Anandale shrugged. “You’ll accept, of course, that I have to make judgments upon the best advice I receive.”
“An enormous amount of time and even more commitment has gone into bringing our two sides to where we are now. It would be very unfortunate if at this stage it were to fail.”
“My secretary of state has remained in Moscow,” reminded Anandale. “We have publicly travelled into the city together today.”
“Does that mean our negotiations are going to be concluded with the signing of the treaty?” demanded Okulov, directly.
“It means our negotiations are continuing to a hopeful conclusion, that hope being that no unexpected, insurmountable difficulty arises,” said Anandale, as the cavalcade swept across the cleared Red Square for the televised entry into the Kremlin.
American television had a simultaneous feed from the Russian coverage of Anandale, flanked by Scamell and North, solemnly filing past the open coffin of the assassinated Russian president. Aleksandr Okulov was already in place by the time they reached the receiving line, in the center of which stood a black-suited Raisa Yudkin, her two sons either side of her. She smiled at his approach and Anandale leaned forward to kiss her.
“How’s Ruth?” said the woman, her voice heavily accented.
“Getting better.” He gave a slight movement towards the coffin. “I’m so sorry.” He shook the hands of both boys and moved off.
There was a preinterment reception, also televised, in an adjoining state room and Anandale allowed Scamell to steer him into two appropriate groups-German and Italian-before settling briefly with the British. Anandale said he was looking forward to the following day’s working lunch and the prime minister said he was, too.
It was not until they were back in the armored Cadillac, slotting into their prescribed position in the cortege, that Wendall North said, “You happy how it went?”
“Hear for yourself,” invited Anandale. Through the now lowered separating screen he said, “You get it all, Jeff?”
“Loud and clear, Mr. President,” assured the Secret Service chief, slotting the recording of Anandale’s conversation with Okulov into the Cadillac’s cassette deck.
Everyone’s concentration was totally inside the vehicle, oblivious to everyone and everything outside. When the tape snapped off Anandale said, “Well?”
“Couldn’t be better,” said Scamell.
“Thank you, Jeff,” said Anandale, pressing the control to raise the screen. “You know what I’m thinking? I’m thinking that now we’ve got the Texas problem out of the way, we don’t need the goddamned treaty, we’d do better carrying on perfecting the shield technology.”
“Let’s take pause on that, Mr. President,” advised the chief of staff.
“OK,” agreed Anandale. “But carry out some very discreet soundings: see how further developing it plays on the Hill.”
Charlie was able to see the first five minutes of Anandale’s televised arrival at the military airfield before leaving for the hospital and watched with an impression of deja vu, wondering what emotion the American president would be having. The reflection went at once driving to the hospital with Anne beside him, responding perfunctorily to the occasional remark from the lawyer bent over her case papers in final preparation, his own concentration fully upon the lingering doubt about Natalia. She’d come to him the previous night, wanting him, but he hadn’t been able to respond which had never happened before. The only excuse he’d been able to think of was tiredness from the investigation and she’d turned away tight with frustration and the tension had still been between them that morning.
Impossible though it was-ridiculous though it was-what if Natalia had been drawn in, not in the actual shootings but in some cover-up afterwards? George Bendall had unchallengably been involved in a murderous conspiracy but they had a guaranteed defense against the murder charge itself, so there was no risk of an innocent man being wrongly convicted. She would be obstructing justice, certainly, but how many times had he done that—and worse-any means always justifying a practical end? A lot, although always with more of an episode resolved and more of the opposition punished. What ever, he had no moral or integrity grounds from which to criticize or question. Which wasn’t his problem, he forced himself to admit. His problem was entirely personal, the thought of her holding a distorting mirror in front of him. Which was the most absurd of all. But not all, he thought on, relentlessly. His doubt wasn’t solely about the investigation: maybe not even a major part of it. He was stirring into the mix all his own uncertainties about himself and Natalia: changing the metaphor, holding up his own distorting mirror in front of himself.
“Charlie!”
He started at her demand, realizing he’d missed a question the first time. “Sorry. What?”
“You think you can keep Bendall quiet?” repeated Anne
“That’s what we’re going to the hospital for, but I don’t have a magic formula.”
“Do you really want to keep him quiet?” she demanded, turning to Charlie in the back of the embasssy car. “He promised sensation, remember? He could unlock everything.”
“I want it for myself first, not for a herd that would include the world’s press,” said Charlie.
Olga, Nicholai Badim and the psychiatrist, Guerguen Agayan, were outside the ward when Charlie and Anne approached after passing through the entrance check, which Charlie noted to be as stringent as it had been on the first day, minus only the disputed body check. The regular three-man team was inside Bendall’s room, but there was a much greater number—a lot in militia uniform—further along the corridor, waiting to escort the man to the court.
Anne said, “We need prehearing consultations.”
“A condition was made, about a protective presence,” said Olga.
“Which you can be,” said Charlie, curtly. “There is no need for the guards within the room or for any medical attendance.”
“That’s for us to decide,” said Agayan.
“Is he fit to appear in court?” asked Charlie.
“Yes,” said Badim.
“Can he stand?”
“Sufficiently. There’s a crutch.”
Looking more closely into the room Charlie saw there was an old fashion, T-shaped support propped against the side of the wheelchair in which Bendall was already seated. “Then you’ve fulfilled your function. We want the room empty except for attorney Abbott, myself and militia colonel Melnik.”
Agayan moved to protect further but Olga said, “That’ll be all right. We haven’t a lot of time.”
There was a shuffle of passing people. Inside Charlie recognized that Bendall was dressed in the jeans and long-sleeved sweater the man had been wearing during the tussle on the TV gantry, although they appeared to have been cleaned. He didn’t recognize the faded fabric windcheater in which Bendall only had his right arm, the left side pulled over the man’s injured shoulder. There was scarcely any bulge from the bandaging and Charlie guessed it had been further reduced. There didn’t appear to be a particularly thick dressing at the man’s hip, either. The routine of arranging their own recording was practically automatic.
Charlie said, “Sorry I wasn’t here yesterday, Georgi. You had something you wanted to talk to me about?”
“No,” said Bendall.
“You kept asking for Charlie,” reminded Anne.
“Not important anymore.”
“It might be,” said Charlie. “Why don’t we just talk it through.”
“I don’t want to.”
“There aren’t the facilities for us to talk in a court cell,” said Anne. “That’s why we’re here.”
“OK,” said Bendall.
“I mean we’ve got to talk about anything here,” said Anne.
“There won’t be another chance.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“You remember our telling you yesterday that this isn’t the full trial? It’s just to formally list the charges.”
&n
bsp; “I know.” There was a tinge of irritation in Bendall’s voice.
“You’ll have to stand, for a few moments, while the charges are put.”
“I can do that.”
“Arkadi Semenovich will enter the plea. You don’t have to say anything. You’ll be allowed to sit when that’s over. The prosecution will ask for an adjournment and that will be that, OK?”
The faintest smile pulled at the corners of Bendall’s mouth.
“You don’t say anything, Georgi,” stressed Charlie. “You let your lawyer say it all. You got anything to say, say it to me here, now.”
“Changed my mind.”
“Don’t!” urged Charlie, the frustration burning through him. Bendall said, “I want to go now. I’m ready.”
“Let’s talk about it some more.”
“No!” refused Bendall, his voice raised.
There was movement from the outside corridor. Olga said, “The prison transport’s waiting.”
Charlie said, “We don’t want any outbursts in court, Georgi. You’ll get your chance to say all you want, but not today. You understand?”
Bendall said, “I want to go.”
“We’ll come here afterwards,” promised Charlie. Back in the embassy car, he said, “I fucked up yesterday.”
“Badly,” agreed Anne, at once.
So many roads were closed or restricted because of the funeral security that they had to make an elaborate, looping detour to get to the Central Criminal Court building. There was a bristled hedge of television cameras, stills photographers and sound and print journalists blocking its front and Charlie too late regretted the identifiable embassy car. He shouldered a path for Anne, wincing at the klieg light and flashbulb glare, both of them ignoring the shouted demands, in English, for them to identify themselves. None of the uniformed, lined-up militia officers made any effort to help them. The yelling, jostling scrum pursued them into the pillared vestibule and Charlie only picked out Noskov because the man towered over everyone else.
When they reached the Russian lawyer Charlie, to whom public identification was anathema, said, “Let’s get into court, out of this!”
It was a comparative oasis of calm and quiet beyond the heavy doors. It was the first time Charlie had been inside a Russian court and his initial impressions was that it was very similar to those he knew from England, apart from the more functional raised bench for the five examining judges being necessarily longer but without any carved canopy. The centrally positioned dock was raised the same as in England, topped with a familiar surrounding rail, and to its sides and rippled out in front were benches for lawyers, their support advisors and court officials. Two rows were cobwebbed with headsets for simultaneous translation and at the second sat the sixstrong American legal team, selecting their channels and testing the sound. The rest of the court was already nearly full. A stenographer was at his table, beside the one facing row directly beneath the judges’ bench. To one side was the press enclosure, from which reporters were overflowing into a standing line in front. There was a lot of noise coming from an overhanging balcony into which Charlie couldn’t see but which he assumed to be the public gallery. The glassed booth from which the proceedings were being televised was at the same height as the public gallery, adjoining the translators’ pod. Olga was seated next to a tightly bearded, impressively uniformed and medalled man, with other officers attentively around them. At his entrance Charlie saw her bend to the man, who turned expressionlessly to examine him. Olga gave no facial reaction, either. There were two uniformed militiamen at every door into the well of the court and a further two at each of the two doors leading on to the judges’ bench. John Kayley was away from the rest of the Americans, in one of the shorter rows to the side of the dock. When he saw Charlie he gestured that there was a seat beside him.
Noskov said, “Anything?”
“He’d changed his mind,” said Charlie.
Noskov sighed. “You warned him about histrionics.”
“As well as I could.”
Noskov led Anne to the first row facing the bench and Charlie eased himself next to the American. Kayley said, “What’s new?”
“Nothing,” said Charlie. “You found any of those missing from our fifteen?”
“Not a one.”
“Have the militia added any?”
“Nope. Going to talk to Olga about it, later. You coming straight back?”
“Returning to the hospital first, to talk to Bendall.”
The noise abruptly increased and there was a turning of heads and Charlie turned too, to see Bendall’s wheelchair being lifted from an unseen stairwell into the dock. Seated, the man’s head scarcely came level to the rail. Bendall looked alertly around him, smiling up at the television position, and Charlie thought, an actor. He was sure Bendall would attempt his promise to be sensational, which it probably would. From the slight smile on Kayley’s face, the American guessed it too.
There was the usher’s demand, in Russian, to stand for the crocodiled entry of the five judges. The dock warders supported Bendall until he got his balance on the single crutch beneath his right arm and prodded him to remain upright, after everyone else sat, for the charges to be read. Bendall stood tight against the dock edge, showing no discomfort.
The clerk set out the charges in both names, the chosen Russian identity first, beginning with the conspiracy to murder and finishing with the intent to endanger or take life. Throughout Charlie sat twisted towards the dock, waiting, although he was aware from the corner of his eye of the huge lawyer levering himself to his feet for the equally formal pleas. He saw, too, that Anne was turned completely towards the dock, as expectantly as he was.
Noskov got as far as, “My client’s pleas to these …” before Bendall’s shout drowned him out.
“I want to tell …” started Bendall but then Anne screamed, “No!” and from behind Charlie there was an ear-ringing explosion and then another and the side of Bendall’s head burst in a cloud of scattered red debris.
Charlie swivelled to see a man already running, lowered pistol still in hand, from the first of the continuous rows back towards the door through which Charlie and Anne had entered, fifteen minutes before. And then he saw one of the guarding militiamen with his Markarov drawn, crouching and now Charlie shouted, “No! Don’t …” but the policeman fired, jerking the running gunman to a complete stop and in the split second in which he remained like that, frozen, the court guard fired a second time to send the man crashing backwards.
Charlie and Kayley instinctively moved together, and reached the gunman at the same time. Both shots had hit him in the chest, smashing so much into a pulp there was nothing left to show if he were capable of breathing, which he wasn’t.
So deafened was he by the shots that Charlie lip-read more than heard Kayley say, “Now what the fuck have we got?”
“Nothing,” said Charlie, not able to hear his own voice, either.
22
The initial panic was only slightly less than the aftermath of the presidential shooting. There was a pandemonium of shouting—screams even—and a melee of people milling without direction apart from getting away from the killer now lying harmlessly dead. Every militiaman had his weapon drawn and were adding to the noise, shouting to each other for instructions, and briefly-frightened-Charlie became conscious that the officer who had killed the gunman had the Makarov trained upon him, as if about to shoot and Charlie yelled for the man to turn the gun away.
It was Leonid Zenin who restored order. The bearded militia chief clambered up on to one of the benches, to become the focal point of the court, and bellowed for quiet and when the noise began to subside bawled again for order. By the time he achieved it the judges were being bustled out of the court. Zenin told all his officers to holster their weapons before calling upwards, for those on duty upstairs to empty the public gallery ahead of gesturing others to shepherd lawyers and officials from the well of the court.
Still partially dea
fened, Charlie lip-read more than heard Anne ask if there was any reason for her to stay and shook his head and told her to leave. Anne smiled and nodded. Arkadi Noskov and the American attorneys were anxiously filing out without protest. Charlie felt a prod against his shoulders from another officers clearing the court and shook his head again, now in refusal, identifying himself as an investigator. There was another shove, with the order he did hear to leave, as Olga arrived and told the policeman Charlie could remain. Kayley was arguing with another uniformed man by the dock and Charlie walked with her as Olga crossed to them, to repeat the permission. Olga gazed without any emotion at the nearly headless body of George Bendall crumpled in one corner of the dock. The man lay with the bandaged arm oddly thrown up, as if to protect himself. The warder over whom most of Bendall’s brain debris had scattered had been sick and was slumped in the furthest corner from the body. Caught by a thought, Charlie turned and looked towards the television position, realizing that these killings would again have been caught on camera.
“We back to square one?” wondered Kayley.
Charlie was relieved to begin hearing properly at last. “I wish I knew.” There was, he thought, too much he wished he knew.
They all turned, at Zenin’s approach. Olga made the introductions. When Kayley offered his hand Olga said, “No! You don’t shake hands in the presence of death, it’s bad luck.”
Charlie saw that Zenin had held back from responding. “Everyone’s getting more than their fair share of that, George most of all.”
Zenin looked between the dock and where three uniformed officers—one a major-were standing in a semi-circle around the dead gunman and said loudly that nothing was to be touched or moved until forensic examiners got there.
Beside Charlie the American said, “What’s that saying about stable doors and bolting horses?”
Charlie recognized how immediately Zenin had adopted command. He even followed the man himself as they went back to the body. The gunman, blond-haired and heavily moustached, was lying on his back, his eyes still open. His left leg was folded beneath his right and both arms were spread out. His gun, a Makarov, was about three feet from his right hand. Both militia shots had caught him fully in the chest, caving it in. His shirt, red to begin with, was totally soaked in blood that was seeping into the lapels of an already crumpled fawn suit.
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