Red Star Rising (15 page)

Charlie didn’t detect the already identified BMW until just before his taxi turned onto the embankment. It continued straight on over the Kalininskaya Bridge, sure of his destination. Which wasn’t good or proper tradecraft, Charlie recognized, curiously. But there was so much else that had been unexpected during the meeting with the American; so much that it was going to take time to interpret whatever its purpose had been.

“It’s taken long enough for you to talk to me!” complained Jack Smethwick, the director of the agency’s technical and scientific division in London, the moment they were connected.

“Wanted to make sure I had as much as possible before bothering you,” said Charlie, soothingly. He’d forgotten the man’s almost perpetual irritation.

“I hope you have.”

“So do I,” said Charlie, from the secure, strut-supported compartment in the communications room. “And I want to get some things clear in my mind.”

“That might make a change.”

“Let’s talk about the loop, which is most important,” said Charlie, refusing an argument. “Can’t the fact that it’s computer-simulated be scientifically detected by the Russians?”

“If it could be, I wouldn’t have done it this way,” said Smethwick. “The loop will be clearly marked as a copy of the supposed original which we’ve enhanced here. It’s perfect.”

So precise was the technical clarity of the line that Charlie
could hear the noise of other people working in the MI5 laboratory on the northern outskirts of London: It was another affectation of the scientific director to take phone calls standing up at a laboratory bench rather than in his separate, more confidential office. “Three men looking to be close around a fourth, head bowed as if he’s being forced along?”

“That’s what you asked for,” reminded the scientist, curtly. “We’ve put a woolen ski cap on the shortest of the three representing the assassins. Another seems to be wearing an anorak, with the hood up. It opens with a lot of broken, zigzagging film, the figures scarcely identifiable through the interrupting tearing. That tearing briefly stops but it’s very hazy. And, of course, the light’s very bad. It looks as if they were picked up after they’ve come into the grounds off the embankment. From the photographs of the official opening we’ve superimposed, with sufficient clarity for it to be positively identified, the ornamental hedge by the exhibition hall. None of the figures is fully framed, leaving the height to be estimated, although the dead man is close to being accurate from the calculations we’ve been able to make from the Russian mortuary photographs. . . .” The man stopped. “Have you shipped me the new set of photographs you picked up today?”

“In tonight’s diplomatic bag, along with the updated medical report,” promised Charlie. “The AB blood grouping is listed there, too. And the note about the barbitumiv traces.”

“I’m not comfortable about that,” complained Smethwick. “Sure we can mix some AB blood with the soil samples you’ve already sent us from the flower-bed area. But what if they do a DNA typing? It won’t match what they’ve got and your great big scam will be blown sky-high.”

Charlie hadn’t needed the reminder of the weakest part of what he was trying to set up. “They wouldn’t give me the clothes, for me to give you a match. But there’s nothing in their medical reports of their having taken DNA.”

“Which doesn’t mean they haven’t typed it,” dismissed the scientist. “DNA is the first of any blood tests these days. It would certainly be for me in these particular circumstances.”

“It’s a gamble I’ve got to take,” admitted Charlie. “You won’t forget to mix in some of the soil fertilizer I sent back with the soil?”

Smethwick’s pained sigh was audible. “Of course, I won’t forget to mix it in: we’ve already tested some of what you provided and found a previous residue but the fertilizer won’t affect DNA.”

“I’m taking the gamble,” repeated Charlie. “What about the Makarov 9mm shell?”

“It will test to be Russian if Moscow runs a metal comparison,” assured the man. “We put a cross in the tip, as they did with the bullet that killed your man, and took most of the slow down wadding out of the butt before backing a steel sheet against which we split it with Kevlar, all traces of which we’ve taken off the fragment you’re going to claim came from your hole in the ground.”

“I think we’ve got enough to convince them,” said Charlie, forcing the confidence he didn’t fully feel.

“I don’t,” disputed Smethwick. “I think it’ll be exposed for the nonsense it is and actually create what could escalate into an official diplomatic incident in an embassy that has got too many already. And because I think that I’m filing to the Director-General my officially recorded written objection to what he ordered me to do for you.”

“Thanks for doing it, despite how you feel.”

“Everything you’ve asked for will be back to you in a couple of days,” guaranteed Smethwick. “And comes with the best of luck. You’re going to need it.”

Charlie already knew that, but Smethwick’s dismissal deflated Charlie’s usual optimism. His hope lay in his belief that he had sufficiently convinced the Russians—Pavel perhaps more than Guzov. But if that hope was misplaced, Smethwick’s doomsday prediction could become a reality, and with it his exposure and immediate recall—even expulsion—back to England before any possible conclusion between himself and Natalia.

There were no voice-mail messages on the rabbit hutch
telephone but on the card table there was a two-word note from Paula-Jane:
DROP BY
.

“I’ve been censured,” she announced at once, not smiling up at his entry. “I’m not sure yet if it’s going to become official, from London, or stop here. I was two hours in front of Paul-fucking-Robertson and his inquiry team this afternoon, like a child who’d done something wrong.”

A role for which Charlie strongly suspected she might qualify. “Censured for what?”

“Not going over everybody’s head here in Moscow to alert London about the security chaos. Appears that Halliday’s been doing so for months.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I’m just past my first year on my first foreign station. Sotley’s fifty-five years old, a senior ambassador. Dawkins served in Rome, Canberra, and Berlin before coming here. Do you think I was going to risk a career that hasn’t even started by taking them on, even if I’d recognized how bad things were? Which I didn’t, not properly, until all the shit happened at once.”

There was a catch in her voice that Charlie feared might be a prelude to tears.

“You heard the other news?”

“What?”

“Sotley and Dawkins have been recalled today, as quietly as possible. The public announcement isn’t going to be made from London until tomorrow, by which time they’ll be under wraps. Peter Maidment, the
chef du protocole,
is going to stand in until there is a proper replacement.”

Was there proof against either man of being the inside source? wondered Charlie. Paula-Jane was very definitely the wrong person to ask. Instead, he said: “What’s Maidment like?”

“Bit of a dreamer,” assessed the woman. “Passed over too many times for promotion until now and this isn’t permanent. I feel sorry for him. He tries but can’t sustain the momentum.”

“Was he involved with the discovery of the body?” asked Charlie, hopefully.

“Never saw him there,” dismissed Paula-Jane.

Timing the announcement, Charlie said: “I had lunch with Bill Bundy today.”

“I remember him suggesting it,” said Paula-Jane.

“He knew a bug had been found in the ambassador’s personal telephone, which hasn’t been publicly disclosed.”

Paula-Jane remained looking up at Charlie but said nothing.

“And he knew my temporarily assigned direct number, here at the embassy. That’s how he got in touch, by leaving a call-back message.”

“I told him,” she blurted. “He called me the night after we all had dinner together. I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong, as you two appeared to go back a long time. But I didn’t tell him anything about a bug being in the ambassador’s telephone because until you just told me, I didn’t know exactly
where
it had been found. You do believe me, don’t you?”

“I’m trying very hard,” said Charlie.

In addition to Paul Robertson and Harry Fish, there were two other men and a matronly, gray-haired woman—to none of whom there was any formal introduction—when Charlie gained entry into the inquiry room by insisting his need to speak to them was urgent. There were also two technicians to one side of the room, clearly supervising an equipment bank including a polygraph machine and its adjoining, cable-festooned chair.

“This is surprisingly unexpected,” greeted Robertson. “Particularly as I personally understood from the Director-General that we were absolutely forbidden any further contact.”

From the tone of the other man’s voice, Charlie guessed that Robertson had been equally rebuked for their earlier encounter. He looked sideways to the equipment setup and said, “Is this being recorded?”

“Of course, visually as well as audibly,” confirmed Robertson. “Has your coming here been authorized by London?”

“No,” said Charlie, further reassured by the man’s obvious concern.

“Then I don’t intend allowing it to continue,” refused Robertson.

“And I don’t want to be part of it, either,” insisted Harry Fish.

“Please leave the room,” said Robertson.

Nodding to the recording equipment, Charlie said, “It’s my
ass in the air! Everything’s being doubly recorded, so none of you are endangered. You’re here to expose and arrest an inside source, and I think I know who that source is. You still want me to leave, I will. Your choice, being visually and audibly recorded, as you make it.”

The unknown man to Robertson’s right came quickly sideways for a whispered exchange, which concluded with a nod of permission for the man to leave the room. Coming back to Charlie, Robertson said, “We’ll hear what you have to tell us.”

“But not with me participating,” refused Fish, rising to follow the other departing man.

The hurriedly leaving investigator was on his way to speak to London, Charlie knew: Fish probably intended to cover his ass, too. Deciding that he needed, belatedly, as much professional protection as possible, Charlie said, “My instructions from London, personally from the Director-General, were not to discuss with you anything concerning the investigation in which I am involved. Nothing I intend to tell you reflects in any way whatsoever upon that. Is that understood and accepted?”

“We’re waiting to hear what you have to tell us,” said Robertson.

“And I’m waiting to hear the answer to my question,” returned Charlie, hoping he wasn’t coloring as obviously as the equally furious Robertson. Robertson shifted in his chair but didn’t speak and Charlie stood, shrugging.

“Your choice and you blew it. I’ll tell the Director-General and he can tell you, and we’ll all keep our fingers crossed that nothing else goes wrong while you piss about.”

“Wait!” called Robertson, when Charlie was almost at the door. “We understand what you’ve said, that nothing you’re going to tell us will compromise your purpose here.”

Charlie took his time walking to the seat and settling himself. Robertson’s face remained puce. The anonymous woman had colored, too. Charlie said, “A few nights ago I went out socially with people from the American embassy, accompanying Paula-Jane Venables. One of the Americans was William Bundy,
an acknowledged CIA expert on Russian affairs, who has been reassigned here for a third tour of duty, after running the Agency’s Russian desk for a number of years. I was on station here during one of his earlier assignments. During that period we knew each other but were never friends. Nor did we liaise, operationally, in any way whatsoever. The most recent evening ended with Bundy suggesting that he and I get together while I was here. No arrangements were made. The following day a voice-mail message from Bundy was left upon the temporary telephone number allocated to me, here at the embassy. I had not given Bundy that number. I responded to Bundy’s call. We lunched, yesterday. During that lunch, Bundy made a remark about listening devices having been installed within the telephone systems of the ambassador. To my understanding no mention has been made in the media coverage, either in English, American, or Russian newspapers, of the precise location of any of the devices that were discovered by Harry and his team. . . .”