10
From the upper stairway platform on to which he emerged from the lift Charlie had an elevated overview of the abruptly converted U.S. embassy basement and decided that all the stories he’d ever heard of plots of quicksand being turned overnight into fully carpeted, kitchen-gimmicked American estates of barbered lawns, helicopter emplaced matured trees and individual boat docks on canals really were true after all.
He was gazing down into a plasterboarded and sectioned beehive of criminal investigation, complete with its buzzing inhabitants of drones and worker bees. At its very center was the incident room itself, seried by mostly already occupied desks each with their own individual, screen flickering computer, telephone and individually dedicated fascimile terminal. At one end, dominated by a raised dais and a cleared desk larger than the others, were two only miniature electronic viewing screens flanked by four trestle-mounted static boards and at the opposing end a gantried projection camera. Linked by an open corridor was what Charlie recognized to be a mobile forensic laboratory. It was bisected by two long, metal-topped benches-each broken by suction-fitted sinks-upon which were mounted three more computers. There were four obvious although elaborate microscopes, each with two separate but comparison-capable viewing bases and four pieces of mysterious electronic machinery. On its own table, quite alone, was a large, bellow-middled piece of equipment which Charlie guessed to be a camera but wasn’t sure. A third, corridor-connected separation had a inner battlement of gray filing cabinets in the very middle of which was a triptych of corner-to-corner archival computers, their screens already filling with type being entered by hunched operators.
Encircling everything was an appropriate honeycomb of individual outer rooms, each again with its momentarily dead-eyed computer,filing cabinet, telephone and fax machine. Each had access to the inner, communal area through a door.
The entire, unroofed complex was whitely illuminated by a sky of fluorescent tubing and lifted from the basement concrete by an artificial wooden floor-already covered by sound-deadening carpet-beneath which was concealed what Charlie calculated to be literally miles of operating cable and wiring.
Like the wrongly sexed but omnipotent Queen Bee he’d clearly appointed himself to be, John Kayley stood in the main room, expansive buttock perched on the large command desk. Charlie was surprised to see Olga Melnik beside the American; he’d expected her to be at George Bendall’s bedside. In which order would she choose to tell him? They both looked up at Charlie’s entry and Kayley waved, gesturing him down. Charlie was conscious of briefly becoming the focus of everyone in the main room as he descended into it and supposed Olga had been, earlier, even though there were no forgotten shirt-buttons today. There wasn’t, in fact, a shirt: the business suit came right up to her neck, Mao-style. As he got within hearing, Kayley said, “What do you think?”
Charlie said, “I liked it in the movie.”
Kayley allowed himself a tight smile. “This isn’t make-believe.”
“I hope it isn’t,” said Charlie.
Kayley’s smile went.
“Vera Bendall’s dead. The son’s come round.” The words collided almost comically in Olga’s eagerness to get them out.
Charlie allowed the apparent surprise. “Dead? How?”
“Hanged herself, with underwear that was returned to her for your visit.”
It was a poor attempt to spread blame. “Why wasn’t it taken away, afterwards?”
“It was a mistake,” conceded Olga.
Should he hit them this early? The suspicion was justified, particularly in view of the incomplete KGB file and he’d forewarned Natalia, for her to be ready. “Did she hang herself?”
“Her neck didn’t break, if that’s what you mean. She suffocated, choked to death,” said Olga.
“That wasn’t what I meant,” said Charlie. “Under whose administration does Lefortovo come, militia or FSB?”
“Jesus!” said Kayley, understanding.
Olga did, too. “The FSB,” she said, flatly. It was a suggestion she had to pass on as quickly as possible to Leonid Zenin. The crisis committee were meeting that morning.
Charlie said, “She was, officially, accorded embassy recognition. We’d like a copy of the autopsy report. And for that autopsy to be as detailed as possible.”
Olga wasn’t sure a post-mortem was planned. One certainly had to be carried out now. “Of course.”
“I listened to your meeting with her, read it, too,” said Kayley. “She was upset, being kept there.”
“Suicidally so?” demanded Charlie.
The American shrugged. “Who knows?”
Charlie talked looking around the prefabricated installation in apparent admiration, wondering how long it would take him to find what he wanted, if indeed it was here to be found. And then how to proceed. He was still working more from instinct than fact: the Russian forensic photographs were inconclusive and by themselves were insufficient. It was inevitable, he supposed, that the Russians would take offense at the questions that had to be asked. Others were necessary first. Or were they? Was he working-planning to work-for the possible benefit of George Bendall? Or to prove wrong experts who’d dismissed what he’d been so sure of? Wasn’t it paranoia, in fact, to imagine he had to behave like this at all, saying nothing until he was sure in the belief he might prevent the convenient evidence of an open and shut case being tampered with, as the old KGB files in his opinion had clearly been tampered with? The self-doubt surprised Charlie. But it wasn’t just self-doubt. It extended, as always, to Natalia. If his instincts were only half right she risked being caught up in open organizational warfare, even. She hadn’t positively accused him of exaggeration but he knew that’s what she was thinking, having warnings heaped upon her without having them fully explained. It was important, Charlie had determined, for Natalia to reach the conclusions for herself, without prejudging by having his opinions thrust upon her. Which didn’tanswer his immediate uncertainty. Follow the tried and tested instinct, he told himself. “What about Bendall? Can he be interviewed?”
“The recovery’s intermittent,” said Olga. “I’m going back to the hospital this afternoon.”
“You’ve already seen him?”
“He wasn’t aware of me, aware of anything. Didn’t respond to anything I said.”
There was no hurry for them to see the man, Charlie decided. He was aware of Olga moving from foot to foot, as if she was impatient to be somewhere else. He was probably more impatient, for other reasons. He looked around the room again. “So what’s the set-up?”
“Heads up, everybody!” Kayley called. “Meet-the-folks time.” The tour of the installation was conducted with the pride of a man showing off a new house. To most the acknowledgement was smiles and head nods, although the scientist controlling the forensic section and the man in charge of archives were introduced by name. The circuit finished at the side offices surrounding the main room, where two adjoining annexes were specifically set aside for Charlie and Olga.
“And I’m right behind you,” declared the American, indicating the office directly after Charlie’s.
I bet you are, thought Charlie. “Very hugger-mugger.”
“You going to need any help with the computers?” Kayley asked, solicitously.
“If I do, I’ll ask,” said Charlie. All access would be monitored. So would telephone calls. The rooms were glass-sided, too. It was very definitely going to be a goldfish bowl experience. Olga was still shifting from foot to foot. Time to resolve both their impatience, he thought. “Everything already logged?”
“Just finishing off programming the witnesses’ statements,” said Kayley.
“Then we’re totally up to date?” pressed Charlie. “Everything available to be accessed?”
Kayley was immediately attentive. “Unless you’ve got something additional?”
Charlie shook his head.
“Or have something specific in mind?” persisted the American.
“No,” said Charlie. He smiled. “Guess I’d better familiarize myself.”
It was impressive. There was no dust or debris from the hasty construction-rather there was the discernible and pleasant smell of the perfumed polish that had removed any-and in a corner beside his supposedly personal cabinet the operating lights of an air purifier glowed, although there was no noise. The answer to a prayer and Kayley’s cigars, thought Charlie. The desk appeared to be genuine wood, although it probably wasn’t, and the side
