Bomb Grade

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘They’re terrified. Doing exactly what they’re told, when they’re told, how they’re told.’

  There was a movement from Sobelov, the look for acquiescence before the man stood. Unasked, he poured drinks and put them before everyone and then raised his own glass. ‘I think Stanislav Georgevich is to be congratulated,’ toasted the man. ‘I have questioned this because I doubted it could work. I no longer have any doubts. So I apologize and pledge my full support.’

  Everyone drank and Silin briefly lowered his head in appreciation. If the bastard thought that was going to save him he was an even bigger fool than he’d so far shown himself to be.

  chapter 8

  Charlie, who was not normally given to such impressions, thought Aleksai Popov was probably one of the most dramatic-looking men he’d ever met. The person who strode across the high-ceilinged baroque office of the Interior Ministry to meet him was tall, well over six feet, model-immaculate in a dove-grey suit accentuating the slope from broad shoulders to blade-thin waist. The height and the obvious athleticism and the autocratic way the man held himself would have been sufficient to make him outstanding in most surroundings, but it was his facial appearance that was most striking. Popov’s deeply black hair ran into a very full but whisker-trim beard, fashioned into a definitive wedge, creating a startling similarity with all the photographs Charlie had ever seen of the last Tsar. The handshake was firm without being bone-crushing, the cologne subdued, and Charlie thought it was probably difficult for Popov to walk down a street without being tripped up by women eager to fall underneath him.

  The simmering samovar was a nice traditional touch, although Charlie guessed the clear liquid in the close-by decanter to be alternative-choice vodka, and the chairs arranged without an intervening desk showed forethought, as well. Charlie was tempted, but he was enjoying the impression-making routine so he chose tea. Popov took vodka.

  It was Popov who suggested they use English (‘there will be many other meetings; we can alternate, each to practise upon the other’) and they moved smoothly through the friends-and-colleagues preliminaries.

  ‘The West is clearly becoming impatient,’ suggested Popov, concentrating Charlie’s full attention.

  ‘Concerned,’ qualified Charlie, diplomatically. ‘The enormous problems you face aren’t yours alone: they’re international.’

  ‘I’d like to think that was completely true,’ said Popov. ‘Our greatest problem is being judged by the efficiency and expertise of American and English law enforcement. And we don’t have either.’

  Charlie wasn’t sure America or England had it, either. Or that misjudgment was Russia’s greatest problem. ‘Every reason, then, for us to cooperate as closely as possible.’

  ‘The system has worked well with America. Your additional help will be appreciated.’

  Charlie discerned the danger of the earlier cliché ping-pong. Despite Popov’s indication of easy access, Charlie wasn’t sure how easy it would really be to meet the Russian with any regularity and didn’t intend wasting this or any other chance. ‘Has the system worked well?’

  ‘Isn’t it the opinion of London, and perhaps Washington as well, that it has? Or is doing?’

  Jumpy, thought Charlie, recognizing yet again the sort of opening that had been falling at his feet ever since he’d stepped off the plane. ‘I know from meeting the Americans here what their input is, from outside Russia. As I have already told you, mine will hopefully be on a similar scale, from what I receive from London …’

  ‘… Which isn’t matched in return by what we are providing from our side?’ interrupted Popov, which was why Charlie had hesitated, hoping for just such a reaction.

  I didn’t say it, you did, thought Charlie. Which meant the Russians knew it already, were worried about it already, and that probably Popov, as the man in charge, realized his ass could be in a sling. And was therefore the most worried of all. ‘A conclusive investigation, here in Russia, would reassure a lot of people.’ Particularly certain people in London and keep me in a job. Charlie didn’t understand the suggestion of a smile that briefly touched Popov’s bearded face.

  ‘Investigations are being carried out,’ insisted the Russian. ‘Several, in fact. Many in the past have proved to be inconclusive: criminals cheating other criminals.’

  Charlie said, ‘I’m aware of that side of the business. So are London. And Washington. But that’s something quite different: it doesn’t create the threat we’re here to discuss. I can’t, of course, speak for the Americans, but I believe my appointment is made with the expectation of even closer, mutual cooperation.’

  Instead of responding at once Popov offered more tea but saw Charlie’s eye on the vodka decanter and switched the invitation, which Charlie accepted. Charlie decided the drink-at-every-stop innovation was another example of how well his luck was holding. As he handed Charlie the glass, Popov said, ‘Are you suggesting the active participation of yourself and the Americans?’

  The tea-or-vodka delay had been intentional, for the man mentally to prepare the legally valid rejection, assessed Charlie. But it hadn’t been prepared sufficiently. ‘I’m very aware I have no legal jurisdiction here. So I don’t see how we could actively participate throughout an entire investigation. It would be impractical as well as impossible from a manpower standpoint alone.’

  Popov frowned, disappointed at being anticipated. ‘What then?’

  ‘You must understand this is a personal view,’ said Charlie, in a voice carefully modulated to hint it went far beyond. ‘But I wonder if it wouldn’t be interpreted abroad, reassure a lot of people abroad, as just the sort of equally balanced cooperation if there was invited involvement towards the end of an investigation already established to be a genuine case of nuclear smuggling.’ Charlie hoped his good fortune so far hadn’t made him over-confident.

  ‘It’s a suggestion that hasn’t been considered,’ admitted the Russian.

  ‘But perhaps one worth examining?’ Lack of legal jurisdiction could as easily have been invoked now as before and Charlie was intrigued the other man didn’t use it. Maybe Popov hadn’t intended rejection after all.

  ‘I could discuss it,’ offered Popov.

  With whom? seized Charlie. His satisfaction at the apparent unqualified success he’d so far encountered was close to being outweighed by his disappointment at not finding any trace of Natalia. Which went against every sort of logic, reality and even the plain common sense by which Charlie normally operated. He’d hardly been in Moscow five minutes, done scarcely more than begin basically to establish himself, and here he was maintaining infantile delusions about a woman he’d earlier decided, with the hard-headed objectivity he seemed incapable of maintaining for very long, probably listed him as the shit of this or any other century. Pull yourself together! he thought, angrily. Buggering up by accident was all right, but buggering up when it could be avoided didn’t make any sense. ‘I appreciate your seeing me personally. And so quickly. With whom, and how, should I liaise in the future?’

  Popov appeared surprised. ‘With me, of course!’

  Charlie was surprised. For him to have been received by the colonel in operational charge of the specific Interior Ministry division was an act of extreme courtesy; for the man to put himself forward as the day-to-day contact was the most positive proof of how concerned the Russians were about nuclear banditry. ‘That would ensure the fastest possible reaction to what either has to tell the other.’

  ‘Which is surely the first essential?’ suggested Popov.

  ‘Absolutely.’ Would Kestler have reached the same understanding?

  ‘This has been an extremely useful and fruitful first meeting.’

  Back to verbal ping-pong, accepted Charlie. To attempt anything further would be trying too hard too soon. ‘I hope so. Leading, I hope, to greater involvement.’

  ‘It will be discussed,’ promised Popov. ‘We’ll talk soon.’ Again, the earlier inexplicable smile wisped across the Russian�
��s face.

  ‘I’ll call you,’ suggested Charlie.

  ‘No,’ refused Popov. ‘I’ll call you.’

  Working upon the well-established bureaucratic principle that bullshit baffled brains and that paperwork was the mile-high bullshit of bureaucracy, it took Charlie a long time setting out everything in his first report to London, reflecting as he did so that a lot of it wasn’t even bullshit.

  ‘I totally disagree with your interpretation of the meeting with Colonel Scott,’ protested Bowyer, after it had all been transmitted.

  ‘You’re not in any way linked to the opinion,’ Charlie pointed out. ‘It’s all down to me.’

  ‘It reflects upon the embassy!’

  Charlie guessed the station chief could hardly wait to scuttle along the corridor to Saxon. He’d have to devise some way of communicating with London without Bowyer having access to the traffic. ‘I’m doing my job. It doesn’t reflect upon the embassy at all.’

  ‘Do you believe the Americans share what they get from outside?’

  ‘They told me they did. That’s why they’re pissed off, getting nothing in return.’

  There was a slight frown at what Bowyer considered an obscenity. ‘You really think there’s the slightest chance of your being included at the tail-end of a genuine investigation?’

  ‘No,’ admitted Charlie, honestly. ‘But there wasn’t any harm in trying, was there?’

  ‘So it’s not as good as it looks on paper … rather a lot of paper?’

  Fuck you, thought Charlie. ‘Why don’t we wait and see?’

  It was an empty response but Bowyer wouldn’t know that. Would the sneaky bastard risk a direct intervention to London or leave it to Saxon?

  Back at the Interior Ministry Aleksai Popov was coming to the end of his detailed account of his meeting with Charlie Muffin. ‘An unusual person. Certainly much cleverer than the American but then he’s much older …’ A man so obviously sartorially aware, Popov paused. ‘… Personally quite smart but with the strangest shoes.’

  Natalia didn’t need to be told what Charlie had looked like.

  She’d watched unseen from the corridor recess no longer containing the Lenin bust just outside her office door as Charlie had been escorted to Popov’s door. Although it was obviously Charlie, the crispness of the suit had surprised her, because he’d never dressed like that when she’d known him. But she’d recognized at once the puddled shoes and the eyes-missing-nothing head movement, actually jerking further into the recess in momentary fear he’d see her.

  It hadn’t been at all like she’d expected. There’d been the stomach lurch, the hollowness, and the slight tingling at the unreality of it all. But it hadn’t been as bad as she’d feared. She hadn’t been overwhelmed by any emotion, confused beyond being able to watch and think quite dispassionately. In fact dispassionate perfectly summed up the way she’d felt, seeing again the father of her child and the man whom she’d once thought she loved. She no longer had any doubt about any difficulty in meeting him again, face to face. Not that she intended to. At that moment she was sure it didn’t matter to her whether or not she ever met Charlie Muffin again. ‘You don’t have any doubt about the impatience, from both London and Washington?’

  Popov smiled. ‘I haven’t told you yet about last night’s meeting with our regional commander.’

  The FBI Lear jet carried John Fenby to England and the fact that the Connaught was so close to the American embassy in Grosvenor Square was more than sufficient reason for his staying at what he justifiably considered the best hotel in London. He regarded the restaurant as the best, too, which was why he chose it for his lunch with Rupert Dean.

  The British Director-General arrived politely ahead of time but Fenby, as always, was already waiting, the carefully chosen window table in the most discreet corner: he would have liked more distance between himself and the other tables but wasn’t well enough known to get it, like he was at the Four Seasons. It was their first personal meeting, an assessment-for-the-future encounter.

  Fenby had, of course, had a check run on Dean and knew the academic background and considered it unfitting for the position the man now occupied. But that was a British problem, not his. Rather, it was his advantage. He’d already decided how to use the British appointment in more than one way, which was why he’d so strongly supported it, and knew Dean was too naive ever to realize how he was being manipulated. There was, of course, no way that Peter Johnson could know, either, but Fenby knew the British deputy would understand. He and Johnson understood each other, like the professionals they were. If he invoked the insurance he had so carefully established, it was even possible Dean would be destroyed, in which case it was more than likely Johnson would get the appointment that should have been his in the first place. Fenby hoped it happened: Johnson was the sort of man he could work with.

  Rupert Dean had had an identical check run on John Fenby and knew not just the legal history of the New York circuit judge but the rumoured determination to create another Bureau legend. Dean found it easy to imagine the pleasure the surprisingly small, blinking-eyed man would have attained jailing people for life and wondered if he didn’t miss that particular power. He supposed Fenby had sufficient at the FBI to compensate.

  Fenby was solicitous over the menu and suggested Dean order whatever wine he wanted, because he didn’t drink, which was something else Dean knew and wasn’t surprised about. Without consulting the wine list Dean asked the sommelier for a 1962 Margaux if it was available and when Fenby wondered if there’d be half bottles Dean said he wasn’t thinking of a half bottle. There was a ’62 and it was as good as Dean knew it would be. He savoured it even more than he savoured the American’s disapproval of his excess.

  ‘Your man seems to have achieved a lot in a short time,’ opened the American.

  ‘He’s very experienced,’ said Dean, who as a bridge-building courtesy and at Johnson’s suggestion, had earlier that morning sent Charlie’s overnight reports to the Bureau office at the nearby embassy.

  ‘Unconventional,’ suggested Fenby. He’d already decided to have the possible operational concession achieved by the Englishman recorded on FBI files as James Kestler’s success. And to tell Fitzjohn as soon as he got back to Washington.

  ‘It’s an unconventional position.’ Dean had found the other man’s remark curious.

  ‘I’m keen for us to work as a team: I’ve told my people in Moscow.’ Because by having the Englishman associated at all times, it achieved the all-important function of keeping dirt off my doorstep, he thought, smugly. As well as protecting James Kestler from being shown as the run-at-anything operator he was worryingly turning out to be.

  ‘I think that’s probably a good arrangement.’ Dean decided he didn’t like the American. It had been necessary to work with him to achieve the department posting to Moscow but Dean had no intention of making a friend, or even an acquaintance, of the other Director.

  They stopped talking while the meal was served. Dean had chosen confit of duck and accepted mashed potatoes, as well as sauce thickened with stock and wine. Fenby had cold meats and a plain green side salad, without dressing.

  ‘But we’re going to have to be very careful,’ condescended Fenby, actually preparing his ground. ‘That’s why your choice of operative surprised me.’

  ‘That’s his usefulness,’ said Dean. ‘He surprises people.’

  chapter 9

  ‘He’s sure?’

  ‘Of course he’s not sure! How can he be?’

  Natalia wished Aleksai hadn’t been so brusque. ‘Give me some idea!’ she demanded, matching his impatience.

  ‘He’s sure it isn’t a confidence trick,’ allowed Popov. ‘Oskin’s had enough of those to recognize each and every sign. This time the approach has been made to the security head of a nuclear site about five kilometres outside Kirov: the nearest township of any size is Kirs. It’s one of the installations we already know kept inaccurate records, to inflate their produc
tion norms.’

  ‘What isn’t he sure of?’

  ‘Carrying out a proper investigation. There’s still too much we don’t know: too much that could go wrong.’

  ‘Tell me about Oskin! How reliable is he?’ Natalia’s concentration had switched almost entirely from her deputy’s meeting with Charlie, although he remained a peripheral part of what she and Popov were now discussing. On the surface, Russia’s acceptance of yet another foreign investigator was the outward proof to the West of Moscow’s enforcement commitment. Hidden beneath the surface from everyone except herself was what Natalia interpreted it as a very clear and personal warning. If there was not soon some visible success to be trumpeted abroad, Natalia guessed the next political move – equally for foreign consumption – would be her very public replacement. Natalia’s primary concern was not for herself. It would be impossible for her ever to get another privileged government job, probably any worthwhile job at all. Which endangered Sasha. Although she knew it was premature and unprofessional, Natalia felt the excitement surge through her at even the vaguest possibility of mounting an operation: of doing something at last! And it wasn’t just excitement. There was a lot of relief mixed with it, which was equally premature and unprofessional.

  ‘Nikolai Ivanovich Oskin is totally reliable,’ assured Popov. ‘He worked here at headquarters, as a regional supervisor before I appointed him the actual regional commander. And I did that because I was sure I could trust him.’

  ‘You talked of false alarms before?’

  ‘Scams, before,’ qualified Popov. He got up from the chair in Natalia’s office to move to his favourite spot, near the window overlooking the Ulitza Zhitnaya. Only half turned to Natalia, the man went on, ‘Which goes even further to show his reliability. He waits, until he’s sure. That’s why he’d held back from alerting us to situations in the past that have turned out to have been deception, between crooks. He doesn’t, he won’t, cry wolf.’