And most of all he waited for the hoped-for call from Colonel Aleksai Semenovich Popov. Which never came. Charlie accepted in hindsight he’d invested far too much in what had, considered objectively, been little more than a diplomatic response that avoided outright rejection. But he had thought there was a chance. Maybe Popov had suggested it and been turned down. But Charlie would have still expected the man to come back to him, to tell him one way or the other. It would not, after all, have reflected upon him personally. Lyneham had even predicted such an outcome.
Charlie had to wait, with increasing frustration, until the beginning of the second week before he got an excuse to go against the imposed system and make a call to the Russian instead of waiting for Popov to contact him. It was scarcely sufficient and Charlie didn’t doubt Kestler had the same information as he did, because the Bundeskriminalamt was clearly the source, but the impatient Charlie judged it reason enough. The British station in Bonn, with what looked like corroborative rumours in Berlin, picked up the suggestion of a nuclear shipment transiting Leipzig in the coming month. There was no indication of destination or source, although there was a hint it would originate from the Ukraine.
Popov’s direct line rang interminably unanswered and the girl who finally responded didn’t speak English and appeared unable to understand Charlie’s groping Russian, just as he didn’t get everything she tried to tell him. Despite the language difficulty Charlie attempted the main Interior Ministry switchboard, several times being plugged through to further unanswered infinity and twice reaching whom he thought to be the same secretary, on the second occasion understanding from her near-impatient insistence that Popov wouldn’t be available ‘for a long time’.
‘The good old Russian runaround. I told you that earlier stuff was just so much bullshit,’ insisted Lyneham, when Charlie finally confessed the failure. Charlie had developed the habit of practically daily visits to Ulitza Chaykovskovo, as much to get out of the British embassy and appear to the watchful Bowyer to be doing something as in the hope of gaining even a scrap of information from the Americans. That day Kestler confirmed they had virtually the same information about the possible Ukraine shipment and admitted that he, too, had been unable to locate the Russian colonel.
‘You ever had difficulty like this before?’ Charlie asked Kestler.
‘A couple of times,’ conceded the younger American. ‘You leave a name and a number?’
‘Finally, yesterday.’ The atmosphere between the two Americans seemed easier.
‘He’s normally pretty good at calling back.’
The thought of a continuing delay depressed Charlie: having provided even limited information London would anticipate a Russian response. And wouldn’t be impressed at his inability to reach the operational chief with whom he’d already told them he’d formed precisely the liaison he’d been sent to Moscow to establish.
Charlie accepted Lyneham’s Happy Hour invitation – once it was extended to and accepted as well by Kestler, with the promise to join them later – because the alternative was another lonely evening in the echoing Lesnaya apartment. And he was passingly curious to see if the American mess was better than that at the British embassy.
It wasn’t, but then the British building was far superior to that of the United States, which Charlie had always thought of as a bunker barriered by shutters and bars. Befitting such architecture, the American recreation facility was in the basement. The attempts to brighten it up with wall posters of American tourist scenes hadn’t worked and the polished-leaf plants had lost their gloss in the struggle beneath the harsh strip lights that whitened everything, giving everyone a sickly pallor. A sign promising an extension of the cheap drink period was propped against a jukebox dispensing muzak and an occasional soul lyric. At the far end a white-coated black steward dispensed drinks with the conjuring skill exclusive to American bartenders. At the edge of the bar furthest from the music centre a hotplate and dishes steamed gently, offering complimentary snacks. Charlie declined any food and was relieved to spot Macallan among the bourbons and ryes. Lyneham had to make two trips to the hotplate to assemble a sufficient supply of buffalo wings, chicken legs and meat balls.
‘Sure you don’t want any?’ pressed the FBI man, gravy speckling his chin.
‘Quite sure.’
Lyneham emptied his mouth. ‘Guess I was a little out of line the other day.’ He hated the humiliation but after a lot of thought he’d decided he’d gain more brownie points clearing the nonsense up than by letting it drift. He’d made another decision, too.
‘About what?’ asked Charlie. He had, of course, to pretend he hadn’t noticed anything.
‘Sounding off like I did at Jamie.’
‘None of my business,’ said Charlie.
‘Under a lot of pressure from Washington,’ exaggerated Lyneham, hugely. ‘They want results. This latest thing about the Ukraine isn’t going to help, either.’ He managed to get two buffalo wings into his mouth at once and started chomping.
‘I know.’ Despite Kestler’s named appointment, he supposed Lyneham carried the ultimate responsibility. Why wasn’t Bowyer as concerned then? There was no comparison between the length of time he and Kestler had been in Moscow. But Charlie, who rarely accepted the obvious, was far more inclined to think Bowyer had got some sort of back-channel assurance that he was absolved from any failure.
It was several moments before Lyneham had room to speak again. ‘That’s not the only problem in Washington. There’s some internal shit.’
Confession time, guessed Charlie; confiding time, at least. He waited, knowing the FBI man didn’t need encouragement.
‘Jamie’s connected,’ announced Lyneham, enigmatically.
‘To whom or to what?’ demanded Charlie, attentively. So the Happy Hour invitation wasn’t social after all.
It only took Lyneham minutes to sketch the Fitzjohn family tree in which Kestler had his special nest.
‘You think he’s fireproof?’ asked Charlie.
‘I think he’s less likely to get burned than a lot of others.’
Charlie wasn’t interested in a lot of others, only himself. The idea of working with someone more flame-resistant than himself made Charlie uneasy. It explained a lot of Lyneham’s attitudes, too. ‘He worry you?’
‘He worries the hell out of me,’ confessed Lyneham.
‘You under orders to treat him with special care?’
‘No,’ replied Lyneham. ‘Jamie himself has never once asked for any favours, either. But you know the way these things work?’
‘Yes,’ said Charlie.
‘Just thought you should know.’
‘I appreciate it,’ said Charlie, who did.
The serious purpose of the encounter achieved, Lyneham made a head movement into the room and said, ‘Kind of wish it was me they’re interested in!’
Charlie was already conscious they seemed to be the object of fairly frequent attention from female embassy staff at several tables between them and the bar. ‘What are they looking at?’
‘ For,’ corrected Lyneham. ‘Where I tread, others surely follow. Or rather one particular other. The female to male ratio here is completely skewed. So anyone with half a dick who knows it’s not just to pee with is the most popular guy in town. Particularly if he’s a bachelor. Which Jamie is.’
‘Lucky Jamie.’ The dangerously enthusiastic little sod seemed to have it all.
Lyneham was sure he’d pitched it just right. First the admission of being too hard on the eager bastard, then the family connection, now the begrudging admiration for his sexual prowess, neatly combined to portray a crusty, bark-worse-than-bite mentor showing concern about a protege for whom he deep down had a lot of regard. ‘He’s got two ambitions: to hang scalps of nuclear smugglers from his tent pole and see fucking declared an Olympic sport.’
‘Let’s hope he achieves both.’ He had been right about Lyneham, he decided.
‘Sure as hell won’t be for want of tr
ying, on either count.’ Perfect, Lyneham congratulated himself: he’d ended on the subtle reminder of Kestler’s unpredictability.
The younger American’s entry into the mess appeared timed just as perfectly, coming at the precise conclusion of the conversation between Charlie and the FBI chief. Forewarned and curious, Charlie closely watched the reaction of Kestler’s arrival upon the assembled women. A blonde at the nearest table positively preened and an older woman at another bench gave a finger-fluttering wave. Kestler greeted his audience with the panache of a matinee idol accustomed to adulation, noted Charlie and Lyneham’s order as he passed and stopped at two tables on his return with the drinks, leaving both laughing too loudly at whatever he’d said. Charlie saw he’d been wrong imagining earlier that Kestler didn’t drink. As well as their whisky the man carried wine for himself.
‘See what I mean?’ said Lyneham, maintaining the mock envy.
‘What?’ demanded Kestler, in feigned ignorance.
‘I filled Charlie in on your one-man crusade to free the embassy of sexual frustration,’ said Lyneham.
‘It’s a job and somebody’s got to do it,’ cliched Kestler cockily, enjoying the approbation of the older man. It was a brief relaxation. ‘Washington messaged us, about fifteen minutes ago. And then there was a call from Fiore, at the Italian embassy. Both are talking about fuel rods and Fiore thinks their Mafia are probably involved in a tie-up with a group here. It’s not clear if it’s connected with the Ukraine suggestion or whether it’s something quite separate.’
Umberto Fiore was the Italian who’d approached Charlie at the embassy reception and with whom Charlie was lunching in two days. What Kestler had just passed on would be enough to convince London he had built up useful in-country contacts: hopefully, Charlie thought, he’d be able to pad it out with more after meeting the Italian. Abruptly there was a flicker of apprehension. If Fiore kept his reception undertaking, he’d have telephoned Morisa Toreza, like he’d called Kestler, giving Thomas Bowyer the opportunity secretly to advise London in advance of his being able to impress Rupert Dean. ‘Did you try Popov again?’
Kestler nodded. ‘I was told he wasn’t available and that they didn’t know when he would be. So this time, just for the hell of it, I asked where he was because I had some important information. And got told again he wasn’t available but they’d pass a message on. So I left my name.’
‘Like I said, the good old Russian runaround,’ insisted the persistently cynical Lyneham, lumbering to his feet to get fresh drinks and calling Charlie a lucky son-of-a-bitch because mess rules prevented non-members buying.
Kestler played eye-contact games with the preening blonde and said to Charlie, ‘You fancy making up a foursome? I could make a personal recommendation.’
‘I might. But would any of them?’
‘You haven’t any idea of the desperation in this city!’ Kestler realized what he’d said as Charlie was about to respond and said, ‘Oh shit! I’m sorry, Charlie. That wasn’t what I meant. What I meant…’ He was flushed with embarrassment, redder than he had been under Lyneham’s attack.
Charlie grinned at the younger man’s confusion, unoffended. ‘I need to get back to my embassy anyway.’
‘What about later?’ demanded Kestler, abandoning the available harem in his eagerness to make amends. ‘Why don’t we look around the town? Go to a few of the clubs where the bad guys hang out?’
Charlie was immediately attentive. It was something he had to do – he’d even argued the need during the London expenses negotiations – but he’d never considered either Lyneham or Kestler as his guide. The rumpled, elephantine Lyneham probably wouldn’t have been allowed past the door and he hadn’t imagined a fitness freak and wrongly believed non-drinker like Kestler venturing anywhere near unhealthy nightclubs. ‘I’d like that.’
‘It’s a bit like watching animals in a zoo,’ warned Kestler, enjoying being the man of experience like he’d earlier enjoyed being identified as the stud. ‘Seeing them at play it’s difficult to imagine they’d bite your head off.’
Which it was.
Lyneham said he was too old to go with them, freeing Charlie of one uncertainty, and he was relieved of another far more pressing concern when an urgent-voiced Bowyer said on the telephone that there’d been calls for him from both Fiore and Balg, both of whom had refused to leave messages. Charlie said he knew what it was about from other sources and that it looked big. He was fairly confident Bowyer would send some sort of message to London and the date would coordinate perfectly with whatever expenses he later submitted. He had to remember to get as many supporting bills as possible.
They used a US embassy pool car, a complaining Ford which looked very much the orphan among the Mercedes and BMWs and Porsches clustered around the Nightflight, in what Kestler insisted people still called Gorky Street, despite its post-communism name change. Charlie wasn’t sure he would have been admitted if Kestler hadn’t confidently led the way and Charlie mentally apologized for thinking it was only the shambling Lyneham who might have been a hindrance.
It was vast and cavernous and half-lit, a plush-seated and expansive balcony overlooking a heavy dance floor, a viewing gallery from which to watch fish shoal. Charlie contentedly followed the American’s lead, ignoring the downstairs bar for the larger and better-lit one upstairs. A glass of wine and a whisky purporting to be scotch but which wasn’t cost Kestler $80 and Charlie realized he hadn’t negotiated his allowances as well as he’d thought.
They managed to get bar stools close to one end of the curved, glass-reflecting expanse, giving them a spread-out view. Each table was a separate oasis of competing party people. The predominant female fashion was bare shoulders or halter-necks, featuring valleyed cleavage and neon displays of what looked like gold and diamonds and which Charlie decided probably were. A lot of the material in the men’s suits shone, like the gold in their diamond-decked rings and identity bracelets and the occasional neck chain that fell from open-collared shirts. Champagne bottles – French, not Russian – stood like derricks on the biggest oil lake ever struck and quick-eyed waiters ferried constant supplies to ensure the gushers never stopped bubbling. There were a lot of quickly smiling girls offering uplifted invitations at various stretches of the bar: two actually extended their attention to Charlie.
‘You’ve got to be careful,’ advised Kestler. ‘They’re virtually all professional. Anything ordinary runs out at about $400 to $500 a trick and that’s practically a fire sale. And there’s a lot of infection about.’
‘I’ll be careful,’ promised Charlie, solemnly.
‘You need to be,’ said Kestler, looking past Charlie to the assembled tables. ‘Make another sort of mistake and hit on someone’s wife or regular girlfriend and you end up chopped liver. Literally.’
‘I’ll remember that, too.’ Charlie thought Kestler’s earlier description of a zoo at feeding time was very apposite: most of the men did look dangerously unpredictable and those who didn’t were closely escorted by companions who did and a lot of whom sat slightly on the sidelines, waiting to be told what to do. Capone country, recalled Charlie. Lyneham’s description was apposite, too: it was like being in the middle of every gangster movie Charlie had ever seen. He remarked just that to Kestler, as he gestured for refills. The American grinned back and said, ‘That’s exactly how it is. This is performance time, each strutting their stuff for the others. The jewellery is compared and the tits and the ass is compared and the macho is compared and even the size of the bankroll is compared.’
Charlie watched his $100 note disappear into the till. The receipt came but no change. ‘You ever tried to make up case files?’
‘Mug shots and criminal records and stuff like that?’
‘Stuff like that,’ agreed Charlie.
Kestler smiled at him, more sympathetic than patronizing. ‘Ask me that at the end of the evening.’
They left Nightfiight an hour and $200 later. There was an even larger cast pos
turing and performing at Pilot, on Tryokhgorny Val and it cost Charlie a further $300 to sit in the audience. ‘I think I know what your answer’s going to be,’ said Charlie, as they left.
‘Like they say in the movies, you ain’t seen nuthin’ yet,’ parodied Kestler.
Upstairs at the Up and Down club a striptease dancer of breathtaking proportions was ending the tease as they negotiated their way past a shoulder-to-shoulder cordon of granite-faced men all of whom Charlie believed from Kestler’s assurance to be former spetznaz Special Forces. The dance floor was downstairs. The two drinks at the bar there cost Kestler $200 before they went back upstairs to watch another stunning girl disrobe during the most sensuous dance Charlie had ever witnessed.
‘Shit, that makes me horny!’ declared Kestler.
‘Think of the cost,’ cautioned Charlie. He’d already fantasized of bringing Gerald Williams to the Up and Down if the inevitable reimbursement dispute ever brought the financial director personally to Moscow on a fact-finding enquiry.
‘It’s the only thing holding me back,’ admitted the American. He looked, with obvious reluctance, from the gyrating girl, but swept his hand out in the embracing gesture of an ancient farmer dispensing seed. ‘This is the creme de la creme…’ The man hesitated, for the prepared joke. ‘Or crime de la crime, if you really want to get it right. You do a bust here tonight, I guarantee you’d get someone from all the big Families… Ostankino… Chechen… Dolgoprudnaya… Ramenski
… Assyrian… Lubertsky… All of them. And probably a few making up their international links with Italy and Latin America and the United States as well.’
‘Has it ever been done?’
‘Why should it have been done? There’s no statute in Russian law to justify a raid. And all these motherfuckers know it…’ Kestler looked around the room again. ‘These guys would love it, if it happened. It would polish their macho image to be publicly hauled off and then be back on the street again, in hours. Giving the authorities the stiff middle finger.’
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