Red Star Rising (33 page)

“Where’s this new indication of an inside whistleblower leave Reg Stout? And all the others, for that matter?” asked Fish, entering the conversation.

“They’re all bound by the Official Secrets Act, under which we use different rules before we actually get into court; until then, they’re all guilty until proven innocent.”

“But Stout can’t be your man, even though I found those bugs,” Fish pointed out. “He was incommunicado, from that moment on.”

“That’s the defense he’s trying, ahead of even seeing a lawyer,” offered Robertson.

“ ‘I’m safe’ calls,” dismissed Charlie.

“Exactly,” agreed Robertson.

“What?” questioned Fish.

“The embassy was known to be under investigation,” reminded Robertson. “If Stout didn’t make a call, any sort of contact, at or on a rigidly fixed time schedule—miss one, it could be circumstance, miss two, it’s alarm bells, miss three, he’s in the bag—his Control knows he’s lost him. He didn’t make his ‘I’m safe’ call.”

“It’s a basic tradecraft routine,” added Charlie. “You’ve never heard of it before?”

“I’m not operational,” indignantly protested Fish, flushed at the reaction from the other two men. “This is the closest I’ve ever got. Or ever want to be again.”

“I wish we were closer,” picked up Robertson. “None of us is winning accolades at the moment back at Thames House.”

“It’s a common concern,” said Charlie. There’d be a concerted effort to get him withdrawn, he accepted. Which, perhaps absurdly, strengthened his determination to stay. To rebase would obviously be the safest thing to do but despite his apprehension he didn’t want to run, which was probably pride and common sense gone mad. And, came the ever-looming awareness, selfishly unfair on Natalia and Sasha. Fish, who was nearer, answered the telephone but handed it immediately to the spy-catcher. Robertson smiled, said “good,” and smiled more broadly as he replaced the receiver. “All in, undetected, including the guards and the polygraph technicians.”

“Let’s hope our luck holds,” said Harry Fish.

It didn’t.

That night Svetlana Modin once more led the ORT main evening news bulletin with the disclosure of London’s rejection of CIA assistance, predicting that it would result in a deterioration now of relationships with Washington, because of the refusal, and with Moscow, who had been unaware of any possible collusion between the two Western governments. Her report concluded with the announcement of the inquiry team’s return to Moscow, which included footage of Robertson’s earlier airport departure melee.

“Fuck!” said Charlie, aloud, in the solitude of his hotel suite. And hesitated, undecided, when the telephone rang five minutes later, finally snatching for it.

And was glad he did.

“Son of a bitch!”

“Bill Bundy?” loudly questioned Charlie, audibly to establish the caller’s identity. Was the American going to join the long line of commentators on the embankment crash?

“You know damned well it is! Just as you damned well know how much shit you’ve dropped me in!”

“Actually, Bill, I don’t know that at all.”

“I told you in advance what Washington was doing—the offer we were making—as a friend. Your intervention to London has totally screwed me!”

Not the crash at all, acknowledged Charlie. And there was no way the American could know of his conversation that morning with the Director-General. “I did nothing of the sort, Bill. I said it would be London’s decision, remember?”

“All the vibes were good and then suddenly, bang, the door gets slammed in our faces. You telling me you didn’t have anything to do with that?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you,” lied Charlie. He’d never imagined there was going to be this amount of benefit from having Harry Fish leave the FSB listening devices in place. Recalling his doubts about the man, Charlie wondered if Fish had installed his own bugs to record incoming conversations to the Savoy suite.

“Trying to run everything as a one-man band, as you’re trying to do, is going to fuck up big-time. I think this is something that’s actually going to kill you!”

So did a lot of others, some actually trying very hard to make it happen. “I’m not trying to conduct a one-man band. It’s a joint operation with the Russians; you know that.”

“Mikhail Guzov wouldn’t give you a head cold, unless it was guaranteed to turn into a fatal pneumonia.”

“I thought a pretty good relationship was developing.”

“Okay, so you tell me one, just one, useful scrap of information you’ve got from him.”

“We’re talking; liaising.”

“I’ve heard you called many things over the years, Charlie. Until now naïve wasn’t one of them.”

“Don’t you think it was naïve of you to expect that you could have worked unofficially with me without Guzov discovering what was going on?”

“It stood a better chance of producing something than what you’re left with now.”

“What I’m left with now is what I’ve got to live and work with, I guess.”

“You’re not going to live with it: you’re going to die
because
of it.”

“Don’t you think you’re getting a little overdramatic here, Bill?”

“You suffering amnesia or Alzheimer’s, forgetting what happened to Sergei Romanovich Pavel?”

“You got a theory about that?”

Bundy snorted a jeering laugh. “Jesus H Christ, I don’t think you’re suffering amnesia! I think it’s Alzheimer’s! You sucker me like you’ve just done and then expect me to offer you murder theories!”

“Had London accepted your approach I would have expected you to bring something to the table.”

“Now you’re never going to know what help I could have provided, are you, buddy!”

The American’s vernacular, like his dress sense, really was in a time warp, thought Charlie. “It’s unfortunate you brought a decision between our two governments down to a personal level.”

“Your loss, Charlie. We could have walked away covered in glory!”

Now who was sounding naïve? thought Charlie.

Whatever he might minimally have gained from managing to extend his stumbling conversation with the terrified woman, he could far too easily have lost by that evening’s television disclosure, which would have already been picked up for repetition in every newspaper the following morning, when it would doubtless be repeated yet again, not only by ORT but by every other TV and radio station in Moscow. It was impossible for the caller to remain unaware of the latest twist in the already overtangled killing of the one-armed man. Would it frighten her away; destroy any fragile confidence he might have instilled? It was the most obvious possibility. But then again, there was an alternative. The television presentation could work to his advantage rather than disadvantage if the unknown caller had seen it. Its thrust had been entirely upon the collapse of cooperation not just with America but with Russia. Would she be able to rationalize through her fear that she’d be safer—more protected even—by his being ostracized by the Russians?

Charlie’s hesitation was longer when the telephone rang for the second time, reluctant to talk on a line open to the FSB but conscious of the benefits if it were something he could use, as he’d just used Bundy’s diatribe.

Curiosity won over caution and the concern ebbed away at the voice of Harry Fish, who knew of the Russian bugging.

“Did you see ORT?”

“Yes,” said Charlie.

“All our dedicated lines are in meltdown: everyone’s asking for you. I’m referring them all to London.”

Surely the man hadn’t forgotten what he’d personally located here! “That’s what I want, all press calls referred to London.”

“Four have been from your favorite TV anchorwoman, who says she’s going to go on calling every fifteen minutes until she gets to you personally. I thought you’d like to know.”

“What else did she say?” Could he use her, as he’d used Bundy?

“Just that, apart from leaving a number.”

“Why don’t you let me have it?”

“You going to talk to her?”

“Maybe.”

“Shouldn’t you get clearance from London? She’s . . .” Fish paused. “Her story’s attracting a lot of attention. Maybe you should come back here.”

Now the man was trying to warn him about the listening devices, Charlie realized. “I might, if I decide to call back. Give me the number anyway.”

Charlie dialed from the public telephone kiosk closest to the hotel, the one near Red Square, glad it was enclosed, again with a protective wall to his back, and with a view of about twenty-five yards over which to see any suspicious approach. Svetlana answered personally. Charlie said, “I don’t want my phones blocked every fifteen minutes. It might be someone important.”

She laughed, unoffended. “I really didn’t expect you to come back to me.”

“What do you want?” Despite the video recording he held as insurance, he still had to very carefully weigh every word he uttered.

“I’d say the points were about equal in the teaching-each-other-lessons league, wouldn’t you?”

From the background sounds Charlie guessed she was talking from an open newsroom phone. “I didn’t know it was a competition.”

“You’re making it one. I really don’t want to screw up your investigation: you know the arrangement I’m offering.”

Based upon her success over the past few days, she had every cause for arrogance. “Which is?”

“Why don’t we meet to talk about it?”

Charlie thought there was an eerie familiarity about the conversation. “You won’t forget that I know where you keep your microphones hidden, will you?”

“Are you ever going to let me?”

“The bar, at the Metropol, in an hour,” suggested Charlie.

“Why not your room?”

“The bar.”

“I’ll be there.”

She was ahead of him, although Charlie got there early. She wore the clinging black dress in which she’d appeared on the screen earlier but now high on her left shoulder there was a jeweled clip of what Charlie was sure were genuine diamonds. She sat majestically in the very center of a banquette, champagne already poured from a bottle—French, not Georgian—resting in its cooler. His concentration, as he made his obvious way toward Svetlana, was as much upon identifying potential danger around her as it was upon the woman herself.

“I tried to call your room but the desk told me that you weren’t staying here.”

“Neutral territory,” said Charlie. Which she’d taken over by being first. There was a second glass already waiting but Charlie shook his head against champagne, ordering vodka. “Mikhail Guzov’s taken to dropping in, unannounced. I thought it would be better not to be interrupted, although I got the impression at the embassy that you knew him quite well?”

“Quite well,” she agreed, cautiously.

“If you’ve got with him the same sort of deal you’re going to put to me, he might have thought you were playing one of us off against the other.”

“Did it occur to you he also might have thought you were my source?”

“No,” lied Charlie.

Svetlana touched her glass against Charlie’s when his vodka was served and said, “You stay pretty concentrated upon the job, don’t you?”

“I got the same impression about you.”

“Which makes us well matched.”

“What’s your suggested deal?”

Svetlana waited for their attentive waiter to top up her glass. “How about you and I speaking before every evening transmission. I tell you what I’m going to say. You tell me anything that might seriously impede or endanger anything you’re doing. I cut it out.”

Surely she couldn’t be serious! If he accepted her offer it would give her a spread-open map along which to track, from what he asked her to omit, every twist and turn of the investigation. But by the same token she was offering him a map of her own, which could lead him directly to the embassy informant. Which wasn’t his investigation. But also something he wasn’t going to ignore. “Give me an example.”

“How about the killers of your first victim, and Sergei Pavel being so worried how close you are to them that they tried to kill you on the embankment?”

He’d got it right by agreeing to meet her, Charlie decided. “I don’t want that broadcast.”

“It’s a good story that no one else has picked up on.”

“I thought the idea was not to screw my investigation?”