enjoyed the uncommitting, uninvolving excitement of it, shutting his mind to everything except the woman he was holding and who was holding him back without any resisting stiffness or over-her-shoulder hesitation. They went to his room because it was the nearest along the shared corridor but there was no first-time urgency, which heightened the pleasure. They undressed each other, savouring the unhurriedness of it and when Charlie was naked she held him at arm’s length and giggled that he looked better without his clothes and his feet were a revelation all of their own and Charlie held Anne the same way and said he liked everything he saw, without any qualification. They led each other, matched each other, her preference, his preference and burst together and Charlie didn’t allow himself the surprise that he was able to do it-all of it-so quickly again.
Anne said, “I won! The second time I had a multiple orgasm.”
“That’s a whole new definition of friendship,” said Charlie, still breathing heavily.
“That’s all it is though, ultimate friendship. No confusion.”
“It’ll be the only thing that isn’t confusing so far,” said Charlie.
“So it was meant for me?” said Walter Anandale. The White House showing of the slow motion TV film of the shooting had been delayed until that night because of the time the president had spent at the conveniently close Walter Reed Army Medical Center on Washington’s Georgia Avenue, to which Ruth Anandale had beenimmediately admitted. Secretary of State James Scamell was the only cabinet member absent from the meeting.
“I don’t think there can be any doubt, sir,” said Wendall North.
“She took my bullet,” said Anandale, more to himself than anyone else in the room.
Wendall North decided against pointing out that the intercession had been totally accidental. “Yes, sir, she did.”
“Wouldn’t that have been a hell of a coup, wiping out both presidents at the same time!”
“Unthinkable,” said Defense Secretary Wilfred Pinkton.
“We any closer to understanding it?”
FBI Director Paul Smith shifted uncomfortably at the anticipated question. “We’re running the investigation, just like you ordered, Mr. President. The incident room’s ours, totally under our supervision at
“That isn’t an answer to my question!”
“We don’t so far know who else is in the conspiracy.”
“I want ass kicked, Paul. I want each and every son of a bitch involved in this either in the chair or behind bars for the next hundred years and I’m disappointed you’re not telling me you’re there already. You tell Kayley from me I don’t care how it’s done. Just do it!”
It was three A.M. Moscow time when Paul Smith’s e-mail, couched in even stronger terms, was taken by the director’s personal assistant to the communication section of the FBI’s Pennsylvania Avenue headquarters.
“Ass-burning time,” the man told the transmissions operator. “Make sure it’s not yours.” The remark, only marginally misquoting the president, was intended as a joke. It didn’t become one.
Two address lists had been defined in Microsft Outlook for the Russian investigation. “Kayley” was the back- channel, eyes-only route for information and messages restricted to the Bureau Rezident, not to be shared under any circumstances. “Kayley+” was the block address automatically distributing Washington traffic to Olga Melnik and Charlie Muffin, to maintain the impression of complete cooperation.
The FBI operator was new, being introduced into the job on the normally less stressful evening shift. It was the first personal director’s message he’d ever handled and he agreed with the assistant that it was very much ass-burning. In his nervousness he clicked the cursor on Kayley+.
Paul Smith’s do-whatever-it-takes instruction was waiting in Olga Melnik’s e-mail box when she arrived in the incident room that morning, intentionally earlier than usual in her determination to confront John Kayley. Obeying Zenin’s telephone instructions she called Donald Morrison before leaving the American embassy.
The time difference also benefited Charlie Muffin, in reverse. It was still only seven in the morning, London time, when he got the call from Morrison. Charlie awakened instantly and his interrupting questions finally awoke Anne Abbott beside him. Still sleepily voiced, she said, “What is it?”
“If I knew-understood it-I’d tell you,” said Charlie.
15
Charlie Muffin’s reception was very different from the previous day. Within minutes of his beginning to speak at the reconvened meeting even Jocelyn Hamilton straightened from his overly-theatrical, shoulder-slumped affectation and hunched as attentively as everyone to the tape of George Bendall’s collapse. Charlie finished with the verbatim transcript of the FBI director’s cable that Morrison had relayed that morning. No one spoke, unwilling to offer an opening opinion. It was the director-general who did, finally.
Sir Rupert Dean said, “No! They quite simply
“Kayley’s under enormous pressure,” said Charlie.
“I don’t think it’s inconceivable,” said Patrick Pacey. “‘All and every investigatory means,’” he quoted, from the bureau director’s misdirected e-mail. “‘Earlier and explicit orders … clear understandingsfrom the highest level …’ There’s very obviously been instructions we don’t know about that fits what could have happened in Burdenko hospital …”
“At the moment it’s only an unidentified although possible puncture mark on Bendall’s arm, which has no medical explanation or purpose to be there,” cautioned Charlie. “There’s no proof it was an unauthorized, invasive injection until they get the results of the blood tests.”
“Where, legally, does that leave us-the United Kingdom?” asked the subdued deputy director.
Jeremy Simpson hunched uncertain shoulders. “Totally uninvolved, particularly with Charlie here in London, which probably turns out to be very fortunate. Going beyond that, if it’s true, legally-technically-it constitutes a physical assault upon George Bendall. That’s according to our law and as Bendall, again technically, is still a British subject I suppose there are grounds for us to protest. But I don’t see any practical purpose in our doing that. I don’t know what it qualifies as in Russia, even if there’s any competent statute. But is that what we should be talking about? If the Americans have done this, it surely blows any honest cooperation-any cooperation honest or even limited-completely out of the water?”
“Absolutely,” quickly agreed Hamilton, gratefully seizing the lawyer’s lead.
“But it doesn’t affect a legal prosecution for murder, does it?” argued the director-general, just as quickly.
“It might affect Bendall’s ability-competence-to plead if the damage is permanent,” said Simpson. “It could, possibly, be part of a defense plea in court.”
That had been Anne’s first reaction, as they lay side by side immediately after the telephone call from Donald Morrison in Moscow. Charlie decided against saying anything, despite the fact that Anne was known to be back in London for consultations.
“What’s the Russian response?” asked Dean.
“I don’t know, not yet,” said Charlie. “Olga Melnik told Morrison she’d been withdrawn from the incident room-which means from the American embassy-for discussions. It wasn’t clear with whom.”
“What did you tell him to do?” asked Hamilton.
“To get to the incident room as quickly as possible. Find out everything he can. I’m calling him there later. If there’s anything he doesn’t want picked up on the American monitor, he’ll go back to our embassy after we’ve initially talked and we’ll speak on a secure line from there.”
“The Americans are monitoring our calls!” demanded Hamilton.
Everyone in the room looked at the man in varying degrees of surprise. Charlie said, “Of course they are! I’d do the same, in their circumstances.”
The deputy flushed and shook his head but said nothing more.
Pacey said, “Sir Michael Parnell’s guidance from Moscow was that it was a serious diplomatic breach if it
