“It would be good to hear something that takes the investigation forward.”
It very definitely would, thought Charlie. It would be premature to become overconfident from this very preliminary conversation, but it looked as if he’d kept himself on the inside of the investigation. But in terms of practicality, the inquiry hadn’t moved a stumbling step from the finding of the body.
“Surprised to hear from you so soon after our dinner,” opened Charlie, finally responding to the other voice mail from Bundy.
“I’d welcome talking to someone whose experience and opinions I respect,” said Bundy.
Bollocks, dismissed Charlie. “Been away too long myself to get up to speed yet.”
“You certainly hit the ground at a busy time.”
“Maybe one that talking about on an open-line telephone isn’t such a good idea, unless you’re equipped with an intercept white noise cutout at your end.”
Bundy laughed. “You’re not trying to tell me you’re calling on a phone that hasn’t been swept clean enough to shine in the dark?”
I’m not but someone else already has, decided Charlie. And it was all too easy to decide who that person was. “I’m still uncomfortable after an episode like this.”
“You wouldn’t be on top of your job, which you always have been, if you weren’t more than uncomfortable,” overflattered the American. “We talked the other night about lunch. How about it?”
Charlie’s instinctive inclination was to make an excuse, just as quickly discarded. Charlie was as much a learn-everything Russophile as Bill Bundy and wanted very much to discover the reason for Bundy’s inexplicable interest in him. He was also anxious to get off the telephone and out of the embassy to make contact with Natalia. “Lunch would be good.”
“How about tomorrow? The Pekin on the ring road?”
He now had Bundy’s direct line to cancel if the mortuary visit went on longer than he expected. “One o’clock unless I have to cry off.”
“I hope you don’t cry off,” said the American.
To make what he judged the far more important call Charlie used the same telephone kiosk farther along Smolenskaya from which he’d rearranged his dinner date with Paula-Jane, with whom he guessed he was going to have a confrontation the following day.
“How about the Botanical Gardens?” he suggested, when she answered.
He heard—or hoped he heard—her faint laugh at the venue: the gardens, with their huge cultivation greenhouses, had been one of their tryst locations when he’d first maneuverd the posting to Moscow after learning of Sasha’s existence. “How long will you need to be sure?”
“Two hours should be more than enough,” said Charlie, knowing Natalia wouldn’t require the same amount of time to ensure she wasn’t under surveillance. He also knew that she would still take every precaution.
“Eight then,” accepted Natalia. “The tropical plant greenhouse, as always.”
She’d even remembered the specific meeting spot, Charlie recognized, encouraged.
8
Natalia was waiting on the seat he’d expected, partially hidden beneath an overshadowing cedar but with an unobstructed view of his approach to establish for herself that he was not under any surveillance. This was where—and how—she’d expertly waited in those initial days that now seemed so long ago: it had been summer then, too, and although it would have been impossible for it to have been the same one, she was even wearing a matching light coat that Charlie remembered her wearing then.
She would have seen him enter, of course, but she didn’t look up from her book and Charlie made no acknowledgement as he continued past to a seat closer to their chosen glassed exhibition hall where he sat and opened that day’s Pravda. His position gave Natalia an even more extensive view from which surveillance could have been established if any pursuers entered through other gates; Charlie was sure there was no one after the precautions he’d taken over the preceding two hours. The Moscow Metro, with its eight separate but interlinked, people-jammed underground lines, was an espionage Olympics training ground for trail clearing, and that evening Charlie had used it like the gold medalist he was.
He’d been alert to everything and everyone around him when he’d left the embassy, deep within as big a departing group as he could find among which to hide himself from the remaining although slightly smaller media melee, knowing there would still be FSB cameramen among the photographers. He kept that danger in mind while making for the already identified telephone kiosk on Smolenskaya. Although not suspicious of any suddenly slowing pedestrian or vehicle during his brief conversation with Natalia, he held back from descending immediately underground at a convenient Smolenskaya Metro station. Forcing himself onto Kievskaya with growing protest from unexpectedly challenged feet, he changed at Barrikadnaya onto the inner-city sixth Tapansko line, disembarking at Tverskaya to change lines again, allowing himself two stops until transferring to the Kaluzsko-Rizskaja route to go north. He became uncomfortable with a bespectacled, mustached man who stayed with him as far as Turgenevskaya, remaining on the train after the man disembarked, and only got off himself at the warning of the doors closing to trap on the departing train anyone who might have worked an obligatory observation switch. Charlie went back and forth between two alternative lines, once coming up to ground level—before going back down again after five lingering minutes—at Poljanka. He’d finally emerged at Botanicheskiy Sad with fifteen minutes to spare before his rendezvous with Natalia, sore-footed but confident he was alone.
It was an additional fifteen minutes before Natalia finally got up from her bench and crossed to where he rose to meet her.
“You’re clear,” she said.
“I know.” She was wearing her hair shorter but otherwise he didn’t think she’d changed at all. “You look wonderful.”
“You look like you,” she said, smiling.
“I’d like to kiss you.”
“Do you have to ask?”
“I’m not sure. Do I?”
“I’m not sure, either.” She turned her head as he came toward her, offering her cheek.
“We know we’re alone but I can’t remember anywhere around here where we could move on to,” said Charlie. Hurriedly he added, “A restaurant, I mean.”
“I know what you mean. There’s a place on the next block. I’ve never been there, so I don’t know what it’s like.”
A discovery she’d made clearing her own trail, Charlie guessed. “Let’s look at it.”
It specialized in Georgian cuisine, already with enough people inside to recommend it, and able to provide Charlie’s choice of wine, which he ordered the moment they secured a secluded table at the rear, against an inner wall. He also ordered chilled vodka with the Beluga, which they both appropriately chose before their fish.
Natalia said: “You ordered caviar for me the first time we ate out.”
“I was trying to impress you then, too.” It had been Natalia who’d taken the risk then, agreeing to the outing while still officially debriefing him to confirm he was a genuine defector, which he hadn’t been, living another professional lie.
“As you are now?”
“Now’s a celebration of our being back together.”
“In the same city together,” she qualified, heavily.
“It’s a start.”
“You’re rushing, Charlie. There’s a lot to talk about: maybe too much for one night.”
“I’ve got as many nights as we need.”
Natalia made as if to speak but didn’t. Then she said, “Do you really know how long you’ll be here?”
Now it was Charlie who hesitated. “It’ll be some time.”
“I didn’t enjoy the Botanical Gardens routine,” Natalia declared. “I didn’t the first time.”
“I didn’t imagine you would.”
“And wouldn’t, for all those nights we might need. Nor would Sasha.”
They both waited for their main fish courses to be served. Ch
arlie considered a second bottle of wine but decided against it. Natalia had often complained of his drinking too much. When the waiter left, Charlie said: “Of course, Sasha wouldn’t be involved in anything like tonight. It just had to be this way, to make contact.”
“And?” she asked, laying down her knife and fork unnecessarily to show the importance of her question.
It was a protective demand she was justified in making, not an investigative inquiry into what he was professionally involved. “A possibility at Turgenevskaya. I slipped it, if indeed there was a watcher with me.”
“You hope.”
“You were the final cutoff check. You know I arrived clean.” This wasn’t evolving as he’d expected.
Natalia began eating again. “Sasha called, before I left. She’s enjoying herself.”
The encounter wasn’t working out as Natalia had intended, either, Charlie guessed. “What do you tell her, about me? About us?”
“That you’re her father but that you have to work away.”
“Doesn’t she question that?”
“She’s starting to. There are other fathers of children in her class who work away but they come home sometimes. She can’t understand why you never do.”
“Doesn’t she remember me at all?”
“Not really. She’s got all the toys and dolls you spoiled her with.”
“My meeting her now—but then having eventually to go away again—is going to confuse her even more, isn’t it?” said Charlie, objectively.
“Yes,” agreed Natalia, abandoning her meal altogether.
“Do you want me to meet her now, this time?” asked Charlie, pushing his own plate aside.
“You’re her father.”
“Who doesn’t want to confuse her, upset her, any more than is happening now.”
“Any more than I do,” echoed Natalia, shaking her head against Charlie’s offer of more wine.
“I can’t live here again. And it’s not primarily a question of my not wanting to—although I don’t, as you know—but the practicality of not being able to, not anymore,” said Charlie, urgently. “The FSB are involved in what I’m doing here. I’m identified to them now. You wouldn’t just be dismissed from the service if you and I were found out. You’d probably be arrested. Jailed. I’d be expelled and wouldn’t be able to take Sasha with me. She’d end up in a state orphanage. The answer’s what it’s always been—for you to resign and come to London with me. The question is, who do you love more, Sasha and me? Or Russia?”
“That’s a cheap, unfair question!” protested Natalia, only just managing to keep her voice under control.
“It’s the practical one,” insisted Charlie, unrepentant.
“Do you think your service would let you go on working for them, with me in London?”
“I doubt it. It’s not important, not anymore. Terrorism is the new buzzword. With my background—as much of it as I would be able to disclose on a CV—I could get work as an antiterrorist consultant like that”—Charlie snapped his fingers—“at probably three times more money than I’m earning now.”
“And hate every minute of it,” predicted Natalia.
“I hate every minute of what I’m doing now,” said Charlie, having to control the loudness of his own voice. “I want to be with you and Sasha more than I want to be in this fucking job.” It wasn’t entirely true but it was close enough. Between assignments, his existence was an aching aimlessness of pub closing times and reheated supermarket dinners for one in a Vauxhall flat more resembling a monastic cell than a place in which to live. The apartment would certainly have to go if he could finally convince Natalia. Sasha would need a house with a garden and a good school and . . . and everything that other normal families had, whatever that was.
“It isn’t as easy or as simple as that.”
“Isn’t as easy or as simple as what?” demanded Charlie.
“You think you can appear from nowhere, without any warning after five years, and expect everything to be the same as it was with us?”
Charlie felt physically chilled. “No. I don’t think that at all.”
Neither looked directly at the other across the table, grateful at the interruption of the waiter clearing their table. Charlie shook his head against their ordering any more, asking for the bill instead.
Natalia said: “I’ve got to go.”
“Can I call you again?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure.”
“We haven’t decided if I can see Sasha.”
“We haven’t decided anything.”
“I’ll call.”
“Not tomorrow.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. A couple of days.”
It would be a mistake to ask why, Charlie decided. He wasn’t actually sure he wanted to know why. “A couple of days then.”
“I’ll leave first. Give me fifteen minutes.”
“I love you,” declared Charlie, a man to whom expressing emotion was always difficult. “I love you and I love Sasha, and I want us to be together.”
“Fifteen minutes,” Natalia repeated.
“You know you’re safe.”
“Safe is what I’ve never been with you, Charlie. And safe with you is all I’ve ever wanted to be. Safe with you and Sasha.”
Charlie’s very determined effort to separate his personal from his professional confusions wasn’t helped by the head-tourniquet hangover from the previous night’s consumption of Islay single malt after he’d got back to the hotel from his reunion with Natalia, the ache worsened by the eye-wincing glare of the sun the moment he stepped outside his hotel to hail a taxi.
Charlie, who knew his every natural as well as carefully cultivated fault, had never included being a fantasizer among them. But that’s what he’d been, he acknowledged, accepting Natalia’s accusation: a head-in-the-clouds fantasizer in imagining he could pitch up in Moscow as he had and expect everything to be as it once had been between them. So if it wasn’t as simple and as easy as he’d fantasized, how—exactly—was it? He didn’t know. He was encouraged by her parting remark but unsettled at the thought of some hidden meaning behind her telling him their being together with Sasha in London wasn’t easy or simple. Was her remark so hidden, though? Hardly. The impossibility of their being together in Moscow was entirely practicable, for all the reasons he’d spelled out to her. What was not so easy, in Natalia’s mind, was surely the mystical obstacle of abandoning Russia, which Charlie had never been able to conceive as an obstacle no matter how many times they’d talked about it from so many different directions. It had to be the suddenness of his being here, Charlie tried to reassure himself. That and the Botanical Gardens reminder of how threatened their existence had once been. Wasn’t that what she’d actually said—safe with you is all I’ve ever wanted to be. It would all be different—better—when they met the next time, after she’d had the opportunity to think everything through.
Charlie had intentionally arrived at the mortuary thirty minutes ahead of the time he’d arranged to meet Sergei Pavel, wanting to talk alone with the pathologist, but the organized crime detective was outside, waiting. So was Mikhail Guzov.
“You’re early.” Guzov’s smile combined satisfaction with a rebuke at Charlie imagining he could outsmart him.
“As you are,” Charlie pointed out. Give the man all the rope he needs to tie himself up in knots, thought Charlie.
“I think it’s impolite to keep people waiting.”
“So do I,” sparred Charlie. “Thank you for your courtesy.”
Guzov’s smile faded. “I’m representing the ministry. Secretary Kashev is occupied talking with your embassy.”
Why had Guzov volunteered that? Probably to convey the impression of cooperation when he was offering virtually nothing, which made the gesture hardly worth the effort, apart from trying to establish his control of the gathering. “Less likely to upset his stomach as his being here did last time. So it’s just the three of us?�
�
“Let’s go in,” suggested Pavel, talking to Charlie, not the other Russian.
Vladimir Ivanov was waiting in the postmortem room, the body of the one-armed man already on the examination slab. It had a ghostlike grayness from its refrigeration, a faint mist from the room’s warmth wisping from the edges of the cloth in which it had been wrapped. From the disinterested expectancy of the pathologist’s greeting, Charlie guessed Guzov and Pavel had already been into the room once that morning, probably to check that he hadn’t gotten there ahead of them.
“You’ve found more to help us?” prompted Charlie.
Following Ivanov’s inquiring look to the FSB officer, Charlie caught the nod of permission from Guzov. He was curious at the fixed, almost irritable expression on Pavel’s face. The pathologist said, “It’s for you to decide how much help it might be.” The body had thawed sufficiently for the man to raise slightly the remaining hand. “The fingertips—and therefore any prints—were taken off with sulphuric acid: I lifted traces from the thumb, as well as each finger. And see here . . .” The man isolated the little finger and that next to it, both of which were roughly stitched after incisions. “I originally thought these distortions were contractions caused by exposure to extreme heat but when I found the acid traces I reexamined the hand much more closely. In my opinion, the disfigurement was caused by frostbite a long time ago, possibly even when he was a child. And this . . .” Ivanov turned the back of the hand. “Again, I thought that was a heat burn but it isn’t. It’s a strawberry birthmark that’s been made darker by an acid splash, maybe when he was flailing against the acid being applied to his fingertips—”
“Unquestionably tortured,” broke in Charlie, including Guzov in the remark more in challenge to the official casualness of the first dismissive examination than for confirmation of his own early judgment. Remembering his earlier torture oversight, he saw that the fingernails of the right hand were intact but turned brown by the acid.
“Without any doubt,” agreed the pathologist. Detecting the possible criticism, he added, “I suggested the possibility when we met before.”
Red Star Rising Page 9