“I’m in a mess . . . don’t know what to say . . .” she suddenly blurted.
Charlie was surprised, not able to recall Natalia ever sounding so uncertain: lost even. Another impression, a hope, began to form. “We were going to talk about meeting.”
“You sure you can safely do that now?”
He’d never been safe in his life, reflected Charlie. “You know I’ll never put you or Sasha at any risk; wouldn’t ever endanger either of you.”
“I’m not sure.”
He couldn’t let her uncertainty grow, give her any reason to refuse: “I won’t allow any risk!”
“I’ve promised to take Sasha to McDonald’s on Saturday.”
Charlie was jolted by the recollection that McDonald’s was where the one-armed man had most likely eaten his last meal. Bulldozing her, not allowing her any escape, he said, “How do you want me to do it? Be there and approach you?”
Natalia hesitated. “Just come in. I want time to be sure: you take time ordering. Look about for a seat when you get your meal. If I look directly at you, it’ll be okay. If I ignore you, it’s not. Or at least I don’t think it’s okay.” There was a muffled sound of someone calling, which Charlie didn’t hear, not sufficiently even to decide if it was Sasha. Clearly turning away from the telephone, Natalia said, “In a minute.”
Charlie began: “Who was . . . ?” but abruptly stopped.
There was another pause before Natalia said, “No one’s here with me, apart from Sasha.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I.”
“How will you explain to Sasha what I’m doing at McDonald’s?”
“That you’re someone I know. It will be all right. But you must be sure you’re clean.”
There was nothing to be gained from trying further reassurance. “How long does it take you to get there?”
“Half an hour.”
“What time will you arrive?”
“Lunchtime . . . say twelve.”
“Don’t leave the apartment until I call, to tell you it’s okay . . . that I can make it.”
“I’ll still take her, of course. Even if you say you can’t make it. That’s why it’s important.”
“You don’t have to tell me the importance of anything.”
“Maybe I just need to keep telling myself,” said Natalia.
Better—far better—than he’d hoped, assessed Charlie, as the conversation ended. This, right now, would have been her moment: her arm’s length opportunity to tell him everything was over between them. But she hadn’t! More than that, even; very much more. She’d agreed to meet him with Sasha. She wouldn’t do that—even contemplate that—if she’d already made her final, irrevocable decision. But enough, for the moment. Until Saturday.
Charlie got back to the Savoy in time for the main evening news, which as he expected was led by anchorperson Svetlana Modin’s overexaggerated claim to have another world exclusive based on her fortunately coincidental encounter with two of the senior investigators into both murders. There were photographs of Pavel but neither Charlie nor Guzov were initially named, although there was footage of the press conference and of the kiosk in which Pavel had been shot. There was also, predictably, a lot of location-establishing footage of Svetlana going in and out of the embassy: she relied heavily upon impressive-sounding although empty clichés like “major international exchanges” between Moscow and London being considered at “the highest levels,” and used the word “major” again—as well as sensational—when she hinted at impending developments. Just as Charlie believed he’d escaped identification there was more footage showing him dismissing a question about “a highly trained, international and professional Murder Incorporated assassination squad”—which at the time he’d refused even to speculate upon—edited to appear instead as if he’d suggested such a ridiculous possibility and that there was indeed an international search for such a group with airline checks and requests to worldwide intelligence agencies.
Charlie was conscious of several looks of recognition as he went through the lobby on his way to his nightly bar-stool ritual, sure that in turn he recognized the girl—although tonight with a different surveillance partner—who’d played the role of a hand-holding lover the night of Guzov’s unexpected visit. Sure of Guzov’s professionalism, Charlie knew her repeated presence was not an oversight but something he was intended to recognize. Maybe even a warning against established routine. They’d briefly discussed such precautions during the drive between the mortuary and Petrovka. It was perhaps something to which he needed to pay more and closer attention, although not so much for his own safety—which he never endangered—but for the now absolutely essential security for his Saturday rendezvous.
The bartender and the already poured vodka were waiting when Charlie got to his wall-protective stool. As Charlie settled himself the man said, “I reserved it for you. I’ll do that from now on, shall I?”
“I’d appreciate it,” accepted Charlie. The program being shown mute on the bar television was that which followed the evening news, so the man would have seen the transmission. Charlie guessed at an approach from the way the bartender’s attention switched beyond him and turned from his corner before Bill Bundy reached him. Charlie said, “I think I need to employ an appointments secretary.”
“What?” the American frowned.
“I seem to get a lot of visitors here.”
“I’m not surprised. You’re getting enough publicity to stand against Stepan Lvov,” smiled Bundy.
The predicted new Russian president and reason for Bundy’s return to Moscow, Charlie remembered, after a momentary blankness. “It’ll be mineral water, right?”
“I’ll break the seal,” reminded Bundy, in Russian and loud enough for the bartender to hear. More quietly the American said, “Tried you earlier at the embassy to make sure you were all right . . . not involved, I mean.”
“What do you mean?” queried Charlie.
“The accident. Haven’t you heard?”
“What accident?”
“One of your embassy cars got driven off the embankment road. There was a piece on the TASS wire. When I couldn’t get you I spoke to Paula-Jane. She told me the driver was pretty smashed up—might have broken his back even. She said she hadn’t heard from you all day.”
Charlie swallowed against the sudden nausea. “What about the other car involved?”
“Didn’t stop,” said Bundy. “The militia are looking for it. You catch tonight’s television news?”
“There wasn’t anything about it on the channel I saw.”
“I wasn’t talking about the accident. I meant Svetlana Modin’s.”
“I knew it was going to be screened,” said Charlie, forcing the calm. Why hadn’t Paula-Jane or Halliday—anyone—made contact to tell him about the accident, which hadn’t been an accident at all. Because he hadn’t told anyone about the exit subterfuge and no one had made the connection yet.
“Why are you feeding her exclusives?”
“I’m not. It’s a confused story.”
“Which you’re not going to tell me,” anticipated Bundy.
Charlie didn’t bother to reply, gesturing instead for another drink.
Bundy said, “You know Guzov, your new partner, is big time FSB?”
“Of course I do.”
“He tell you himself?”
“He didn’t have to. Pavel did.” And could have been killed for doing so, Charlie thought.
“Did he tell you Guzov’s a general? Sits on the top floor?”
“No, he didn’t,” admitted Charlie. There’d only be the night-duty officer at the embassy this late, Charlie calculated. He’d have to wait until tomorrow to find out anything more.
“Guzov will use you, in each and every which way he can,” warned the American.
“As I’ll use him,” said Charlie. “We all know the rules, Bill!”
“You’re here all by yourself. You really think you can compete
with the resources he’s got?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“You know why Pavel got whacked?”
“You got any theories?”
Bundy shook his head. “The most obvious is that he had something. And from your hugger mugger press conference performance and how Svetlana spun her piece tonight, the even more obvious inference is that if he did have something, you’ve got it, too. Which I’d say makes you target numero uno, wouldn’t you?”
“It’s crossed my mind.” And was now very firmly fixed in the forefront of it, threatening the determination not to panic.
“You’re not impressing me with all this flip talk, Charlie. You’re in the crosshairs and you know it.”
So did Natalia, Charlie knew. And would think so even more if the accident was reported in any media. “Like I said, we all know the rules.”
“I also know we didn’t hit it off in the past to become friends. But I’m talking to you now at least as a colleague in the same business . . . a concerned colleague.”
“I appreciate that,” said Charlie, keeping the disbelief from his voice.
“But I didn’t come here tonight to tell you that. Or about the accident.”
It had taken the American long enough, thought Charlie. “What then?”
“You didn’t call me back.”
“I was getting round to it.”
“You heard from London today?”
“No,” said Charlie. Which he’d expected to, after Pavel’s killing.
“My people at Langley have officially approached yours—MI6, too—with an offer to help in any way we can. Let’s face it, Charlie, you need all the help you can get.”
And probably a lot of protection, Charlie thought. “I don’t like armies. People get in other people’s way and mistakes happen. I’ve never liked the phrase ‘friendly fire.’ ”
“It was Langley’s idea. I just thought you should know before being told officially.”
Charlie was disappointed Bundy didn’t lie more convincingly. “You going to show Guzov the same consideration?”
“You know as well as I do how well—and how much—we’ve worked with the Russians in the past. As you have. But that’s not the game plan this time.”
“What is the game plan this time?” Charlie echoed.
“We work through you.”
“Without telling Guzov?”
“This investigation has become too public. The FSB couldn’t risk the embarrassment of it becoming known that we’re on board too. Let’s face it: this thing is leaking faster than the Titanic.”
“Much faster,” accepted Charlie, at least recognizing his way out of an American involvement, even if there were an official edict from Aubrey Smith.
“That’s another good reason for the linkup. You could transfer everything to the leak-free security of our embassy here: cut that problem out of the loop.”
For linkup read takeover, thought Charlie, astonished at the unashamed hubris. “You seem to have thought it through to the end.”
“We’re offering help, Charlie.”
“I’m sure London will appreciate that as much as I’ve already told you I do.”
“I look forward to talking more tomorrow.”
“I guess we will.”
Bundy, who hadn’t bought a drink, fingered the till receipts of those that Charlie had purchased. “You need these for your expenses?”
“Be my guest,” invited Charlie.
“Remember what I said about taking care . . . physical care, I mean,” said Bundy, pocketing the slips.
“I will,” promised Charlie.
It was very easy after an almost sleepless night for Charlie again to be at the embassy by seven the following morning, sitting low but alert in the back of a taxi he’d insisted draw right up to the Savoy steps. The overnight duty officer didn’t know anything more than Bundy, the previous night, nor was there any further information on the Tass slip, which Halliday had left in his original office, inscribed with his name and a lot of question marks.
To fill in the time, Charlie coordinated the advantage of his early arrival with the time difference between London and Moscow to reach the Director-General the moment the man arrived at Thames House, and sat unspeaking for thirty minutes listening to Aubrey Smith’s account of Whitehall and American embassy meetings the previous day. When Smith finished, Charlie bluntly declared: “No!”
After a moment’s surprised silence, Smith said, “Bringing in MI6—despite my personal dislike and suspicion of MI6’s Director Gerald Monsford—and the CIA are convincing arguments. We get a lot of extra manpower without risking any more from our own department. We get out of a leaking embassy, to which I’m sending Robertson back to finish the job he clearly hasn’t. And if it ends up in a disaster, which there’s every indication it will, we offload a hell of a lot of responsibility on to the Americans and our doubtful MI6 friends across the river at Vauxhall Cross.”
“It’s a bullshit argument that scarcely stands examination,” rejected Charlie. “It’s an attempted takeover of an investigation that has to remain under our control. Were you told at the American embassy that Langley wants to work unofficially, without telling the FSB?”
From the silence Charlie knew the Director-General hadn’t been. “Not in as many words.”
“Let me spell it out without any inference,” demanded Charlie. “Okay, I know Guzov will cheat on me just as I’ll cheat on him if it’s necessary or advantageous for either of us. But at the moment we are talking as fully and properly as we can expect: Harry Fish tells me the material Guzov made available hadn’t been tampered with or doctored in any way. If the Russians learn we’re letting Washington in by the back door, the slamming of the front, right in our faces, will make a noise you’ll hear all the way over there. There’s a 101 percent chance I’d be expelled, along with a diplomatic Ice Age that will take years to thaw. And Moscow will be in the position they’ve wanted to be from the beginning of this, in charge of everything, able to fudge everything and anything they want, particularly the bugging of the embassy in which there’s still an undetected informer. And Washington will lie, insist we’d asked for unofficial help on the side, and come out squeaky clean. Which is probably their intention from the beginning: my guess is that the Russians would learn about it from Washington. And from, what you’ve inferred about Monsford, Christ knows what MI6’s contribution would be!”
“You lost me about three turns back,” complained Aubrey Smith, although without any irritation.
“What reason is there for America getting involved in something that has nothing to do with them? The CIA and the American administration aren’t charities, for Christ’s sake! Try this scenario. We accept the American offer, they leak it to Moscow claiming we sought their help, which they refused. Russia gets full control, we get frozen in the new and personal Cold War, and in a matter of months a new Russian president—a new Russian president who seems to be the only item on the agenda of the American embassy here—gets sworn into office. Who do you think’s going to be invited to form a new special relationship, London or Washington?”
Almost reflectively, Smith said. “This all began with the shooting of a one-armed man in a £20 suit and cardboard shoes.”
“The First World War began with the shooting of an Austrian Archduke by a student in a £5 suit and cardboard shoes,” reminded Charlie. “It’s not the perfect analogy but it’s the closest I can think of, so it will have to do.”
“We’ve got more meetings scheduled today,” disclosed the Director-General. “I’ll raise your points.”
“I’d like to be told at once of the final decision.”
“If any final decision is reached,” heavily qualified Aubrey Smith.
It was still only 8:45 when Charlie reached his compound apartment but Harry Fish was already there with his two monitoring technicians. The man said at once, “I’m glad you’re early. Knowing about the bugs in your hotel suite I held back from
ringing you there.”
“Is it the accident?” anticipated Charlie, who’d put the reason for his being so early out of his mind during the confrontation with the Director-General.
“No,” said Fish, frowning.
“What?” Keep everything separately compartmented, Charlie told himself: he had to stay on top of whatever confronted him.
“Something I think could be important,” said the electronics expert, pressing the replay button on a recording machine. “This is before enhancement but with the volume at its highest. . . .”
There was intermittent sound but Charlie couldn’t decided what it was or represented, although twice he thought he heard what could have been a human voice. He looked between the three other men, shaking his head.
“Now the enhancement,” announced Fish, in his conjuror’s voice.
There was still a lot of indistinguishable sound but the human voice was identifiable now. So were two outbursts of crying. Charlie positively translated from Russian “please, oh please,” followed by weeping, then “do it.” There was a burst of recognizable words—“please . . . have to . . . make . . .”—more sobbing, noise that meant nothing, and finally the repeated click of a lost connection.
Charlie again looked questioningly to Fish. “So what is it?”
“A compilation of three calls, the first within two hours of the press conference and initially dismissed as a crank approach, someone ringing the number for no reason: there’ve been at least twelve and I’ve had every one reexamined. Which is how we picked up the other two, over following days. The noise is traffic sound, so it’s a public street telephone, always put down before we can get number traces. The timing is always the same, though: precisely ten minutes past noon and always on the first of our listed numbers. It’s a woman’s voice: I haven’t had it voice-printed, not yet, but I’m going out on a limb to say it’s the same voice. I’m also suggesting it’s a Russian woman brought to tears trying to force herself to make the call but not being strong enough when the connection is made . . .” He paused. “I’m suggesting a pattern.”
Charlie considered what the other man had said. “The last call on the compilation? That was yesterday, right?”
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