Red Star Rising

12

For something upon which Charlie’s future, if not his actual existence, still depended, the supposed forensic evidence of assassination appeared remarkably inconsequential, apart from the totally manufactured CCTV record and its freeze frames showing the entry into the embassy grounds of the victim and his killers. The only other tangible evidence was a comparatively small vial of provable embassy soil, into which AB blood had been introduced and a sliver of provable Russian metal from a provable 9mm Makarov bullet. There were also photographs of the supposed score mark caused by that ricocheting exiting bullet. There were also duplicated stacks of technically phrased forensic tests and findings, in Russian, to accompany and support every exhibit.

Charlie ran the loop through the replay machine several times before going just as exhaustively and individually through every exhibit and report, finally convinced, despite the reservations of technical director Jack Smethwick, that with the exception of DNA testing it was all unchallengeable.

Positively separating the professional and personal dilemmas with which he was confronted, Charlie concentrated first upon the bizarre cafe confrontation with Sergei Pavel. And always arrived back at the conclusion he’d reached walking with aching feet back along Varvarka the previous evening: that Pavel’s approach and reasoning was so open to question and doubt that it had to be genuine, not a layered deception devised to eliminate him from an investigation the Russians were determined to keep to themselves.

Which was how he put it to the Director-General from the familiar communications room, reluctantly making the approach not so much from the need for a general sounding board but very specifically to relay Guzov’s disclosure to a fellow Russian that the FSB was not responsible for bugging the embassy.

“The devices are provably Russian!” exclaimed Aubrey Smith, impatiently. “Who else but the FSB put them there?”

“I’m not inviting a debate because I think the denial is as absurd as you do,” said Charlie, matching the impatience. “You’ve ordered me not to talk to Robertson so I’m passing it on for you to tell him. Guzov is technically Pavel’s superior. He’s got no reason to try to persuade Pavel.”

“It’s part of the same patchwork,” dismissed Smith. “Nikita Kashev has summoned the acting ambassador twice to the Foreign Ministry to make the same denial. The Russian ambassador here has sought two meetings at our Foreign Office, with the same message. Now Guzov joins the chorus, for Pavel to tell you, hoping that you’ll tell me-London at least, because I hope there’s no way they know you and I are liaising directly-for it to be spread as fully and as thickly as possible.”

“Isn’t that unusual?” asked Charlie.

“I don’t understand the question.”

“Every Western embassy has had listening devices installed by the Russians. And we’ve done our fair share in return,” Charlie pointed out. “The embassy protests, Moscow denies it-as we do when we’re caught-and in a few months it’s all forgotten until the next time. Why the continued, persistent denials this time?”

“Because everything is supposed to have changed since the demise of communism, which we all know it hasn’t,” said Smith, still dismissive.

“I felt I should pass it on,” said Charlie, reminding himself it was not his investigation and that his day had to run on a strict timetable.

“You’ve got all you wanted,” said Smith. “Now I want results-some significant developments-pretty damned quick.”

“I’ve got some things in mind,” said Charlie, disliking the vagueness but not wanting to risk the Director-General countermanding what he was considering.

Charlie phoned ahead and by the time he arrived at Petrovka, a replay machine was already set up in Pavel’s office, cramped by the two rows of chairs arranged in a viewing semicircle. Charlie accepted without protest his relegation to the second row, leaving those closest to the screen to Mikhail Guzov and the assembled but unidentified forensic specialists and technicians. Pavel positioned himself behind them, alongside Charlie but gave no indication of any prior contact. They all watched the two-and-a-half minute tape without comment but immediately after it faded a heavily bearded forensic officer demanded a replay, coming intently forward to watch it for the second time: once he leaned sideways to mutter to the man next to him something that Charlie strained to hear but missed. He didn’t hear the conversation between the man and Guzov when the second viewing ended, either.

Turning to Charlie, Guzov said, “The CCTV copy isn’t of much practical use.”

Charlie had spent both replays intently studying the FSB officer for the slightest facial indication that the cafe encounter had been a setup and detected nothing. Charlie said, “Together with what London identified as part of a Makarov bullet, it proves the victim was alive when he was brought into the embassy grounds by at least three men and that the murder was committed there, positively establishing that the crime was committed on British territory, which further establishes that it is primarily a British investigation.”

“I meant, of practical use in identifying the victim or the men who killed him,” corrected Guzov.

They’d accepted the phony CCTV film as genuine! realized Charlie. “They won’t know that, though, will they?”

“What? Who?” Guzov frowned.

“I intend to hold a press conference at the embassy,” announced Charlie. “I consider the CCTV to be a breakthrough in the investigation, showing the murder in the process of it being committed.”

“You’ll be asked if you can identify the victim and his killers,” said Pavel, nodding to the freeze frames stacked on a side table, together with all the other London material. “There will also be demands for those photographs to be released.”

“Of course I’m going to be asked,” agreed Charlie. “And I am going to describe what we’ve got as vital evidence that cannot be released for fear of affecting the outcome of any trial.”

“In the vain hope that the killers, frightened of being identified, will make the mistake that’ll do just that?” queried Guzov, the sneer very obvious.

“That would be a little too much to expect, but not totally beyond the realms of possibility,” said Charlie. “What we do have is a reasonably good physical description of the dead man, and what’s definitely not beyond the realms of possibility is that it will be recognized by someone who will come forward to identify who he is. And that would very definitely be a breakthrough, wouldn’t it?”

Guzov’s face hardened at the awareness of how easily he was being outmaneuvered. Trying to make it sound more like an already agreed decision rather then the question it really was, the Russian said, “The press conference panel will need particular and careful planning.”

“Very particular indeed,” picked up Charlie. “The film very positively establishes the United Kingdom’s primary legal jurisdiction, which requires that any public discussion has to be conducted on British territory. .” He hesitated, the affect timed to the ticking second. “Which presents a difficulty of your participating in view of the current diplomatic problem between our two governments.”

“Are you trying to tell me that no Russian participation will be allowed?”

“I’m just pointing out that the degree of participation has to be diplomatically agreed.”

“I shall need to discuss the legality of the situation with lawyers at our own ministry,” said Guzov, trying to make it sound like a challenge.

“Of course you must,” agreed Charlie. “As I will with my embassy.” How much of an obstacle were temporary ambassador Peter Maidment and his own Foreign Office going to be to the media proposal, wondered Charlie.

Guzov swept his arm to encompass the CCTV tape and everything else that Charlie had brought to Petrovka. “And there may be further need to discuss everything you have provided, after closer study by our scientists.”

Shit, thought Charlie.

Charlie accepted he could not have expected it to have gone better-although being a pushy, foot-in-the-door optimist he’d hoped that it would-but Mikhail Guzov’s implied threat nagged at him, despite Charlie’s balancing belief that Pavel’s cafe approach had been professionally genuine.

And he was thirty minutes behind schedule getting back to the embassy, with only time to check his telephone messages before his courtesy appointment with the acting ambassador. Again, the one call routed to his voice mail disconnected without identification.

When Charlie was ushered into the ambassador’s suite, Peter Maidment was at the window overlooking the river and didn’t immediately turn. There was a weariness about the man when he finally did so, waving Charlie to the waiting chair. “Your Director-General sent me a message that you wanted to see me?”

And he was taking his biggest risk yet, not clearing his intention first with Aubrey Smith, conceded Charlie. “I want to conduct a press conference for the media camped outside the gates.”

There was no outrage or theatricality at the idea from the lank-haired man. “To tell them what?”

“I need to identify the victim,” said Charlie, encouraged. “There are some physical characteristics I hope might be recognized by a wife or a girlfriend or a work colleague.”

“There’ll be Russians among the media? Journalism is a very common front for the sort of people who installed the most recent listening devices.”

“The conference could be very strictly controlled,” pressed Charlie. “They could be escorted to the conference hall quite separate from the embassy building itself. And escorted directly out again at the end. All the accreditation could be thoroughly vetted. And the local Russian staff is still being allowed in and out.”

“What’s wrong with simply issuing a statement, listing what you want someone to recognize?”

“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.