Red Star Rising

by Brian Freemantle

  “I’m looking for the maximum response from the maximum publicity,” said Charlie. “Bringing them in—holding the conference in a building close to which the body was found—will be far more effective than a printed statement.”

  “Under the circumstances, this isn’t a decision I can make alone. It’ll have to be approved from London.”

  Everyone ducking responsibility, as usual, Charlie realized, except himself, who couldn’t. “But you won’t oppose it?”

  “Not upon your assurance that it will clear up at least one of the problems we’re facing here.”

  “It could,” qualified Charlie. Now to the more difficult part, he thought. “There’s something more you—and London—needs to know. I believe the Russian coordinating their side of the murder investigation is, in fact, an officer of their counterintelligence service. And that the Russian intention is not to solve the crime but make the failure a British responsibility. If the conference is approved, I intend that man be excluded.”

  Maidment remained silent for several moments. “I will not be drawn—I will not allow this already embarrassed embassy to be drawn—into any further difficulties.”

  “It won’t be,” insisted Charlie. “It’s to avoid any further difficulties that we’re having this conversation.”

  There was another pause. “Are you convinced this whole thing is necessary?”

  “Beyond any doubt. I don’t believe the Russians have made any progress whatsoever, despite a genuine effort from the militia officer involved.”

  “Have you got any evidence to substantiate that belief?”

  “None.”

  “This isn’t going to be an easy discussion with London.”

  “I wish there were more I could offer,” said Charlie, sincerely. “I expect there to be a lot of pressure for it to be a joint British-Russian affair.”

  “What will you do if you’re refused permission?”

  It would be the easiest—and safest—course for the man to take, accepted Charlie. “If I am refused, I will lose the control I want—I need—over the investigation. Which means we go on being manipulated by the Russians, to whatever end or purpose they intend.”

  “And you’ve no idea what that is?”

  “Absolutely none.”

  “We might even return to London together, both empty-handed,” reflected the man.

  “Quite possibly,” accepted Charlie, fatalistically.

  Charlie was in Gorky Park’s cultural center with time to spare, despite the necessary Metro-dodging trail clearing, on a bench that gave him a view of every path approach to the Ferris wheel over a concealing copy of that day’s Pravda. Charlie was cautiously encouraged by Peter Maidment, although objectively accepting that if he were in the diplomat’s position, he’d probably play it safe, reject the suggestion, and blame it all on London. Which he’d tried to anticipate by sending as cogent a written argument as he could asking Aubrey Smith to support the whole fragile proposal.

  Charlie told himself he’d done everything and more to push-start his role in the investigation. The rest of the day was personally his. He was going to see for the first time in five years the daughter he adored. And the woman with whom he was determined to spend the rest of his life, wherever and whatever that life might be.

  There was a physical stomach jump when he saw them. Natalia was wearing a cream skirt and a deeply colored shirt, dark blue or maybe even black, Sasha’s hand in hers. Sasha was taller than he’d expected from the photographs, up to her mother’s waist. She was wearing light-colored trousers, faded jeans perhaps, and a roll-necked sweater as dark as her mother’s. Her blond hair was long, practically to her shoulders, in a ponytail that jumped and tossed in time as she skipped at Natalia’s side, gesturing excitedly toward the slowly revolving Ferris wheel.

  There was not the slightest recognition, but Charlie was sure Natalia had isolated where he sat, watching. He kept to their arrangement, remaining where he was as they joined the short queue, not getting up to move closer until they were next in line to get into their gondola, moving close enough to the ride, the better to see Sasha before it rose above him. Natalia looked very directly at him then but still showed no recognition; Sasha was looking up, to see how high they were going, still gesturing for Natalia to look, too.

  Charlie backed off, although not as far as his original bench, stopping about five yards away. That was close enough to see them both when they got off, see them practically near enough to touch and imagine what it was going to be like when they were all together in England—or wherever Natalia wanted them to live. Charlie followed their ascent until his neck ached from how far back he had to strain and picked them up again on their descent, seeing Natalia pick him out as the gondola got closer to the ground. At first, she remained as impassive as she had been when they lifted off but when they were at the point of getting off, Natalia’s face broke into a frown and Charlie hurriedly, although as unobtrusively as possible, shook his head in reassurance that he wasn’t going to attempt any encounter, physically pulling back farther.

  It was Sasha who got off the ride first, obviously saying something to her mother as she did so, and not stopping on the raised platform but running down the steps with her arms outstretched toward a fair-haired, Slavic-featured man in jeans who held his arms out toward her, lifting her, laughing, high in the air and twirling her around and around.

  13

  Charlie Muffin drank for enjoyment, not oblivion, which kept the bottle of Islay single malt untouched upon the bureau of the Savoy suite in which he slumped, the conflicting half thoughts jostling in his uncertain mind.

  This wasn’t Natalia; couldn’t be Natalia. Or could it? She was a KGB-schooled debriefer, trained to suspend all personal operational feelings: that was how they’d met when she’d been his relentless interrogator determined to discover if his British jailbreak and supposed defection was genuine or phony. He’d professionally cheated her then, not just by convincing her he was an authentic defector but by persuading her and her superiors that the real defector with whom he’d fled England was the fake. He’d cheated her again, on that occasion personally as well as professionally, when—not knowing she was pregnant with their child from their Moscow affair before he escaped back to England—he hadn’t trusted her sufficiently to keep their London rendezvous from which, just once, she had decided to defect from a KGB escort assignment, which had her monitoring visiting Russian politicians.

  He’d atoned, Charlie mentally insisted, seeking a balance to his own deceits and failings. When he’d learned about Sasha—no, he stopped himself, refusing the self-serving excuse: when, belatedly accepting his being in love and learning about Sasha—he’d connived the Moscow embassy posting and married her under Russian law in the Hall of Weddings and set up home to create an ultimately unlivable, knife-edged existence that neither could possibly have sustained. And so, again, he’d left to go back to London, swapping one unsustainable existence for another.

  Could—should—he really be so surprised that after suffering all those abandonments Natalia had chosen the revenge she had orchestrated those few hours ago in the park? Yes, he answered himself. Despite what had happened he could never—would never—conceive Natalia to be a vengeful person.

  So what had it been? Why had she set up the opportunity for him to see their daughter—virtually choreographing the situation—to include a man whom Sasha very clearly knew and trusted and into whose arms she’d so unhesitatingly ran?

  Charlie didn’t know, no matter how many different conflicting, contradictory arguments he advanced to himself. And so he couldn’t conclude it to be anything other than understandable and ultimate revenge for all the hurts and fears and uncertainties he’d inflicted upon her. Which inevitably brought more conclusions, the most numbing of which was that she’d forced herself to make the nostalgic Botanical Gardens reunion—nostalgic for him, if not for her—to set up the scourging Gorky Park proof that everything was over between them:
that she’d found another man—a younger, even more presentable Russian man—whom she loved and whom Sasha very obviously loved.

  Which he could do nothing but accept. Charlie acknowledged that it was finally time for long overdue reality. He’d have to convince her it wouldn’t be difficult for him to make everything as easy as possible for her and Sasha, although in reality, it would be impossibly, achingly difficult. He didn’t know anything about Russian civil law but they’d been apart for five years, without any cohabitation, which should make grounds for a divorce straightforward enough for her. Desertion was the most obvious, he supposed, if it existed on the Russian statute books. If it didn’t there was sure to be something similar that would fit. Would he surrender Sasha for adoption, if Natalia wanted to remarry? That wasn’t even a question. Of course he would. He’d have to, to make everything complete for them. That’s what he had to do, make everything complete for both of them, as easily and as smoothly as possible.

  Which required, of course, his making contact with Natalia: talking to her, discussing it all with her. Being adult. But not yet. Certainly not tonight—that was unthinkable—and probably not tomorrow, either. Or the day after that. He had other things to do, not more important things but necessary arrangements to take the assignment forward.

  He didn’t any longer have the option—the reason—to quit the job he’d been prepared to abandon. So he needed at least to get the assignment right to avoid losing his job as well.

  The two-word command—CALL NOW—awaiting him the following morning scarcely needed the your Eyes Only security designation. Before obeying the instruction Charlie logged his request for a meeting with the temporary ambassador and when he did call London, Aubrey Smith, without any greeting, declared: “I don’t like the idea. Neither does the Foreign Office. Why didn’t you discuss it with me first?”

  “I need room to work. And room, a lot of room, from Mikhail Guzov,” Charlie said, fighting back, realizing the other man had already made up his mind. “You’ve read my reasoning?”

  “Of course I’ve read your reasoning. It’ll cut you off from any future Russian cooperation.”

  “There isn’t any Russian cooperation, not now or in the future. I’m risking nothing.” Charlie hadn’t included anything about the café encounter with Sergei Pavel in his overnight argument and didn’t intend mentioning it now, not wanting to give the Director-General any further opposing reason.

  “What about obviously revealing your personal identification, which seemed to worry you a lot about a week ago?”

  “The concern then wasn’t personal identification: the FSB will have already run their checks. The concern was that I didn’t have a clue what the hell was going on. I still don’t but I’ve got enough for a description of the dead man for somebody to recognize. It’s his identification I want and can’t make any progress without getting it.”

  “You’ll be inundated by cranks,” predicted the man.

  “Of course there will be cranks. I’m not suggesting it’s going to be easy.” What could he do—what was there—to reverse Smith’s opposition?

  “What happens if cranks are all you get?”

  “I’ll be answering all the questions,” reminded Charlie, heavily. “So I’ll get at least some direction toward the answers I need.”

  There was a momentary silence from the London end at the obvious inference. Smith said: “If Guzov and the FSB are determined somehow to obfuscate the bugging with your failure to solve the murder—and I still can’t understand how they’re going to use one to achieve the other—they’re going to go through everything you’ve had fabricated here with damned more than a toothcomb.”

  “That’s clearly what you are more worried about than what I want to get from a press conference!” openly accused Charlie, his instant regret at the outburst worsened by Smith’s totally controlled reaction.

  “Not more worried,” corrected the Director-General. “Equally worried at the fallout from your being publicly exposed as a liar and a cheat in a situation from which it would be impossible for you to recover. That would sweep away any chance of our resolving either the killing or the bugging.”

  Your being exposed . . . impossible for you to recover isolated Charlie, accustomed to the abandonment rules in his particular workplace: not our being exposed or impossible for us to recover. Then, with abrupt awareness, he thought, you’ve shot yourself in the foot. “Then I’ve got very little personally to lose by publicly identifying myself in front of a group of inquiring journalists, have I?”

  “You haven’t,” matched the other man, careless of the threat being made obvious.

  “Which virtually brings it down to being my decision, reached after the required consultation,” seized Charlie: got you, provably recorded on the statutorily insisted upon, inquiry-producible recording.

  The further pause was the only indication of Aubrey Smith’s realization of Charlie’s verbal entrapment. “Is what you propose essential to continue this investigation?”

  “Absolutely,” said Charlie.

  “Then you must go ahead.”

  You again, not we, noted Charlie. But then Smith had made it glaringly clear that was how it was going to be: how, realistically, it was always going to be if Smith’s personal survival required his sacrifice. “Maidment wants the Foreign Office’s approval, which I doubt they’ll give without knowing the decision you’ve just reached.” Charlie’s stress on the identifying word was intentional.

  “I see,” said Smith, after yet another pause of awareness.

  As I’ll see whether you’ve passed it on if I get a rejection from the acting ambassador, thought Charlie. “I want to get everything underway as soon as possible.”

  “I understand.”

  “It’s good that we both understand each other. And thank you, for your support.” That final remark hadn’t been necessary—too smart-ass again—Charlie accepted. But it sure as hell made him feel better.

  There were two calls on Charlie’s voice-mail register but no message on either when he accessed them. It reminded him, though, that if approval came from the Foreign Office, which he still wasn’t totally confident it would even if Aubrey Smith did officially endorse the idea, he was going to need a separate dedicated line and a message service—possibly even two—to accommodate the hoped-for responses.

  Could Guzov and the FSB get around their intended exclusion by somehow tapping into the numbers that would have to be made publicly available for him to receive incoming calls? Harry Fish would know, and have the expertise to prevent further bugging or cell-phone interception from scanners. Charlie hoped he wouldn’t have to go through any more get-permission-from-the-head-teacher nonsense when he asked Fish but thought it probable that he would. As well as having to ask Harold Barrett for the apartment he had earlier refused and for special telephone facilities. Pain in the ass, compounding pain in the ass. And he still had warning discomfort in his awkward feet.

  It was another hour before the summons came from Peter Maidment and as soon as he entered the ambassadorial suite, the man indicated a gray-haired, fixed-face note taker and announced: “A written account of everything that’s said will be kept.”

  Which had to auger in his favor, Charlie thought, at the same time disappointed that the man needed the visible threat, like a stage prop, in a room which all of them knew to be fitted with automatic recording apparatus. “If that is your wish,” Charlie flattered.

  “It is,” claimed the man. “It has not been an easy permission to obtain: there was opposition.”

  Let Maidment have his brief moment, Charlie decided, recalling the diplomat’s passed-over disappointment. “Thank you for the effort you’ve made on my behalf.”

  “There are essential strictures.”

  “I expected there to be.”

  “There will be separate film and audio records of the entire event.”

  Which would disclose all his intended manipulations, accepted Charlie. “Essential.�
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  “Everything will be confined to the conference hall and every accreditation of every person attending has to be submitted, listed, and approved before monitored admission into the embassy precincts.”

  Which would ensure the required publicity buildup, although create a delay he hadn’t wanted, recognized Charlie. “A worthwhile restriction.”

  “Those checks will be carried out by Robertson and his team.”

  What about the separation of investigations? Charlie wondered, surprised for the first time. “Is that a London decision?”

  “Yes,” confirmed Maidment, after a pause.

  Another change of direction in the prevailing wind, accepted Charlie, recognizing it amounted to his being monitored, too. But there could be advantages. “Has Robertson been told?”

  “His meeting follows this.”

  “Is he to participate in the conference?”

  From the man’s hesitation, Charlie knew it was a question that hadn’t been considered. “That is something that needs to be discussed with him. Would you have any objection?”

  “None whatsoever,” responded Charlie, seeing the first possible benefits.

  “But no one diplomatically accredited to the embassy will participate.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Questions must be restricted to the murder investigation. There must be no discussion whatsoever about listening devices or withdrawal of embassy personnel.”

  “Questions will inevitably be asked.”

  “And must be refused.”

  “An outright refusal could result in a misleading misunderstanding,” risked Charlie, nervous of erecting any barrier but wanting to log a minimal warning.

  “That’s the ruling,” insisted the ambassador.

  “Which of course I will observe,” emptily promised Charlie.

  “There have also been further representations both to me here at the embassy and in London, through the Russian ambassador, denying any Russian knowledge or responsibility for the listening devices,” said Maidment. “In each approach there was a demand for participation in the press conference.”