Kings of Many Castles

20

Natalia accepted she had been outmaneuvred with almost child-like ease but bruised pride was the least of her several concerns. Her need was to adjust Charlie’s don’t-get-sore-get-even philosophy, the only guide she had from all the half-remembered conversations andanecdotes to reverse the ambush Filitov and Trishin had trapped her into, just thirty minutes before Viktor Karelin’s arrival. She was on her own and in those first suspended minutes she couldn’t see a way to do it.

There were no smiles, wisped or otherwise, from Karelin. The face of the FSB chairman was as fixed as the way he sat, facing them, the only movement the slight tremor in the hand in which he held her initiated recommendation for militia involvement in the FSB internal investigations.

“We felt you should be advised in advance, as a matter of courtesy,” improvised Natalia. It had been Filitov’s insistence, backed by the chief of staff, that there should be a vote upon advising Karelin before forwarding the suggestion to the Kremlin, ridiculous though the pretense had been with the two men so determinedly against her. The point, as always, had been to establish a provable, safety net record. From which the most glaring, and worrying, inference was that the federal prosecutor-but more importantly Yuri Trishin-seriously doubted Aleksandr Okulov’s formal election chances and were taking out insurance against the overthrow of the new regime, with the inevitable resurgence of the omnipotent intelligence service of which the man himself had once been such an integral part.

“By a majority decision,” hurriedly added Filitov, in unnecessary confirmation of Natalia’s reasoning.

“I believe the problems that have been uncovered within my organization can be very adequately dealt with internally,” said Karelin. “One, in fact, already has been. Your recommendation there has been overtaken by events.”

She could come back to that later, gauged Natalia. A vague idea was formulating but she didn’t know how to carry it through to the end. “We’re not questioning the adequacy of your organization. The intention …” She paused, unsure at the risk but then recalling Filitov’s blatant entrapment “is to protect it.” They had to commit themselves-from their own mouths-if she was going to turn their maneuvre back upon them. She needed a response-any response-she could use.

“Protect it!” demanded Karelin. He always had an escape, to keephis service inviolable, but he was intrigued by their even imagining such an intrusion was possible. Not “their” imagining, he corrected, the woman who’d once been in the service. It was as difficult to understand as Okulov appointing an investigating commission in the first place, with her as its chairman.

Good enough; very good, in fact. Natalia was conscious of Filitov and Trishin twisting sideways towards her, matching Karelin’s bewilderment, and just as obviously turned herself to the chief of staff. “You would agree, wouldn’t you Yuri Fedorovich, that one of the essential remits of this Commission is to ensure external transparency, particularly as far as the United States of America is concerned?”

Trishin sat trying to anticipate towards which abyss he was being prodded. Unable to, he reluctantly said, “Yes.”

“And there’s also the undertaking, personally announced by the acting president, to make public the findings of this enquiry?”

“Yes,” agreed Trishin again, even more entangled.

It was going better than she’d hoped but it would be wrong for her to read too much too soon into their confusion. She went back to Karelin. “One of your first remarks to us was to deny emphatically any FSB part in an assassination conspiracy?” Natalia thought some of the stiffness had gone from the nondescript man.

Karelin said, “Which I just as emphatically repeat.”

“And which will be set out very specifically in our conclusions, all of which are to be made fully public,” said Natalia. That hadn’t been agreed-discussed even-and she waited for Trishin’s challenge, but it didn’t come. Having allowed the wait, Natalia went on, “Aren’t we limiting ourselves by only discussing an assassination conspiracy?”

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” complained Karelin.

Natalia could see her way now-actually realizing there was something positive to learn-and was not in a hurry, the longer she strung it out the further Filitov and Trishin would be stranded. “Public, international perception,” said Natalia.

“I still don’t understand,” protested Karelin, who believed he did but was unwilling to risk a mistake.

“There has been considerable ill feeling between us and the Americans over some aspects of the overall investigation,” reminded Natalia. “It’s reflected-clearly through informed and official leaksin the highly critical media attacks in the American press. You have been remarkably open with us, conceding that the FSB has been seriously embarrassed. Wouldn’t you agree, Viktor Ivanovich, that such an honest admission exposes you and your service to international media accusation-speculation at the very least-of complicity?”

“An accusation I am totally refuting!” insisted Karelin. She was right, he admitted to himself.

Natalia abruptly switched back to Trishin, intercepting as she did so the look of concern passing between the men on either side of her. “Denied or not, it is the sort of hostile analysis the international media will make and against which it is necessary for the FSB to guard, wouldn’t you agree, Yuri Fedorovich?”

“Not if the denials were made strongly enough,” tried the politician.

“Are you, Viktor Ivanovich, prepared to take that chance with the reputation of your organisation at stake?” demanded Natalia, moving between the intelligence chairman and the chief of staff before switching to the prosecutor. “Are you, Yuri Fedorvich?” She had them! Boxed and tied with ribbon.

“Isn’t this escalating out of proportion?” said Filitov, recognizing how totally their intended isolation of Natalia had been thrown back at them.

“Answer your own question,” Natalia returned at once. “Outside militia participation will show the FSB and its chairman willing to be totally transparent, to international opinion and judgment. Prove it has nothing to hide.” It wouldn’t prove anything of the sort-the FSB, like its predecessor, were adept enough to conceal anything they didn’t want found out-but that wasn’t the point. At that precise moment the point was justifying any sort of outside monitor.

“It’s a convincing argument,” said Karelin. “I’m glad it’s been made.”

“And I’m personally glad you’ve acknowledged it,” said Natalia.Neither Filitov nor Trishin would be so happy with the secretariat transcripts now. She wondered how much more benefit there was to be achieved.

Karelin lifted and let drop the no longer agitated hand that still held the proposal for militia involvement. “And I appreciate the courtesy. And the consideration.” There was even, finally, a fleeting smile.

“You have no problem with the idea?”

“I need to consider it further. Which I will do keeping your arguments very much in mind, Natalia Fedova.”

“You said one of the uncovered problems has already been dealt with?” prompted Natalia.

“Colonel Spassky was held responsible for the internal security breach,” disclosed Karelin. “He has been dismissed and a new directorate chairman appointed to instigate an entirely redesigned system. It is conceivable that during that reorganization there might emerge some further information on the interference itself.”

Natalia acknowledged that Spassky had to be the most likely and available scapegoat. That had been the ineffectual man’s role from the very beginning. “You left yesterday to carry out a Registry search for us?”

“None of the names from the Ministry of Defense with which I was supplied appear on any Registry or Archive documents of the current FSB or the KGB which preceded it,” said Karelin, formally.

“That would seem to bring to an end any further assistance you might be able to give us?” said Trishin.

“Does it?” came in Natalia, sharply. “The identity of any who might be involved could be among material intentionally removed as part of the conspiracy, couldn’t it?”

“Most certainly, if any of them were part of it,” agreed Karelin.

Everything had to end on her personal terms, decided Natalia, or perhaps more essentially to her personal benefit. “We’ve no other witnesses, unless you can suggest anyone else.”

“There’s no one,” confirmed Karelin, at once.

“At the moment the FSB is inextricably-and inescapably-linked with a very carefully planned treason because of which it can only be discredited,” Natalia spelled out.

“Until we prove otherwise,” said Karelin.

There it was, the top-to-bottom investigations Karelin hadn’t d closed and into which he wouldn’t for a moment admit outside in vestigators! “Such very careful planning wouldn’t have been possible by disaffected personnel abruptly dismissed your service?”

“I don’t think so,” agreed Karelin.

“Could there be factions still within the FSB that might want to discredit you personally and the organization as a whole?”

“If there are, they will be discovered,” insisted Karelin, in further confirmation of the undisclosed purge.

“Can you suggest to us who-or what-else might be responsible?” asked Trishin, anxious to restore himself.

“Not at this moment,” said Karelin. “I’m discounting a foreign intelligence service. One could not have infiltrated to this degree.”

“I’ve used the word discredit,” reminded Natalia. “If this conspiracy isn’t totally explained and the conspirators-all the conspirators-brought to justice, couldn’t we be talking about the destruction of the FSB? Certainly about the need for yet another but more complete restructuring?”

“All of these difficulties have been realized and are being acted upon,” assured Karelin.

The unbreachable confidence was wavering, thought Natalia. “They are also difficulties that we will necessarily have to recognize, in our report to the acting president.”

“Are you warning me you believe the FSB is actively connected with this outrage!” demanded Karelin.

“I’m certainly not!” said Filitov.

“I am advising you of the evidence-and the observations-with which we have to work,” said Natalia. “With the hope of further contact and cooperation between us.”

Charlie judged it so far to be a day more confusing than most-too many of which had already been confusing enough-couldn’t see how it was going to get any better and wished now he hadn’t responded to instinct by returning to Fadeeva Ulitza instead of going back to Burdenko Hospital with the lawyers, defense psychiatrists and Donald Morrison. The initial uncertainty was the concierge’sdisclosure of the arrival at Boris Davidov’s abandoned apartment, within an hour of his having been there the previous night, of an FSB squad. According to the caretaker they’d asked similar questions to everyone else and appeared to be trying to locate the man, which they wouldn’t have had to do if he was still a serving officer but certainly would if he’d served in the past and needed to be removed from awkward questioning. Another perhaps far more feasible thought-countered only by Charlie’s impression of Bendall’s reaction-was that the FSB had joined the game of musical chairs and were chasing each of the fifteen names, in the footsteps of the FBI and the militia.

To test that possibility Charlie went directly from Fadeeva Ulitza to the American embassy and was further frustrated. Nowhere, in any of the FBI reports, was there a reference to their overlapping with either the intelligence or police service. Of the fifteen, eight-including Davidov-were logged as being not immediately traceable but with enquiries continuing. Two were serving prison sentences and another had died four years earlier, shot by the militia in an attempted armed robbery in an Arbat jewellery store. Three were working for security firms offering protection to Western businessmen in Moscow from organized mafia and the last was an instructor in the gymnasium at the Balchug Kempinski hotel. None of the security men nor the gym instructor remembered Georgi Gugin as serving with them in the army, despite the television and newspaper pictures. Nothing of the militia efforts to trace the fifteen was yet logged on the centralized system.

John Kayley came down into the incident room from the upstairs embassy as Charlie finished his fruitless computer scroll. The American was in shirtsleeves dark with sweat across his shoulders and beneath his arms.

Kayley said, “You want to guess how many Secret Servicemen we got coming here with the president?”

“No,” refused Charlie.

“Seventy-five! They hear a sound louder than a sparrow’s fart they’ll open fire and there’ll be another massacre.”

“You part of it?”

Kayley shook his head. “I got a court hearing to attend and exsoldiers to find.”

“How’s it going?”

Kayley gestured to Charlie’s blank computer screen. “What you see is what we got. Which so far is fuck all. You all set for tomorrow?”

“Short of just about everything I’d like,” said Charlie, honestly.

“You think we’re ever going to get it?” asked Kayley, kindling one of his cigars into a perfumed cloud.

Charlie considered for several minutes before he replied. “No,” he said, confronting the doubt properly for the first time. “I don’t think from the way it’s going at the moment that we stand a chance in hell.”

Charlie’s seriousness appeared to concentrate Kayley’s mind. “And I believe you’re probably right. I don’t think we are, either.” Thank Christ, he thought, for the Teflon protection of Paul Smith’s over-reactive e-mail.

Charlie seized upon Anne Abbott’s unexpected, car phone requests for a preparing, pre-hearing review-eager for a sounding board after the brief exchange with Kayley-without waiting for Morrison’s return to the incident room. Arkadi Noskov was already tightly wedged into the largest available chair-which would have enveloped anyone else-in Anne’s embassy office, vodka glass contentedly resting on his tablecloth of a beard. Charlie accepted the offered scotch, even though it was a mix. Anne wasn’t drinking.

“So how’d it go?” Charlie asked.

“It would have been better if you’d been there,” said Anne.

Charlie detected the edge to her voice. “I’m sorry?” he queried.

“So are we,” she said. “Bendall went through the routine with our psychiatrists but said he wouldn’t cooperate with anything else if you weren’t there. Which you weren’t.”

A serious oversight, acknowledged Charlie. It really was spiralling into a totally fucked up day. The refusal wouldn’t do anything to restore Donald Morrison’s confidence, either. Charlie said, “You really think he had any intention of saying anything today?”

“We’re never going to know, are we?”

“What about the psychiatrists?”

“He was impeccable,” replied the deep-voiced lawyer. “His behavior virtually amounts to proof of his sanity, without our needing to be professionally told.”

“Is that what the psychiatrists did say, that he was fit to plead?” demanded Charlie.

“They’ve promised qualifications in their written assessment but they’re unanimous on the deciding factor, that he’s mentally capable of understanding a criminal charge,” said Noskov.

“And that he’s mentally aware of what he’s done, capable of distinguishing between right and wrong,” finished Anne.

“What are the qualifications?” said Charlie.

“Delusory, to the point of severe fantacism,” Anne set out. “Fluctuating schizophrenic paranoia, susceptible to mental manipulation.”

“What’s that give us?” asked Charlie.

“At best, psychiatric mumbo jumbo for a plea of mitigation,” said the Russian lawyer, cynically. “And we’ve got the intended charges.”

“Which are?”

“Conspiracy to murder, murder, membership of a terrorist organization, terrorism, espionage and discharging a weapon with intent to endanger or take life,” enumerated Noskov.

“Espionage?” isolated Charlie, curiously.

“They’ve trawled through the statute book and will probably come up with some they haven’t got to yet,” said Noskov, with continued cynicism. “Don’t forget it’s only the initial, legally required arraignment. The prosecution will formally lay the charges, I’ll formally enter a plea of not guilty to each and that’ll be that for the next ten or twenty or however many custodial remands the prosecution ask for.”

“Perhaps,” said Anne, offering their individual bottles to each man for refills.

“What’s that mean?” questioned Charlie.

“Bendall’s demanding to address the court,” she said. “When we told him tomorrow wasn’t the time or the place he threatened to dismiss us and defend himself.” She hesitated. “That’s when we could have done with you most, to calm him down.”

Charlie accepted the persistent criticism. “We’re here to review. Let’s do just that, assemble what we’ve got.”

“Or rather what we haven’t got,” said Anne. “Give us your analysis against ours.”

On his way to Protocnyj pereulok Charlie had believed he had everything neatly compartmented in his mind but almost as soon as he began to talk the doubt arose. The undoubted conspiracy was brilliantly conceived by people with sufficient power, influence and knowledge to penetrate KGB-era material and come literally within a hair’s breadth of a sniper’s rifle sight to assassinating two presidents. As it was, they’d killed one and by a fluke of an instinctive movement maimed the wife of another. Anne cut in, impressively advocatorial, when Charlie talked of a brotherhood and listed what they’d believed he’d extracted from Bendall about it, even managing a passing imitation of the man’s wailing dirge.

“Delusory, to the point of severe fantacism,” she reminded. “And that’s from our own experts! OK, we know from the number of shots fired and the different caliber of the bullets that there was a conspiracy but any half decent prosecution with a television film like they’ve got will cut us to pieces if we start talking of stupid bonding songs and blood brothers.”

“We’ve got an irrefutable defense to murder,” said Noskov. “The rest only just helps with a mitigating defence on the evidence of mental instability.”

“He’d have believed it, though, wouldn’t he?” said Charlie, slowly. “Someone who was easily deluded, retreated into fantasy in preference to his own shitty existence, would grab at the blood brother nonsense.”

“Where’s that take us?” asked Anne.

Charlie didn’t know but his feet throbbed, which was a good sign. “What are the inconsistencies! The things that don’t fit?”

“Most if it,” said Anne, despairingly.

“No!” refused Charlie. “Let’s go through it again, to find what doesn’t fit. Unarguable facts. It’s brilliantly … No!” Charlie stopped himself. “It’s a professionally conceived operation, the sort of assassination that would have needed the expertise of an organization trained and equipped to carry out authorized killings …”

“The FSB and before them the KGB,” interrupted Anne.

“And before them all the rest,” agreed Charlie. “We know from the different calibration of the two different rifles that there were two different marksmen, each capable of firing a total of five shots in under eight seconds. Professional marksmanship but not professional planning. If it had been truly professional, the rifles would have at least been of the same caliber …”

“An inconsistency,” recognized Noskov.

“Let’s mark it,” Charlie agreed. “Now let’s look at all the others. George Bendall, a dysfunctional, mentally unstable-but mentally malleable-man who was long ago trained as a marksman. A third rifle but only two bullets, because they know he can’t hit the intended targets and if he hits anyone else-which he fortunately didn’t-it doesn’t matter. Purpose? The dupe who is intended to take the blame. His cowed, frightened mother who doesn’t appear to know anything, yet is murdered in a jail for which the organization with the capability to commit assassination is responsible. And his apparent-his only-best friend, also possibly murdered in what was made to look like an accident on a level crossing. Anything I’ve missed out?”

“Bendall’s mystery pentathol injection,” reminded Anne.

“OK, let’s add that,” accepted Charlie. “Anything else?”

“Orkulov and the KGB,” said Noskov, simply. “Where’s that slot in?”

“It doesn’t, if its successor service is involved; whatever the changes, they rarely shaft their own …” Charlie hesitated again, remembering the number of times he’d been strung out to dry. “Not often, anyway.”

“Okulov appointed a presidential commission into the FSB,” argued Anne.

“After the shooting and with the finger pointing at them and him,” said Charlie. “Politically he didn’t have any alternative.” Into his mind’s eye came the two taunting photographs of Vasili Gregorovich Isakov: what the fuck was it he couldn’t see! With everything else so fragmented this discussion wouldn’t be taken forward by his getting the prints from his office and inviting the lawyers’ examination. “Is that it?”

Both lawyers nodded their heads.

“So what’s there that shouldn’t be?”

“Like I said, most of it,” remarked Anne.

“That’s not helping,” threw back Charlie, balancing her earlier criticism.

“You know the impression I’m increasingly getting?” invited Anne.

Both men looked at her, waiting.

“I don’t find it difficult to imagine that there’s someone on the inside of this investigation manipulating the whole bloody lot of us, just as they manipulated George Bendall.”

There was a long silence.

“One of the conspirators?” said Noskov, finally.

“Maybe even more than one,” suggested Anne. “Think about it. Nothing adds up. Every move we’ve made-every move anyone else has made, as far as we’re aware-always runs into a brick wall.”

“Are you suggesting someone at our level?” pressed Charlie, feeling the beginning of a chill at his recognition of how much sense Anne’s remark made.

“I’m just pointing out that we’ve been made to dance around in circles and for that to happen so consistently it would be useful for the bad guys to have someone very close to the investigation.”

“You think Okulov is masterminding it to get the presidency? That’s the only level with a link to the FSB-or rather the KGB before it-that makes sense.”

“I’m not sure what I think,” said Anne, uncharacteristically careless.

Okulov-through Trishin being on the commission-wasn’t the only one who fitted, thought Charlie. He ran the rest-their faces even-through his mind, desperate for a more likely suspect. And failed. Which didn’t prove anything. Nothing was provable. The whole thing-the entire speculation-was based upon a casual, throwaway aside that just, only just, might have sinister implications. But from her chairmanships of both the Russian coordinating groups and the presidential commission Natalia perfectly fitted the incriminating profile. Which was absurd. What reason-what possible purpose-could there be for Natalia even to be remotelyconnected-the ultimate of unacceptable absurdities-with the killing and maiming of people. And yet …?

It had been a working dinner and the recalled James Scamell had, only minutes before, quit the Regents Park official residence of the United States ambassador to England, leaving Anandale and Wendall North alone together.

Anandale said, “You sure the plug will hold?”

“They’re short eleven documents, three the minutes of the meetings at which the decision was made to contribute the soft $750,000 to your campaign and in which you were specifically named,” assured the chief of staff. “I’ve got the chief exec’s personnel guarantee they’re shredded. What’s left is a general discussion, about election funding. As far as the paper trail goes, it was a discussion upon which no action was taken, no names mentioned.”

“How many of the board know?”

“Five.”

“What if they’re subpoenaed?”

“They’d fall too. Diverting company funds without stockholders-and the full board’s-approval is fraud, a criminal offense.”

“They could plea bargain. Cop an amnesty for turning State’s evidence.”

“They’re firm. There’s insufficient to pressure any of them.” Anandale swirled the brandy in his snifter. “How long before the Grand Jury’s concluded?”

“Two weeks. And from now on it’s the dregs, no one who can hurt us,” guaranteed North. “You’re still high on the sympathy wave and the media are taking the duty-before-personal-safety line of your going back for the funeral.”

“Three specialists have so far decided there’s nothing that can be done for Ruth. Only two to go.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that, Mr. President.”

“Find more doctors, Wendall. Better qualified. We can’t let her stay like she is. She’s too proud.”

The chief of staff looked unnecessarily at his watch. “Donnington will still be up at the hotel. I’ll call him right away.”

“Let’s go outside the country-Europe’s fine-if he gets the name of the right man.”

“I’ll make sure Donnington understands.”

“You really think I should do what Scamell wants in Moscow after all the speculation?”

“Kayley doesn’t buy it. And we’ve been through the protection arrangements with a finetoothed comb. Aston says it’s safe. It’s been rehearsed so many times everyone can do it in their sleep.” Wendall North had ensured that this time there wasn’t a single security provision or objection in which he was a named participant.

“I want everyone with their eyes wide open,” said Anandale.

Charlie stayed late into the evening, alone in his own embassy office, going through everything-even the CNN film-knowing it was ridiculous but having to acknowledge that Anne Abbott’s suggestion deserved consideration and that when it was considered, Natalia was the best placed of any possible suspects to be an inside source. He couldn’t-wouldn’t-contemplate her being involved-aware in advance-in the actual murders. That was totally unthinkable. But examined closely-and Charlie’s examination was microscopic-that wasn’t what the lawyer had theorized. Anne Abbott had been referring to the almost orchestrated confusion afterwards. Which still didn’t make sense. Wasn’t it as unthinkable that she’d become inveigled afterwards? Knowing complicity after the crime would be as bad-as criminally culpable-as knowing of it before. He asked himself if she could have acted unknowingly and decided that was impossible: Natalia was far too astute to allow herself to be used unknowingly. It was only when he spread the reflection to honesty and integrity, trying to imagine any conceivable situation in which she’d be prepared to sacrifice either, that Charlie felt the first real flicker of unease. He didn’t doubt that Natalia would abandon honesty and integrity-even contemplate breaking the law-to protect Sasha. And the risk to Sasha-the upheaval to their daughter more than anything that might happen to her-had been Natalia’s constant, corrosive fear ever since she’d moved into Lesnaya. Still not enough; still unthinkable. There wasn’t even circumstantial evidence.It was circumstantial-very circumstantial-hypotheses at best. Or worse.

It was past nine when he finally got home, going directly to the drink’s tray when he entered the apartment.

Natalia said, “I could have kept something. Waited so we could have eaten together if you’d called to say you were on your way.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“A development?”

Charlie shook his head. “Complete review for tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow’s only a formality, surely?”

It was obvious she’d know that, Charlie accepted. “Lawyers wanting to know we’re prepared for the unexpected.”

“Are you?”

Charlie hesitated, wondering if he were good enough to make their conversation a test, remembering he’d once before been able verbally to trick her. “We don’t know enough to be prepared for anything, expected or otherwise. What happened with you today?”

Natalia said, “I came closer than I ever want to come again to being washed away,” and Charlie’s feet twitched and he wished they hadn’t.

Charlie listened with a divided mind, assessing her account as she wanted him to but at the same time unsuccessfully searching for any nuance that might resolve the doubt created by Anne Abbott. When Natalia finished he said, “Did you think you could manage it?”

“Not at first.”

“Now comes your report,” said Charlie. Would there be any indication now?

“Filitov and Trishin said they needed time to read all the statements, which is ludicrous. There’s only Karelin.”

“What’s your opinion?”

“Serious maladministration within the FSB.”

“But not complicity?”

“Someone with access has to be part of it.”

She’d personally gone to the Lubyanka, supposedly to pressure Spassky, had actually talked to him afterwards about how lapse internal security was. And she’d knew her way around the building. “You going to say that?”

“It’s obvious. We’d make ourselves look stupid not to.”

“What if Filitov and Trishin don’t agree?”

“I don’t see how they can disagree. If they do I can record a dissenting opinion.”

“Will you?”

Natalia frowned. “What else can I do?”

How would she confront the actually suspicion? “Something curious came up during our review.”

“What?”

“The thought that someone connected with the investigation might be part of the conspiracy: misleading or blocking things.” Charlie spoke looking directly at Natalia who looked directly back.

“Who?” she demanded.

“It was a general remark. You’ve probably got the widest overview of anyone. What do you think?”

Natalia shook her head. “I don’t see it. If we chase that we’ll confuse ourselves even more than we’re confused now.”

Charlie decided he knew her too well-had spent his entire life spotting deceit-not to have detected something in that reply, which he hadn’t. And yet..