Red Star Rising (37 page)

The answer to which appeared to be very little. Neither P-J nor Halliday—despite his earlier conversation with the man—were in their offices, although in Halliday’s there was a pile of that day’s newspapers, all headlining the TV program. There was already waiting for him in the communications room a message from the Director-General that the claim of a covert American/British operation was being officially denied and an instruction that he should not become embroiled in any public or private discussion whatsoever about it. The message concluded that the man would be unavailable the entire day which, without conceding paranoia, Charlie took to be abandonment, compounded by his being told when he called the ambassador’s suite that Peter Maidment was at the Russian Interior Ministry and not expected to be available until late in the afternoon. Neither in the rabbit-hutch office nor in the set-aside apartment was there any message or notification of Harry Fish’s withdrawal. The same two sullen operatives of the previous day were on duty again. The overnight log, again offered by the elder of the two, listed seventy-eight press calls in the two hours following Svetlana Modin’s program.

An obviously alerted Paul Robertson arrived at the apartment five minutes after Charlie, just as Charlie was replacing the phone from being told that Mikhail Guzov was also unavailable.

“Has there been a nuclear explosion I didn’t hear? Everyone appears to have been vaporized,” Charlie greeted.

Robertson ignored the remark, going instead to the other two men. “Why don’t you two take a break? We’ll handle anything for the next fifteen minutes.” The man waited until the door closed behind them before coming back to Charlie. “Maybe people don’t want to become contaminated by the fallout you’ve caused. And on
a very personal note.”—the man nodded generally around the room “—which you know is going on record as we speak, I resent and refute all the inferences in your note to the Director-General. I’m not part of any cabal or conspiracy, and I’m demanding a formal personnel inquiry when I get back to London into any suggestion or claim that I am. I don’t know—and don’t want to know—what games are going on back there. Or here, apart from what it’s my function to uncover and expose. That clear?”

“Good for you,” mocked Charlie, refusing the rehearsed attack. “Harry Fish isn’t here any longer though, is he? And how are your own inquiries going?”

Robertson swept his hand toward the recorder-linked telephones. “I’m now responsible for the duties of Fish’s technicians here. That’s where any contact between you and me begins and ends.”

“Comforting for me to know I’ve got your help and support,” said Charlie.

“You’ve got—and will get—absolutely fuck all from me.”

“You got all your explanations and excuses ready for that inquiry panel you’re demanding when they ask why it’s taken you so long and why you’ve fucked up so many times trying to find the inside source here, Paul?”

“Most of it could be in the material in which you feature in the diplomatic bag going back to London with Harry Fish.”

“No they can’t and you know it: the sequences don’t fit in times or dates or events or leaks. . . .” Charlie made his own movement around the wired-for-sound room. “And don’t forget that all that’s being recorded now will be available as a reminder for that inquiry panel of yours.”

There was a sound at the door, directly followed by it being opened by the elder of the two sound technicians. Hesitantly the man smiled, “You said fifteen minutes?”

“Perfect timing,” said Charlie, before Robertson could speak. “Best of luck, succeeding eventually in your function of getting your still-free-to-operate informer.”

For the first time Charlie welcomed the camera flash gauntlet
getting out of the embassy and into the similarly media-cordoned Petrovka, confident of its physical protection although finding it difficult to focus in the sudden darkness of the building. He did not immediately recognize Mikhail Guzov waiting for him just inside the entrance. Guzov said: “All this is ridiculous! Absolutely and completely ridiculous!”

Believing as he did that the FSB officer had been involved if not totally in control of Svetlana Modin’s approach and of the ORT broadcast, Charlie had anticipated a tirade of supposed outrage for the man to distance himself from it but not by this degree of vehemence.

“I tried to reach you,” embarked Charlie, cautiously.

“Everything and everyone’s gone mad! I haven’t been able to talk to anyone, reach anyone!”

The outrage definitely wasn’t faked! Charlie wouldn’t have risked his lunch money on the bet, wanting more time to be sure, but his initial impression was that the red-faced Russian was genuinely furious. “I haven’t seen or heard a full newscast. I don’t know everything that’s happened.”

“You know at least that the militia arrested Svetlana Modin in the middle of the night!”

“I didn’t know who initiated it,” encouraged Charlie.

“The interfering militia commandant, that’s who! Acting without reference to anyone. The Russian media are threatening to boycott the conference, which we decided to cancel until we sorted out the mistake. But now Lvov’s involved himself!”

“Lvov! How can he involve himself!”

“Easily. And brilliantly. He’s declared it an attack, an infringement, on the supposed freedom of the press. It’s a platform he’s made all his own, chasing publicity like a dog after a bitch in heat.”

“Are you still going to cancel?”

“How can we now?” demanded Guzov, exasperated. “If we cancel, Lvov can—and will—claim the currently elected government can no longer properly run the country and that canceling everything is a panicked reaction to a mistake they
shouldn’t have made”—he hesitated—“which the militia certainly shouldn’t have made.”

Guzov was echoing a politician’s—maybe even a ministerial—judgement, Charlie guessed. Where was his benefit apart from the most obvious that an assassination attempt was unlikely here? It was an additionally hopeful thought that his personal humiliation was being overshadowed, at least for the moment. Unless, perhaps, Svetlana was coerced into naming him. Unlikely, came the reassurance. From his experience, Svetlana Modin wasn’t easily coerced. Rather than being frightened by her detention, the self-promoting woman would be reveling in it, already having calculated how it would increase her fame and notoriety. “So what are you going to do?”

“Wait. It’s being discussed elsewhere,” disclosed Guzov, leading the way farther and down into the building into what, from its lingering smell, Charlie assumed normally to be a staff canteen, although any trace of its use had been removed. Charlie thought there was something almost pitiful about the very obvious anything-you-can-do-we-can-do-better determination to improve upon the facilities of the British press conference. The improvised Petrovka facility was actually bigger, with far more attendance-recording cameras and the addition of four huge instant-replay screens at the front, sides, and even rear of the room. Each back-padded chair had its individual translation earpiece and microphone in its holster, with a separate already assembled but uncertain-looking group of backup microphone runners to be ready if the main questioning system broke down. There was another group of men and women moving along the lines of set-out chairs, distributing press packs in manila folders. It was impossible to see into the temporary, smoke-windowed translators’ booth, but Charlie guessed it could accommodate at least a dozen linguists. Charlie wondered if the Russians had also copied the internal video and audio recording equipment that Harry Fish had assembled at the embassy. The elevated dais was a goldfish bowl of even more lights and cameras.

Charlie turned to the FSB general but at that moment Leonid
Toplov hurried into the room and without any explanation Guzov moved toward the man. The discussion between the two Russians began quite calmly but within minutes degenerated, Guzov making expansively sweeping movements about the room before trying—and very clearly failing—to reach someone on his cell phone. With a very visible shrug of despair Guzov bustled out through the door, followed by the hapless ministry official. They did so with difficulty, struggling against the flow of early arrivals who at once began to spread out throughout the hall, quickly overwhelming the place-allocating greeting officials. At the initial influx Charlie very quickly attached himself, although not closely enough for conversation, to the momentarily unoccupied backup group of additional microphone distributors. Charlie’s impression from the incoming flow of journalists was that the threatened Russian boycott hadn’t materialized, although from the muted outside broadcast being relayed upon the wide screen on the far wall of the hall the now banner-carrying crowd outside appeared greater than when he’d arrived. On the perimeter of the demonstration there was a disjointed line of confronting, uniformed militia officers as well as plainclothes officials but Charlie could not locate either Guzov or Toplov among them.

As Charlie watched, more confronting uniformed officers began to move in from either side of the headquarters building which, oddly, appeared to be matched by the growth in the number of protesters, creating surge and countersurge to a silent-movie background of arm-waving, fist-shaking, banner-fluttering jostling. Charlie had intentionally positioned himself to keep the entrance partially in his eye line, so he saw Guzov the moment the man reentered the hall, like a piece of flotsam on an incoming tide. For the briefest moment inside the hall, the FSB general appeared disorientated, gazing around until establishing the raised stage area and, as he moved toward it, where Charlie stood. The Russian, sweat-streaked as well as visibly flushed, escaped from the flow and said, short breathed, “A fiasco! We couldn’t stop it . . . nothing we could do.”

“What?” demanded Charlie.

“Lvov,” managed the Russian. “Heading a demonstration here . . .” The rest of what Guzov said was drowned by the increasing outside noise and there was briefly the surreal combination of silent television footage on the inside screen accompanied by the permeating uproar. Stepan Lvov, his surprisingly still immaculately designer-dressed and coiffuer-intact wife by his side, was clearly visible on the screen now, the surrealism heightened by their being in the middle of a marching, chanting crowd but separated and untouched by it, protected as they were by an inner cordon of bodyguards. The militia barrier melted in the face of the oncoming tidal wave of people, which was on the screen one moment and the next, sweeping into the hall. Charlie later reasoned that the politician must have had advance scouts already inside because without pause Lvov and his inner caucus turned as if choreographed by unseen directions, toward the raised area where a man already stood, handheld microphone ready for Lvov to reach out and take as he mounted the small stage, which immediately became an oasis of calm just slightly ahead of the room quietening.

“Svetlana Modin is a brave and courageous woman, a symbol, a visible and recognizable face, of the oppressive, brutish, and even murderous attacks of the government I am going to sweep from office,” declared Lvov, illuminated by a thousand cameras flashes as he turned to suddenly raised photographs of Svetlana. “Her fight for the freedom of the press is my fight for the freedom of this country and when I am elected we will work together to achieve and enjoy both.”

There had, Charlie supposed, been time enough for Lvov to formulate at least a framework, but the speech itself had to be virtually impromptu and verged on oratorical brilliance. Each attempted and successful act of censorship after the early perestroika spring of press freedom was recited by Lvov in perfectly dated sequence and outcome, each arrest, suspicious death and unquestionable murder of investigative journalists dated and itemized. The “rasping keys to journalistic shackles” was a familiar sound in every newspaper office in the land, a chorus to the
cracked songs of a communism desperately trying to regain its former tyranny and to enslave its people as it had once done, but must never be allowed to do again. There should not just be a media strike until Svetlana Modin was freed. Every industry and shop and workplace should stop, immediately, until she was released from illegal arrest and detention. And all those who had tasted the brief democratic freedom piece by piece, inch by inch, being daily taken away from them should show their determination that it stop, never to be imposed again, by registering their vote for him.

Lvov’s exit was as triumphal and swift as his entry, trailed by the majority of people in the hall, all attempts at a formal press conference abandoned. Charlie allowed himself to be carried along, unresisting, in the exodus. He did not detach himself until he was well outside, isolating David Halliday on the periphery of the watching crowd and then, nearby, saw first Paula-Jane Venables and just beyond her, Bill Bundy: none gave any sign of recognition but Halliday said, “You know what the stupid bastards of a government did! They were taken so completely by surprise they didn’t jam the already set-up television satellite feeds, worldwide. The next, absolutely guaranteed leader of the Russian Federation has just delivered his winning presidential address to a global audience of five billion people.” The man smiled directly at Charlie. “And at the same time, you, Charlie, got let completely off the hook.”