now to get back to Moscow and talk to her about it. What else was there for the two of them to talk about? Nothing, Charlie decided at once; no commitment, no recriminations therefore no guilt.
Jocelyn Hamilton said, “Are we in any way affected by the dismissal of the FBI director?”
“I don’t see why we should be,” said Pacey. “It’s obviously a political gesture, a pretty dramatic attempt to recover by the Americans; desperate, almost.”
“Might that not indicate that they haven’t got the ballistic analyses yet?” queried Dean.
“I don’t think so,” Charlie came in quickly, always aware that Sir Rupert was an academic, not a sewer soulmate. “You want to burst a dam, you set a heavy enough charge to ensure everything’s engulfed. The entire responsibility for the breakdown between America and Russia has been dumped upon their director, who’s blown away; charged, convicted and sentenced if not to death then to career oblivion. Washington’s adopting Russian precedent-purging-is easier for Russian to understand. And, hopefully, to be enticed back into the sharing, communal fold.”
“We do need to be part of a sharing, communal fold, don’t we?” suggested Sir Rupert Dean.
Charlie was way ahead of the older man’s reasoning-why, in fact, irrespective of today’s discussion, he’d never intended sharing the Woolwich Arsenal doubts until he got back to Moscow-but showing the deferential diplomatic awareness that would have surprised everyone in the room, he said, “I think so, sir, for all the reasons we’ve already discussed.”
“So we’ve got the way to achieve it, haven’t we?” said Dean.
Charlie smiled, as if in initial understanding. “Yes we have, haven’t we?”
Viktor Ivanovich Karelin was someone who strove-and succeeded-to be the sort of man crowds were made of, inconspicuous, unrecognized and unknown. He actually cultivated the amorphic grayness-gray face, gray hair, gray suit-traditional for an intelligence head but which was all the more necessary in the current leadership flux. He was a KGB-era bureaucrat, politically-and willingly-promoted by the president as a hopeful bridge across which the old would cross to the new in attitude and allegiance. Which some, although not all, attitudes and allegiances had and which added to what the pliably adaptable Karelin viewed as a major personal problem, his now being stranded in the middle of the bridge without knowing which side visibly to head for. Sending Gennardi Mittel in his place had put him on the traditional side of the divide. He had never, in a million years, expected the unthinkably direct- humiliating-challenge. Which had to mean that the intelligence he had so far had analysed on the likely succession- and Aleksandr Mikhailevich Okulov’s strength-was questionable. In which case there had potentially been a very bad miscalculation-a mistake for which professional analysts would be called to explain-and from which he had to recover. Or at least put himself back in the middle of the bridge. The problem was getting back there, without losing any further face. The truth-or what he believed to be the truth-would actually add to the humiliation.
There was none of the arrogant strut of his previous day’s emissarywhen Karelin entered the Kremlin room, although there was a self-enclosed confidence about the man when he sat, folded his hands in his lap and waited to be addressed. I’ve come this farreluctantly-now you come to me. Only Yuri Trishin knew what the FSB chairman looked like, so completely did Karelin preserve his anonymity and that recognition came from an unpublished photograph on presidential record, not from any personal meeting. The photograph had been badly lit, to be intentionally misleading. Natalia’s immediate impression was of a self-assured professional. She hoped she was right. It would mean-
The moment for their meet-in-the-middle diplomacy, decided Natalia. “Thank you, Chairman Viktor Ivanovich, for coming today.”
“I’m afraid there was a misunderstanding,” said Karelin. There was a slight sibilant speech impediment.
“Which is what we believed it to have been,” said Natalia. Hands extended, hands touched: no embarrassment.
“I would like to help the commission, if I could.”
“We hope you can,” said Natalia, more positively. Nudge him off the prepared path, she thought. “Was the FSB actively involved in the attempted assassination of the Russian and American presidents?”
Karelin gave no facial or physical reaction whatsoever. Neither did he artificially hesitate, as if surprised or offended by the question. “No.”
Not a hard enough push, Natalia decided, remembering the telephone call from Leonid Zenin. “Has the FSB any assets within the Burdenko Hospital?”
“I don’t understand that question,” said Karelin, again without hesitation. He’d demanded briefings on every possible question but the hospital hadn’t been mentioned.
“It’s a very simple one,” said Natalia. “Is there someone on the medical staff of the Burdenko Hospital who is an informant or operative of the FSB?” There would have been, when the organization was the KGB. There hadn’t been a government body, civilian institution or supposed independent organization that hadn’t been infiltrated.
“Not to my knowledge.”
“You are the chairman, Viktor Ivanovich. Such awareness would be far below your personal knowledge, wouldn’t it?”
Karelin’s concentration was absolute, the two men either side of Natalia non existent. “Yes.”
“This is a presidential commission. We have the highest security clearance.”
Karelin was churning inwardly, bewildered by the questioning. “I acknowledge that.”
“The FSB has taken over the responsibilities of the KGB?” Beside her Natalia was conscious of Pavl Filitov shifting, noisily, and decided the Federal Prosecutor was communicating with Karelin in sympathetic body language. It was going to be a surprise for him and Trishin when she stopped allowing both to hide behind her skirts. Knowing as they did of Okulov’s congratulatory letter, both men were noticeably deferential.
“In a greatly reduced and publicly accountable way.”
Natalia could not have anticipated that response and for a moment she needed to recompose herself-adjust her mind-to the maximum benefit. “Does the Fifth Chief Directorate still exist?”
“I had forgotten you were once a KGB officer,” said Karelin.
A weak response-weak threat-Natalia decided. “Does the Fifth Chief Directorate still exist?”
“With greatly reduced functions. And no longer under that designation.”
She had to be careful not to demean the man. “Will you undertake to have the former Fifth Chief Directorate, whose responsibility was to emplace KGB agents and informants in all public services, checked to see if your succeeding organization has an asset within Burdenko Hospital?
“Not without knowing the reason for such an enquiry.” Karelinlistened expressionlessly, still physically unmoving, to Natalia’s explanation and didn’t speak for several moments after she’d finished. When he did he said, “I will have that search made.”
“We appreciate your cooperation,” smiled Natalia. She gave herself pause, to anticipate the moment. Then she said, “I’ll now hand the inquiry over to my colleagues.”
There was a deafening silence, more disconcerting for both Filitov and Trishin by the way the FSB chairman visibly moved his head between them, in expectation. It was the federal prosecutor who finally verbally stumbled into the exchange and almost at once Natalia was conscious of Karelin relaxing, settling more obviously- comfortably-into his chair. Filitov-and occasionally Trishin-recited their questions never once pressing the man. Nor did they pick up from the concessions that had been prised out of the previous day’s witnesses after their dismissal of Gennardi Mittel. Karelin
Natalia chose a hesitant gap from Filitov and said, “We yesterday took evidence from four officials of the Registry and Achives department, which appears to have remained unchanged in the reorganization?”
“That is so.”
