Kings of Many Castles

24

When Charlie answered Anne Abbott’s internal voice mail message she at once announced, “I know where Bendall’s body is! And how you might get to see it!”

“Where? How?”

“Back at Burdenko. They’ve called, expecting us to handle the funeral arrangements, by which they really mean the cost. Brooking’s apoplectic.”

“He usually is. Are we going to?”

“Bendall was still officially a British subject: legally there’s a liability. But we need a declared death certificate. Brooking doesn’twant to sully his hands by asking for it and says we know the people there. You volunteering?”

The hospital vestibule seemed oddly empty without its challenging guard detail but the receptionist recognized Charlie and located Nicholai Badim on her second attempt. She said, “You’re lucky he doesn’t have a theater list.”

After the preceding twelve hours his luck deserved to change, Charlie decided. He had a lot of bridges to rebuild and leaving Lesnaya without bothering with breakfast was scarcely the way to begin the reconstruction. He wasn’t sure he yet knew where or how to start but running out of the house wasn’t the way: if anything it was an unspoken admission of what Natalia suspected him of having done in London. Even Sasha had detected the frigid atmosphere, asking why they weren’t talking and why he was leaving so early. The previous night they’d laid-almost theatrically-stiffly apart, Natalia jerking away when she’d relaxed into a half sleep and accidentally touched his leg with hers.

The balding, quickly blinking surgeon-administrator came curiously into the foyer, frowning at Charlie’s reason for being there. “We could have arranged that by telephone.”

The man was anxious to reestablish the authority that had been too often overridden during the questioning of Bendall, Charlie decided. “I’ve also got to satisfy myself that it is Bendall’s body. Formal identification.”

The frown-and irritation-deepened. “See it! There’s hardly anything left of the face to identify!”

“It’s a necessary formality. You must surely know what bureaucracy is like.”

The other man shrugged, gesturing for Charlie to follow as he thrust off deeper into the hospital. “If it will hurry things up. We need the mortuary space. I’ve told the militia I want to get rid of the other one.”

“Davidov’s body is here as well!” His luck was definitely changing.

“We’re the nearest mortuary to the court. It’s inconvenient, an imposition.”

The corridor along which they were walking was littered with dirty laundry, predominantly sheets, some abandoned on the floor and some piled up on a row of empty, metal-framed beds. A lot were bloodstained. There were also equipment cartons and boxes, mostly empty but a few were still sealed and unpacked. There was even a stack, sealed, in the lift in which they descended into the basement. Badim seemed oblivious to it all.

All the mortuary drawers appeared to have name designations on them. Boris Davidov’s was next to Bendall’s. There was only one attendant in the room, who half straightened at Badim’s entry but then decided not to bother with the respect. The surgeon ignored him, too, hauling Bendall’s drawer out himself and flicking the covering sheet back from the near headless body. It was made bloodlessly white by the refrigeration.

“OK?” the Russian demanded, impatiently.

The sheet still covered most of the dead man’s torso. Charlie quickly lifted it, uncovering the left side. The upper part of the injured arm was still bandaged almost down to the elbow but the wrist was bare. On it was the parallel line tattoo separated by the arrow fulcrum.

“What are you looking for?” said Badim, at Charlie’s shoulder.

Charlie lowered the sheet. “I’d like to see Davidov’s body, too.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure how much information London will want in my report. They might have a query about Davidov and I don’t want to have to bother you a second time.”

The adjoining drawer was withdrawn even more impatiently. Badim said, “I don’t want to be bothered again either.”

The entire upper part of Davidov’s body appeared crushed. No attempt had been made to clean up the bullet wounds. There was the same matching tattoo on the man’s left wrist. “Are you carrying out autopsies?”

“The cause of death is self evident in both cases.”

“They haven’t been asked for?”

“No. Finally satisfied?”

“Thank you,” said Charlie, falling in step with the man as they left the mortuary. “All I need now is the certificate.”

“How quickly can you have the body removed?”

“I’ll try to have things moving as soon as I get back to the embassy.” Charlie wondered upon whom Brooking would unload that chore; the man had actually smiled his gratitude when Charlie had offered to collect the certificate.

“Today, if possible,” urged the Russian.

“I can understand how glad you and Dr. Agayan are to get the hospital back to normality.”

Badim turned to Charlie in the elevator, frowning again. “Agayan? He’s not attached to my staff.”

Charlie’s tell-tale feet throbbed. “But he was here … part of your team …?”

The surgeon-administrator made a disparaging gesture towards the cardboad litter. “We aren’t funded sufficiently for cleaners, let alone a resident psychiatrist. Agayan is at the Serbsky Institute.”

Which was the principal KGB psychiatric institute in which Soviet dissidents were incarcerated and many made mad to justify their imprisonment at the height of the communist oppression, Charlie instantly recognized. “How did he come to be involved?”

“Seconded in, as part of the emergency when Bendall was admitted.”

“Seconded in by whom?”

Badim humped his shoulders, uncertainly. “The militia, I suppose. He would have been the obvious choice.”

There was another foot twinge. “Why the obvious choice?”

“He knew Bendall’s case history. Had treated him in the past, apparently.”

It only took minutes for Badim to complete the certificate. “Are you sure you’ve now got everything you want?”

“More than sufficient,” thanked Charlie. Once the floodgates opened, things usually seemed to come in a surge. But did he want it to anymore?

Her KGB career had been based on psychology and Natalia was sure she psychologically knew Charlie intimately and wished for once that she didn’t. He hadn’t denied it. If he had, positively, she would have accepted it because she wanted to accept it-believe itfor herself and for Sasha and for them-but he hadn’t. So he hadn’t wanted to lie to her personally and by not lying he’d confirmed what had only been the vaguest of suspicions, predicated upon nothing more than the television-captured look and whatever the lip-moving exchange had been between the woman and Charlie as she’d left the court. He hadn’t denied it. The four words were a continuing mantra in Natalia’s head, distracting her-deflecting her-from the reconvened meeting, which had just ended as inconclusively as every other session with Viktor Karelin. Now all she wanted to do was end it, to get away from these two men and their verbal carousel of avoidance. So enclosing was her despair that Natalia felt something close to the need to run-like Charlie had run from Lesnaya that morning-which was absurd because there was nowhere mentally or physically to run. But didn’t she have to? Didn’t she have to make some move, either physically or mentally, to end her impossible, perpetually conflicting situation with Charlie Muffin? What about loving him, which despite everything she still did? She at once acknowledged the much more important question. What about his loving her? He hadn’t, sufficiently, when he’d abandoned her in London all those years ago and he clearly didn’t now. So there was no point in going on with the pretense, convincing herself it was better for Sasha and better for her. There were too many risks, too many dangers, and she’d fooled herself into believing there was some way she could handle it. He hadn’t denied it. Now it was time for her to deny there’d ever been a chance of their making a life together.

Natalia forced the reflections back, willing her concentration entirely upon the more impending demands, almost as unsettled by the behaviour of the two men supposedly conducting the enquiry with her. Federal Prosecutor Pavl Filitov had tried as hard that morning as on every other occasion to be conciliatory and nonconfrontational towards the recalled intelligence chairman but Yuri Trishin’s attitude had been quite different and she still didn’t understand it. “It’s time to finalize our opinion and make our recommendations to the president, agreed?”

Yuri Trishin didn’t respond to Filitov’s inviting look. It was the chief of staff who said, “Yes.”

“Were either of you better satisfied with Chairman Karelin today than on previous occasions?”

“I was not impressed at all,” said Trishin.

Natalia felt the slightest lift of satisfaction at what, small though it might be, was the first positive opinion Trishin had volunteered since the commission had opened. Which he wouldn’t have offered if there hadn’t already been some discussion between the man and the acting president whom he represented. “Pavl Yakovlevich?”

“I believe there has been serious infiltration-sabotage-of which the disappearance of any details of Boris Davidov having once been an officer in the KGB or the FSB is a part,” said the Federal Prosecutor, stating the obvious-but avoiding a commitment-with a lawyer’s pedantry.

“That wasn’t the question, but let’s explore your answer,” said Natalia. “It isn’t simply records of Boris Davidov that disappeared from the federal intelligence archives! The man got into court using official identification from the Federalnaia Sluzhba Besopasnosti and shot dead with an officially issued weapon a man accused of murder. Wouldn’t you agree that’s an appalling lack-and breach-of internal security?”

Filitov stirred uncomfortably at the pressure. Before the lawyer could speak, Trishin said, “That’s very definitely my assessment.”

Further guidance from another Kremlin suite, Natalia recognized. From the quick look he gave the other man, she suspected Filitov at last realized it too. The lawyer said, “There are unquestionably grounds for criticism.”

“Not censure, for maladministration?”

Filitov waited for the chief of staffs lead but Trishin remained silent. Finally Filitov said, “That might be an extreme judgment.”

“We’ve been made to look internationally ridiculous,” said Trishin. “And throughout these hearings we-and the acting president-have been treated with contempt by everyone we have summoned from the intelligence community.”

Now it was Natalia who hesitated, surprised at the virtual confirmation of pressure from Aleksandr Okulov. But it was more than that. They were being told which way to go but the responsibilitywould be theirs, not Okulov’s. “What about an external investigation?”

“I do not believe the situation can be left to an internal FSB enquiry, which is very obviously and clearly Chairman Karelin’s intention,” declared Trishin.

“What recommendations do you propose?” invited Natalia, intent on the answer. She’d never expected to get this strength of argument, from Trishin’s earlier prevarication: wasn’t sure she wanted it after her earlier doubts about her and Charlie.

“What are your suggestions, Pavl Yakovlevich?” retreated the chief of staff, at the moment of commitment.

The Federal Prosecutor looked across the room at the note-taking secretariat.

“There should be criticism, for the lapses. And a request to Chairman Karelin to publish the result of the internal enquiries.”

“And yours, Yuri Fedorovich?” said Natalia, quickly, before the chief of staff could identify her as the proposer.

“There should be a totally independent, external investigation, with its result published,” set out the portly chief of staff. “It should be made clear to Chairman Karelin that he and his officers are legally required to respond to every enquiry, a requirement that has been blatantly ignored here. And our findings should also be that the existing senior command structure of the Federalnaia Sluzhba Besopasnosti is guilty of serious failings in its administration and that steps necessary to correct it should be made public.”

Was it conceivable that his political ambitions had turned Aleksandr Mikhailevich Okulov so totally against his former colleagues? Or was the determination to reject the speculation that the same ambition implicated him in some way with the attack upon the two presidents? Or something altogether different, an agenda she couldn’t guess at? She said, “What’s your feeling upon those proposals, Pavl Yakovlevich?”

The Federal Prosecutor stared for several moments at Trishin. “I believe they are too draconian. And you haven’t responded yourself yet?”

“I believe the attitudes and the events justify them.”

“Which gives you a two to one majority in favor,” acknowledged Filitov.

“Unless you care to make it unanimous?”

“I don’t,” said the lawyer. “I also wish to register a minority disagreement.”

“That’s your right,” recognized Natalia.

“I know it is.”

Charlie reached his decision-the only one there realistically could have been-long before he got to the American embassy. It was going to be the first time in his never-lose, never-be-beaten life that he’d turned his back on a half-finished operation. And he didn’t give a shit. Integrity was Natalia’s problem, not his. He didn’t care if she was even peripherally, unwittingly, involved: the suspicion was probably an aberration, like so many other bloody stupid things he’d done in the last few days. But he couldn’t take the chance. The only consideration was bridge building: keeping himself and Natalia and Sasha together. And to do that he was prepared to make any compromise and every concession.

Anne Abbott would expect an explanation. Which would be easy. He’d simply lie and insist that Bendall didn’t have a tattoo. Not tell her about Davidov or Agayan at all. Which only left Vladimir Sakov, whom she did know about. Easy again. She was more aware than he was that he had no legal authority to arrest or interrogate the cameraman. He’d tell Anne he’d done the only thing possible, alerting the Russians, and leave it at that. It wasn’t important anymore to impress Anne. Madness to have tried-wanted to-in the first place, to have been flattered by the adventure.

Should he admit it to Natalia? Confess to the madness that it had been and plead her forgiveness: flagellate himself, if that’s what it took? What if she couldn’t forgive him? Consider it his final betrayal, to go with all the rest. Too dangerous a strategy. Safer to say nothing, neither deny nor confirm. It was, after all, only intuition, remarkable though that had been. The next few days-he hoped not the next few weeks-weren’t going to be the best fun he’d ever had but he’d brought the ashes on his own head so he’d have to livewith it. Just as long as Natalia was living it with him.

There was an atmosphere of flatness-of everything being on half power-about the American incident room. John Kayley came odorously from his side office and said, “Tell me you’ve come up with something to keep this investigation on the road.”

“Like what?”

Kayley shook his head, in defeat. “We’re stymied. I’ve got everyone carrying out a total review but we’ve done that already, days ago. Now everything’s under Russian control.”

“Where is Olga?” asked Charlie, looking into the empty office.

“Hasn’t shown. I’ve got calls in. What are your people saying in London?”

“I’m to sit and do nothing, until told otherwise. Yours?”

“I’ve still got a murder and the maiming of the president’s wife, by a person or persons unknown. And until I find who those persons are, my ass is being burned every hour on the hour. Scamell’s gone to the Foreign Ministry, to try diplomatic pressure to get us actively involved but all we’ll get is the runaround. I’m fucked, Charlie. For the first time in my life, I don’t have a lead to follow or a path to take. After the fuck up with the director I thought I was fireproof but not any longer. This could be goodbye John Deke Kayley. So all suggestions will be gratefully received.”

The way to take everything forward-probably solved it allburst upon Charlie with complete clarity. He said, “Sorry, mate. I’m as stymied as you are.”

Charlie bypassed both Richard Brooking and Anne Abbott, once more locking himself away in his riverview office and actually standing at the window, running the idea through his mind for problems and finding none. Except one: causing difficulties for Natalia if she was being manipulated in some way, which was as high as he was any longer prepared to consider her being an unwitting inside source. And the danger of which was, after all, why he intended lying to Anne Abbott and doing nothing about what he’d discovered that day.

Turning his back, Charlie reminded himself again, for the first time ever. It irked him, like the nagging, persistent pain from anabscess that was going to go on hurting until it was lanced. Whatever compromise or concession, he thought in further reminder. His personal difficulty was that giving up had always been the one compromise he’d never been prepared to make. So now was the time to learn. At least he knew himself he could probably have brought everything to a conclusion although examined as closely as he was examining now it wasn’t one hundred percent certain that he and Kayley could have instilled sufficient fear.

Brooking agreed to see Charlie at once and said again how grateful he was when Charlie delivered the death certificate. A complication had arisen with the Russians arguing the embassy was responsible for Vera Bendall’s burial as well but at least in her case they had a certificate. The housing officer was arranging it all. They were hoping Peter Bendall’s plot would be big enough to accommodate two more coffins. With luck they’d manage the interment without the media learning about it.

Anne said it was bad luck that George Bendall hadn’t been tattooed but that it had been worth checking and agreed that they had no jurisdiction whatsoever to investigate Vladimir Sakov. She wondered what Olga would do with the information about Vladimir Sakov and Charlie said he didn’t know but the militia colonel had promised to keep him informed.

“So what’s that leave you to do?” she asked.

“Wait for London’s instructions,” said Charlie.

They were waiting for him on his personal fax machine when he got back to his office. With Bendall-and his killer-dead the enquiry became entirely one between Russia and the United States of America. He was to take no further active part in the investigation, merely to maintain a liaison role to enable the file to be closed when it was satisfactorily concluded.

Now he’d been officially told to turn his back, Charlie recognized. It still irked him because he’d never done that when officially ordered, either.