Read Kings of Many Castles Online
Authors: Brian Freemantle
Kings of Many Castles (33 page)
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..
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.
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.”
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.
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.”
Anandale shrugged. “You’ll accept, of course, that I have to make judgments upon the best advice I receive.”
“An enormous amount of time and even more commitment has gone into bringing our two sides to where we are now. It would be very unfortunate if at this stage it were to fail.”
“My secretary of state has remained in Moscow,” reminded Anandale. “We have publicly travelled into the city together today.”
“Does that mean our negotiations are going to be concluded with the signing of the treaty?” demanded Okulov, directly.
“It means our negotiations are continuing to a hopeful conclusion, that hope being that no unexpected, insurmountable difficulty
arises,” said Anandale, as the cavalcade swept across the cleared Red Square for the televised entry into the Kremlin.
arises,” said Anandale, as the cavalcade swept across the cleared Red Square for the televised entry into the Kremlin.
American television had a simultaneous feed from the Russian coverage of Anandale, flanked by Scamell and North, solemnly filing past the open coffin of the assassinated Russian president. Aleksandr Okulov was already in place by the time they reached the receiving line, in the center of which stood a black-suited Raisa Yudkin, her two sons either side of her. She smiled at his approach and Anandale leaned forward to kiss her.
“How’s Ruth?” said the woman, her voice heavily accented.
“Getting better.” He gave a slight movement towards the coffin. “I’m so sorry.” He shook the hands of both boys and moved off.
There was a preinterment reception, also televised, in an adjoining state room and Anandale allowed Scamell to steer him into two appropriate groups-German and Italian-before settling briefly with the British. Anandale said he was looking forward to the following day’s working lunch and the prime minister said he was, too.
It was not until they were back in the armored Cadillac, slotting into their prescribed position in the cortege, that Wendall North said, “You happy how it went?”
“Hear for yourself,” invited Anandale. Through the now lowered separating screen he said, “You get it all, Jeff?”
“Loud and clear, Mr. President,” assured the Secret Service chief, slotting the recording of Anandale’s conversation with Okulov into the Cadillac’s cassette deck.
Everyone’s concentration was totally inside the vehicle, oblivious to everyone and everything outside. When the tape snapped off Anandale said, “Well?”
“Couldn’t be better,” said Scamell.
“Thank you, Jeff,” said Anandale, pressing the control to raise the screen. “You know what I’m thinking? I’m thinking that now we’ve got the Texas problem out of the way, we don’t need the goddamned treaty, we’d do better carrying on perfecting the shield technology.”
“Let’s take pause on that, Mr. President,” advised the chief of staff.
“OK,” agreed Anandale. “But carry out some very discreet soundings: see how further developing it plays on the Hill.”
Charlie was able to see the first five minutes of Anandale’s televised arrival at the military airfield before leaving for the hospital and watched with an impression of
deja vu,
wondering what emotion the American president would be having. The reflection went at once driving to the hospital with Anne beside him, responding perfunctorily to the occasional remark from the lawyer bent over her case papers in final preparation, his own concentration fully upon the lingering doubt about Natalia. She’d come to him the previous night, wanting him, but he hadn’t been able to respond which had never happened before. The only excuse he’d been able to think of was tiredness from the investigation and she’d turned away tight with frustration and the tension had still been between them that morning.
deja vu,
wondering what emotion the American president would be having. The reflection went at once driving to the hospital with Anne beside him, responding perfunctorily to the occasional remark from the lawyer bent over her case papers in final preparation, his own concentration fully upon the lingering doubt about Natalia. She’d come to him the previous night, wanting him, but he hadn’t been able to respond which had never happened before. The only excuse he’d been able to think of was tiredness from the investigation and she’d turned away tight with frustration and the tension had still been between them that morning.
Impossible though it was-ridiculous though it was-what if Natalia had been drawn in, not in the actual shootings but in some cover-up afterwards? George Bendall had unchallengably been involved in a murderous conspiracy but they had a guaranteed defense against the murder charge itself, so there was no risk of an innocent man being wrongly convicted. She would be obstructing justice, certainly, but how many times had he done that—and worse-any means always justifying a practical end? A lot, although always with more of an episode resolved and more of the opposition punished. What ever, he had no moral or integrity grounds from which to criticize or question. Which wasn’t his problem, he forced himself to admit. His problem was entirely personal, the thought of her holding a distorting mirror in front of him. Which was the most absurd of all. But not all, he thought on, relentlessly. His doubt wasn’t solely about the investigation: maybe not even a major part of it. He was stirring into the mix all his own uncertainties about himself and Natalia: changing the metaphor, holding up his own distorting mirror in front of himself.
“Charlie!”
He started at her demand, realizing he’d missed a question the first time. “Sorry. What?”
“You think you can keep Bendall quiet?” repeated Anne
“That’s what we’re going to the hospital for, but I don’t have a magic formula.”
“Do you really want to keep him quiet?” she demanded, turning to Charlie in the back of the embasssy car. “He promised sensation, remember? He could unlock everything.”
“I want it for myself first, not for a herd that would include the world’s press,” said Charlie.
Olga, Nicholai Badim and the psychiatrist, Guerguen Agayan, were outside the ward when Charlie and Anne approached after passing through the entrance check, which Charlie noted to be as stringent as it had been on the first day, minus only the disputed body check. The regular three-man team was inside Bendall’s room, but there was a much greater number—a lot in militia uniform—further along the corridor, waiting to escort the man to the court.
Anne said, “We need prehearing consultations.”
“A condition was made, about a protective presence,” said Olga.
“Which you can be,” said Charlie, curtly. “There is no need for the guards within the room or for any medical attendance.”
“That’s for us to decide,” said Agayan.
“Is he fit to appear in court?” asked Charlie.
“Yes,” said Badim.
“Can he stand?”
“Sufficiently. There’s a crutch.”
Looking more closely into the room Charlie saw there was an old fashion, T-shaped support propped against the side of the wheelchair in which Bendall was already seated. “Then you’ve fulfilled your function. We want the room empty except for attorney Abbott, myself and militia colonel Melnik.”
Agayan moved to protect further but Olga said, “That’ll be all right. We haven’t a lot of time.”
There was a shuffle of passing people. Inside Charlie recognized that Bendall was dressed in the jeans and long-sleeved sweater the man had been wearing during the tussle on the TV gantry, although they appeared to have been cleaned. He didn’t recognize the faded fabric windcheater in which Bendall only had his right arm, the left side pulled over the man’s injured shoulder. There was scarcely any
bulge from the bandaging and Charlie guessed it had been further reduced. There didn’t appear to be a particularly thick dressing at the man’s hip, either. The routine of arranging their own recording was practically automatic.
bulge from the bandaging and Charlie guessed it had been further reduced. There didn’t appear to be a particularly thick dressing at the man’s hip, either. The routine of arranging their own recording was practically automatic.
Other books
The Rings of Haven by Brown, Ryk
Black Tickets by Jayne Anne Phillips
Restraint by Debra Glass
The Divide by Nicholas Evans
The Product Line (Book 1): Product by Ian McCain
A Christmas Horror Story by Sebastian Gregory
Secret of the Mask by Gertrude Chandler Warner
Glory (Book 4) by McManamon, Michael
Becoming Countess Dumont by K Webster, Mickey Reed
