Kings of Many Castles

by Brian Freemantle

  Only Wendall North rode with Anandale in the lead vehicle of the American convoy to Novinskij Bul’var, sitting on the jump seat to face the president. The glass divide was fully raised between them and the driver and Secret Serviceman in the front. The rear section in which they sat was soundproofed and voice-cleaned.

  “Spell it out for me,” demanded Anandale.

  “Additional communications were brought in as a matter of course, for the visit,” reminded North. “Because of what’s happened NSA is repositioning a geostationary satellite. We’ve got the Secretary of State and his people already here with us and a full secretariat. You’ve got the ambassador’s office and a three-roomed suite in the embassy compound, already checked and cleared by the Secret Service. The embassy’s a temporary but fully operational and functioning White House for as long as we need it to be.”

  “Donnington’s lessening the sedation. If I can speak to Ruth I might sleep over at the hospital again.”

  “The ambulance plane’s ready at Sheremet’yevo and we flew a fuel tanker in with it, for an unbroken flight back to Washington.”

  Anandale nodded approval. “What’s the immediate schedule?”

  “A meeting in an hour, to include the ambassador. That gives us time to set up a voice and visual satellite link with Washington, for a full cabinet session. I’ve called everyone in to Pennsylvania Avenue. And the CIA and FBI Directors.”

  “The Russians are talking total cooperation and exchange?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Anandale looked briefly through the limousine window. They were using the cleared, intersection-controlled central lane again, with outrider escorts, moving so fast the buildings were blurred. Coming back inside the car he said, “Is it too early for any poll readings?”

  North hesitated. “You’re riding a sympathy wave. You’re up fifteen points and rising.”

  “Anything about the other business.”

  North was glad he’d spent most of the early hours on the security-swept telephone link to the local party caucus in Austin as well as to Washington, bringing himself as up to date as possible on the independent enquiry by the hostile Texas senate into undeclared cash donations for Anandale’s first term election from four separate corporations granted oil drilling and development contracts while Anandale was state governor. “There’s no irregularities showing in the audited accounts that were subpoenad.”

  Anandale smiled, fleetingly. “Much national coverage?”

  “Paragraphs here and there, tagged on to the shooting here.” The Moscow visit had been coordinated to overwhelm the Texas enquiry.

  “What’s the word?”

  “That we’re not to worry,” said North, who’d been with Anandale from his days as Texas governor and worked as his campaign manager for that initial term success.

  “That’s good to hear,” said Anandale. He looked out of the window again as the car swept over the Krymskij Bridge to get on to Zubovskij Bul’var for the final approach to the American embassy. “Okulov was KGB, right?”

  “Right.”

  “You think there could be any link?”

  “I’ve asked around already. The ambassador doesn’t think so.”

  “They got the death penalty in Russia?”

  “Yes, sir,” said North, glad he’d anticipated that question along with all the rest.

  “Good,” said the other man. “I want the bastard who did this to fry.”

  North decided against pointing out that in Russia the death penalty was exacted by firing squad.

  One of the larger reception rooms at the U.S. embassy was assigned for the gathering mainly because the satellite screen was large enough to encompass the seated, waiting Washington Cabinet members. It dominated virtually one entire wall, and most of a connecting corner overflowed with cameras and relay equipment to ensure the exchanges were simultaneous. Wendall North resolved the Washington hesitancy at the president’s preoccupied, head-down filmed entry into the Moscow meeting by standing. Everyone followed, in both cities. Anandale waved them down, without speaking, and before sitting himself discarded his jacket and loosened his tie with another gesture for anyone to do the same if they wanted.

  From Washington, Vice President Robert Clarke said, “I want to extend the sympathy of everyone here for what’s happened, Mr. President. And wish the First Lady a very quick and full recovery.”

  There was a verbal scramble to be placed on record from others in the room, which Anandale curtly stopped with a series of “Thank you, thank you,” after Secretary of Defense Wilfred Pinkton repeated practically word for word what the Treasury secretary had managed to say seconds ahead of him.

  “I met with Acting President Aleksandr Okulov earlier today,” announced Anandale. “He wants to continue the treaty negotiations. Suggested that at least we could agree a Protocol of Intent.”

  North said, “There needs to be a statement, to go with today’s pictures. Trishin’s proposing a joint press conference, you and Okulov together.”

  “Which establishes my supporting Okulov as the successor,” said Anandale.

  “He is, under their constitution,” said the secretary of state. James Scamell was another old time ally from Anandale’s governorship.

  “Emergency,” qualified Anandale. “Temporarily, until proper elections if Yudkin doesn’t make it. If Okulov runs and loses against the communists, I’m shown to have endorsed the wrong guy.”

  “If he hadn’t been shot and Yudkin had still lost to the communists you’d have been doing that coming here,” Scamell pointed out. “We’ve got to say something about the treaty.”

  Anandale looked directly at the camera. “What’s Defense’s feeling on this?”

  “The Joint Chiefs are nervous about a communist succession,” said Pinkton. “We sure Okulov’s got the following to take over?”

  “Maybe we should have the local opinion on that?” avoided Scamell, turning to the ambassador.

  Cornell Burton was a career diplomat who’d believed himself on the fast upward track the presidential visit could only further speed up but now he wasn’t so sure. What he was sure about was that he couldn’t afford one misstep. “Okulov’s a closed-doors manipulator. Respected for it in the Duma but he’s alienated some of the smaller parties he’d need for a coalition if the communists do anywhere near as well as is being predicted.”

  “So how well will they do?” demanded Anandale.

  “Yudkin would have carried a peace vote, with a successful treaty. I’m not so convinced that Okukov will.”

  “What’s the KGB story?”

  The attention switched to John Kayley. The FBI man said, “Yudkin forced the reforms through and Okulov showed him how to do it. Word is among the old guard that Okulov’s regarded as a traitor, turning against them.”

  “Which could be a very clever double-bluff,” suggested Burt Jordan.

  “Explain that,” demanded Anandale.

  “Okulov was the heir-in-waiting. What if he got too impatient to wait any longer?”

  “Keep on top of that,” ordered Anandale. “Okulov’s KGB connections worry me.”

  “Aren’t we leaving something hugely important out of the equation?” suggested North. “The guy who did it. And why he did it? If he turns out to be a protesting communist we’ve got a whole new picture to color in.”

  “Is he?”

  Anandale put the question to those around him but the answer came too eagerly from Washington, from an FBI Director determined the American investigation should be Bureau-led. Paul Smith, a burly former circuit judge, said, “I’ve got twenty more agents on their way to Moscow, arriving later tonight. They’re bringing with them all our files—Agency and Bureau—on Peter Bendall, the father. He was British counter-intelligence’s disaster. I understand from John, who’s with you there Mr. President, that their guy’s let us have all he says they’ve got. The son’s still unconscious, maybe even in a coma. The mother’s in custody. We’ve been promised d
etails of her interrogation but we’ve asked for our own access. And for the witnesses list. They were all rounded up by Russian security directly after the attack. We’ve asked for the rifle, for our own forensic examination here at Pennsylvania Avenue and …”

  “We’re not making our own, independent investigation!” cut off Anandale.

  Smith unconsciously bit his lip, at once regretting not letting Kayley take the original question. “That’s what I’ve got men on their way to do, under John’s command. I think, though, it would be useful for me to come over personally.”

  Speaking with ominous quietness, Anandale said, “I want the attempted murder of the American president’s wife investigated by Americans. Until I’m satisfied that’s happening-satisfied that Aleskandr Okulov is keeping every cooperation promise he’s made to me today-any treaty discussions are on the back burner, with the heat down low …”

  North and the secretary of state exchanged brief, frowning looks. Scamell urged again, “There has to be a statement of some sort, Mr. President.”

  Anandale remained silent for several moments. “Here it is. We’re in consultations with the emergency Russian leadership … need to consider the implications of the attack … our pledge to continued cooperation and detente unaffected … that sort of stuff. It’ll fit the hospital pictures. We don’t agree any joint media event with Okulov until we get all we want.” He went to the secretary of state and the ambassador. “I want you to liaise with Wendall. Really find out the communist strength. It might play better back home to go hawkish and keep the defense system.” He looked around the table. “Any thoughts?”

  “Yudkin—or his successor—need the treaty to survive. That’s why we’re here,” reminded Scamell. “We leave them with nothing, we’re edging the door open to the opposition.”

  “We don’t leave them with nothing,” said Anandale. “You find the words, Jamie. The only thing they don’t get is the final signature. We’ve surely blown enough smoke about how difficult it all is to make that totally believable!”

  “I guess so,” accepted Scamell.

  Anandale went to Wendall North. “Get on to Yudkin’s chief of staff.” He stopped, snapping his fingers.

  “Yuri Trishin.”

  “Trishin,” picked up the prompted president. “I don’t want him—or anyone he’s got to tell—left in any doubt who’s going to run this investigation as far as my wife is concerned. You clear on that?”

  “Quite clear,” said North.

  “Would you like me to come over personally, Mr. President?” hopefully asked the FBI Director over the satellite link.

  “No!” rejected Anandale, at once. “We’ve got enough chiefs here already. What we need is Indians.”

  John Kayley, with his early settler family legend of part-Cherokee ancestry, didn’t like the smoke signals he thought he was reading.

  The emergency Downing Street meeting was scheduled for the entire day but Sir Rupert Dean, the director-general, returned to the Millbank building with political adviser Patrick Pacey by early afternoon. The rest of the control group were already assembled.

  “It’s accepted to be an inherited problem but the decision is that it’s our problem,” announced Dean. Already his spectacles were working through his fingers like worry beads, a stress indicator the others had come to recognize. It was unfortunate that the man’s receding hair rose from his head like a tidal wave, adding to the impression of startled nervousness.

  “Because no one else wanted to come within a million miles of it,” said Pacey.

  “Hardly surprising,” accepted Jeremy Simpson, the service’s legal advisor. “I’ve heard from the Attorney General. We’re arranging legal representation.”

  “We were told,” said Pacey.

  “Muffin was on, while you were at Downing Street. He thinks there’s something odd about the shooting. But who better to imagine something odd than the man himself?” said Jocelyn Hamilton. The bull-chested, thinning-haired deputy director-general was more unsettled than Dean at the Russian crisis, although concealing it well. He’d supported the earlier effort to oust Charlie from Moscow and knew he had been lucky to escape with a formal censure when it had gone wrong.

  Dean frowned at the obvious personal dislike. “What?”

  “He’s shipping over a selection of television footage. Wants an audio and timed comparison of the shots.”

  “Jesus!” said Pacey, in quick understanding. “His theory? Or Russian?”

  “His, as far as I understand.” Hamilton hesitated. “He’s asked the ambassador to include him on any official access to Bendall. I told him he should have waited for official guidance from here. I’m assuming, of course, we’re sending a team from here.”

  Dean let silence be the rebuke. Only when there were discomfited shifts around the table did the director-general say, “Why would you assume that?”

  The deputy colored. “The magnitude of it. Surely too much for one man?”

  “Swamping Moscow with people would be a panicked, knee-jerk reaction,” rejected Dean. “Muffin alerted us to George Bendall hours before any official communication. He’s obviously well established.”

  “And it is an inherited problem,” repeated Pacey. “Bendall’s been in Moscow for almost thirty years. Downing Street’s thinking is that he’s British by little more than a fluke. He’s not ours anymore: never was. We’ll do all we’re asked but let Moscow and Washington take the lead.”

  “What about the technical checks Muffin wants?” persisted Hamilton.

  “It could be a complication,” admitted the director-general.

  “There’s invariably a complication with Charlie Muffin,” warned the deputy.

  Max Donnington was waiting for Anandale in the same lounge at the Pirogov Hospital that had earlier been used for the photo-call. The large, silver-haired naval surgeon still wore a sterilized ward coat and ankle-high theater boots.

  Anandale said at once, “What’s the change?”

  “No worse. You can talk to her in a moment.”

  “To tell her what?”

  “You’ll understand better if you see the plates. I’ve set up a room along the corridor.”

  Anandale followed the surgeon further into the building. Cables from an unseen, inaudible generator were taped along the newly shined corridor lined every five meters by Secret Servicemen who came to attention as the president passed. The room into which Donnington led the president was bright from newly installed neon strips and against one wall glowed an already lighted X-ray viewing screen. There was a heavy smell of disinfectant.

  Donnington slotted the first plate into its clip and traced his finger around a large, completely black area at the end of the shoulder. “That’s where the bullet hit Ruth. It’s called the brachial plexus. Into it run the nerves from the neck, routed from between the fourth cervical and first thoracic. In layman’s terms, think of it as a junction box. From the brachial plexus emerge three nerves specific to the arm, the radial, median and ulnar …” He changed plates, showing the arm. “The bullet that struck your wife destroyed those nerves at the branchial plexus … .”

  “Does it have to be amputated?” demanded Anandale, hollow voiced.

  “No,” said the surgeon, immediately, putting the third plate into place. “I’ve had to wait this long to ensure that there is no interruption to the blood flow. There isn’t. It missed the arteries. The First Lady will have a permanently numb and powerless arm but there is no risk of gangrene. The arm can stay.”

  “No use in it whatsoever?”

  “None,” said the surgeon, bluntly.

  “Nerves can be reconnected. You read about it all the time,” blurted Anandale.

  “The damage here is too great,” rejected Donnington.

  “You could be wrong … there could be a medical—surgical—advance,” insisted Anandale.

  “Of course you need a second opinion … and a third and a fourth, every expert you can consult,” acknowledged Donn
ington, unoffended. “I’m giving you my initial but at the same time considered, professional prognosis.”

  “Initial!” seized the president.

  “I don’t expect to change it. Believe me, Mr. President, I’d like to be proven wrong.”

  “When can she be moved back to America, to see other people?” asked Anandale.

  “I don’t want to risk disturbing anything for at least two days. Maybe longer. Waiting isn’t going to affect the arm in any way. It’s the shoulder I want stabilized before we start thinking of getting on and off airplanes.”

  The president stared sightlessly at the X-ray for several moments. “What am I going to tell her?”

  “Do you want me to?” offered Donnington.

  “No,” refused Anandale, quickly. “I’ll do it.”

  There was a frame over Ruth Anandale’s body, keeping off even the pressure of the bed coverings from her neck to her waist. Her face was sallow and shiny from how it had been swabbed and her thick, black hair was sweat-matted against the pillow because this early Donnington had refused even to allow the lightest of brushing to affect her neck. She lay with her eyes closed, mouth slightly open, her face occasionally twitching. Her uninjured arm was outside the frame, on top of the bed. A needle was inserted into a vein on the back of her hand through which pain killers could be administered. A catheter tube snaked from beneath the bedclothes and there were other leads connected to heart, respiratory and blood pressure monitoring machines across the screens of which tiny mountains peaked with reassuring regularity. The hair of the two uniformed attendant nurses was beneath sterilized caps. Both Anandale and the surgeon wore caps, too, and Donnington had changed his gown at the same time as the president had donned his. At their entry the two nurses withdrew close to the door but didn’t leave.

  One of the nurses said, “The First Lady’s conscious,” and at the sound Ruth Anandale opened her eyes.