Kings of Many Castles (31 page)

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Authors: Brian Freemantle

BOOK: Kings of Many Castles
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“It’s not proof,” he said, picking up the earlier dinner table conversation. “You’re reacting to instinct.”
“I know,” admitted Olga. “But I’m
right!
I can feel it. The lead we want is among those fifteen names.”
“If he’s there, we’ll find him.”
“We should allow ourselves more time, not worry so much about media timing,” persisted Olga.
“You know the answer to that.”
“Will we share?”
Zenin was quiet for several moments.
“After
we’ve got him: got everything.”
“What if he’s still serving in the FSB? It’s more than possible.”
“But we’ve got the authority of the presidential commission.”
“Will we invoke it?”
“If we have to.”
“Be careful, darling. Personally careful, I mean.”
“How was it for you, going back today?”
“Better than I thought it would be.”
“You think the Americans, with all their manpower, will try to trace all the fifteen?”
“Without a doubt.”
“That could be our protection,” suggested Zenin. “Maybe we will share. Give the Americans the name, if we think we’ve discovered it, let them take on the FSB.”
Olga turned, moving her hand over his hair-matted chest. “Do that! It’ll be safer.”
“The FSB’s wrecked. And Karelin with it.”
“All the more reason—
every
reason-for not being associated with its destruction. Russian intelligence changes its face but not its memory.”
“I’ll look after you,” said Zenin.
“For how long?” asked Olga, wishing she could have bitten the words back as she uttered them, stiffening beside him. She lay with her eyes closed, as if by not seeing she shut out the embarrassment. She felt him turn towards her.
“It’s something for us to talk about—think about—isn’t it?”
“Is it?” she said, breath tight in her chest.
“How would you feel about having me as a husband as well as a lover?”
“I’d feel very happy. How would you feel having me as a wife?”
“Very happy. And very proud.”
It wasn’t going to end! It was going to go on, forever and Olga couldn’t imagine anything she wanted more. “Now we’ve got even more reason to be careful. I don’t want to lose this, to risk anything.”
 
“You think you would have got more?” asked Natalia.
Charlie shook his head. “Bendall wasn’t lost in memories. It was an act, feeding us a bit at a time and making us dance to his tune …” he smiled at the unintentional pun. “And it’s a bloody awful tune, too.”
“You achieved a hell of a lot, though.”
“As much as Bendall wanted to give.” He hadn’t told Natalia—discussed with anyone—what he believed to have been Bendall’s recognition of the Davidov name. Totally unoffended by Charlie’s disbelief and anxious to earn the offered fifty dollars, the concierge of the dilapidated block on Fadeeva Ulitza had two hours earlier let Charlie into Davidov’s listed apartment address to prove the man was no longer there, unprotestingly watching Charlie explore the few pieces of furniture that allowed the place to be described as furnished. Davidov had lived alone and hadn’t been friendly, complained the man. Davidov had been about thirty-five years old and looked fit, as if he trained, running or swimming or something like that. On the few occasions the concierge even remembered seeing
him, Davidov had worn a suit, with a collar and tie, so the caretaker assumed he worked in an office. Three militiamen and some Americans who’d said they were detectives had already been there so he guessed Davidov had done something pretty serious. Charlie agreed it might have been and left with the promise of another fifty dollars if the man called his embassy number to tell him Davidov had reappeared, hoping he’d outbid the Americans to whom, along with the militia, he decided to leave the legwork involved in trying to trace Davidov further, at least until the following day.
“How long do you think it will take?”
“I’ve put to him the idea of the court being his stage. I wouldn’t be surprised if he kept a lot back until he appears in public.”
“You might not have to wait long,” said Natalia. “I ran into a brick wall arguing the court hearing should be postponed. Then this afternoon Okulov’s ordered the arraignment should be the same day as the funeral.”
“That’s in two days!” said Charlie.
“Can you imagine the media coverage?”
“Not when we enter a plea of not guilty, after everyone’s seen the television film,” said Charlie.
“There’s something else.”
“What?”
“The Justice Ministry have decided there’s insufficient evidence of foul play for a militia investigation into Vera Bendall’s death.”
“Where’s the fix from, the Justice Ministry or the FSB?”
“Lefortovo is ultimately under FSB control,” reminded Natalia.
Natalia accepted she had been outmaneuvred with almost child-like ease but bruised pride was the least of her several concerns. Her need was to adjust Charlie’s don’t-get-sore-get-even philosophy, the only guide she had from all the half-remembered conversations and
anecdotes to reverse the ambush Filitov and Trishin had trapped her into, just thirty minutes before Viktor Karelin’s arrival. She was on her own and in those first suspended minutes she couldn’t see a way to do it.
There were no smiles, wisped or otherwise, from Karelin. The face of the FSB chairman was as fixed as the way he sat, facing them, the only movement the slight tremor in the hand in which he held her initiated recommendation for militia involvement in the FSB internal investigations.
“We felt you should be advised in advance, as a matter of courtesy,” improvised Natalia. It had been Filitov’s insistence, backed by the chief of staff, that there should be a vote upon advising Karelin before forwarding the suggestion to the Kremlin, ridiculous though the pretense had been with the two men so determinedly against her. The point, as always, had been to establish a provable, safety net record. From which the most glaring, and worrying, inference was that the federal prosecutor-but more importantly Yuri Trishin—seriously doubted Aleksandr Okulov’s formal election chances and were taking out insurance against the overthrow of the new regime, with the inevitable resurgence of the omnipotent intelligence service of which the man himself had once been such an integral part.
“By a majority decision,” hurriedly added Filitov, in unnecessary confirmation of Natalia’s reasoning.
“I believe the problems that have been uncovered within my organization can be very adequately dealt with internally,” said Karelin. “One, in fact, already has been. Your recommendation there has been overtaken by events.”
She could come back to that later, gauged Natalia. A vague idea was formulating but she didn’t know how to carry it through to the end. “We’re not questioning the adequacy of your organization. The intention …” She paused, unsure at the risk but then recalling Filitov’s blatant entrapment “is to protect it.” They had to commit themselves—from their own mouths-if she was going to turn their maneuvre back upon them. She needed a response—any response—she could use.
“Protect it!” demanded Karelin. He always had an escape, to keep
his service inviolable, but he was intrigued by their even imagining such an intrusion was possible. Not “their” imagining, he corrected, the woman who’d once been in the service. It was as difficult to understand as Okulov appointing an investigating commission in the first place, with her as its chairman.
Good enough; very good, in fact. Natalia was conscious of Filitov and Trishin twisting sideways towards her, matching Karelin’s bewilderment, and just as obviously turned herself to the chief of staff. “You would agree, wouldn’t you Yuri Fedorovich, that one of the essential remits of this Commission is to ensure
external
transparency, particularly as far as the United States of America is concerned?”
Trishin sat trying to anticipate towards which abyss he was being prodded. Unable to, he reluctantly said, “Yes.”
“And there’s also the undertaking, personally announced by the acting president, to make public the findings of this enquiry?”
“Yes,” agreed Trishin again, even more entangled.
It was going better than she’d hoped but it would be wrong for her to read too much too soon into their confusion. She went back to Karelin. “One of your first remarks to us was to deny emphatically any FSB part in an assassination conspiracy?” Natalia thought some of the stiffness had gone from the nondescript man.
Karelin said, “Which I just as emphatically repeat.”
“And which will be set out very specifically in our conclusions, all of which are to be made fully public,” said Natalia. That hadn’t been agreed-discussed even-and she waited for Trishin’s challenge, but it didn’t come. Having allowed the wait, Natalia went on, “Aren’t we limiting ourselves by
only
discussing an assassination conspiracy?”
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” complained Karelin.
Natalia could see her way now-actually realizing there was something positive to learn—and was not in a hurry, the longer she strung it out the further Filitov and Trishin would be stranded. “Public, international perception,” said Natalia.
“I still don’t understand,” protested Karelin, who believed he did but was unwilling to risk a mistake.
“There has been considerable ill feeling between us and the Americans over some aspects of the overall investigation,” reminded Natalia. “It’s reflected-clearly through informed and official leaksin the highly critical media attacks in the American press. You have been remarkably open with us, conceding that the FSB has been seriously embarrassed. Wouldn’t you agree, Viktor Ivanovich, that such an honest admission exposes you and your service to international media accusation-speculation at the very least-of complicity?”
“An accusation I am totally refuting!” insisted Karelin. She was right, he admitted to himself.
Natalia abruptly switched back to Trishin, intercepting as she did so the look of concern passing between the men on either side of her. “Denied or not, it is the sort of hostile analysis the international media will make and against which it is necessary for the FSB to guard, wouldn’t you agree, Yuri Fedorovich?”
“Not if the denials were made strongly enough,” tried the politician.
“Are you, Viktor Ivanovich, prepared to take that chance with the reputation of your organisation at stake?” demanded Natalia, moving between the intelligence chairman and the chief of staff before switching to the prosecutor. “Are you, Yuri Fedorvich?” She had them! Boxed and tied with ribbon.
“Isn’t this escalating out of proportion?” said Filitov, recognizing how totally their intended isolation of Natalia had been thrown back at them.
“Answer your own question,” Natalia returned at once. “Outside militia participation will show the FSB and its chairman willing to be totally transparent, to international opinion and judgment.
Prove
it has nothing to hide.” It wouldn’t prove anything of the sort—the FSB, like its predecessor, were adept enough to conceal anything they didn’t want found out-but that wasn’t the point. At that precise moment the point was justifying any sort of outside monitor.
“It’s a convincing argument,” said Karelin. “I’m glad it’s been made.”
“And I’m personally glad you’ve acknowledged it,” said Natalia.
Neither Filitov nor Trishin would be so happy with the secretariat transcripts now. She wondered how much more benefit there was to be achieved.
Karelin lifted and let drop the no longer agitated hand that still held the proposal for militia involvement. “And I appreciate the courtesy. And the consideration.” There was even, finally, a fleeting smile.
“You have no problem with the idea?”
“I need to consider it further. Which I will do keeping your arguments very much in mind, Natalia Fedova.”
“You said one of the uncovered problems has already been dealt with?” prompted Natalia.
“Colonel Spassky was held responsible for the internal security breach,” disclosed Karelin. “He has been dismissed and a new directorate chairman appointed to instigate an entirely redesigned system. It is conceivable that during that reorganization there might emerge some further information on the interference itself.”
Natalia acknowledged that Spassky had to be the most likely and available scapegoat. That had been the ineffectual man’s role from the very beginning. “You left yesterday to carry out a Registry search for us?”
“None of the names from the Ministry of Defense with which I was supplied appear on any Registry or Archive documents of the current FSB or the KGB which preceded it,” said Karelin, formally.
“That would seem to bring to an end any further assistance you might be able to give us?” said Trishin.
“Does it?” came in Natalia, sharply. “The identity of any who might be involved could be among material intentionally removed as part of the conspiracy, couldn’t it?”
“Most certainly, if any of them were part of it,” agreed Karelin.
Everything had to end on her personal terms, decided Natalia, or perhaps more essentially to her personal benefit. “We’ve no other witnesses, unless you can suggest anyone else.”
“There’s no one,” confirmed Karelin, at once.
“At the moment the FSB is inextricably—and inescapably—linked with a very carefully planned treason because of which it can only be discredited,” Natalia spelled out.
“Until we prove otherwise,” said Karelin.
There it was, the top-to-bottom investigations Karelin hadn’t d closed and into which he wouldn’t for a moment admit outside in vestigators! “Such very careful planning wouldn’t have been possible by disaffected personnel abruptly dismissed your service?”
“I don’t think so,” agreed Karelin.
“Could there be factions still
within
the FSB that might want to discredit you personally and the organization as a whole?”
“If there are, they will be discovered,” insisted Karelin, in further confirmation of the undisclosed purge.
“Can you suggest to us who-or what—else might be responsible?” asked Trishin, anxious to restore himself.
“Not at this moment,” said Karelin. “I’m discounting a foreign intelligence service. One could not have infiltrated to this degree.”
“I’ve used the word discredit,” reminded Natalia. “If this conspiracy isn’t totally explained and the conspirators—
all
the conspirators—brought to justice, couldn’t we be talking about the
destruction
of the FSB? Certainly about the need for yet another but more complete restructuring?”
“All of these difficulties have been realized and are being acted upon,” assured Karelin.
The unbreachable confidence was wavering, thought Natalia. “They are also difficulties that we will necessarily have to recognize, in our report to the acting president.”
“Are you warning me you believe the FSB is actively connected with this outrage!” demanded Karelin.
“I’m certainly not!” said Filitov.
“I am advising you of the evidence—and the observations—with which we have to work,” said Natalia. “With the hope of further contact and cooperation between us.”
 
Charlie judged it so far to be a day more confusing than most—too many of which had already been confusing enough—couldn’t see how it was going to get any better and wished now he hadn’t responded to instinct by returning to Fadeeva Ulitza instead of going back to Burdenko Hospital with the lawyers, defense psychiatrists and Donald Morrison. The initial uncertainty was the concierge’s
disclosure of the arrival at Boris Davidov’s abandoned apartment, within an hour of his having been there the previous night, of an FSB squad. According to the caretaker they’d asked similar questions to everyone else and appeared to be trying to locate the man, which they wouldn’t have had to do if he was still a serving officer but certainly would if he’d served in the past and needed to be removed from awkward questioning. Another perhaps far more feasible thought—countered only by Charlie’s impression of Bendall’s reaction—was that the FSB had joined the game of musical chairs and were chasing each of the fifteen names, in the footsteps of the FBI and the militia.
To test that possibility Charlie went directly from Fadeeva Ulitza to the American embassy and was further frustrated. Nowhere, in any of the FBI reports, was there a reference to their overlapping with either the intelligence or police service. Of the fifteen, eight—including Davidov—were logged as being not immediately traceable but with enquiries continuing. Two were serving prison sentences and another had died four years earlier, shot by the militia in an attempted armed robbery in an Arbat jewellery store. Three were working for security firms offering protection to Western businessmen in Moscow from organized mafia and the last was an instructor in the gymnasium at the Balchug Kempinski hotel. None of the security men nor the gym instructor remembered Georgi Gugin as serving with them in the army, despite the television and newspaper pictures. Nothing of the militia efforts to trace the fifteen was yet logged on the centralized system.
John Kayley came down into the incident room from the upstairs embassy as Charlie finished his fruitless computer scroll. The American was in shirtsleeves dark with sweat across his shoulders and beneath his arms.
Kayley said, “You want to guess how many Secret Servicemen we got coming here with the president?”
“No,” refused Charlie.
“Seventy-five! They hear a sound louder than a sparrow’s fart they’ll open fire and there’ll be another massacre.”
“You part of it?”
Kayley shook his head. “I got a court hearing to attend and exsoldiers to find.”
“How’s it going?”
Kayley gestured to Charlie’s blank computer screen. “What you see is what we got. Which so far is fuck all. You all set for tomorrow?”
“Short of just about everything I’d like,” said Charlie, honestly.

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