Kings of Many Castles

“Maybe we should have the local opinion on that?” avoided Scamell, turning to the ambassador.

Cornell Burton was a career diplomat who’d believed himself on the fast upward track the presidential visit could only further speed up but now he wasn’t so sure. What he was sure about was that he couldn’t afford one misstep. “Okulov’s a closed-doors manipulator. Respected for it in the Duma but he’s alienated some of the smaller parties he’d need for a coalition if the communists do anywhere near as well as is being predicted.”

“So how well will they do?” demanded Anandale.

“Yudkin would have carried a peace vote, with a successful treaty. I’m not so convinced that Okukov will.”

“What’s the KGB story?”

The attention switched to John Kayley. The FBI man said, “Yudkin forced the reforms through and Okulov showed him how to do it. Word is among the old guard that Okulov’s regarded as a traitor, turning against them.”

“Which could be a very clever double-bluff,” suggested Burt Jordan.

“Explain that,” demanded Anandale.

“Okulov was the heir-in-waiting. What if he got too impatient to wait any longer?”

“Keep on top of that,” ordered Anandale. “Okulov’s KGB connections worry me.”

“Aren’t we leaving something hugely important out of the equation?” suggested North. “The guy who did it. And why he did it? If he turns out to be a protesting communist we’ve got a whole new picture to color in.”

“Is he?”

Anandale put the question to those around him but the answer came too eagerly from Washington, from an FBI Director determined the American investigation should be Bureau-led. Paul Smith, a burly former circuit judge, said, “I’ve got twenty more agents on their way to Moscow, arriving later tonight. They’re bringing with them all our files-Agency and Bureau-on Peter Bendall, the father. He was British counter-intelligence’s disaster. I understand from John, who’s with you there Mr. President, that their guy’s let us have all he says they’ve got. The son’s still unconscious, maybe even in a coma. The mother’s in custody. We’ve been promised details of her interrogation but we’ve asked for our own access. And for the witnesses list. They were all rounded up by Russian security directly after the attack. We’ve asked for the rifle, for our own forensic examination here at Pennsylvania Avenue and …”

“We’re not making our own, independent investigation!” cut off Anandale.

Smith unconsciously bit his lip, at once regretting not letting Kayley take the original question. “That’s what I’ve got men ontheir way to do, under John’s command. I think, though, it would be useful for me to come over personally.”

Speaking with ominous quietness, Anandale said, “I want the attempted murder of the American president’s wife investigated by Americans. Until I’m satisfied that’s happening-satisfied that Aleskandr Okulov is keeping every cooperation promise he’s made to me today-any treaty discussions are on the back burner, with the heat down low …”

North and the secretary of state exchanged brief, frowning looks. Scamell urged again, “There has to be a statement of some sort, Mr. President.”

Anandale remained silent for several moments. “Here it is. We’re in consultations with the emergency Russian leadership … need to consider the implications of the attack … our pledge to continued cooperation and detente unaffected … that sort of stuff. It’ll fit the hospital pictures. We don’t agree any joint media event with Okulov until we get all we want.” He went to the secretary of state and the ambassador. “I want you to liaise with Wendall. Really find out the communist strength. It might play better back home to go hawkish and keep the defense system.” He looked around the table. “Any thoughts?”

“Yudkin-or his successor-need the treaty to survive. That’s why we’re here,” reminded Scamell. “We leave them with nothing, we’re edging the door open to the opposition.”

“We don’t leave them with nothing,” said Anandale. “You find the words, Jamie. The only thing they don’t get is the final signature. We’ve surely blown enough smoke about how difficult it all is to make that totally believable!”

“I guess so,” accepted Scamell.

Anandale went to Wendall North. “Get on to Yudkin’s chief of staff.” He stopped, snapping his fingers.

“Yuri Trishin.”

“Trishin,” picked up the prompted president. “I don’t want him-or anyone he’s got to tell-left in any doubt who’s going to run this investigation as far as my wife is concerned. You clear on that?”

“Quite clear,” said North.

“Would you like me to come over personally, Mr. President?” hopefully asked the FBI Director over the satellite link.

“No!” rejected Anandale, at once. “We’ve got enough chiefs here already. What we need is Indians.”

John Kayley, with his early settler family legend of part-Cherokee ancestry, didn’t like the smoke signals he thought he was reading.

The emergency Downing Street meeting was scheduled for the entire day but Sir Rupert Dean, the director- general, returned to the Millbank building with political adviser Patrick Pacey by early afternoon. The rest of the control group were already assembled.

“It’s accepted to be an inherited problem but the decision is that it’s our problem,” announced Dean. Already his spectacles were working through his fingers like worry beads, a stress indicator the others had come to recognize. It was unfortunate that the man’s receding hair rose from his head like a tidal wave, adding to the impression of startled nervousness.

“Because no one else wanted to come within a million miles of it,” said Pacey.

“Hardly surprising,” accepted Jeremy Simpson, the service’s legal advisor. “I’ve heard from the Attorney General. We’re arranging legal representation.”

“We were told,” said Pacey.

“Muffin was on, while you were at Downing Street. He thinks there’s something odd about the shooting. But who better to imagine something odd than the man himself?” said Jocelyn Hamilton. The bull-chested, thinning- haired deputy director-general was more unsettled than Dean at the Russian crisis, although concealing it well. He’d supported the earlier effort to oust Charlie from Moscow and knew he had been lucky to escape with a formal censure when it had gone wrong.

Dean frowned at the obvious personal dislike. “What?”

“He’s shipping over a selection of television footage. Wants an audio and timed comparison of the shots.”

“Jesus!” said Pacey, in quick understanding. “His theory? Or Russian?”

“His, as far as I understand.” Hamilton hesitated. “He’s askedthe ambassador to include him on any official access to Bendall. I told him he should have waited for official guidance from here. I’m assuming, of course, we’re sending a team from here.”

Dean let silence be the rebuke. Only when there were discomfited shifts around the table did the director- general say, “Why would you assume that?”

The deputy colored. “The magnitude of it. Surely too much for one man?”

“Swamping Moscow with people would be a panicked, knee-jerk reaction,” rejected Dean. “Muffin alerted us to George Bendall hours before any official communication. He’s obviously well established.”

“And it is an inherited problem,” repeated Pacey. “Bendall’s been in Moscow for almost thirty years. Downing Street’s thinking is that he’s British by little more than a fluke. He’s not ours anymore: never was. We’ll do all we’re asked but let Moscow and Washington take the lead.”

“What about the technical checks Muffin wants?” persisted Hamilton.

“It could be a complication,” admitted the director-general.

“There’s invariably a complication with Charlie Muffin,” warned the deputy.

Max Donnington was waiting for Anandale in the same lounge at the Pirogov Hospital that had earlier been