Kings of Many Castles

by Brian Freemantle

  Agayan said, “Easy, Georgi, easy now.” To Charlie he said, “You’ll have to stop.”

  “Who’s the bastard, Georgi? Tell me,” encouraged Charlie, ignoring the warning.

  “That’s enough!” insisted Agayan.

  “I know who,” said Bendall, more controlled.

  “He’s all right,” Charlie told the psychiatrist. To Bendall he said, “They should be punished, for killing Vasili, attacking your group.”

  “Have been.”

  Charlie knew he’d lose it—lose Bendall—with one wrong word but he didn’t know how to go on. “People should be told, know what happens to anyone who attacks you.”

  “Yes.”

  There was movement from the doorway, where the two guards were, but Charlie didn’t look, wanting to hold Bendall’s eyes. Which were very clear and quite alert. The man knew what they were talking about, understood what was being said. By comparison Charlie felt he was blindfolded. Into Charlie’s mind echoed the psychiatrist’s words. I got the impression that he wants to tell someone. After all his life being discarded and downtrodden he’s suddenly someone, the focus of everyone’s attention. “The television of the shooting was incredible. It’s been seen in every country in the world. Millions of people have watched.”

  There was a positive smile. Bendall didn’t speak.

  “A world stage, with you on it.”

  The smile stayed. “Yes.”

  Charlie saw a way to continue. “That’s how it should go on.”

  “I want it.”

  “There’ll be cameras at the trial. Everyone will be watching you: listening to you.”

  Arkadi Noskov stirred. There was more movement noise from the doorway. Bendall said, “That’ll be good.”

  It was the prearranged time, determined Charlie. “Arkadi Semenovitch Noskov is your lawyer. He’ll be with you in court, we all will be.”

  “To help you,” came in Noskov, perfectly on time. “There are things you want to tell the court?”

  “Maybe,” withdrew Bendall, cautiously.

  “You want them to know, don’t you?” The earlier, ordering command had gone from the sonorous voice, it was coaxing now, inviting.

  “Maybe.”

  “They’ll have to know everything, to understand. And it’ll be important not to miss anything out.”

  Able for the first time to break his total concentration Charlie saw that despite their tape recorder, Anne was hurriedly scribbling notes on a large legal pad. He couldn’t see beyond the two remaining guards at the door. Agayan was sat back, seemingly content with Bendall’s recovery.

  “Nothing will be missed out,” said Bendall.

  “We’ll have to prepare carefully. Make sure of that.”

  “Yes.” Bendall’s smile was back.

  “That’s my job,” said Noskov. “Making sure nothing’s left out. You want everyone to know about Vasili Isakov?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then we’ll need to talk about it, for me to know all there is. You understand that, don’t you?”

  “I suppose so.”

  Charlie was nervous of the obvious doubt, aching to reenter the exchange but that wasn’t part of their car cramped rehearsal.

  “It all has to come out, to make the impact you want,” encouraged Noskov and Charlie relaxed.

  “I want to think about it.”

  Charlie abruptly realized that Bendall was relaxing, too, formulating proper sentences instead clippping his responses to one or two words.

  “I’d like you to do that,” urged the lawyer. “You’ve thought about it already, haven’t you?”

  “Of course I have.”

  “People will be surprised, won’t they?”

  “It’ll be sensational.”

  “We know it will. We’ll have to go through it before we get to court, though. So that I can guarantee we don’t forget anything.”

  “I won’t forget.”

  “It’s best that we talk about it first. There might be things I’ll have to do, evidence I’ll have to find to confirm what you’re going to say.”

  “I want to stop now. Think,” declared Bendall.

  “I’d like to talk a little further,” tried Noskov.

  “When I want to,” insisted Bendall, exercising his imagined control. “Not when you want to.”

  “I don’t want him pushed,” said Agayan.

  The British psychiatrist’s assessment had been remarkable accurate, thought Charlie. Compared against all the other interviews, they’d made quantum leaps forward. But did he have a comparison against all the interviews, now that the Russians weren’t sharing information anymore? The situation between himself and Olga Melnik had to be resolved as quickly as possible.

  “We’ll come again tomorrow. At the same time,” Noskov was saying.

  “I’ll see,” postured Bendall. “Go now. I want to think.”

  Charlie had to stand to reach across Anne again for their tape machine and as he did so he saw Nicholai Badim in the outer corridor. Olga Melnik was expressionless beside him.

  They needed the large waiting room, not Badim’s smaller office. From the way Olga went through the ritual of introduction to Arkadi Noskov, Charlie guessed she knew of the man’s reputation, even if she hadn’t met him before. Olga’s attitude towards Anne Abbott was cursory to the point of being dismissive. No one sat. The hospital surgeon-administrator looked hopefully for guidance between everyone else in the room but was disappointed. Agayan sat quietly in a corner.

  Charlie told Olga “I’ve been trying to reach you.” He wondered what he could conjure from this encounter.

  Olga said, “I got the message, that’s why I’m here.”

  “You and I have a lot of operational things to discuss, apart from today,” said Charlie.

  “Those ‘operational things’ have changed.”

  “Not between you and I, our two countries.”

  “The investigation has moved on,”

  “To what?” It was encouraging. Charlie thought.

  “It’s officially-legally-under the direction of the Justice Ministry.”

  “How can that be?” Noskov’s voice was like a thunder roll.

  “The facts have been laid for an official arraignment.”

  The declaration removed the restrictive frustration between himself and the two lawyers, but as always part of Charlie’s mind was way ahead of the current conversation, looking for darkened alleys and hidden side tracks. He didn’t believe Olga’s being there was in direct response to his earlier attempted contact, although his messages was that he would be at Burdenko. Was she trying to separate him further from the Americans by the premature announcement? If she were there was every reason to go along with the invitation, even though he was sure by now that Natalia was not keeping anything back. As pivotal though they both imagined her to be, a lot could be withheld from Natalia: if not positive information, attitudes and intentions it was important for them personally, always protectively, to get indications of before they were instigated.

  Noskov’s attention was on the doctor. “Is Bendall fit enough to go to court?”

  “For an initial arraignment,” confirmed the man.

  “And mentally he’s capable,” added Agayan. “He simply mustn’t be crowded, pushed.”

  Responding to Anne’s whispered aside, Noskov said, “I’ll seek independent medical advice on that.”

  “There are restrictions on access,” said Olga.

  “I’ll want those examinations to be in the presence of this doctor, a hospital panel if necessary.”

  “You can make your application,” condescended Olga.

  “I don’t see how Bendall can be arraigned on what I understand so far to be the available evidence,” protested Noskov.

  “That’s a matter for legal judgment and interpretation,” avoided Olga, easily.

  “What are the formal court charges going to be?” demanded Noskov, imperious voiced again.

  Olga was
n’t as cowed as the ward guards. “Again, a decision for the Justice Ministry and the federal prosecutor. The militia function has been to present the evidence.”

  Charlie saw the opening. “Evidence it is officially agreed between our two countries-between London and Moscow-should be shared. I know you have withdrawn material from the American incident room but I expect that agreement still to exist between the two of us.”

  “Again that is no longer a matter for me,” said Olga. “All the evidence has been passed over to the federal prosecutor. It has to be his—and the ministry’s—decision if the arrangement still exists.”

  “We will make formal, diplomatic requests,” said Anne.

  “Of course you will,” patronized Olga.

  Charlie gestured back along the corridor. “You have just duplicated the recording of a conversation between Bendall and his legal advisors.”

  “There is no legal prohibition upon our doing that.”

  Noskov nodding his head, in agreement. Charlie said, “Has there been any further interrogation-Russian interrogation-since the claimed injection.”

  “Medically proven injection,” corrected the woman.

  “Medical proven injections,” gritted Charlie and waited.

  “There may have been.”

  It was her first overconfident lapse. “Olga Ivanova! You are the chief investigating officer. You would personally have conducted any subsequent interviews!”

  Color spread up from the Russian detective’s throat. “Any subsequent interviews would form part of the evidence already filed on record and held by the federal prosecutor.”

  “And forbidden to us?” demanded Anne.

  “I’ve no way of knowing what the ministry or prosecution response would be to an official request for access.”

  “Which will be legally filed,” promised Noskov.

  “And diplomatically made as well, according to the terms of our agreement,” supported Anne.

  Olga Melnik was a messenger boy—or girl—Charlie realized, answering his earlier uncertainty. But well briefed. By whom? he wondered. Don’t get sore, get even, he reminded himself, invoking one of the axioms of life. “As our professional cooperation appears to be over you can’t expect me to pass on the evidence that’s been gathered in London?”

  Olga’s hesitation was so long it was as if the breath had been taken from her. At last she managed. “I most certainly would if it contributed to the further progress of the investigation!”

  “Which I thought was being pursued independently now?” goaded Charlie. There’d been a miscalculation, he guessed. Briskly he said to the lawyers, “Let’s go to make those representations as quickly as we can. Hopefully get things back on course. There’s a lot else for us to do, as you know.”

  In the car Noskov said, “It’s political.”

  Anne said, “But stupid.”

  “Or something,” said Charlie. His feet throbbed, to a metronome beat. Espionage had been a fucking sight easier than this.

  Charlie arrived at the American embassy just before noon, dropped off at Novinskij Bul’var by the two lawyers on their way back to their respective offices to file their respective protests, promising both as he got out of the car that he’d call if he thought there was anything relevant from the now isolated American investigation. The FBI station chief was waiting in the incident room, closely flanked by Donald Morrison. After the younger man’s back-up during his London absence Charlie didn’t have the heart to exclude the man now that he’d returned.

  Charlie anticipated some sort of outburst from the crumpled, cigar-perfumed American at the news of the impending court appearance but John Kayley remained reflectively silent. He didn’t initially interrupt, either, when Charlie began outlining the Bendall bullet disparity but then abruptly held up a stopping hand to lead the way through the linking corridor to the improvised laboratory and the American ballistics scientist.

  Willie Ying said at once, “We’ve been waiting for your corroboration.”

  “Is that why it isn’t computerized yet?” angrily demanded the ignored MI6 man.

  “It’s your defense, against a murder charge,” said Kayley, in a smooth defense of his own. “You wouldn’t have wanted the Russians knowing about it in advance if it had only been a temporary walkout, would you?”

  The don’t get sore, get even philosophy was American, remembered Charlie: it would be good somehow to give Morrison his personal chance. But not now. And the man was soon going to learn how things were eked out. “Did you get actual test firings, before the rifle was removed?”

  The Chinese smiled. “Twenty, fired at measured graduation from in front and from behind the measurable distance from which Bendall shot. Not a score mark on any of them. Not that distance has got anything to do with it. The best guess is that Bendall’s bullets went off somewhere in the park, behind the White House.”

  “We’ve actually looked,” said Kayley. “I had guys examine the most obvious trees-anything that might have stopped a bullet—in the line of fire. Came up with nothing.”

  There was a shift of increasing anger from Donald Morrison but before the younger man could speak Charlie said, “I need those testfired bullets. From the runaround I got from Olga Melnik this morning I don’t think I’ll get the rifle for my people to test.”

  “You got it,” guaranteed Kayley.

  “We’ll need testimony as well,” pressed Charlie.

  There was a shrugged, head-nodding exchange between the two Americans. Kayley said, “You got that as well. It’ll be good to show the bastards how wrong they were, walking out on us.”

  Charlie couldn’t quite adjust the reasoning but it wasn’t something to dispute. He didn’t physically need the rifle and Anne had her dramatic defense to at least one of the charges likely to be brought. One good turn deserves another, Charlie thought. Offering that morning’s tape he’d brought to be copied into the evidence collection, he said, “George Bendall wants to tell us all about it.” He wondered if Morrison imagined he was a team player or whether the man realized the rules were only applied one way: it might mitigate the humiliation of his being ignored by the Americans.

  Kayley smiled as he listened. Halfway through he ignited an aromatic cigar. When the replay ended Kayley said, “He does, doesn’t he?” Then he said, “You take Bendall just a little further down the road and we’re going to have the others. The bastard, whoever he is. And the Russian militia will come crawling back.”

  The last part was further reasoning that Charlie found difficulty with but he didn’t dispute that, either. “Let’s hope I can take him further.”

  Kayley said, “I’ve got to go upstairs. There are people who’ll want to hear this.”

  “They’re bastards, too!” said Morrison, vehemently, as he and Charlie returned to the main incident room.

  “Don’t take it personally,” soothed Charlie. “They’d have tried to fuck me if I hadn’t come up with it.”

  “You sure?” demanded Morrison.

  “Positive,” said Charlie, who wasn’t but wanted to help the other man.

  “Hope I haven’t disturbed your room too much,” said Morrison, when they reached it.

  To Charlie it didn’t appear to have been occupied by anyone else. He settled into his place with its convenient foot rest and logged on to his computer to bring himself up to date, scrolling patiently through the alphabetically assembled files, stopping abruptly at the name Vasili Gregorovich Isakov. It had been compiled by three named FBI agents and ran to twelve pages, although it wasn’t the written material that immediately interested Charlie. Three photographs had been scanned on to the disk.

  John Kayley was again included with the ambassador and the secretary of state for the satellite link with Washington but only Walter Anandale and his chief of staff were waiting at the White House end. He’d have to wait, Kayley knew, but it was difficult.

  “So we’ve got a new game,” opened the president.

  “Which we
need to play very carefully,” advised James Scamell.

  “How?” said Anandale.

  “I think you need to come back for Yudkin’s funeral.”

  “You serious! There are still guys out there who tried to kill me!”

  “As serious as it’s possible to be, Mr. President. Your not attending will be read every which way, all of them bad. One spin will be that you’re too scared. Another that you’re abandoning Okulov, to be beaten by the communists. Who are, incidentally, demanding an immediate election to confirm an elected president. Then there’s the treaty. There’s growing media speculation that there was a hidden agenda, that we never ever really intended to conclude it and that it was a cosmetic dance to go on until Yudkin got confirmed for a second term.”

  Wendall North admired the secretary of state’s diplomacy. Scamell wasn’t talking of Moscow’s media pressure. He would have got from his own people at Foggy Bottom that morning’s Washington Post story of a potential paper trail from oil contract firms finally being followed to Anandale’s election funding. The chief of staff said, “I go along with Jamie’s assessment, Mr. President. We’re in a box here, with only one way out.”

  “What’s happening with the investigation, John?” avoided Anandale.

  Kayley had risked holding back from either the secretary of state or the ambassador the Russian decision to arraign Bendall, wanting to present it ahead of any official announcement as his personal discovery, despite the breakdown with the Moscow militia. He also explained the ballistic evidence as an exclusive detection of the FBI team he headed. He had to concede the British would be the source of any statement from Bendall from which it might be possible to locate the others in the conspiracy, but did so inferring that Britain needed Bureau manpower and scientific expertise to continue the investigation.

  “Find the people who shot Ruth!” picked out the president, instantly.

  “If we get the statement the Brits expect,” backtracked Kayley.

  “Now we’re getting there!” enthused Anandale.

  “I’m giving it to you as it’s come to me,” said Kayley, stressing the impression of urgency at the same time as shielding himself from questions he couldn’t answer. “There’s a lot I need explained further, pieces to fit together.”