“Which doesn’t mean they haven’t typed it,” dismissed the scientist. “DNA is the first of any blood tests these days. It would certainly be for me in these particular circumstances.”
“It’s a gamble I’ve got to take,” admitted Charlie. “You won’t forget to mix in some of the soil fertilizer I sent back with the soil?”
Smethwick’s pained sigh was audible. “Of course, I won’t forget to mix it in: we’ve already tested some of what you provided and found a previous residue but the fertilizer won’t affect DNA.”
“I’m taking the gamble,” repeated Charlie. “What about the Makarov 9mm shell?”
“It will test to be Russian if Moscow runs a metal comparison,” assured the man. “We put a cross in the tip, as they did with the bullet that killed your man, and took most of the slow down wadding out of the butt before backing a steel sheet against which we split it with Kevlar, all traces of which we’ve taken off the fragment you’re going to claim came from your hole in the ground.”
“I think we’ve got enough to convince them,” said Charlie, forcing the confidence he didn’t fully feel.
“I don’t,” disputed Smethwick. “I think it’ll be exposed for the nonsense it is and actually create what could escalate into an official diplomatic incident in an embassy that has got too many already. And because I think that I’m filing to the Director-General my officially recorded written objection to what he ordered me to do for you.”
“Thanks for doing it, despite how you feel.”
“Everything you’ve asked for will be back to you in a couple of days,” guaranteed Smethwick. “And comes with the best of luck. You’re going to need it.”
Charlie already knew that, but Smethwick’s dismissal deflated Charlie’s usual optimism. His hope lay in his belief that he had sufficiently convinced the Russians—Pavel perhaps more than Guzov. But if that hope was misplaced, Smethwick’s doomsday prediction could become a reality, and with it his exposure and immediate recall—even expulsion—back to England before any possible conclusion between himself and Natalia.
There were no voice-mail messages on the rabbit hutch telephone but on the card table there was a two-word note from Paula-Jane: DROP BY.
“I’ve been censured,” she announced at once, not smiling up at his entry. “I’m not sure yet if it’s going to become official, from London, or stop here. I was two hours in front of Paul-fucking-Robertson and his inquiry team this afternoon, like a child who’d done something wrong.”
A role for which Charlie strongly suspected she might qualify. “Censured for what?”
“Not going over everybody’s head here in Moscow to alert London about the security chaos. Appears that Halliday’s been doing so for months.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I’m just past my first year on my first foreign station. Sotley’s fifty-five years old, a senior ambassador. Dawkins served in Rome, Canberra, and Berlin before coming here. Do you think I was going to risk a career that hasn’t even started by taking them on, even if I’d recognized how bad things were? Which I didn’t, not properly, until all the shit happened at once.”
There was a catch in her voice that Charlie feared might be a prelude to tears.
“You heard the other news?”
“What?”
“Sotley and Dawkins have been recalled today, as quietly as possible. The public announcement isn’t going to be made from London until tomorrow, by which time they’ll be under wraps. Peter Maidment, the chef du protocole, is going to stand in until there is a proper replacement.”
Was there proof against either man of being the inside source? wondered Charlie. Paula-Jane was very definitely the wrong person to ask. Instead, he said: “What’s Maidment like?”
“Bit of a dreamer,” assessed the woman. “Passed over too many times for promotion until now and this isn’t permanent. I feel sorry for him. He tries but can’t sustain the momentum.”
“Was he involved with the discovery of the body?” asked Charlie, hopefully.
“Never saw him there,” dismissed Paula-Jane.
Timing the announcement, Charlie said: “I had lunch with Bill Bundy today.”
“I remember him suggesting it,” said Paula-Jane.
“He knew a bug had been found in the ambassador’s personal telephone, which hasn’t been publicly disclosed.”
Paula-Jane remained looking up at Charlie but said nothing.
“And he knew my temporarily assigned direct number, here at the embassy. That’s how he got in touch, by leaving a call-back message.”
“I told him,” she blurted. “He called me the night after we all had dinner together. I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong, as you two appeared to go back a long time. But I didn’t tell him anything about a bug being in the ambassador’s telephone because until you just told me, I didn’t know exactly where it had been found. You do believe me, don’t you?”
“I’m trying very hard,” said Charlie.
10
In addition to Paul Robertson and Harry Fish, there were two other men and a matronly, gray-haired woman—to none of whom there was any formal introduction—when Charlie gained entry into the inquiry room by insisting his need to speak to them was urgent. There were also two technicians to one side of the room, clearly supervising an equipment bank including a polygraph machine and its adjoining, cable-festooned chair.
“This is surprisingly unexpected,” greeted Robertson. “Particularly as I personally understood from the Director-General that we were absolutely forbidden any further contact.”
From the tone of the other man’s voice, Charlie guessed that Robertson had been equally rebuked for their earlier encounter. He looked sideways to the equipment setup and said, “Is this being recorded?”
“Of course, visually as well as audibly,” confirmed Robertson. “Has your coming here been authorized by London?”
“No,” said Charlie, further reassured by the man’s obvious concern.
“Then I don’t intend allowing it to continue,” refused Robertson.
“And I don’t want to be part of it, either,” insisted Harry Fish.
“Please leave the room,” said Robertson.
Nodding to the recording equipment, Charlie said, “It’s my ass in the air! Everything’s being doubly recorded, so none of you are endangered. You’re here to expose and arrest an inside source, and I think I know who that source is. You still want me to leave, I will. Your choice, being visually and audibly recorded, as you make it.”
The unknown man to Robertson’s right came quickly sideways for a whispered exchange, which concluded with a nod of permission for the man to leave the room. Coming back to Charlie, Robertson said, “We’ll hear what you have to tell us.”
“But not with me participating,” refused Fish, rising to follow the other departing man.
The hurriedly leaving investigator was on his way to speak to London, Charlie knew: Fish probably intended to cover his ass, too. Deciding that he needed, belatedly, as much professional protection as possible, Charlie said, “My instructions from London, personally from the Director-General, were not to discuss with you anything concerning the investigation in which I am involved. Nothing I intend to tell you reflects in any way whatsoever upon that. Is that understood and accepted?”
“We’re waiting to hear what you have to tell us,” said Robertson.
“And I’m waiting to hear the answer to my question,” returned Charlie, hoping he wasn’t coloring as obviously as the equally furious Robertson. Robertson shifted in his chair but didn’t speak and Charlie stood, shrugging.
“Your choice and you blew it. I’ll tell the Director-General and he can tell you, and we’ll all keep our fingers crossed that nothing else goes wrong while you piss about.”
“Wait!” called Robertson, when Charlie was almost at the door. “We understand what you’ve said, that nothing you’re going to tell us will compromise your purpose here.”
> Charlie took his time walking to the seat and settling himself. Robertson’s face remained puce. The anonymous woman had colored, too. Charlie said, “A few nights ago I went out socially with people from the American embassy, accompanying Paula-Jane Venables. One of the Americans was William Bundy, an acknowledged CIA expert on Russian affairs, who has been reassigned here for a third tour of duty, after running the Agency’s Russian desk for a number of years. I was on station here during one of his earlier assignments. During that period we knew each other but were never friends. Nor did we liaise, operationally, in any way whatsoever. The most recent evening ended with Bundy suggesting that he and I get together while I was here. No arrangements were made. The following day a voice-mail message from Bundy was left upon the temporary telephone number allocated to me, here at the embassy. I had not given Bundy that number. I responded to Bundy’s call. We lunched, yesterday. During that lunch, Bundy made a remark about listening devices having been installed within the telephone systems of the ambassador. To my understanding no mention has been made in the media coverage, either in English, American, or Russian newspapers, of the precise location of any of the devices that were discovered by Harry and his team. . . .”
Charlie paused at the reentry into the room of the man who’d left after his earlier whispered conversation with Robertson, and didn’t continue until after another hand-shielded exchange between the two men.
“When I returned from that lunch, I confronted Paula-Jane Venables about the disclosure of my telephone number and of the undisclosed location of the bugs. She admitted providing my number but categorically denied passing on anything about the listening devices, insisting she didn’t know where they were placed. I know she has already appeared before you. I consider that from the conversation I have just recounted there is sufficient cause for her recall and reexamination before you.”
An echoing silence descended upon the room. It lasted several full minutes before Robertson said; “You believe Paula-Jane Venables to be the traitorous source within this embassy?”
“I believe the indiscretion that I have personally experienced justifies her being questioned further,” replied Charlie.
“Apart from Harry and me and a very limited number, you were one of the few to know about the devices,” reminded the other man.
The threat churned through Charlie. He said: “Perhaps you should take that remark further.”
“We intend to,” said the same panel member. “You are to go at once to the communications room to speak personally to the Director-General.” The man indicated the recording assembly at the side of the room. “He will instruct you, leaving no doubt of the authority, to return here to undergo a polygraph test to establish the truth of what you have just told this committee and to eliminate you from the investigation in which we are currently engaged—”
“A polygraph test that your colleague, Paula-Jane Venables, underwent yesterday and passed to the complete satisfaction of the technical examiners and the members of this panel,” completed Robertson.
“How the hell can I be involved in things that happened before I even arrived here?” demanded Charlie. So angry was he that Charlie failed to detect the approach of the outside office guardian until the man was behind him.
“Shall we go, sir?”
Charlie Muffin was the foremost exponent of the credo never to panic but he found rational thinking difficult as he was humiliatingly escorted along linking corridors to the basement descent. He managed it—just—precisely because of his need to keep the secret that no one could learn. Charlie knew all about lie detector tests; he hoped that he could remember how to defeat the supposedly undefeatable machine that distinguishes lie from truth by measuring breathing rate, pulse, and perspiration flow.
Robertson’s investigation was restricted solely to uncovering a traitor within the embassy. Which should keep the questioning well away from anything risking Natalia. But would it? Couldn’t he, by the strictest interpretation of the word, be regarded a traitor, secretly married as he was to a senior analyst in the Russian Federation’s internal counterintelligence organization? Not if he were able to argue semantics. But he wouldn’t be, restricted to yes or no. What the fuck were the rules, the protection from being exposed by the machine? Remain calm, allow no anger or agitation, he remembered. Easy enough advice—easily followed advice—in a simulated situation where there was no anger or agitation, the total opposite from how he felt now. Keep what is not to be disclosed firmly out of mind, Charlie further recalled. He’d thought that particular mantra a complete load of bollocks at the long-ago training school and hadn’t changed his mind since.
The unsympathetic Ross Perrit was waiting expectantly among all his electronic paraphernalia, the door to the first cubicle in the supported box already open. “The DG’s waiting on the line.”
“What the hell’s going on?” demanded Smith, the moment Charlie identified himself.
“I tried to report things I believed relevant to Robertson’s inquiry, things that had no bearing upon what I’m doing here.” From the tone of the Director-General’s unusually harsh voice, Charlie decided that the prevailing political wind was blowing slap into his face.
“What things?” The man listened without interruption to what Charlie had earlier told the inquiry panel and did not speak for several moments after Charlie finished. Then Smith said: “Venables underwent a polygraph examination. There were no difficulties.”
“I know. But at the time the panel was unaware of Bundy’s knowledge of where the listening devices were found. The examiner wouldn’t have been prompted to ask her.”
“She was specifically asked about her associations with the Americans,” disclosed Smith. “A liaison was suspected with a married CIA officer, John Probert.”
Charlie felt the first stirrings of unease. “And?”
“I told you,” said the man, irritably. “She passed the polygraph without any doubts arising.”
“Who suspected the liaison with Probert?”
“You’ve interfered in something from which I categorically barred you,” refused Smith. “All I’ve got so far as the result of your being in Moscow are official complaints from the forensics and technical divisions being asked to manufacture evidence that can be exposed as fake with a schoolboy science kit.”
“We’ve discussed the need for what I want,” reminded Charlie.
“You cause any more public embarrassment by what you’re doing, this will be your last assignment. You hear what I’m saying?”
“I hear,” said Charlie. “I also hear that I have got to undergo a polygraph myself?”
“It’s been requested.”
“I wasn’t even in Moscow when the listening devices were installed and the electrical system was sabotaged!”
“Everyone attached to the embassy has to undergo a polygraph test until the apparent inside source is found; even you, pointless though it will be.”
Another indication that Smith was accepting defeat in his battle to retain the directorship of MI5 from the internal maneuverings of Jeffrey Smale. “If I don’t answer a question honestly—which I might not be able to do if I think it impinges upon my function, which you’ve ordered me not to discuss with anyone, there will be a reading indicating that I am lying,” Charlie resisted, desperately.
“That will be taken into consideration, of course,” assured the other man. “And Robertson’s people have been told that no questions should be phrased that might lead to that particular conflict of interest.”
He had a possible escape, Charlie recognized. But the uncertainties were too many and too great. This was probably going to be the biggest test ever to discover if he were as smart as the smart-ass he’d always prided himself upon being. “I’ll get back to you.”
“Hopefully with something worthwhile from what you’re there to do, for which I seem to be asking every time we talk.”
“Let me explain the procedure—” managed a polygraph technician
before Charlie broke in, “I know the procedure. Arm cuff, chest strap and hand-palm sensors, only yes or no answers and the first question is usually whether I masturbate to which everyone says they don’t and gets a lie reading that proves the machine is working properly, so my answer is I did a lot once, when I was younger, but not so much now.”
The technician didn’t look up from attaching the band around Charlie’s chest. “That comfortable?”
“Fine.”
“It’s better if you relax and don’t let yourself get uptight.”
“I know.” The inquiry panel had all left the room by the time Charlie returned, leaving him alone with the two technicians. The one whom Charlie guessed to be the questioner was sitting facing him, going through a list of questions on a clipboard while his colleague hooked Charlie up to the machine, which was between him and the questioner, positioned so that it would be impossible for Charlie to see any movement or to register from the attached computer-screen tracing its peaks and troughs. Charlie wondered where the film and audio apparatus was, among everything else.
“You ready?” asked the questioner, looking up from his clipboard. He wore a woolen sweater beneath a tightly buttoned jacket and had a spare pen in a special holder on his clipboard.
“When you are.” He had to find a way out, an explanation for the inevitable spike that would show up a lie.
“Is your name Charles Edward Muffin?”
“Yes.”
“Are you an operative of an organization known as MI5, Britain’s internal counterintelligence agency?”
He had reason for the wrong answer, Charlie realized. “No.”
There was a pause from the questioner. “Do you tell lies?”
“Yes.” How would that be recorded? wondered Charlie, the wisp of an idea threading its way into his mind.
“Was your previous answer a lie?”
“No.”
There was another hesitation. “Do you lie to your superiors?”
Red Star Rising Page 11