“Wonderful,” said Boyce.
“Why?” demanded the presidential aide, as he already had several times. “There’s no logic; no rationale.”
He was pacing the room, sometimes driving his fist into the palm of his other hand. It was the first time Natalia had witnessed Nikulin display any sort of emotion and she wondered if she’d get any clue why the man had ended the inquiry. “It was obviously something she knew Vadim Leonidovich would report back. To which we would have to react.”
“Too clumsy,” argued Nikulin.
“I believe there’s a personal relationship.”
Nikulin stopped pacing. “Why did he-” he began, outraged.
“For benefits beyond sex, I’d guess,” said Natalia. It was something that had to be taken into their consideration, which was why she’d met Nikulin alone.
“Might not she be doing it for the same reason?”
“That’s why I mentioned it.” It wasn’t the primary reason. She wanted time, the opportunity to talk it through with Charlie before the release of the art recovery, staged though it was intended to be.
“I’m glad you did. It’s very confusing, though.”
“As it is my not knowing the reason for our decision,” said Natalia, openly.
“It was one of the greatest-and most secret-of coups,” confided Nikulin. “And it must always remain secret, even from someone like you.”
Natalia nodded, resigned. It wasn’t something she’d tell Charlie, she decided. “The American would have known he’d have to act upon it,” Natalia repeated.
“So it’s intentional,
“Shouldn’t we consider delaying the announcement about what was recovered from Belous?”
“It has no significance,” dismissed the presidential aide.
“Can we be sure of that, not knowing what this is about?”
“Where is Belous?”
“In custody. I’ve ordered he stay there, until we decide otherwise.”
Nikulin finally sat down. “Whatever the Americans are up to has no affect whatsoever upon our decision. Which stands. We go ahead with the release.”
Gerald Williams realized how totally he was committing himself and he was nervous about doing so. He wished he belonged to the sortof club to which Jocelyn Hamilton had taken him, which seemed the proper venue for such discussions, instead of a public restaurant, even one close enough to Westminster to be the favorite of MPs and cabinet minsters. Williams had spotted three and a minister within minutes of his arrival. He filled the time waiting for the deputy director-general’s arrival studying the menu, horrified at the prices. Hamilton was greeted as a regular by the restaurant manager who had initially regarded Williams as an unwelcomed intruder, and on his way to the table Hamilton stopped to talk to the cabinet minister and after that to an MP frequently quoted in newspapers as an espionage expert.
Hamilton finally arrived with flurried apologies for being late and as he was seated told the manager to ensure there’d be that day’s special available. From his study of the menu Williams knew that was lamb chops and ordered the same. He chose Margaux, too, remembering it was what Hamilton had selected entertaining him at the Reform Club.
“What’s all the mystery about?” demanded the department deputy, the moment they were alone.
“Not mystery,” said Williams. “Concern.”
Although Williams had spent a long time sanitizing his account, Hamilton said the moment he’d finished, “You’ve been talking like this to the people across the river!”
“I spoke to my counterpart, Horlick, once: to assure him the expenditure was coming off our budget, not his. Which I consider it should because we’re heading the investigation. With his agreement I talked direct to Cartright in Moscow: didn’t want anyone imagining unlimited expenses. And have done a few times since, to make sure costs remain under control. What I’ve told you has come up in general conversation.”
“It doesn’t sound like general conversation to me,” refused Hamilton. “To me it sounds pretty specific- improper, in fact.”
“I’m prepared to make allowance for that,” said Williams. “I’m far more worried at the greater danger which we’ve talked about too many times to need repeating. This man is openly talking in Moscow of treating us like fools. You saw for yourself what it was like, just days ago. Something’s got to be done!”
“Why are you telling me, like this? Why not officially, to Sir Rupert?”
“Because it is only gossip. And, all right, improper gossip at that. Any case against Muffin has got to be backed by a proper inquiry, supported by fact. Witnesses.”
“So?” persisted the other man.
“I’ve become involved in this by accident. I’m the financial director. I’ve done my bit auditing accounts that virtually prove the money dealing, which amounts to a criminal act. You’re operational. I’m suggesting for the sake of the department-for us all-you ask Cartright’s people to authorize his providing an official account. Factually checking what the hell Muffin’s up to.”
Hamilton sat with the lamb halfway to his mouth, regarding Williams across the table in disbelief. “Are you serious?”
“Deadly serious.”
“I don’t like it.”
“I like less the thought of what will happen if we don’t move.”
“I need to think about it very seriously indeed,” said Hamilton.
“The time for thinking is over,” insisted Williams. “Now we’ve got to do something positive.”
Charlie was kept at the embassy cabling the full text of the Russian release to London and afterward answering the queries that came back, which distilled down into contributing nothing new, and Natalia was at Lesnaya when he got home, Sasha already asleep.
There was still the reservation of the previous night-the uncertainty there’d been at the beginning-although not quite so awkward. Charlie told her about the encounter with Vitali Novikov and then showed her the log. While she read it, he made drinks.
When he returned to the main room she said, “This isn’t anything. Just confirmation of what we already believed.”
“I know. I’ve read it a hundred times, trying to find something.” He decided against telling her the nagging feeling that kept pricking at him. There were enough mysteries without the need to invent more.
Natalia said, “What did you tell Novikov?”
“That it won’t affect their residency.”
Natalia looked at her watch. “Let’s see the result of the Russian contribution.”
The Russian announcement was the lead item on all the English-language satellite news programs through which Charlie flicked. Photographs of the recovered art had been issued with the release claiming them as further proof of Raisa Belous’s heroic wartime work keeping Russia’s heritage-particularly actual treasure from the Amber Room-out of Nazi hands. Fyodor Belous was included in the eulogy for returning the safeguarded articles the moment he’d discovered the truth about his mother. CNN and the BBC also carried footage outside Belous’s empty apartment, with reporters quoting official sources suggesting the man was helping the authorities search further for things still hidden. Inevitably every program carried library pictures of the treasures of the Catherine Palace and the other royal residences at Tsarskoe Selo, as well as film of the devastation after the Nazi occupation of the park. Just as inevitably there was speculation that the further lost art that Belous was helping locate was the missing Amber Room itself.
“I tried to get it delayed,” disclosed Natalia.
“Why?” Charlie frowned.
The expression remained as she talked, although more in guilt at his disbelieving her-and at setting the test she was at that moment passing-than at anything else. Charlie was glad Natalia would never know he’d doubted
