Kings of Many Castles

by Brian Freemantle

  “Most if it,” said Anne, despairingly.

  “No!” refused Charlie. “Let’s go through it again, to find what doesn’t fit. Unarguable facts. It’s brilliantly … No!” Charlie stopped himself. “It’s a professionally conceived operation, the sort of assassination that would have needed the expertise of an organization trained and equipped to carry out authorized killings …”

  “The FSB and before them the KGB,” interrupted Anne.

  “And before them all the rest,” agreed Charlie. “We know from the different calibration of the two different rifles that there were two different marksmen, each capable of firing a total of five shots in under eight seconds. Professional marksmanship but not professional planning. If it had been truly professional, the rifles would have at least been of the same caliber …”

  “An inconsistency,” recognized Noskov.

  “Let’s mark it,” Charlie agreed. “Now let’s look at all the others. George Bendall, a dysfunctional, mentally unstable-but mentally malleable—man who was long ago trained as a marksman. A third rifle but only two bullets, because they know he can’t hit the intended targets and if he hits anyone else-which he fortunately didn’t—it doesn’t matter. Purpose? The dupe who is intended to take the blame. His cowed, frightened mother who doesn’t appear to know anything, yet is murdered in a jail for which the organization with the capability to commit assassination is responsible. And his apparent—his only—best friend, also possibly murdered in what was made to look like an accident on a level crossing. Anything I’ve missed out?”

  “Bendall’s mystery pentathol injection,” reminded Anne.

  “OK, let’s add that,” accepted Charlie. “Anything else?”

  “Orkulov and the KGB,” said Noskov, simply. “Where’s that slot in?”

  “It doesn’t, if its successor service is involved; whatever the changes, they rarely shaft their own …” Charlie hesitated again, remembering the number of times he’d been strung out to dry. “Not often, anyway.”

  “Okulov appointed a presidential commission into the FSB,” argued Anne.

  “After the shooting and with the finger pointing at them and him,” said Charlie. “Politically he didn’t have any alternative.” Into his mind’s eye came the two taunting photographs of Vasili Gregorovich Isakov: what the fuck was it he couldn’t see! With everything else so fragmented this discussion wouldn’t be taken forward by his getting the prints from his office and inviting the lawyers’ examination. “Is that it?”

  Both lawyers nodded their heads.

  “So what’s there that shouldn’t be?”

  “Like I said, most of it,” remarked Anne.

  “That’s not helping,” threw back Charlie, balancing her earlier criticism.

  “You know the impression I’m increasingly getting?” invited Anne.

  Both men looked at her, waiting.

  “I don’t find it difficult to imagine that there’s someone on the inside of this investigation manipulating the whole bloody lot of us, just as they manipulated George Bendall.”

  There was a long silence.

  “One of the conspirators?” said Noskov, finally.

  “Maybe even more than one,” suggested Anne. “Think about it. Nothing adds up. Every move we’ve made-every move anyone else has made, as far as we’re aware—always runs into a brick wall.”

  “Are you suggesting someone at our level?” pressed Charlie, feeling the beginning of a chill at his recognition of how much sense Anne’s remark made.

  “I’m just pointing out that we’ve been made to dance around in circles and for that to happen so consistently it would be useful for the bad guys to have someone very close to the investigation.”

  “You think Okulov is masterminding it to get the presidency? That’s the only level with a link to the FSB—or rather the KGB before it-that makes sense.”

  “I’m not sure what I think,” said Anne, uncharacteristically careless.

  Okulov—through Trishin being on the commission—wasn’t the only one who fitted, thought Charlie. He ran the rest—their faces even—through his mind, desperate for a more likely suspect. And failed. Which didn’t prove anything. Nothing was provable. The whole thing—the entire speculation-was based upon a casual, throwaway aside that just, only just, might have sinister implications. But from her chairmanships of both the Russian coordinating groups and the presidential commission Natalia perfectly fitted the incriminating profile. Which was absurd. What reason—what possible purpose—could there be for Natalia even to be remotely connected—the ultimate of unacceptable absurdities-with the killing and maiming of people. And yet …?

  It had been a working dinner and the recalled James Scamell had, only minutes before, quit the Regents Park official residence of the United States ambassador to England, leaving Anandale and Wendall North alone together.

  Anandale said, “You sure the plug will hold?”

  “They’re short eleven documents, three the minutes of the meetings at which the decision was made to contribute the soft $750,000 to your campaign and in which you were specifically named,” assured the chief of staff. “I’ve got the chief exec’s personnel guarantee they’re shredded. What’s left is a general discussion, about election funding. As far as the paper trail goes, it was a discussion upon which no action was taken, no names mentioned.”

  “How many of the board know?”

  “Five.”

  “What if they’re subpoenaed?”

  “They’d fall too. Diverting company funds without stockholders—and the full board’s—approval is fraud, a criminal offense.”

  “They could plea bargain. Cop an amnesty for turning State’s evidence.”

  “They’re firm. There’s insufficient to pressure any of them.” Anandale swirled the brandy in his snifter. “How long before the Grand Jury’s concluded?”

  “Two weeks. And from now on it’s the dregs, no one who can hurt us,” guaranteed North. “You’re still high on the sympathy wave and the media are taking the duty-before-personal-safety line of your going back for the funeral.”

  “Three specialists have so far decided there’s nothing that can be done for Ruth. Only two to go.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear that, Mr. President.”

  “Find more doctors, Wendall. Better qualified. We can’t let her stay like she is. She’s too proud.”

  The chief of staff looked unnecessarily at his watch. “Donnington will still be up at the hotel. I’ll call him right away.”

  “Let’s go outside the country—Europe’s fine-if he gets the name of the right man.”

  “I’ll make sure Donnington understands.”

  “You really think I should do what Scamell wants in Moscow after all the speculation?”

  “Kayley doesn’t buy it. And we’ve been through the protection arrangements with a finetoothed comb. Aston says it’s safe. It’s been rehearsed so many times everyone can do it in their sleep.” Wendall North had ensured that this time there wasn’t a single security provision or objection in which he was a named participant.

  “I want everyone with their eyes wide open,” said Anandale.

  Charlie stayed late into the evening, alone in his own embassy office, going through everything—even the CNN film—knowing it was ridiculous but having to acknowledge that Anne Abbott’s suggestion deserved consideration and that when it was considered, Natalia was the best placed of any possible suspects to be an inside source. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—contemplate her being involved—aware in advance—in the actual murders. That was totally unthinkable. But examined closely—and Charlie’s examination was microscopic—that wasn’t what the lawyer had theorized. Anne Abbott had been referring to the almost orchestrated confusion afterwards. Which still didn’t make sense. Wasn’t it as unthinkable that she’d become inveigled afterwards? Knowing complicity after the crime would be as bad-as criminally culpable-as knowing of it before. He asked himself if she could have acted unknowingl
y and decided that was impossible: Natalia was far too astute to allow herself to be used unknowingly. It was only when he spread the reflection to honesty and integrity, trying to imagine any conceivable situation in which she’d be prepared to sacrifice either, that Charlie felt the first real flicker of unease. He didn’t doubt that Natalia would abandon honesty and integrity—even contemplate breaking the law—to protect Sasha. And the risk to Sasha—the upheaval to their daughter more than anything that might happen to her-had been Natalia’s constant, corrosive fear ever since she’d moved into Lesnaya. Still not enough; still unthinkable. There wasn’t even circumstantial evidence. It was circumstantial—very circumstantial—hypotheses at best. Or worse.

  It was past nine when he finally got home, going directly to the drink’s tray when he entered the apartment.

  Natalia said, “I could have kept something. Waited so we could have eaten together if you’d called to say you were on your way.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “A development?”

  Charlie shook his head. “Complete review for tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow’s only a formality, surely?”

  It was obvious she’d know that, Charlie accepted. “Lawyers wanting to know we’re prepared for the unexpected.”

  “Are you?”

  Charlie hesitated, wondering if he were good enough to make their conversation a test, remembering he’d once before been able verbally to trick her. “We don’t know enough to be prepared for anything, expected or otherwise. What happened with you today?”

  Natalia said, “I came closer than I ever want to come again to being washed away,” and Charlie’s feet twitched and he wished they hadn’t.

  Charlie listened with a divided mind, assessing her account as she wanted him to but at the same time unsuccessfully searching for any nuance that might resolve the doubt created by Anne Abbott. When Natalia finished he said, “Did you think you could manage it?”

  “Not at first.”

  “Now comes your report,” said Charlie. Would there be any indication now?

  “Filitov and Trishin said they needed time to read all the statements, which is ludicrous. There’s only Karelin.”

  “What’s your opinion?”

  “Serious maladministration within the FSB.”

  “But not complicity?”

  “Someone with access has to be part of it.”

  She’d personally gone to the Lubyanka, supposedly to pressure Spassky, had actually talked to him afterwards about how lapse internal security was. And she’d knew her way around the building. “You going to say that?”

  “It’s obvious. We’d make ourselves look stupid not to.”

  “What if Filitov and Trishin don’t agree?”

  “I don’t see how they can disagree. If they do I can record a dissenting opinion.”

  “Will you?”

  Natalia frowned. “What else can I do?”

  How would she confront the actually suspicion? “Something curious came up during our review.”

  “What?”

  “The thought that someone connected with the investigation might be part of the conspiracy: misleading or blocking things.” Charlie spoke looking directly at Natalia who looked directly back.

  “Who?” she demanded.

  “It was a general remark. You’ve probably got the widest overview of anyone. What do you think?”

  Natalia shook her head. “I don’t see it. If we chase that we’ll confuse ourselves even more than we’re confused now.”

  Charlie decided he knew her too well-had spent his entire life spotting deceit-not to have detected something in that reply, which he hadn’t. And yet..

  21

  Two planes were needed in addition to Air Force One to carry the number of Secret Service personnel, the travelling White House, Surgeon Admiral Max Donnington’s mobile hospital facilities and virtually every nationality of every accredited White House journalists, television as well as print. A carefully selected group of correspondents—the TV majors, commentators as well as political reporters from what was considered America’s national press and all the Texas media—travelled on the president’s aircraft. Anandale, word perfect from the secretary of state’s briefing papers, spent a full thirty minutes in the back of the presidential jet talking unattributably on the European Union trade protectionism scheduled for discussion with British and French leaders. Despite limiting to hours the amount of time he would be in Moscow, he also intended to meet acting president Aleksandr Okulov. Because of the circumstance of the visit, it was inappropriate to go into any detail of the Star Wars treaty negotiations but as they all knew Secretary of State James Scamell had remained in Moscow, apart from this short trip to London. It was, quite naturally, a difficult personal return to Moscow for him. He had no safety concerns whatsoever, having complete confidence and trust in the joint security measures of the American Secret Service and the Russian presidential protection service. As its former and forever proud governor he deeply regretted the pointless time, money and effort being wasted by the politically hostile Texas legislature, time, money and effort that would these past months have been spent better and more properly governing the best state in the Union. He was pleased to say that the First Lady was responding to treatment and there was every reason to hope she would make a full recovery.

  Back in his separate, private section of the aircraft, Anandale said, “OK?”

  “You gave them enough for a whole month’s coverage,” judged Wendall North.

  “I’ll have public affairs circulate it to the media on the other plane,” said Scamell. “Don’t want to leave anyone out.”

  “You know what they’d rather see?” demanded the president, rhetorically. “They’d rather see me shot by the sons of bitches who missed me last time because it’s a better story.”

  “They’re not going to get it,” assured North. “You’re coming back like this is good enough.”

  “You speak to Donnington?”

  “He talked to people in England, before we left. We’ll have names when we get back tonight.”

  Jeff Aston, the head of the Secret Service detail, appeared from the flight deck. “We’re on our way down. The advance planes are already there. Everything’s set up.”

  Anandale looked out of the window as the aircraft descended through the clouds and the flat, tree-tufted plain came into view. He said, “God awful place. No wonder no one smiles.”

  They landed as before at the same military installation on the eastern outskirts of the city. There were three television positions, none elevated, and five still camera places. Between them and the arriving aircraft was an outwardly facing wall of Secret Servicemen through whom there were minimal gaps for unimpeded pictures. The specially-flown in bullet and blast proof Cadillac was hard topped, with darkly tinted windows, and drew up to within ten meters of the steps even before they were secured into position. At the same time Aleksandr Okulov and Boris Petrin emerged from their waiting, smoke-windowed Zil, to make their way forward in a greeting line with individual interpreters. There was a second, shielding line made up equally of Russian and American protection officers.

  Walter Anandale emerged the moment the doors of Air Force One opened for the required, top-step photo opportunity but was dwarfed almost at once by Jeff Aston. Two more similarly-sized Secret Servicemen covered the president from the back and side, making awkward the crowded descent to the ground. Okulov was several inches shorter than Anandale and appeared even smaller against the American guards when he came forward to embrace Anandale, Russian bear-hug style. Anandale barely responded, anxious to be released.

  The group moved so quickly towards the waiting vehicles that Scamell and Wendall North had to hurry down the steps to avoid being left behind. The American chief of staff supervised the transportation, ushering Aleksandr Okulov and Walter Anandale into the Cadillac, alone but for their interpreters. Anandale and Okulov sat side by side, their translators facing them
from the jump seats. Lev Lvov, the Russian presidential protection chief, was crammed into the front seat alongside Jeff Aston, the raised glass partition closing them off from the rear of the vehicle.

  Okulov said, “How’s the First Lady?”

  “Recovering,” said Anandale. “Thank you.”

  “Fully, I hope.”

  “There’s still a lot of specialist treatment necessary.”

  The armor plating, which extended from the sides down to the underside of the car, brought its weight up to nine tons but it was still travelling at ninety m.p.h. down the central reservation of the cleared road. There were two ranks of escorting motorcycles, the outer line closing off any space left by the inner. It was impossible to hear the overhead helicopters, through the steel-reinforced roof.

  Orkulov said, “I trust all the misunderstandings are resolved between us, over this investigation?”

  “I believe they are. But the progress is slow,” said Anandale.

  “The Englishman is appearing in court today.”

  “Slow in detecting the others with whom he is involved.”

  “I understand that immediately prior to the outrage no substantive difficulties remained between our two sides over the missile defense system?”

  “There were some. There had been no independently confirmed statistics for nuclear holdings.”

  “They have now been exchanged between our foreign minister and your secretary of state.”

  “There remain uncertainties with China. And North Korea.”

  “Uncertainties that existed—and stayed parallel—before and during our negotiations.”

  “According to our intelligence North Korea is increasing its nuclear capacity, with Beijing’s assistance.”

  There was a momentary silence. They were entering the city now, along barriered streets this time totally devoid of people apart from regularly distanced uniformed militia officers.

  Okulov said, “That is not our information.”