Red Star Rising

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 cafe 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.”

“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.”

“I advised you to expect that,” reminded Charlie.

“And I warned London,” said Maidment, looking more toward the note taker than Charlie. “No one suspected of any involvement with any Russian security service will be allowed within the embassy precincts. Which is the purpose of the accreditation confirmation.”

Charlie decided against bothering to remind the other man that it was he who had talked earlier of excluding Guzov. “What’s the official response going to be to Moscow’s representation?”

“An acknowledgement of their Note.”

Which was fence sitting, not a response, Charlie recognized. Could he risk including Sergei Pavel, without actually mentioning it? He could by the strictest interpretation of Maidment’s caveats. “I’ll announce the conference for Wednesday.”

“It’s important that you understand that everything about this is your responsibility,” insisted Maidment.

What, wondered Charlie, was the collective noun for a group of shit-scared diplomats: a cower of diplomats was all that came to mind. “I totally accept that.”

“And I am declining any further involvement,” added the frightened man. “From now on everything goes direct to your Director-General, who in turn will deal with the Foreign Office.”

“Of course,” said Charlie, snatching a benefit he hadn’t imagined possible.

Unsure from which direction the next problem might come-simply resigned to the inevitability that one would-Charlie did his best to cover his back with his own account to London of the encounter with Maidment before moving on to his dedicated apartment and telephone requirements, sparing himself the playground petulance by e-mailing his demands to Harold Barrett. He posed his telephone interception queries to Harry Fish the same way as well, copying London’s authorizing approval to both men. Charlie completed his computer correspondence by announcing the press conference on the TASS, RIA Novosti, and Izvestia online news agencies and duplicated the information to the Associated Press wires for the Western media, although knowing that they would pick up the constantly read Russian news services. In every e-mail, he identified Paul Robertson as the man to whom all necessary accreditation information should be addressed. He also set out the admission and exit restrictions and stipulated that the conference would be strictly limited to the murder investigation. Finally, he duplicated everything to London. And then he sat back to wait, wondering who would be the first through his door.

It was Paula-Jane Venables. She burst into the room, without knocking, the slip from the TASS service still in her hand and said: “Hey! We got a breakthrough here?”

“We’ve got enough hopefully to unlock some doors.”

“Like what?”

“I want to keep that until Wednesday.”

“For Christ’s sake, Charlie!” she protested.

“No one officially accredited to the embassy can be involved, for obvious reasons.”

“What’s official got to do with it!”

“How it’s got to be.”

Her face hardened. “And I was prepared to forgive and forget!”

“Forgive and forget?”

“I know.”

“Know what?” Charlie frowned, genuinely confused.

“How you tried to stitch me up a second time, with Robertson.”

“I didn’t try to stitch you up,” denied Charlie. “You did wrong and in these very particular circumstances, it was right to do what I did.”

“Which was to prove you’re a bastard.”

“Which was to behave professionally, which you hadn’t been doing. And we’re not achieving anything debating it.”

“Fuck you!” She was red faced now, her hands trembling as if with the effort of holding back from hitting him.

“Quite a few people seem to be trying to do that, one way and another,” remarked Charlie, mildly.

Paula-Jane remained where she was, shaking and with no words left but reluctant to retreat the loser. The impasse was broken by Robertson’s entry, again unannounced. The man looked between Paula-Jane and Charlie before saying: “I’m sorry. Am I interrupting something important?”

“Not at all,” said Charlie. “Paula-Jane’s just leaving, aren’t you?”

She took the offered escape but paused at the door and said, “Bastard! Sneaking fucking bastard!” before slamming it closed behind her.

Charlie said, “Did you tell her I’d suggested she be recalled?”

Robertson’s face opened, in understanding. “Not personally. I did recall her, though. It came out during her reexamination. Which she passed the second time, to everyone’s satisfaction. She’s not our inside source.”

“You found out who is?”

Robertson shook his head. “The concentration’s now on Dawkins, back in London. I hope there aren’t any bad feelings about that polygraph business.”

“I hope there aren’t at the way it ended,” responded Charlie, who didn’t care a wet fart about Robertson’s feelings but was intrigued at the man’s surprisingly changed attitude.

“This conference is going to be very much your show,” said Robertson. “You’d better tell me what you want me and my guys to do.”

His performance wasn’t just going to be monitored by film and audio recordings, Charlie decided. Like Sinbad the Sailor, he was going to have Robertson on his back just as Sinbad had the clinging old man of the sea.

Harry Fish was added to the mix within fifteen minutes to answer Charlie’s queries in person. It took another ten to go through the no-hard-feelings bullshit before Fish insisted that he could defeat any Russian scanner interception with white noise equipment, which would at the same time detect Russian eavesdropping attempts. Additionally, he could attach to Charlie’s phones recording apparatus sensitive enough to pick up extraneous and, hopefully, identifying background sounds-to establish whether the incoming calls were from a pay phone from a street kiosk, a cell phone, or a landline-that would normally be inaudible to the human ear. In certain circumstances, landline calls would be traceable.

The e-mail from the facilities and housing officer allocating Charlie his two requested telephone lines and numbers, both within the available compound apartment, arrived in the middle of the discussion with Fish.

“My people will install both connections and everything else you’ll need to block any intrusion,” guaranteed the electronics sweeper.

And install his own duplicate eavesdropping equipment, Charlie accepted, unconcerned. “It’s good to be part of a team: none of this will work without your help,” lied Charlie, to make them believe he didn’t suspect the bullshit they were shoveling.

“It’s still got to work,” cautioned Robertson.

“It will,” insisted Charlie, feeling as claustrophobically enclosed as he had in the communications compartment in the embassy basement. But not, Charlie was determined, in the way that these two men planned for him to be.