had, he thought.

  “What have you been called back to London for?”

  “People wanting to appear to be doing something. It’s called consultation.” He paused. “Do you wish it was for something more permanent?”

  “No,” denied Natalia.

  Charlie didn’t believe her. He’d been wise not to tell her that Anne Abbott was being recalled with him.

  “I didn’t expect things to end like this,” said Olga. That wasn’t true. By the time they’d got to the brandy-French at his insistence-they’d both known they were going to sleep together. There hadn’t even been any conversation about it on their way to his apartment. What she hadn’t expected was the dinner invitation-of course impossible to refuse-or that he’d choose the Mercator, which really did have to be the best French restaurant in Moscow. Most unexpected-and pleasurable-of all was how good he’d been once they’d gone to bed.

  “Sorry?”

  “Of course not.” His body-and his performance-had been even more athletic that she’d fantasized about, looking down at him approaching the hospital earlier that day. She turned sideways, pleased that he’d kept the light on. “You?”

  “Of course not. There’s something I haven’t told you, until now.”

  “What?”

  “I played your interrogation tape at the Kremlin.”

  “To Okulov himself?”

  “And Trishin. Their opinion was the same as mine, brilliant. But we decided we don’t want you to question Bendall again until after the British.”

  “Why?”

  “There might be something they’re holding back we can use to break him.”

  “I can break him by myself.”

  “We’ll do it this way,” said Zenin.

  He hadn’t allowed her to take control in their lovemaking, either, but she hadn’t minded that as much as she did this.

  12

  Charlie got the jump seat, which jammed his knees beneath his chin so tightly he couldn’t have jumped anywhere, difficult anyway after the exertion of already shuttling between the British and American embassies to ensure they were completely up to date before their encounter with George Bendall. At least, Charlie consoled himself, he was opposite the slender-thighed Anne Abbott and not the fatassed Richard Brooking. They travelled initially unspeaking, the lawyer and the diplomat exchanging transcripts of Olga’s interrogation of Bendall and Charlie’s meeting with the NTV cameraman. As Brooking finished Vladimir Sakov’s account of the gantry struggle he looked uncomfortably to the woman, who’d read it first, and said, “Appalling language!”

  “Dreadful,” agreed Charlie. “Shouldn’t be allowed.”

  Anne smiled at Charlie. “A lot of openings.”

  “We’ll do it as we did with the mother.”

  “You lead,” said Anne.

  “We need to talk about that,” interjected the head of chancellery.

  “About what, exactly?” demanded Charlie. He didn’t want the man buggering things up.

  “This is not something I’m accustomed to,” admitted Brooking. “In fact, I haven’t ever done anything like it before.”

  “All good for the CV,” said Charlie. “Better to let Anne and I handle it, though, don’t you think?”

  “I’ve the ranking authority!”

  It was an embassy car, with the ambassador’s chauffeur. Charlie was surprised the pompous prick hadn’t insisted on flying the British pennant from the bonnet masthead. “What’s the book say you’ve got to do.” There’d be a guidance book. There always was.

  “Ascertain the full facts. Establish the nationality is genuinely British, obtain the passport number if possible. Offer consular assistance. Obtain all United Kingdom residency details to advise next of kin. Make clear any repatriation advance is a loan that has to be repaid and get the applicant’s signature to that agreement,” quoted the man.

  Anne covered her mouth with her hand and looked determinedly out of the window at the glued-together traffic.

  Jesus! thought Charlie. “Let’s work our way through all that. London’s already established he’s British, with a British registered birth, although he doesn’t hold a British passport as such. There aren’t any United Kingdom residency details and I don’t think, whatever happens, we’ve got to think about repatriation. Agree with me so far?”

&n
bsp; “Yes,” said Brooking.

  “Ascertaining all the facts is what Anne and I are here to do, right?”

  “Right,” accepted Brooking.

  “So there we are!” said Charlie, triumphantly. “All you’ve got to do is offer the consular assistance, tell him Anne and I are it, and leave the rest to us.”

  “It doesn’t sound much,” said the man, doubtfully.

  “It’s your being there, as the ranking diplomatic representative, that’s important,” urged Charlie.

  “Yes, of course.” Brooking still sounded doubtful.

  Charlie said, “It’s all a great deal more uncertain-more complicated-than it seemed to be at first?”

  “Yes,” agreed Brooking.

  “Everything’s going to be recorded, that’s part of the cooperation agreement.”

  “I understand that.”

  “I’m not trying to teach you your job, of course-heaven forbid! — but on something that’s going to be circulated around the highest levels of the Russian and American government it might be better if you waited to ask about anything that’s not immediately clear from our questioning, rather than putting it on tape at the time.”

  “Quite! Good thinking.” Brooking smiled, relieved. “All quite straightforward really, isn’t it?”

  “The best way’s always straightforward,” sighed Charlie.

  “My feelings exactly,” said the man.

  One of the several reasons for Charlie’s early morning trip to the centralized incident room had been to ensure with Olga Melnik their acceptance at the Burdenko hospital. They were fifteen minutes ahead of the agreed time but the first security check point was at the ground floor reception. Brooking hurried into the lead, producing his Russian diplomatic credentials and standing vaguely to attention to be compared against an identification photograph that Charlie had given Olga, and in the temporary separation Anne squeezed Charlie’s hand and whispered, “That’s my dinner table anecdote: you try to steal it, I’ll serve an injunction.”

  Charlie said, “There’ll be more.”

  Virtually as he spoke the protest erupted ahead of them-“I am an accredited representative of Her Majesty’s government, I must not be physically touched!”-and Charlie turned to see Brooking pushing away an attempted body search.