Charlie’s Apprentice

by Brian Freemantle

  Natalia felt herself in the middle of a tightrope with both ends fraying, not knowing which way to dash to safety. It all had to be perfectly coordinated, and at the moment it wasn’t. The Federal Prosecutor, who was responsible for any prosecution of Eduard, had acknowledged her approach and then written in greater length, and the previous day there had been a telephone call which she had avoided, with an innocent message left with a secretary for her to return the call, to arrange a meeting. Natalia did not think she could put it off much longer. Two days, she decided. Three at the most. That was the maximum she could allow herself. Just three days.

  In his office further along the same corridor and on the same level at Yasenevo, Fyodor Tudin was finalizing the plans he was sure were going to get rid of Natalia Fedova for ever. He was very excited.

  Thirty-four

  Fyodor Tudin took every possible precaution, fully aware just how dangerously he was initially exposing himself, with no chance of correcting any mistake once he started. He had to get it all right the first time.

  For the second and all-important visit to Petrovka he chose the most senior assistant from his own secretariat to take the notes and formulate the affidavit, but called a lawyer from the general Directorate pool with whom he had no provable association, to lessen any accusation of a clique or cabal, conspiring against the woman.

  The lawyer’s name was Anatoli Alipov, and as soon as the man entered his office Tudin concluded he was ideal for the official inquiry he was going to demand. Alipov was a slow-moving, slow-talking man of about forty-five, grey-haired and dark-suited, the personification of a solid and dependable legal figure.

  ‘It is punishable, under legal statute?’ questioned Tudin, after explaining the reason for the summons.

  ‘Most definitely.’

  ‘And under the regulations of our service?’

  ‘Even more definitely.’

  Tudin smiled, satisfied. ‘We’ll press for both.’

  ‘There will need to be corroboration,’ warned the lawyer.

  ‘It will be provided,’ guaranteed Tudin, confidently. The Militia investigator would have no choice, to save his own neck. And he’d know it, the moment the situation was spelled out to him.

  ‘I dislike this sort of business,’ protested the lawyer. ‘Bad for the service if it becomes public: continues all the overhanging prejudices against the old KGB as a self-protecting organization above all laws or criticism.’

  ‘No!’ challenged Tudin, at once. ‘It’ll prove the very reverse: that when corruption and abuse is discovered, it’s legally and publicly prosecuted under the new democratic system by which this country is now being run.’ Which was the ultimate beauty of the whole thing. Natalia Nikandrova Fedova wasn’t going to be destroyed by any connived or manipulated coup.

  Alipov said: ‘If that’s how it’s to be done, then I agree with you.’

  Tudin telephoned Petrovka to warn of his return, but without saying there would be others with him, and Kapitsa’s unsettled surprise was obvious when they got to Militia headquarters.

  ‘There is a problem?’ questioned the investigator. A comforting cigarette clouded into life.

  Tudin shook his head. ‘We’ll obviously need a statement, won’t we?’ he said, intentionally ambiguous, hurrying to prevent Kapitsa thinking too fully about what he was being told: once he had the boy’s deposition it wouldn’t matter, but at this critical moment Tudin wanted the investigator’s unquestioning cooperation, not any suspicious objections. ‘We’ve got to get something written down: recorded. You see that, don’t you …?’

  ‘I suppose …’ Kapitsa started to agree, but Tudin bustled over him, close to bullying.

  ‘… While we’re doing that, I’d like a copy of the written record of the investigation so far.’

  ‘Yes, but …’

  ‘Doesn’t matter what sort of order or shape it’s in. Just the bare facts are all we need. We’d like to see the boy now: get it all over with.’

  Kapitsa hesitated before stumbling: ‘Yes, of course. No problem. I’ll do … take you down … of course.’

  Tudin reassessed his earlier opinion. The investigator was not just one of the old school, which was invaluable enough in itself: in addition Kapitsa was – rare for anyone in the Militia – intimidated by what he clearly still considered to be the KGB, with all its power and influence. Which in these very particular circumstances was valuable in the extreme. ‘Good! … Good …!’ he urged, backing gratefully from the smoke-fogged room to bring Kapitsa out with him: once he’d attained access to the boy, Tudin considered himself inviolable. Dutifully Kapitsa allowed himself to be drawn out, leading them downstairs: they had to wait in the interview cell for Eduard to be brought to them.

  He arrived complaining loudly, practically bursting into the room in the expectation of confronting his mother, jerking to a halt at encountering strangers. ‘What’s this?’ he demanded.

  Tudin, who throughout a long career in the former KGB believed himself to have developed into an excellent if amateur psychologist, instantly categorized the stale-smelling, newly bearded man in front of him. Characteristics: bombast and pretension. Approach: initially soft, quickly aggressive. Affect: eggshell thin, defensive arrogance easy to crack. Outcome: whatever he wanted it to be.

  ‘Sit down.’ Tudin was soft-voiced, inviting.

  ‘I want …’

  ‘Sit down!’ Immediately loud, intimidating.

  Eduard sat abruptly on the chair he had occupied during the meeting with his mother. He made no attempt to push it back upon its rear legs this time.

  To the Militia officer Tudin said: ‘We’ll handle this now. I’d like you to assemble the arrest reports. Have everything ready for when we leave.’

  Kapitsa backed out into the corridor, nodding agreement. Tudin felt the satisfaction ballooning inside him. Done it, he thought: got here without argument or suspicion from the one person who might have obstructed him! So he was there: he’d virtually won.

  ‘Who are you?’ Eduard tried to make the question demanding, but his voice wavered and Tudin detected it.

  ‘Eduard Igorevich Fedova?’ The soft approach was back.

  ‘You’re from my mother’s department?’ said Eduard, smiling expectantly.

  The idiot was making it even easier. ‘Yes,’ Tudin agreed, honestly.

  ‘Thank God for that! Why has she left me this long?’

  ‘That’s what we’ve come to talk about.’ Tudin gestured the note-taker to the chair directly opposite Eduard, the only one available.

  Eduard looked up at Tudin. ‘What’s this? What’s happening?’

  ‘What’s got to happen,’ said Tudin. He had to avoid leading as much as possible. It was too late now to wonder if he should have established in advance some questioning routine with the lawyer: he wished he had thought about it earlier.

  ‘I don’t understand what’s going on here!’ protested Eduard.

  ‘Do you understand why you’ve been arrested?’

  The frown creased the younger man’s face again. ‘Of course I do! What sort of a question is that?’

  The arrogance had to be extinguished. Suddenly loud-voiced, Tudin said: ‘A question you’ve got to answer! Properly! Like you’ve got properly to answer every other question that’s put to you by us today. You’ve got to understand something, Eduard Igorevich. Your mother can’t help you. I can.’

  ‘What is this?’ Eduard repeated. The indignation was very weak.

  ‘Why do you think we’re from your mother’s department?’

  ‘Obvious, isn’t it?’

  Tudin decided he had to lead this fool, just a little. ‘You were in charge of an illegal convoy of narcotic and medical drugs, as well as black-market material.’

  Eduard’s eyes went between the note-taker and Tudin. He said nothing.

  ‘Answer me.’

  Eduard’s shoulders moved up and down. ‘I haven’t been charged with anything yet.’

  ‘If
you don’t start behaving properly – sensibly – you will be charged. The combined offences carry a maximum penalty of forty-five years’ imprisonment. Think about that: forty-five years. You’d be sixty-eight years old when you were released …’ Tudin sniggered. ‘Not really possible to imagine something like that, is it?’ Tudin knew at once the barb had deeply embedded itself.

  Eduard’s tongue came out snakelike over his lower lip and he was frowning again, trying to grasp the import of what he was being told. Striving to find a way out from the pressure, he said: ‘Tell me what you want me to do. To say.’

  ‘In your own words – as fast or as slowly as you like – I want you to tell us everything leading up to your arrest on the Serpukhov road.’

  The flickering smile came at last. ‘I don’t think I can talk about what happened on the Serpukhov road – if indeed anything did happen on the Serpukhov road – until I have had a chance to talk with a lawyer.’

  Tudin suppressed his fury at this juvenile posturing. ‘What about after you were brought here? And your mother came to see you?’

  ‘What do you want?’ wailed Eduard. ‘What does she want me to say or do? Help me!’

  He had to take the risk. Tudin said: ‘That’s what it comes down to, Eduard Igorevich. Helping you. That’s what your mother was going to do, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Going to?’ snatched the younger man, catching the ball that Tudin threw him.

  Getting there, thought Tudin: it was slow but he was getting there. ‘We know about your meeting here. What was said: all of what was said.’ Beside him Alipov shifted, and Tudin wondered if it was at what he was saying or merely weariness, at having to stand for so long. They really should have discussed the approach, before this confrontation.

  ‘So?’

  ‘Tell us what she promised you: what you always understood your protection would be, if you got arrested …’ Tudin nodded towards the waiting secretary. ‘He’ll take it all down.’

  ‘You’re not from my mother, are you?’

  ‘I’ve already told you, she can’t help you,’ stated Tudin, flatly. ‘I can. But you’ve got to cooperate.’

  ‘How can you help me?’ demanded Eduard, quickly again. The tongue reappeared, more nervously than before. And he was beginning to perspire, worsening the already long-unwashed smell.

  ‘Immunity,’ declared Tudin, shortly. Alipov shifted again. Tudin hoped the lawyer didn’t interrupt or try to introduce caveats. Tudin knew himself so close to success he felt he could reach out to touch it.

  Eduard’s nervousness remained, but there was a slyness now. ‘What’s happened to my mother?’

  ‘She’s exceeded her authority. By undertaking to protect you.’ It was an exaggeration but only he knew it: and it wouldn’t be an exaggeration when he’d made his complaint, based upon what this snivelling, self-serving little bastard was shortly going to tell him.

  Eduard’s smile was hopeful. ‘You said immunity.’

  ‘If you make a full statement, about everything she said to you … tell us about why you were so sure you would always be protected by her … I’ll intercede on your behalf.’

  ‘I couldn’t do that without talking about why I’m here,’ bargained Eduard, smiling longer this time. ‘That’s more serious for me than anything involving my mother. The two are too inextricably mixed up, anyway.’

  ‘I’ll get you immunity from any criminal prosecution, too,’ conceded Tudin.

  ‘No accusations about anything?’ pressed the young man, determined to clarify the deal he was being offered.

  ‘None.’

  It took two hours. Alipov quickly broke in, at the beginning, to stop Eduard performing for an imagined audience, insisting instead upon a cohesive account, stopping and questioning the lank-haired man every time he veered off on a self-important tangent. It took another hour for the deposition to be typed, over Eduard’s signature. Tudin witnessed it, as the interrogator. Alipov signed, as the independent legal arbiter.

  Eduard said: ‘I’ve done all that you wanted?’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Tudin.

  ‘I want to get out of this shit-hole.’

  Tudin had not expected such an immediate demand but he was prepared for it. ‘I’ll arrange it as quickly as I can.’

  Kapitsa was waiting in his second-floor office. ‘I didn’t expect you to be so long.’

  ‘Read this,’ demanded Tudin, curtly, offering the deposition.

  It took Kapitsa three cigarettes to get through the document. He came up hesitantly and said: ‘Where is this going to be used?’

  ‘Before an inquiry into the activities of General Natalia Nikandrova Fedova,’ declared Tudin. ‘You will be required to testify as well.’

  There was a further moment of uncertainty. Then Kapitsa said: ‘Yes. I understand.’

  Late that evening, when they were quite alone back at Yasenevo, the lawyer said: ‘What authority do you have, offering that lout immunity from prosecution?’

  ‘None,’ admitted Tudin, casually. ‘I’ll recommend it, like I said. If the Federal Prosecutor doesn’t agree, that’s fine by me. Eduard Igorevich can be prosecuted. But after he’s testified against his mother.’ It was a wonderful feeling to have won: like the best drinking experience he had ever had.

  It was the smallest class for a very long time, only three students, and they were all evasive and uncomfortable when Snow questioned them about the others, variously insisting they did not know the reason for the absences. Li arrived in the middle of the lesson, sending the familiar frisson through the room, and the priest accepted the pointlessness, quickly ending the session.

  ‘I have my photographs,’ announced the man, offering the packet. ‘I am very pleased with them.’

  Snow accepted the folder, without opening it, not knowing what else to do or say.

  ‘Aren’t you going to look?’

  Snow shuffled with forced slowness through the pictures, sure he was remaining impassive, mentally matching print for print, realizing that nothing Li had taken during their journey had been omitted.

  The Shanghai prints were last. There were five, the same number that he had taken of the warships and proudly sent to London. But there were no warships in any of these shots. The positioning was the same and the lighting was the same and the time of day was the same but Snow knew they were not the same. The innocuous and quite meaningless photographs had to have been taken subsequently, after the flotilla had sailed.

  ‘Now I can have mine, in exchange, can’t I?’ smiled Li.

  They’d anticipated him, Snow accepted: beaten him. ‘I would hope so, very shortly,’ he said. How? he wondered.

  Thirty-five

  It took several hours for Gower to get hold of himself and fully comprehend the psychological pressure being imposed upon him. Finally, thankfully, he began to draw on the interrogation resistance in which he had done so well in training – and which had been further refined during those last, unorthodox sessions – and to concentrate upon behaving professionally. He’d faltered, admittedly: initially forgotten everything he’d ever been taught, all the training he’d undergone. But now he’d recovered: now he could fight back. Win.

  So far it was almost classically textbook: there were even elements of it dating back as far as 1953 and recorded by men taken prisoner by the Chinese during the Korean war. He knew all those techniques. And others that followed later. So he could anticipate them: not completely perhaps, but enough. Fear – of the unknown, of what might happen next – was the first, eroding, intention of every interrogation. Once fear was instilled, every other collapse was inevitable, simply a matter of time. But it wasn’t going to happen to him. Not now he’d collected himself. There was apprehension, naturally. But no longer the panicked emptiness that had made him piss himself, in those first few moments. He could think ahead: guess what was coming. And what he could guess, even incompletely, wouldn’t be erodingly unknown.

  The filthy, shit-smelling cell and the lice-ridde
n, stinking uniform were very much part of the ritual, calculated to degrade him into the deepest despair as quickly as possible. There was no toilet paper, if he was forced to use the fly- and excrement-encrusted hole. Water would be fouled, to give him dysentery. He’d have to expect any food to be rotten, to achieve the same illness: possibly even maggot-infested, openly to revolt him. And for as long as he was detained, he’d be denied any washing facilities. Not allowed to shave.

  From the concrete shelf, Gower at last surveyed the rest of the cell in the necessary detail, seeking how they would watch him, surprised when he couldn’t detect any electronic device in any part of the ceiling or upper walls. All that was obvious was the round Judas-hole, in the solid metal door. He stood at last and went entirely around the cell to look more closely and still found nothing. There would be the minimal warning, from the covering scraping back, when they looked. He would have to be prepared to move quickly to conceal from them any indication that he’d regained control. My advantage, decided Gower.

  Moving about the cell brought him close enough to the lavatory hole to hear the permanent buzz of the flies. Revulsion could be eroding, although not as much as fear. Equally essential that it be controlled: overcome. Alert for any sound from the door, he forced himself towards the hole, tensed against the stench and the sudden cloud swarm disturbed by his approach. More insects rose up about him in protest when he began to urinate. As he did so, he was aware of a positive scratching, from inside the hole. How many rats would there be, he wondered.

  Gower was back on the concrete ledge when the observation point scraped open. He was sure he hunched forward, arms around himself in the near broken pose they wanted, before anyone looked in. Gower remained unmoving. It was several moments before it scraped loudly closed again.

  Gower started his mental count from that observation, remaining bent, intent on gauging their routine. Roughly every fifteen minutes, he estimated, after the third inspection. Part of a careful pattern constantly to disconcert him by the noise and by his becoming unsettled at how frequently he was being watched. But counter-productive because he could match his pattern to theirs and move around the cell, even relax as much as possible, in between their checks.