Bomb Grade cm-11

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘As it could if it is based upon your guidance and your opinion is wrong,’ challenged Saxon, immediately.

  ‘Unquestionably,’ accepted Charlie, just as quickly. ‘You asked for my input. That’s it, lying on the table there. I am not asking you, not even suggesting, that you take any notice of it. I am prepared to stand and be judged by it. I am not asking anyone else to be.’

  The ambassador blinked at the forcefulness, which silenced Saxon and Bowyer, as well.

  ‘You must have information that we don’t know about to be as positive as this?’ said Saxon.

  ‘I have been doing the job I was sent here to perform.’

  ‘Does that mean you’re refusing to give us your sources?’ demanded Bowyer.

  Fucking right it does, thought Charlie. The bastard was trying to exacerbate a positive confrontation for the ambassador to invoke his ultimate authority! And Charlie didn’t want to go as far as having to refuse outright, which he would do if necessary. ‘You have everything I have sent to London.’

  Instead of making the demand Bowyer, and possibly Saxon, had hoped, Wilkes said, ‘You’re sure of your information?’

  ‘Judge it on the facts!’ urged Charlie, again. ‘Nineteen canisters are still missing! Recovering some is good but there’s no cause for any upbeat reaction from London. Or from anywhere else.’

  The ambassador nodded, an accepting gesture, and said, ‘Thank you, for your opinion,’ and Charlie knew he’d got away with it. Saxon and Bowyer knew it, too.

  As they walked back through the embassy corridors, Bowyer said, ‘That was unforgivable! You were insubordinate!’

  He had been, by diplomatic standards, accepted Charlie. ‘You going to complain to London?’

  ‘I’d be surprised if someone doesn’t. Leaving me to provide an explanation.’

  ‘And what would that be?’ asked Charlie, directly.

  Bowyer halted, in the corridor outside his office. ‘It would be very difficult for me to defend your behaviour back there.’

  ‘So I’m cast to the wolves,’ mocked Charlie, who’d decided what to do during the walk from the ambassador’s suite.

  ‘You cast yourself,’ said Bowyer.

  The full transcript of what was available from the satellite audio-transmission was waiting when Charlie got back to his cubicle. The word akrashena appeared three times, although no specific importance was attached because in the context it read as if in the eavesdropped conversation between the nuclear thieves ‘wet paint’ was a mocking sneer at the contamination from the leaking containers. Which couldn’t have been better.

  Charlie sat back with his hands cupped contentedly over his stomach, allowing himself the self-congratulation. It had taken a long time but at last he was where he always preferred to be: on his own and unencumbered, with an inside track that was going to keep him ahead of the game and already with something that no one else would realize the significance of. He hadn’t worked it out totally himself but he was getting there.

  It took Charlie much longer to realize the significance of other disparate words, but when he did there was even more self-satisfaction. It was an over-familiar, incomplete reference and it wouldn’t have meant anything if Charlie hadn’t worked twice in Warsaw, in the old Cold War days, and heard the legend of the Zajazd Karczma. So there was the possibility it wouldn’t mean anything to the analysts either in London or Washington, who’d be dissecting everything vowel by vowel, although he preferred to think they’d get it in time. But in time it would be too late.

  Charlie endured five minutes of Jurgen Balg talking of the ambassadorial briefing before declaring, ‘The rest – or a percentage at least – is moving through Poland. I don’t have any timings or routes but it’s Warsaw.’

  ‘You’re sure of Warsaw?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then it’s more likely to be routed through Germany than the Czech Republic’

  ‘That would be my guess, too.’

  ‘What’s Moscow doing about it?’

  There was no reason to tell the German he’d been excluded: it diminished his usefulness to the other man. ‘They aren’t aware of it.’

  There was a momentary silence from Balg. ‘What about America?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  This time the silence was longer. ‘Between ourselves?’

  ‘That’s how I’d like it to stay.’ Balg might have a reason to break the undertaking, so Charlie supposed he’d have to say something to Kestler. But there was no immediate hurry: self-preservation – with the new addition of protecting Natalia – was always the paramount consideration. And it was, after all, American information which they already had in Washington: probably in full, not intermittent like he had it.

  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ promised the German.

  ‘I’d like to be involved.’ It was a lot to expect but if you don’t ask you don’t get, thought Charlie. So it was worth a try.

  Having dealt with things in order of priority, Charlie came back to the decision he’d reached on his way back from the ambassador’s office. He wrote steadily for half an hour, leaving until the end the final inscription on the fronting page and was actually putting it into his desk drawer when Thomas Bowyer appeared at the door.

  ‘You’re being recalled to London,’ announced Bowyer, triumphantly.

  ‘I hoped I would be,’ replied Charlie, spoiling the other man’s moment. But not until the following day, Charlie decided: he couldn’t leave without talking to Natalia.

  ‘We’ve been excluded,’ announced Dean. As he had at the still-inconcluded confrontation with Peter Johnson, Dean spoke extremely slowly, measuring out his anger in every word.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir.’ Unthinkingly Fenby had picked up Henry Fitzjohn’s unctuously polite mannerism: it was not unusual for him to copy speech affectation he admired.

  You’re going to be, determined Dean. He didn’t yet fully know how, because it had to be to his maximum benefit and advantage. All he had at the moment was an implacable determination to overturn with as great an upheaval as possible whatever the water-drinking, salad-eating, ego-driven bastard imagined he was doing. Today was a simple declaration of war, which he expected Fenby too stupid to realize. ‘So was I. The nonsense about governmental leaks didn’t justify it.’

  ‘You think that was the reason, sir?’ The FBI Director sat with his chair tilted away from the foot-resting desk of his top-floor office, gazing up Pennsylvania Avenue towards the Capitol with the telephone cupped loosely into his shoulder. Fenby’s mind was only half on the conversation: my town, he was thinking; my town and I’m a central player.

  ‘Can you think of another one?’

  ‘I thought we gave a satisfactory explanation from here. Guess you did, too, from your end.’

  ‘We gave an explanation,’ agreed the Director-General. Heavily he added, ‘An explanation for ourselves, that’s all. In fact I think you should see it. The sanitized version and what really happened. I’m shipping both over in the diplomatic bag from your embassy today.’ Charlie’s itemized complaints against Kestler were already in front of Dean, isolated in an unusually cleared space on his desk.

  In Washington Fenby frowned, at the ‘what really happened’ remark. ‘Much obliged, but I really can’t see the need.’

  ‘In return, I’d be interested to see how you handled it, to find where I went wrong. We’re treating the whole thing as a joint operation, after all.’

  Fenby brought his feet down from the desk. ‘Happy to send it over, sir; try to get it in your embassy bag tonight.’ It would involve another morning creating another phoney response, that was all.

  ‘It’ll make both our records as complete as possible.’

  ‘Politics is the art of the possible, isn’t that what they say?’

  The ill-fitting response momentarily silenced the Briton with its absurdity, although not by its significance. Rupert Dean did have the excellent memory of which he’d assured his deputy. Wh
om he remembered paraphrasing that very same axiom of his revered Bismarck at their briefing review just before Charlie Muffin had gone to Moscow. Another indication, which he didn’t need, of how closely and how much Peter Johnson had maintained his back-door communication with the American. Would Johnson have already warned Fenby? He was still waiting for Johnson’s response to his ultimatum. Briefly Dean considered taunting Fenby about the inane remark, sure the American knew nothing whatsoever about the statesman who’d unified Germany. Instead he said, ‘Of course, ironically, I’m glad it’s happened.’

  ‘Glad?’ Fenby frowned, beginning to concentrate.

  ‘I’m temporarily withdrawing my man, obviously.’ Dean wished it had been a face-to-face confrontation: he would have liked to see Fenby’s complacency begin to crumble.

  The FBI Director swivelled away from his powerhouse view. ‘I’m not sure I’m following you on this, sir.’

  ‘Well, I know you haven’t swallowed that reassuring nonsense put out by Moscow.’

  Fenby smiled in the solitude of his office. ‘Got a very balanced account from my people.’

  ‘Then you’ll know there isn’t a hope in hell of the Russians getting it all back: maybe none of what’s still missing. We’re going to have a major crisis – maybe more than one – on top of an already major disaster. With the Russians frantic to put blame on everyone but themselves. So the best place to be at the moment is as far out of it as possible, wouldn’t you say?’ Dean spoke looking at the muted television set already focused on the House of Commons chamber, in readiness for the prime ministerial statement. He’d have to congratulate Charlie Muffin, after the way the Downing Street briefing had gone: there couldn’t be any doubts about the Moscow posting, from today. Or of the snipe-free security of the department.

  In Washington Fenby felt the cold breath of uncertainty. He actually shivered. ‘It’s certainly going to need a lot of care.’

  Dean grimaced at the inadequacy. ‘Thought we should talk things through, to ensure we agree the scale of the problem.’

  ‘I’ve already spelled it out to my people,’ lied Fenby. But he was going to, the moment he got this damned man off the telephone.

  ‘I look forward to getting your package,’ said Dean.

  ‘Like I am to getting yours,’ said Fenby.

  You won’t when you read it, thought Rupert Dean. When the need arose – particularly if that need was to protect Charlie Muffin and the Russian appointment – he intended utilizing it through every media and diplomatic outlet to reverse their Moscow expulsion. The threat alone should be sufficient to bring John Fenby to heel, which by itself was a pleasing thought.

  The first praise came from Dmitri Fomin, who’d entered the Interior Ministry prepared to be annoyed at the abrupt summons but whose attitude changed within minutes of Natalia giving a precis of her interrogation of Lev Yatisyna in advance of playing the full account to the ministerial group. The presidential aide called it outstanding and there was a brief discussion about reconvening the operational committee in advance of the following day’s planned session before it was decided to be impractical. Natalia said she had already arranged for an artist to make the promised sketches and pointed out ahead of anyone else there couldn’t be any question of their being publicly issued until after Yevgennie Agayans was in custody. Radomir Badim said if necessary he would actually get an official clemency document prepared to extract everything there was from Yetisyna, assuring Fomin at the same time it would be rescinded or simply torn up when they’d got all they wanted. Fomin said that politically, most particularly to avoid embarrassment in the West, any mass trials of corrupt policeman would have to be held quite separate from hearings involving the attempted or successful nuclear thefts. Badim pointed out that would be difficult if Militia officers were actually named in connection with nuclear thefts. The encounter ended with Fomin increasing his earlier praise by promising to identify her in a memorandum to the President.

  Natalia decided, apart from Charlie Muffin’s expulsion, it had been a hugely successful day. That was how she set out to describe it to Aleksai Popov but when she got to their office level he’d gone. There was no reply from his apartment and she replaced the telephone, anxious to make the other necessary call.

  *

  They’d used pulleys to raise him into a sitting position with his feet outstretched and there was nothing to sit upon, so all Silin’s weight was supported by his wrist bands and his arms became dislocated first at the shoulder and then at the elbows by his writhing in agony from what they did to him.

  Sobelov himself began beating the soles of Silin’s feet, pausing periodically to repeat the one question he wanted answered, and when he grew tired he gave the metal rod to each of the Commission until Silin’s feet swelled into footballs. He screamed over and over again and his bowels collapsed but he didn’t give Sobelov the names. They crushed Silin’s feet then, slowly, between gradually tightened vices. He lapsed into unconsciousness several times and Sobelov became impatient with the delay in reviving him. Still Silin said nothing when the torture started again. They used the bar with which they’d beaten his feet to break both his legs and his kneecaps. Silin screamed but didn’t talk.

  Finally, exhausted, Sobelov said, ‘Remember, you’re responsible for what’s going to happen now.’

  chapter 25

  C harlie was back at Lesnaya in time to see the CNN transmission of the statement from both the Prime Minister and the American President, as well as the cable network’s round-up of the rest of the Western reaction. The British was by far the most reserved, the concentration upon the amount of material still missing rather than upon that recovered, a fact that was seized upon by the Russian television commentary, which Charlie considered the biggest bonus of all.

  He considered calling Kestler, wanting to know anything additional to what he’d already seen and heard on Russian television that Hillary Jamieson might have found at Ulitza Volkhonka, but decided it could wait until the following morning when he talked to the American about the satellite voice pick-up at the same time as announcing his London return. It would probably have been difficult to locate either of them anyway: even this early in the evening Kestler would probably be working hard to add Hillary’s pubic scalp to his collection. He thought of packing for the following day but dismissed it as unnecessary preparation and instead poured a glass of Macallan, raised it to himself in lonely congratulation and said, ‘Well done, Charlie. Keep it up.’ He looked at his watch a lot, which was how he knew it was exactly seven-fifteen when Natalia finally rang.

  ‘Yetisyna broke, like a baby: the easiest ever,’ Natalia declared, needing to boast.

  Nothing about his being closed out, thought Charlie: her speed, her priorities. ‘Totally?’

  ‘Enough. Classic bully persona, collapsing under the slightest pressure.’ Natalia used her account to Charlie as a rehearsal for the presentation the following day. She was glad now she hadn’t been able to contact Aleksai. She wanted him to hear it first with all the others: most of all to hear the repeated praise and congratulation from higher authority. Aleksai had been accorded his: now it was her turn.

  When she finished Charlie said objectively; ‘How much do you believe?’

  ‘Most of it. He’s exaggerating, not actually lying.’

  ‘Who knows?’

  ‘Minister level. Fomin has promised a named reference to the President.’

  ‘Very good,’ acknowledged Charlie. ‘No one else?’

  ‘It’s going to be announced at a full meeting tomorrow.’

  Not so good, thought Charlie, although he didn’t say so. ‘To which I am no longer admitted,’ he prompted.

  ‘I didn’t know it was going to happen,’ Natalia said at once, anxiously apologetic.

  Charlie frowned, curiously. ‘Kestler thought it was a committee decision. I assumed you would have been present.’

  ‘I didn’t know in sufficient time to tell you,’ Natalia clarified. ‘I
had to appoint interrogators to question the people arrested with the canisters: I was going to do it myself but then I had the message from Yatisyna that he wanted to see me, so everything had to be rescheduled. Everyone was assembled by the time I got there. Aleksai told me they thought it had been made public by the British and it had already been decided to withdraw all cooperation.’

  ‘By the British,’ pressed Charlie. ‘Not by me personally?’

  ‘No. You weren’t mentioned by name.’

  ‘And it was Popov who told you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Which was who it logically should have been, acknowledged Charlie. It was time he made his contribution. ‘The leak came from Moscow.’

  ‘How do you know?’ demanded the woman.

  ‘According to the Western count, twenty-two canisters were stolen, not nineteen, which was what the Reuter story said. It also identified Murom as the train’s destination: Kestler and I always assumed it was Gorkiy. We’d never heard of Murom. And what was taken has never been positively identified to us as plutonium 239. But it was in what Reuter put out.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  Charlie didn’t want to cheat her but he had to lie: what she didn’t know she couldn’t inadvertently impede and what Natalia had just told him from her side increased the danger. So in ignorance she – and Sasha – would remain safe; he strained for any sound of his daughter in the background but couldn’t hear her. He had to move Natalia onwards and away with a scalpel-like finesse to prevent any experienced suspicion. ‘I have to go back.’

  ‘Back where?’ she asked, confused.

  A good start, Charlie decided. ‘London.’

  ‘Ordered?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How long for?’

  Charlie detected no hesitation or voice change. ‘Re-evaluation, I guess. I don’t know.’ Did he have to be this brutal, after everything else he’d done to her? Cruel eventually to be kind, he tried to convince himself. And wasn’t convinced.

  This time Natalia did hesitate. ‘Could it be permanent?’