initial search of the statements of those who’d known George Bendall-or Georgi Gugin-at NTV had failed to discover any significance from his mother’s Tuesday and Thursday recollection.
Kayley was as caught as Charlie had been by the woman’s comparative youthfulness against the seniority of her rank and for the same reason. His first impression was that it wasn’t going to be as easy maneuvring himself into the command role the president was insisting upon and which he’d initially chauvinistically hoped possible when he’d learned the Russian side of the investigation was being headed by a woman. He made a mental note to avoid hinting the sexism, although he wondered in passing if the cleavage valley was being offered for exploration.
“I’d welcome a brief run down in advance of reading what you’ve given me,” he said.
“Bendall himself isn’t yet recovered sufficiently to be interviewed,” responded Olga, much better rehearsed the second time. “There are the two interviews I’ve so far conducted with the mother, who’s in protective custody. She was evasive in the first. She began to break in the second, this morning. I don’t believe Bendall could have done this alone. I think there’s something significant in what you’ll see about his regularly doing something on Tuesday and Thursday …”
“Meetings, do you think?”
“The mother made a point of mentioning it.”
“You think she’s involved?” He took out a packet of his scented cigars. “You mind?”
Olga did, but shook her head. “Perhaps not directly involved. But I think she knows more than she’s telling me at the moment.” Olga now had a very definite intention not just how to control this interview but how, from now on, to handle this bizarre troika. She was actually gratefu-just-that the fortunately separate encounter with the Englishman had gone against her. She was alert now to what she might be up against and had had time completely to evaluate her situation. She had, she acknowledged, become arrogant, judging everyone by the inferior, graft- eroded standards all around her in the Militia. Into which, she decided, neither Charles Edward Muffin nor John Deke Kayley fitted. She didn’t have the slightest doubt that both considered themselves superior-better able, better experienced, better resourced-to supervise the investigation. She wasn’t frightened to compete with either in a one-to-one contest. With the Kremlin insistence upon total transparency, her undermining difficulties would come if the two Westerners combined to take side against her. Her answer-her protection as well as hopefully her advantage-was to play one off against the other to prevent such a combination.
“There would have been archives, on the father.”
“Being assembled.”
Kayley frowned, openly. “Still?”
“I’m expecting them later today.”
“What about all the witnesses?”
Olga nodded towards the mini-barrier of stacked files between them. “All there. Nothing that connects with anything the mother said.” The smell of the strange cigars made her feel vaguely nauseous.
“We’d also like the rifle, for forensic examination.”
“It’s still under tests here. You’ll obviously get the full report.”
“We’d still like physically to see the weapon. And there are the extracted bullets?”
“We’d also like to see the bullets that you have,” countered Olga. Time to get a little harder, judged Kayley. “With our Secret Serviceman’s death, we’ve got an American murdered within Russian jurisdiction by someone who appears still to be British?”
She couldn’t see the point of stating the obvious but she could turn it back upon the man. “Complicated,” she encouraged.
“Objectively-and quite obviously we always have to remain objective-the greater crime, the actual killing, is of an American.” It was going far better than he’d imagined it might.
She shouldn’t make it too easy. “It’s good our three governments have agreed such total cooperation.”
“But we have to decide upon a working structure,” seized Kayley.
“The purpose of this meeting,” announced Olga.
Was she jerking his chain? “How do you see us working operationally?”
She had to be extremely careful of the recording. “Together, I suppose.”
“Charlie Muffin isn’t here.”
Charlie, not Charles, she noted. It was understandable that they’d know each other, but how well, how friendly? “Things still have to be organized, established.”
“When are you seeing him?”
Olga hesitated, in apparent surprise. “I already have, this morning. The British have been granted consular access. That includes the mother, of course.”
Now the hesitation was Kayley’s, tilted momentarily off balance. “In view of what you’ve told me, ahead of my being able to read any of this, I need to talk to her.”
“Of course,” accepted Olga. “But I suppose now there’s a diplomatic consideration. The purpose of consular access is primarily protection, which is after all why I placed her in custody. But she’s not been charged with any crime: can’t be, from anything we’ve got so far …”
“Are you denying me access!” demanded Kayley, overly forceful.
“Of course not! I’m simply suggesting there needs additionally to be some diplomatic consultations … I suppose between your two embassies … or maybe just with Charlie ….” She shrugged. “The sort of problems we’re going to encounter …” She was losing her apprehension of the American. He was going to be far easier to manipulate than the Englishman, although for once she hoped there wasn’t a need for that manipulation to become physical. He probably smelled like his cigars.
“You sure there’s a need for her to remain in protective custody?” Olga was completely prepared for that demand. “Most certainly, if the son had accomplices.”
“But you’ve no objection to my interviewing her?”
“Not as long as the British have no objection.” She paused. “We need to get together … establish some ground rules … don’t we …?”
“Very definitely,” agreed Kayley. It had been a disastrous fucking meeting, achieving nothing. And he was scheduled to talk personally with the director in Washington in less than two hours.
Olga Melnik’s only disappointment was the time it took to get rid of the traces of Kayley’s presence, despite having the ashtray immediately removed and all her office windows opened. She was still reflecting upon the encounter when the courier arrived from the Defense Ministry, with George Bendall’s army record.
At that moment, on the other side of the city, the diplomatic bag for which Charlie was impatiently waiting arrived at the river-bordered British embassy. He wasn’t prepared for the disappointment it contained. If he had been he probably wouldn’t have called Anne Abbott before he began reading.
The forensic evaluation for which Charlie had asked was divided into three parts-factual ballistic, the audio measurement from theTV soundtracks and finally the expert assessment. Impatient though he was-sure though he was-Charlie decided to go through it in its prepared response to get the answers to his questions in the order in which he’d posed them.
The opening section only ran to two pages of little more than flat statistics. Dragunov was the Western identification for the telescope equipped SVD Russian sniper’s rifle introduced into the Soviet army in the late 1960s. Based upon the Kalashnikov AK, to ensure its high degree of accuracy it fired an obsolete but essentially rimmed 7.62mm ball cartridge developed in the early part of the century for the bolt action Mosin-Nagant rifle, which was no longer issued to the Russian military. The SVD was gas operated, semi-automatic and carried a ten round magazine. There was also a commercial version, the Medved, which was usually chambered for a 9mm sports cartridge. Attached were photographs as well as sectioned illustrations detailing specific parts and Charlie at once identified the weapon over which Bendall and the cameraman fought to be the military model.
Anne came in smiling expectantly. “Well?”
“Not there yet,” said Charlie, offering her what he’d already read.
The assessment of sound differences was longer than the opening and more technical. It had been made using both accepted accoustical measurements, the pascal variations of pressure according to newtons per square meter and the measurement of power creating the sound in terms of watts per square meter. The most positive register had been, unsurprisingly, from Moscow’s NTV track. Two shots measured eighteen accoustical ohms, two were twenty and one was twenty-one. From both American stations, NBC and CBS, the highest resonance
