Charlie and Schumann began early on the fifth day with Fedor Alekseevich Mitrov but it was still well into the afternoon before they began a proper interrogation because the morning was occupied playing back the most incriminating parts of the other Russians’ testimonies. Because Charlie had explained what he wanted – and because Schumann had already obtained so much to German satisfaction from the earlier interrogations – Charlie led the questioning. Mitrov started well, fervently denying any position of authority and even more fervently giving any murder orders. But the rejection was eggshell thin and Charlie moved quickly to shatter it.
‘Akrashena,’ he declared, simply.
Schumann looked incomprehensibly at Charlie and the Russian appeared confused too, although Charlie knew it wasn’t from lack of understanding.
‘Akrashena’ repeated Charlie. ‘Explain that to me.’
The tall Russian sniggered in what was supposed to be ridicule. ‘Wet paint.’
‘I know what it means,’ said Charlie. ‘Like I know it was the code name for the militarily planned prevention of a nuclear robbery at Kirs.’
‘I don’t know anything about that,’ said Mitrov.
‘You do!’ insisted Charlie, starting the satellite tape at its prepared section. ‘That’s your voice. We’ve had it scientifically and provably matched. That’s you speaking at the scene of a successful robbery about one that was being militarily stopped elsewhere by an operation named Akrashena. So you tell us how you knew that. And how the Shelapin Family – Shelapin himself – came to be in possession of nuclear material from a robbery he wasn’t connected with. And what’s happened to the ten containers still missing. And who your customers were, for the six canisters you smuggled into Germany. And when you’ve told us all that you can tell us a lot more. Like how well-established the Dolgoprudnaya are here in Berlin and exactly where they are in the Marzahn district.’
Blatant cunning registered on the Russian’s face. ‘Tell me why I should.’
‘Germany doesn’t have capital punishment. Russia does,’ said Charlie, simply. ‘Murder, which you’re guilty of by having given the orders, is a capital crime. So is nuclear theft. The crimes you committed in Russia take precedence over that of smuggling nuclear components into Germany. So you could be transferred back to Moscow to face trial on the greater charges. In Russia, you die. In Germany, you get a custodial sentence. Which, on past history, won’t be very long.’
‘Germany wants the glory of a trial! They wouldn’t miss it by sending me back!’
‘You sure about that?’
Mitrov wasn’t and it showed: the nerve was tugging at his mouth. ‘What guarantees would there be?’
‘Cooperate and the trial, and the sentencing, will be here in Germany,’ promised the German.
‘Let’s see how we go,’ accepted Mitrov, doubtfully.
‘Tell me about the Shelapin involvement,’ Charlie demanded.
‘They’re a Chechen group,’ dismissed Mitrov.
Charlie recognized the first crack in the dam. ‘We know that. Were they part of the Pizhma distribution?’ It wasn’t a naive question.
‘Of course they weren’t! I told you, they’re Chechen!’
‘So how did some of the Pizhma containers end up with Vasili Shelapin? And more with another member of the Family.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But you knew six containers had to be left in the original trucks, after you unloaded?’ pressed Schumann.
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Yes you do,’ challenged Charlie.
‘I was just told they had to be left.’
‘By whom?’
‘At a planning meeting.’
‘By whom?’ repeated Charlie, refusing the avoidance.
‘Silin.’ The man mumbled the name, as if he hoped they wouldn’t hear it.
‘To be taken into Moscow?’
‘Yes,’ said the Russian, unthinking.
‘So you knew the trucks were going on into Moscow!’
Mitrov hesitated, realizing the mistake. ‘Yes.’
‘Why? Why weren’t they abandoned at Uren?’
‘Silin said they were needed in Moscow.’
‘Why?’
‘He didn’t tell me. Just that he wanted them there.’
‘You’re lying,’ accused Schumann.
‘Confusion,’ blurted Mitrov.
‘Decoy, you mean?’
‘I suppose.’
‘Was it your decision to break open the containers: risk a township?’ demanded Schumann.
‘No!’
‘Silin again?’ probed Charlie.
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Confusion,’ the man repeated. ‘Delay.’
‘Akrashena?’ said Charlie.
‘Silin.’
‘So he knew about the Kirs attempt?’
‘Yes.’
‘When did the planning for Pizhma start?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘When?’
‘Towards the end of the month.’
It wasn’t the answer Charlie expected. ‘Date?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘The day?’
‘I’m not sure. Tuesday I think.’
‘The thirtieth?’
‘Earlier.’
‘The twenty-third?’
‘That sounds better.’
That was before the first Interior Ministry meeting to plan against the Kirs robbery, calculated Charlie. ‘That was when Silin told you akrashena was the task force code name?’
Mitrov shook his head. ‘Later. More than a week later.’
That fitted better. ‘Did Silin tell you, personally? Or was it part of a discussion involving several people.’
‘Several people.’
‘All Family?’
The wary pause was too obvious. ‘Yes.’
‘That’s a lie.’
‘It was all Family when I was involved.’
‘Explain that,’ demanded Schumann.
‘There’d been another meeting, before. Just Silin.’
‘Who with?’
‘The people he knows.’
There was a sharp spurt of pain in Charlie’s feet at the first-time thought that Kirs had been even more of a decoy that he’d imagined, up until now. ‘Who are these people?’
Mitrov grimaced. ‘Who do you think?’
‘I don’t want to think. I want you to tell me.’
‘Militia.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know. No one knows. Only Silin. That’s how it works. Just him and them.’
‘Them!’ seized Charlie. ‘One person? Or several?’
‘Several. I don’t know how many. All Militia are crooked.’
‘The Dolgoprudnaya are established here, in Berlin?’
There was another wary hesitation. ‘Yes.’
Although he knew the answer, Charlie said, ‘Where else, in Russia?’
‘St Petersburg.’
‘So where are these special Militia people? In Moscow? Or outside?’
‘Moscow, definitely.’
‘Why definitely?’
‘The meetings are so easy. Any uncertainties can be resolved at once, which they couldn’t be if the dealings were with people outside Moscow.’
‘What rank?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Names?’ came in Schumann.
There was a snort of derision from the Russian. ‘There are never names.’
‘You’re a corps commander?’
Mitrov paused. ‘Yes.’
‘Who was the other corps commander, at Pizhrna?’
‘Malin.’
‘Full name,’ demanded Schumann.
‘PetrGavrilovich.’
‘He’s got ten men with him?’ established Charlie, calculating from the satellite photographs.
‘I suppose so.’
‘And
ten canisters?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where are they? What route are they taking?’
The man shook his head. ‘You’re too late.’
‘Why are we too late?’ asked the German.
‘They went full south, through the Ukraine.’
‘Full south?’ questioned Charlie, curious at the phrase.
‘The Black Sea,’ said Mitrov.
‘For simple, quick land access to anywhere in the Middle East after a short voyage,’ accepted Schumann, more to himself than to the other two. ‘When?’
‘Five days ago. Out of Odessa.’
There was no way of knowing whether each canister was full, calculated Charlie, sickened. If they were, as much as a hundred kilos had been lost: twenty bombs, eighty thousand dead. ‘Who were your buyers to be?’
‘I don’t know. I wasn’t part of that. It was arranged here, in Berlin. By our people here.’
‘In Marzahn?’
‘KulmseeStrasse. Number 15,’ smiled Mitrov. ‘You’ll be wasting your time. They’ll have cleared out days ago. They were due at Cottbus the day we were picked up: you missed them by being four or five hours too early!’
‘Who do you think the buyers were?’ pressed Schumann.
Mitrov shrugged. ‘Middle East. Who else?’
‘How did the Pizhma planning come about?’ demanded Charlie.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘What happened first? Did Silin suddenly announce you were going to rob a nuclear train? Or did he say there was going to be a robbery at a nuclear plant that he’d decided to take advantage of?’
Mitrov thought for several moments. ‘He said we were going to rob a train. Then he talked of the Kirs robbery.’
‘He specifically mentioned Kirs!’ pounced Charlie.
‘Yes.’
‘And talked about both robberies at the same meeting?’
Mitrov shook his head. ‘Different times. Pizhma, at first. Then Kirs later.’
All this time! thought Charlie, anguished. All this time they’d not just been going around in circles but revolving in the opposite direction from that in which they should have been going even to half-understand what was happening. How much did he have to change his privately formulated opinion of how it had all been organized? Not much. He was sure now he was looking in the right direction.
Satisfied with what he’d learned, Charlie let Schumann conclude that day’s session and shared the ritual celebration drink with the German before relaying the day’s events to Rupert Dean through the quasi-embassy facilities being set up in preparation for the full diplomatic transfer from Bonn. The Director-General asked hopefully if there could be any doubt about the ten containers getting to some unknown destination and Charlie said he didn’t think so and agreed with Dean they had the sort of disaster they’d feared. London was providing Moscow with a daily transcript to support their sting operation approach as well as advising Washington, but Charlie kept in daily personal touch with Kestler.
Before he could start that night the younger American said, ‘The big gangs are at war here! Name who just got whacked!’
‘Stanislav Georgevich Silin, the head of the Dolgoprudnaya Family,’ said Charlie.
It was a long time before Kestler spoke. ‘How the fuck did you guess?’
‘I’m psychic,’ said Charlie. After he replaced the receiver he said to himself, ‘I hope you’re not in over your head this time, Charlie my son.’
Natalia made Aleksai a drink and didn’t invite him to share in Sasha’s bath-time, which he usually did automatically, instead leaving him alone while she settled the child for the night. The assessment of the German investigation had taken a full day and been subdued throughout. There had been no open criticism of anyone because none was justified, but Natalia suspected Aleksai felt crushed by the German success. And not just German success: Charlie’s success. Which wasn’t confined to Berlin. The final decision of the day, greatly influenced by Germany, had been to accept, although with stringent Moscow-governing restrictions, the British proposal to attempt an entrapment operation in the hope of blocking such a robbery in the future.
Natalia waited until Sasha was dozing before returning to the main room. Unasked, she made Popov another drink and poured wine for herself.
‘Do you want anything to eat?’
‘No.’
‘What then?’
‘Nothing.’
‘It wasn’t a disaster!’ she declared. ‘There was nothing more you could have done.’
‘I could have listened more to the Englishman.’
The admission surprised Natalia. ‘The only obvious failures were my examination of Shelapin.’
‘At least you’ll be spared his court accusations of attempted extortion.’ There had been brief but serious consideration of proceeding against Shelapin anyway, to smash a known Mafia ring; it had only ended when Natalia pointed out a fabricated prosecution was impossible – apart from being illegal – because of the evidence that would emerge at the German hearings.
‘His release – and Agayans’ murder – still reflect on me.’ In any detailed examination of personal failure she had far more to be depressed about than Aleksai.
‘It’s over!’ said Popov. ‘Everyone is now busy making their excuses for what they did or didn’t do to prevent enough plutonium getting out of Russia to start a full-scale war. And we’re at the bottom of the pile, getting all their dirt dumped on us.’
‘Me more than you,’ accepted Natalia, her mind still held by the Shelapin débâcle.
Popov came forward on his chair, to face her more directly. ‘Isn’t it about time you made your decision? I’ve given you all the time you asked for. It’s time you told me whether you want to marry me or not.’
‘I know,’ said Natalia. ‘I …’ She physically jumped at the telephone’s ring, hurrying to it: it was more than likely Charlie was back.
The shock was so great and so complete that speech went from her: she gave a half whimper, half scream, holding the receiver away in horror. Popov leaped up, snatching it from her, shouting ‘Hello! hello!’ and then remaining with it limply in his hand.
‘Dead,’ he said. ‘There’s nobody there.’
‘A man,’ groped Natalia, the words croaking out in disbelief. ‘He said to keep my face out. He said if I didn’t Sasha wouldn’t have a face. She wouldn’t die but when they’d finished she wouldn’t have a face.’
And then Natalia screamed, hysterically.
A barbuska, making her way home close to the Arbat, also screamed hysterically when she looked into the oddly parked Mercedes in the hope of finding something to steal and discovered instead the bodies of Stanislav Silin and his wife. Both had been roped into their seats, as if setting out for a Sunday drive in the country.
chapter 31
The threat against Sasha changed everything. Charlie’s personal feelings became professional now, in a seething mix. Throughout a lifetime of utter disregard to morality, populated by coldly unemotional killers and entrapment experts and out-and-out bastards who wallowed in the pleasure of being out-and-out bastards, the cardinal, self-preserving rule of Charles Edward Muffin, a man who acknowledged no religion, had been that of the Old Testament. Charlie had, however, refined the life for a life, eye for an eye, wound for a wound precept to a very personal, far less verbose creed. Charlie’s lesson was that anyone who tried to fuck him got double-fucked in return: worse, if it were possible. He’d wrecked the careers of the British and American intelligence directors who tried to sacrifice him. And – as emotionlessly as the professional killers he always managed to run away from – he’d personally booby-trapped the escape aircraft of the CIA assassins who’d killed Edith. And felt unrepentant satisfaction as the plane disintegrated into a red and yellow fireball.
Now it was happening again. But not a physical attack upon him. The threat of one upon Sasha. Whoever it was had made a terrible mistake involving a baby – his baby – who shou
ldn’t have been part of anything. The panic it indicated didn’t matter. They’d done it. So they’d suffer. They didn’t know that yet. But they would, because their knowing was part of the retribution. From the moment of Natalia’s babbled story, at the botanical gardens again, Charlie’s planned entrapment became a totally dedicated, totally personal, totally private exercise to go beyond discovering fresh smuggling attempts to find out who’d threatened his child. And then to make them regret the very day they’d come screaming into the world, which was the way Charlie intended them to leave it.
Even more than before the botanical gardens were obvious because of their closeness to Sasha’s crèche. It was the day after his return to Moscow and at Natalia’s summons, and he’d never known her so distraught, not even when he’d told her he was returning to London after his phoney defection, because then they’d made their reconciliation plans he hadn’t fulfilled. Natalia was dishevelled and physically shaking, ague-like, unable at the beginning to hold a consecutive thought or a cohesive conversation. Although the shaking wasn’t because of the cold he led her into the hothouse and sat her down there and tried to calm her and in the end let the account come when and how she wanted to tell it.
The words were staccato, stopping and starting, broken sometimes by near sobs. It took Charlie’s a long time to get the actual telephone warning and in the end he wasn’t sure he had because Natalia was close to blanking it from her memory. And even longer for him fully to understand the precautions. Sasha was protected at all times at the crèche by a woman officer from the Interior Ministry’s security section, in constant radio contact with a central control room. Natalia no longer delivered or collected her personally: they were driven by an armed chauffeur, always accompanied by an armed escort vehicle. A security check had been run on all the parents of the other children, particularly new arrivals, and upon all staff. There were two Militia cars permanently stationed at the front and rear of the building. There was also twenty-four-hour Militia protection and surveillance at Leninskaya and a respond-at-once telephone monitor had been imposed, which was why she’d called him from the ministry and why there couldn’t be any more direct contact between them from her apartment.
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