Red Star Rising (25 page)

Charlie waited until Stout left for his self-appointed supervision of the gatehouse arrivals before saying, “Why’s Reg to be included?”

“He’s officially responsible for embassy security,” said Robertson.

Charlie’s intended protest at not being consulted was stopped by his pager’s vibration, its source registering on its screen. Charlie at once recognized the street phone number.

“It’s your now transferred original line: it’s not secure if it’s transferred a second time through the switchboard,” hurriedly intruded Fish.

“You’ve just told me everything electrical is totally secure behind a white noise barrier,” said Charlie, as the pager continued to reverberate.

“There’s a risk with a double transfer,” insisted the other man.

Mumbo-jumbo bullshit, decided Charlie, picking up the conference-hall extension and telling an immediately responding operator to put the call through.

The voice Charlie instantly recognized to be Pavel’s said: “Fifteen minutes.”

“Yes,” acknowledged Charlie, though unsure if the Russian heard him so quickly was the outside street telephone replaced. Turning back to the other two men, Charlie said, “Your secondary monitor, the one I’m not supposed to know you’ve attached to the apartment lines, wouldn’t have got that, would it, Harry?”

“A backup is an obvious precaution,” tried Robertson.

“Why play silly buggers and not tell me there was one?” demanded Charlie.

“We’re not spying on you,” insisted Fish.

“I would, if I were in your position,” said Charlie, sardonically. “I just wouldn’t be so bad at it.”

“Who was it?” demanded a tight-lipped Robertson.

Charlie’s hesitation was more to continue the other man’s annoyance than to avoid the answer. “Sergei Pavel.”

Initially, there was blank-faced silence from the two men, until Robertson said, “It was my understanding that no one officially involved in your murder investigation was to attend.”

Your
isolated Charlie yet again. “Pavel’s militia, not FSB.”

“Working entirely independently from the FSB?” questioned Robertson.

“It’s my decision and my responsibility,” stated Charlie. He was unsure approaching the thronged entrance if the already assembled media were early arrivals or a separate assembly of FSB agents and informers to record and identify those arrivals. Within the gatehouse, in addition to its now totally functioning CCTV system, Reg Stout was virtually at attention behind Russian-speaking embassy staff there to confirm that every attending journalist and technician was listed against their official accreditation documentation. The setup reminded Charlie of the passport controlled and suspect-indexed checks at the long ago Checkpoint Charlie crossing between East and West Berlin during the numbing days of the Cold War. He’d once had to let a man be killed there to prevent being shot himself, he further recalled. It was wrong to remember; to invite ghosts.

It was difficult through the gate office window to isolate the face for which Charlie was looking, but from the main, better windowed exit and entry section he at last saw Pavel, trying to keep himself apart from the ebbing and flowing melee while at the same time hopefully using its protective concealment from the sweeping camera lenses. The Russian detective located Charlie at the same time, hurrying through the door Charlie opened to an instant explosion of camera lights.

“I didn’t expect this,” greeted Pavel. The man’s excitement was obvious.

“Who is this? I need an identity!” officiously demanded Stout.

It was Charlie, caught by a sudden idea, who answered, although in the Russian Stout was supposed not to understand. “Colonel Pavel is attending upon my authority,” Charlie told the registration clerks.

“I need to see some provable ID,” insisted the clerk, also in Russian.

“You’re looking at it. It’s me,” said Charlie, impatiently.

Stout shifted, as if to intrude further, but didn’t.

Pavel nodded back toward the gatehouse as they emerged into the crash-barrier controlled walkway. “Was that a problem?”

“We’ll see,” said Charlie. He was conscious of one of the temporary camera installations keeping them constantly under observation as they approached the hall. Neither Robertson nor Fish were there. Charlie led the way past Fish’s monitoring technicians making their last-minute equipment adjustments into a rear anteroom in which three closed circuit screens were already operating, although without sound. One showed the approach from the gatehouse along which they had just walked. The other two were focused on the inside of the hall from two different angles, totally covering the area. At that moment on both were pictures of sound technicians moving along the already set-out chairs, depositing on each ear pieces for simultaneous translation.

Pavel looked briefly at the screens. “It all looks very impressive.”

“It’s got to be impressive,” said Charlie. “If something doesn’t come out of this, I don’t see a way forward. I’ve lost any contact, certainly any cooperation, with Guzov: with everyone, except you. And what
about
you? What’s your position going to be, after today?”

“It’s a gamble I had to take. If they believe I’m the only conduit, being here today is my best guarantee to be kept in the investigation. I’m betting on their not being able to risk pushing me aside anymore.”

“Here they come!” said Charlie, attracted by the sudden influx through the gatehouse, led by the first group of equipment-burdened television and radio engineers. There was a bottleneck at the very entrance to the hall and almost immediate shoving.

Charlie looked away at Robertson’s entry, unexpectedly followed by Stout. Robertson said, “I want Reg on the platform with us.”

This wasn’t a last-minute move, Charlie knew. Any more than Stout’s earlier inclusion hadn’t belatedly occurred to the spy hunter. “I’m not allowing any questions about the bugging. It’s strictly limited to the murder,” he told the security chief.

“I’ve already made that clear,” intruded Robertson.

“I’m making everything even clearer,” said Charlie, still talking to the ex-army major. “Don’t get in the way by trying to involve yourself in any English exchanges.”

“What if there’s something I need to make clear?” asked Stout.

“Pass me a note,” ruled Charlie. “Unless I have your absolute guarantee that you’ll say nothing—just sit there—you’re not coming on to the platform.”

“Reg has got every official—” started Robertson.

“I’m setting the rules and this is what they are,” halted Charlie. “You don’t like it, you’re not coming on the platform, either.”

“I won’t try to contribute,” promised Stout.

Charlie remained staring at the man for several moments.

“That’s a positive order! One word that fucks up what I’m trying to achieve, you’re on tonight’s plane back to London.”

“I don’t think . . .” began the ex-soldier but abruptly stopped. Then he said, “I understand. I won’t say anything. Just be there.”

The confrontation was broken by the arrival of Harry Fish. The man said at once, “We didn’t build in enough time for all the gatehouse checks. There’s got to be at least fifty still waiting to be processed. And God knows how many more not yet in the hall . . .” He waved his hand toward the television screens. “Look at it!”

The jostling line outside stretched unbroken the complete length of the forecourt from the gatehouse to the hall, the inside
of which was shown by the internal cameras still to be only half full. Despite Charlie’s insistence upon pooling same-country television and radio technicians, the area directly in front of the raised stage was already a thicket of trailing television cables and there was a hedge of station-identifying microphones running the entire length of the official table. From the number of chairs at the table Charlie realized a space had been set for Stout before their argument.

From beside him Pavel offered Charlie a slip of paper and said: “These are the two headquarter lines dedicated exclusively for any response we might get from today.”

“I’ll have them included on the list to be distributed,” said Charlie. “I’ll leave it to you to announce it, from the platform.”

Robertson turned from the television sets. “We need to announce a delay.”

“We’ll make it together,” insisted Charlie, telling Pavel what he was going to do as he moved toward the door, gesturing Robertson ahead of him. Directly outside, in the linking corridor, Charlie said, “What the fuck game are you playing?”

“It’s necessary,” said Robertson, awkwardly.

“What is? Why wasn’t I told?”

“It came up. There wasn’t time.”

“Bollocks! What is it?”

“I need to keep Stout on a leash. Harry thinks one of his tracking devices has picked up something. He and his guys want time.”

“I should still have been told,” repeated Charlie, sure Robertson had manipulated the episode to establish his seniority.

“You just have been told. Let’s get on with it, shall we?”

Charlie accepted, leading the way out into the hall. Charlie had expected the immediate eruption of noise but not the sunburst of blinding lights that almost made him stumble into the waiting, empty chairs. He gestured Robertson down beside him and said, “My senior colleague and I, on behalf of whom I speak, are delaying the start until everyone gets into the hall. We don’t expect that delay to be more than half an hour. We’re not imposing a time. Everyone will get their opportunity to ask their questions.”

There was an immediate protesting cacophony and Charlie rose, hearing words like “deadline,” and “murderer,” and “mafia,” and “spy,” and “Cold War,” and a lot more in several other languages. Robertson momentarily remained where he was, only rising at Charlie’s encouraging nudge and even then slowly, turning to put both of them facially beyond any camera focus. Few but someone of Charlie Muffin’s experience would have recognized Robertson’s look to be one close to hatred.

Back in the linking corridor Robertson said, “You just made me a bigger target than yourself, identifying me as your superior. I’m going to bring you down for that; do everything I can to destroy you.”

“You know the problem with bad gangster movies, Paul? They all have that sort of crap dialogue: turns them into comedies instead of being frightening.”

The noise at their reentry was an unintelligible roar, which visibly startled Stout and Pavel. Charlie managed to avoid the blinding brightness of the strobe lights. The three looked to Charlie for seating directions. Charlie put Robertson beside him, at the center of the table, with Pavel flanking him on his left and Stout on the other side of Robertson. It took several minutes for the uproar to subside and when it did, he still had to shout into his microphone, flapping waving-down motions with both hands. Charlie identified the three other men and insisted the conference was restricted solely to the murder of the one-armed man; any other questions on anything else would be refused. There would be simultaneous translation through the available earpieces into Russian, English, French, German, and Italian and within the hall were six embassy officials with handheld microphones for individual questioners: those questions would be amplified for the benefit of everyone. There would be no individual, one-to-one television interviews after the main conference. Nor would any photographs be released of the murder scene or of the body. Deferring to Pavel as he spoke, Charlie said the joint British and Russian
investigation had so far been extremely productive, which would become obvious during the conference but that they were still seeking help from the public. To receive that help three dedicated telephone lines had been established at the embassy and two at the Petrovka headquarters of the Organized Crime Bureau: after slowly reciting each—and repeating each—Charlie said information sheets listing them would be available to everyone upon departure and he was asking that the phone numbers be printed in all newspapers, their Web sites, and repeated on television and radio broadcasts as well as being published on their Web sites, too. No identification of any caller would be publicly disclosed; anonymous calls could be made. There would be recording apparatus on every listed line.

Along with the telephone list would be separately printed information, which the joint investigation hoped would lead to the identification of the victim. Another sheet would illustrate the precise spot where the body had been found, showing its proximity to the hall in which they were assembled and its relationship to the main embassy building and the entry gate into the forecourt.

The victim was male, five feet eight inches tall, weighing 164 pounds, and was aged between forty-five and fifty. The left arm had been surgically amputated between ten and fifteen years earlier. He had been killed by a shot in the back of the head from a Makarov pistol, its bullet made to flatten on impact, to destroy all facial and dental features. He had also been tortured, and the fingers of his surviving right hand had been burned by acid to remove all fingerprints. All makers’ names had been removed from his Russian-manufactured clothing: a brown, polyester mass-produced suit, a blue shirt, and a red-and-black-striped tie. The lace-up shoes, which were well worn and also of Russian manufacture, were brown. All the suit pockets had been emptied. There was a red birthmark, affected by the acid burning, on the right hand, and the little finger of that hand had been distorted, possibly since childhood, by what forensic pathologists believed to be frostbite. In the past, again possibly in his childhood, the man
has undergone an appendix operation. There had been traces of a barbiturate in the man’s blood.