Kings of Many Castles

by Brian Freemantle

  Charlie glanced across at the lawyer, who was coming up and down between the film he was describing and the transcript of what the struggling men were saying to each other. “And here’s Sakov, when they swing around as he’s hit by the swivelling camera and what he’s saying can be lip-read. ‘You’re dead, Georgi. Done what you’re here for … down you go, like Vasili Gregorovich … no use anymore … let go the fucking rifle …’ Here’s the helicopter marksman. ‘Get the fuck out the way … need a clear shot …’ and you see that Sakov tries to do that and Bendall says ‘No, you fucker. You’re coming with me, everyone’s coming with me.’ And that’s when the bodyguards get to him up the ladder but that’s something else I missed. Bendall doesn’t fall, not really from the true height from the pod. He slips under the rail, grabs at the edge and for a second hangs suspended before his hands are kicked away, kicked away by Sakov. But Bendall’s lessened by a good two meters, maybe more, how far he’s going to fall. So the drop doesn’t kill him … .”

  “Which it was intended to,” came in Anne, understanding.

  “Which it was intended to,” agreed Charlie. “Instead it badly hurts him.”

  “But leaves him alive, the holder of the smoking gun, to tell all when he gets his moment in court,” said Anne, with her customarily quickness.

  “Which he thought he had this morning,” continued Charlie “Here’s today’s transcript …” He scrolled through, for the moment he wanted. “Here! Here’s Davidov, turning away from killing Bendall. The gun’s by his side, not in any firing position. He sees the militiaman for the first time, standing in front of him. Now look at the words. ‘Not me … . Get out of the way … . That’s the door … get out of the way of my door …’ Not the door. My door. The door he’d been told he’ll be able to use to get away. Just like Bendall had been told he’d be able to get away from the camera platform and lose himself in the crowd-helped by whoever it was waiting for him below—before anyone properly realized what had happened. Which he would have been able to do if Vladimir Petrovich Sakov hadn’t grabbed him and tried to throw him over the edge.”

  There was a long silence. Then Anne said, “That it?”

  “No,” said Charlie. He slid across the table towards her two of the photographs the FBI obtained in their background investigation of Vasili Gregorovich Isakov. The clearer showed the young man in shorts and a singlet, smiling into the sunlight at a beach bar with a wine glass half-raised towards his lips, as if he were responding to a toast. “Bendall’s closest—only—friend who died on the Timiryazev level crossing too drugged and drunk literally to know what hit him. Look at his left arm—the one holding the wine—just above his wrist …”

  “I can see it,” said Anne.

  “Now look at this,” said Charlie, restarting the presidential shooting tape but very quickly into the struggle pressing the pause button and pointing with his finger right against the screen. “The same tattoo, two parallel lines with an arrow, like a fulcrum, in between them, on the same place on Sakov’s wrist. London’s done the comparison, although it wasn’t really necessary. They’re identical.”

  “You any idea what we’re talking about here?”

  “Some,” said Charlie. Her admiration was obvious and he enjoyed it.

  Anne insisted on stopping to get crackers and cheese and changed to wine, although Charlie stayed with scotch, and asked for both films to be shown again against their transcripts.

  “Why let Bendall live!” Anne demanded, when the transmission finally stopped. “Sakov fails, the first time. But they-whoever ‘they’ are-have got Bendall at their mercy, in hospital … .”

  “Maybe they tried, with the injection,” reminded Charlie. “Pentathol and alcohol: alcohol we thought-because we were supposed to think-was residual in an alcoholic. An abnormally high level, injected directly into a vein, into the blood stream, to kill a man suffering advanced cirrhosis. Except that it didn’t. And afterwards he was under heavier guard, surrounded by doctors and nurses. It was too dangerous to try again.”

  Anne shook her head. “I think you’re close but not close enough.”

  “Where am I going wrong?” demanded Charlie, unoffended, glad she was questioning with a lawyer’s mind.

  “I don’t know but it’s too loose an end. It always was,” insisted Anne, bent forward in total concentration. “Bendall was alive, uncontrolled and liable at any moment to tell us—tell anyone-what it was all about! Compared to that, the risk of trying a third time to kill him wouldn’t have been a consideration.”

  “I said maybe the injection was another attempt to kill him,” said Charlie. “You want another scenario?”

  “What?” prompted Anne, bringing her head up to him.

  “He wasn’t uncontrolled! The very opposite. He was controlled. What weren’t we—haven’t we—been given!”

  “You’ve lost me, Charlie.”

  “There aren’t any taped records of George Bendall being treated: talking to doctors but probably more importantly to a psychiatrist.”

  “Agayan?”

  “Not necessarily but Agayan told us himself that he’d had several sessions with Bendall. Remember him saying something about Bendall being a classic, textbook case?”

  Anne nodded, doubtfully.

  “It’s Agayan’s voice on the tape closing Kayley and the Americans down, when their one interview blew up in their faces,” said Charlie. “And Guerguen Agayan was always around at every interview we had with Bendall … interviews that Arnold Nolan, our own psychiatrist, said at the beginning were entirely wrong, misdirected, to get a proper response from anyone with the mental condition Nolan suspected Bendall to be suffering … the mental condition Agayan would have known how to govern when he wanted to and manipulate when he wanted to. I talked to you in London about what Nolan told me—that people with Bendall’s condition are totally susceptible to directional suggestion …” Charlie paused, at the further recollection. “Totally susceptible to directional suggestion particularly under the administration of drugs like pentathol. How about Bendall being kept total controlled by an injected drug his medical doctor chanced upon finding just that once?”

  “I don’t want to piss on the fire you’re stoking up here, Charlie, but there are so many holes it’s threadbare. You’re suggesting Guerguen Semonovich Agayan is in this conspiracy right up to his neck, right?”

  “It’s a possibility. Or another psychiatrist.”

  “And that he’s the mind manipulator who got George Bendall up on a TV platform with a gun in his hand to be held responsible while others carried out the assassinations?”

  “We know that’s what Bendall was there for. We just don’t know who put him there.”

  Anne held up her hand. “Let’s keep it simple. Bendall’s supposed to be pushed over and killed but instead he’s just badly injured. Now for the coincidence! Of all the hospitals in Moscow Bendall gets taken to, bingo, it’s the one to which his puppet-master, Guerguen Agayan, is attached and, double-bingo, gets assigned to care for the guy whose strings he’s been pulling. I believe in coincidences but I don’t believe in this one.”

  During Anne’s dismissal Charlie had sat staring down into his glass, locked into the sort of concentration she’d shown earlier. When he looked up he was smiling. “‘I never knew how or why it happened but George stopped stealing ever so suddenly,’” he quoted. “‘It was a long time before he told me he was seeing a doctor, a friend, who was helping him. I don’t remember his name. I’ll try. I’ll really try.’ There it is, Anne. Why Vera had to be killed in Lefortovo, before she could remember.”

  “You’re forcing the bits into the jigsaw because they look the right shape.”

  “It fits.”

  “You’ll have to do a lot more to prove it. And whether there’s a need to prove anything is another debatable point, isn’t it?”

  Instead of answering, Charlie said, “I need to see Bendall’s body. I’d like to see Davidov’s, too, but even though he�
�s dead we’ve got the right of consular access to see Bendall’s body, haven’t we?”

  “I haven’t got a clue,” admitted Anne. “But what are you looking for?”

  “Tattoos.”

  “I wouldn’t have believed that if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. I’d have dismissed it as kids’ stuff,” conceded Anne.

  Charlie shook his head. “Remember how George reacted at belonging to an elite? Elite groups-societies-have often used tattooes as a sign of elitism. The praetorian guard of the Roman emperors marked themselves out like that. So did the Nazi SS. It’s the sort of shit George would have gone for.”

  “And so did Vladimir Petrovich Sakov,” picked up Anne. “You think there’s a chance in hell of making him tell you about it … ?” She waved towards the VCR. “You’ve got evidence there of his being part of the conspiracy! He’s not going to incriminate himself by admitting anything else.”

  “I’m working on it.” Which wasn’t true. Charlie thought there was a way to turn Sakov but it could also be the way to expose Natalia if she’d become part of an intelligence service cover-up. He was already officially on hold. Why push it any further?

  Anne topped up her glass and leaned back in her encompassing chair, tucking her bare feet beneath her. “We could have done this in the office.”

  “I know.” He’d forgotten the directness.

  “How did your daughter like her doll?”

  “She already had one just like it.”

  “London was good. A lot of fun.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not looking for commitment, Charlie. Or to pick up other people’s pieces.”

  “I wasn’t going to ask you to.”

  “You sure about microwave magic?”

  “Yes. But thanks.”

  “Another time. When it’s right.”

  “Yes, when it’s right.”

  Natalia had eaten but was still up when Charlie got back to Lesnaya, watching the only story being covered on the late night news.

  Charlie said, “I thought you’d already be in bed.”

  “I stayed up to watch this again. Do you want anything?”

  “No.” He nodded to the newscast. “How’s that change things?”

  “I’m not sure. We’re recalling Karelin, obviously. What about you?”

  “I’m waiting for London’s instructions. Until then I’m not to do anything.”

  “It took until now to be told that?”

  Charlie frowned. “What?”

  “I’m surprised it took until now to be told that. It all happened this morning.”

  “And I had to go back and forth to London and go through God knows how many conferences and discussions at the embassy, so of course it took until now!”

  Natalia froze the transmission at the exodus from the court. “And there you are, on TV!”

  “Looking as if I’d shit myself. I almost did a little later, when I saw the militia officer had his gun on me.”

  Natalia didn’t smile. “And there’s the British lawyer.”

  Charlie frowned again. “Yes.”

  “The one you went back to London with?”

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t tell me she was a woman.”

  “I didn’t think it was relevant.”

  “She’s attractive.”

  “I don’t think that’s relevant, either.” Where the fuck was this intuition coming from!

  “Was she at tonight’s meetings?”

  “She was at today’s meetings. With a lot of other people. What is this!”

  “I’m just surprised you didn’t tell me your lawyer was a woman, that’s all.”

  “Natalia, you spend every minute of your day working more with men than with women. Does it ever occur to you to tell me about them?”

  “It probably would, if I went on an overseas trip with them.”

  “Well it didn’t with me. And if you’re reading something into it, which I wish you wouldn’t because there’s nothing to be read in, then I’m sorry. Sorry things are breaking down between us as badly as they seem to be doing.”

  “Yes,” agreed Natalia, solemnly. “I’m sorry about that, too.”

  24

  When Charlie answered Anne Abbott’s internal voice mail message she at once announced, “I know where Bendall’s body is! And how you might get to see it!”

  “Where? How?”

  “Back at Burdenko. They’ve called, expecting us to handle the funeral arrangements, by which they really mean the cost. Brooking’s apoplectic.”

  “He usually is. Are we going to?”

  “Bendall was still officially a British subject: legally there’s a liability. But we need a declared death certificate. Brooking doesn’t want to sully his hands by asking for it and says we know the people there. You volunteering?”

  The hospital vestibule seemed oddly empty without its challenging guard detail but the receptionist recognized Charlie and located Nicholai Badim on her second attempt. She said, “You’re lucky he doesn’t have a theater list.”

  After the preceding twelve hours his luck deserved to change, Charlie decided. He had a lot of bridges to rebuild and leaving Lesnaya without bothering with breakfast was scarcely the way to begin the reconstruction. He wasn’t sure he yet knew where or how to start but running out of the house wasn’t the way: if anything it was an unspoken admission of what Natalia suspected him of having done in London. Even Sasha had detected the frigid atmosphere, asking why they weren’t talking and why he was leaving so early. The previous night they’d laid—almost theatrically—stiffly apart, Natalia jerking away when she’d relaxed into a half sleep and accidentally touched his leg with hers.

  The balding, quickly blinking surgeon-administrator came curiously into the foyer, frowning at Charlie’s reason for being there. “We could have arranged that by telephone.”

  The man was anxious to reestablish the authority that had been too often overridden during the questioning of Bendall, Charlie decided. “I’ve also got to satisfy myself that it is Bendall’s body. Formal identification.”

  The frown—and irritation—deepened. “See it! There’s hardly anything left of the face to identify!”

  “It’s a necessary formality. You must surely know what bureaucracy is like.”

  The other man shrugged, gesturing for Charlie to follow as he thrust off deeper into the hospital. “If it will hurry things up. We need the mortuary space. I’ve told the militia I want to get rid of the other one.”

  “Davidov’s body is here as well!” His luck was definitely changing.

  “We’re the nearest mortuary to the court. It’s inconvenient, an imposition.”

  The corridor along which they were walking was littered with dirty laundry, predominantly sheets, some abandoned on the floor and some piled up on a row of empty, metal-framed beds. A lot were bloodstained. There were also equipment cartons and boxes, mostly empty but a few were still sealed and unpacked. There was even a stack, sealed, in the lift in which they descended into the basement. Badim seemed oblivious to it all.

  All the mortuary drawers appeared to have name designations on them. Boris Davidov’s was next to Bendall’s. There was only one attendant in the room, who half straightened at Badim’s entry but then decided not to bother with the respect. The surgeon ignored him, too, hauling Bendall’s drawer out himself and flicking the covering sheet back from the near headless body. It was made bloodlessly white by the refrigeration.

  “OK?” the Russian demanded, impatiently.

  The sheet still covered most of the dead man’s torso. Charlie quickly lifted it, uncovering the left side. The upper part of the injured arm was still bandaged almost down to the elbow but the wrist was bare. On it was the parallel line tattoo separated by the arrow fulcrum.

  “What are you looking for?” said Badim, at Charlie’s shoulder.

  Charlie lowered the sheet. “I’d like to see Davidov’s body, too.”

  “Why?”
>
  “I’m not sure how much information London will want in my report. They might have a query about Davidov and I don’t want to have to bother you a second time.”

  The adjoining drawer was withdrawn even more impatiently. Badim said, “I don’t want to be bothered again either.”

  The entire upper part of Davidov’s body appeared crushed. No attempt had been made to clean up the bullet wounds. There was the same matching tattoo on the man’s left wrist. “Are you carrying out autopsies?”

  “The cause of death is self evident in both cases.”

  “They haven’t been asked for?”

  “No. Finally satisfied?”

  “Thank you,” said Charlie, falling in step with the man as they left the mortuary. “All I need now is the certificate.”

  “How quickly can you have the body removed?”

  “I’ll try to have things moving as soon as I get back to the embassy.” Charlie wondered upon whom Brooking would unload that chore; the man had actually smiled his gratitude when Charlie had offered to collect the certificate.

  “Today, if possible,” urged the Russian.

  “I can understand how glad you and Dr. Agayan are to get the hospital back to normality.”

  Badim turned to Charlie in the elevator, frowning again. “Agayan? He’s not attached to my staff.”

  Charlie’s tell-tale feet throbbed. “But he was here … part of your team … ?”

  The surgeon-administrator made a disparaging gesture towards the cardboad litter. “We aren’t funded sufficiently for cleaners, let alone a resident psychiatrist. Agayan is at the Serbsky Institute.”

  Which was the principal KGB psychiatric institute in which Soviet dissidents were incarcerated and many made mad to justify their imprisonment at the height of the communist oppression, Charlie instantly recognized. “How did he come to be involved?”

  “Seconded in, as part of the emergency when Bendall was admitted.”