imposed in their uneven relationship, a burden Charlie readily recognized, just as he recognized her reservations after so much forgiveness and so many allowances.
She’d accepted as professional his first deceit, convincing her when she’d been assigned his KGB debriefer that his phoney operation-wrecking defection to Moscow was genuine. In those first, getting-to-know each other weeks and months she’d have turned himover to face trial as a spy if he hadn’t managed to do so. Their problem-so much, unfairly, Natalia’s problem-was in the direct aftermath. Although he’d maneuvered to avoid her being arrested for professional negligence, his return to London-essential professionally, wrong personally-had been an abandonment because by then they had been in love. Natalia had proved that love by being prepared, just once, to defect herself during an escort assignment to London. Trusted him more than he’d trusted her, despite loving her. He’d watched Natalia at their arranged meeting point but been unable to believe she wasn’t bait-knowing or unknowing-in a repayment trap for the damage he’d caused Moscow. So he’d held back from the rendezvous and let her go, neither of them knowing then that she was pregnant.
It was a virtual miracle that she’d deigned even to acknowledge him-let alone be persuaded there was a second chance of finally being together-when, with the old, defunct KGB records necessarily self-cleansed to protect herself and their daughter and Natalia’s elevating transfer to the ministry, he’d been officially accepted back by a totally unaware and unsuspecting Russian government too overwhelmed by organized crime to match an American FBI presence in the Russian capital.
There could be no blame-no surprise either-for Natalia insufficiently trusting him. He’d done nothing to deserve it. Little, indeed, to deserve Natalia. Which was a long-realized awareness that did nothing to resolve-help even-their escalating problem. Perhaps nothing could.
Charlie’s irresolute reflections were broken by the first of the predictable announcement-prompted arrivals. MI6 station chief Donald Morrison flustered jacketless through the door, scarlet braces over monogrammed shirt, an unevenly torn-off slip of new agency copy in his hand. Offering it to Charlie, the man said, “Have you seen this!”
“I heard about it last night,” said Charlie. “The ambassador knows. London too.”
Morrison stopped abruptly halfway across the room, as if he’d collided with something solid. “How?”
“Contacts in the militia,” avoided Charlie, easily.
“A call would have been appreciated,” complained Morrison, cautiously. He was an enthusiastic, eager-to- please man at least fifteen years Charlie’s junior whom Charlie guessed to have got the sought-after posting through family influence. His predecessor had been part of an inter-agency determination to get Charlie removed from Moscow, badly misjudged Charlie’s thumb-gouging, eye-for-an-eye survival ability and now occupied a travel movements desk at MI6’s Vauxhall Cross administration department. From the wariness with which Morrison had treated him since his arrival-and the immediate reaction now-Charlie suspected Morrison knew of the episode.
Charlie said, “It’s a criminal investigation, more mine that yours under the redefining.”
“It would still have been useful to know about in advance, if I’d got a query from London.”
“Did you?”
Morrison shrugged, his argument defeated.
“So you haven’t lost any credibility,” Charlie pointed out.
“You intend running it as a one man show?”
Charlie hadn’t yet decided how he was going to run anything, only that by the end of a long day there were probably going to be more people running about and getting in each other’s way than in a whorehouse on pay-day when the fleet’s in. Which Charlie philosophically accepted. Initially welcomed in fact. Despite his director-general’s eagerness to control whatever involvement was achievable it was even possible London’s edict would be for a jointly shared investigation, which would provide a sacrificial diversion if one became necessary. Which wasn’t ultimate cynicism. It was an essential, practical rule of what the inexperienced or ignorant referred to as a game but which was not. Nor ever had been. Charlie actually liked the younger man and didn’t want to cause him any disadvantage or harm. He hoped the need wouldn’t arise if Morrison was accorded any part in what was to follow.
“I’ll obviously get a call,” pressed Morrison.
“I don’t know anything more than what was on television this morning,” said Charlie, which was almost true. Lev Maksimovich Yudkin had been described as critical after an operation to removebullets from his abdomen and right lung and Ruth Anandale was stable after having a bullet removed from her right arm near the shoulder. The American president was still at the Pirogov Hospital, where he’d slept overnight. Ben Jennings, the American Secret Serviceman who had been hit, was on a life support machine with a bullet possibly too close to his heart to risk removing. The fifth shot had shattered the leg of a plainclothes Moscow militia officer, Feliks Vasilevich Ivanov, which might possibly need to be amputated. The only additional information, which Natalia had reluctantly provided, was that George Bendall had not regained consciousness after operations to rebuild and pin his left shoulder and leg, both of which had been broken in his fall from the TV gantry.
“It’s not going to be an easy one,” suggested Morrison.
“Very few are,” agreed Charlie. It was like a dance to which he knew every stumbling step, which with his hammer-toed feet wasn’t a good analogy.
“We’re going to have to work together if London orders it,” said Morrison.
“Of course,” said Charlie, in apparent acceptance. He handed the other man a copy of Peter Bendall’s file. “That’s everything my people had. Might be an idea to see what’s in your archives, to make a comparison.”
Morrison smiled a relieved smile. “That’s a good idea. I’ll do that.”
They both turned at Richard Brooking’s arrival. The head of chancellery looked between them and said, “Yes. Of course. You obviously need to be together.”
Why, wondered Charlie, had the diplomat come to him, rather than the other way around with a summons like the previous night? Surely their separation wasn’t going to be as fatuous as worrying about which rooms they met in?
Morrison said, “That’s what I was just saying.”
“You heard from London?” demanded Charlie.
“I’ve been told to seek information,” said Brooking.
“From whom or what?” asked Charlie, impatiently.
“The Foreign Ministry. That’s our channel of communication.”
Who’d simply repeat the official announcement, guessed Charlie. “What about access?”
Brooking shook his head, as if he were denying an accusation. “Nothing like that until we get an official reply from the ministry.”
Needing to ride pillion with this man officially to get to George Bendall was going to be a wearisome pain in the ass, Charlie decided. “What about the Americans?”
Brooking hesitated. “Sir Michael is approaching their ambassador personally.”
“Am I …” started Charlie but stopped. “Are we going to be told what’s said?” It was important to establish ground-rule precedents.
There was another hesitation from the head of chancellery. “It would constitute a diplomatic exchange.”
Charlie’s direct-line telephone jarred into the room, breaking the conversation.
“What do you know, Charlie?” said John Kayley.
“Not enough,” replied Charlie. “What about you?”
“Think we need to get together.”
“Sounds like a good idea. I’ve got a room with a view.”
“I got so much heat I’m getting blisters.”
“Maybe I should come to you?”
“It would look better for me.”
Charlie was glad he’d taken the trouble socially to meet Kayley at various U.S. diplomatic functions, although he was unsure of the man’s by now familiar native American boast to be part Cherokee. It was fortunate, too, that he’d taken so many copies of Bendall’s file. “On my way.”
“Your contact?” enquired Brooking, hopefully, as Charlie replaced the receiver.
“FBI,” said Charlie, shortly.
“You’ll let me know what they say?”
“Not sure if it’ll constitute a diplomatic exchange,” said Charlie, straight faced.
