“Again that is no longer a matter for me,” said Olga. “All the evidence has been passed over to the federal prosecutor. It has to be his-and the ministry’s-decision if the arrangement still exists.”
“We will make formal, diplomatic requests,” said Anne.
“Of course you will,” patronized Olga.
Charlie gestured back along the corridor. “You have just duplicated the recording of a conversation between Bendall and his legal advisors.”
“There is no legal prohibition upon our doing that.”
Noskov nodding his head, in agreement. Charlie said, “Has there been any further interrogation-Russian interrogation-since the claimed injection.”
“Medically
“Medical proven injections,” gritted Charlie and waited.
“There may have been.”
It was her first overconfident lapse. “Olga Ivanova! You are the chief investigating officer. You would personally have conducted any subsequent interviews!”
Color spread up from the Russian detective’s throat. “Any subsequent interviews would form part of the evidence already filed on record and held by the federal prosecutor.”
“And forbidden to us?” demanded Anne.
“I’ve no way of knowing what the ministry or prosecution response would be to an official request for access.”
“Which will be legally filed,” promised Noskov.
“And diplomatically made as well, according to the terms of our agreement,” supported Anne.
Olga Melnik was a messenger boy-or girl-Charlie realized, answering his earlier uncertainty. But well briefed. By whom? he wondered.Don’t get sore, get even, he reminded himself, invoking one of the axioms of life. “As our professional cooperation appears to be over you can’t expect me to pass on the evidence that’s been gathered in London?”
Olga’s hesitation was so long it was as if the breath had been taken from her. At last she managed. “I most certainly would if it contributed to the further progress of the investigation!”
“Which I thought was being pursued independently now?” goaded Charlie. There’d been a miscalculation, he guessed. Briskly he said to the lawyers, “Let’s go to make those representations as quickly as we can. Hopefully get things back on course. There’s a lot else for us to do, as you know.”
In the car Noskov said, “It’s political.”
Anne said, “But stupid.”
“Or something,” said Charlie. His feet throbbed, to a metronome beat. Espionage had been a fucking sight easier than this.
Charlie arrived at the American embassy just before noon, dropped off at Novinskij Bul’var by the two lawyers on their way back to their respective offices to file their respective protests, promising both as he got out of the car that he’d call if he thought there was anything relevant from the now isolated American investigation. The FBI station chief was waiting in the incident room, closely flanked by Donald Morrison. After the younger man’s back-up during his London absence Charlie didn’t have the heart to exclude the man now that he’d returned.
Charlie anticipated some sort of outburst from the crumpled, cigar-perfumed American at the news of the impending court appearance but John Kayley remained reflectively silent. He didn’t initially interrupt, either, when Charlie began outlining the Bendall bullet disparity but then abruptly held up a stopping hand to lead the way through the linking corridor to the improvised laboratory and the American ballistics scientist.
Willie Ying said at once, “We’ve been waiting for your corroboration.”
“Is that why it isn’t computerized yet?” angrily demanded the ignored MI6 man.
“It’s your defense, against a murder charge,” said Kayley, in a smooth defense of his own. “You wouldn’t have wanted the Russians knowing about it in advance if it had only been a temporary walkout, would you?”
The don’t get sore, get even philosophy was American, remembered Charlie: it would be good somehow to give Morrison his personal chance. But not now. And the man was soon going to learn how things were eked out. “Did you get actual test firings, before the rifle was removed?”
The Chinese smiled. “Twenty, fired at measured graduation from in front and from behind the measurable distance from which Bendall shot. Not a score mark on any of them. Not that distance has got anything to do with it. The best guess is that Bendall’s bullets went off somewhere in the park, behind the White House.”
“We’ve actually looked,” said Kayley. “I had guys examine the most obvious trees-anything that might have stopped a bullet-in the line of fire. Came up with nothing.”
There was a shift of increasing anger from Donald Morrison but before the younger man could speak Charlie said, “I need those testfired bullets. From the runaround I got from Olga Melnik this morning I don’t think I’ll get the rifle for my people to test.”
“You got it,” guaranteed Kayley.
“We’ll need testimony as well,” pressed Charlie.
There was a shrugged, head-nodding exchange between the two Americans. Kayley said, “You got that as well. It’ll be good to show the bastards how wrong they were, walking out on us.”
Charlie couldn’t quite adjust the reasoning but it wasn’t something to dispute. He didn’t physically need the rifle and Anne had her dramatic defense to at least one of the charges likely to be brought. One good turn deserves another, Charlie thought. Offering that morning’s tape he’d brought to be copied into the evidence collection, he said, “George Bendall wants to tell us all about it.” He wondered if Morrison imagined he was a team player or whether the man realized the rules were only applied one way: it might mitigate the humiliation of his being ignored by the Americans.
Kayley smiled as he listened. Halfway through he ignited an aromatic cigar. When the replay ended Kayley said, “He does, doesn’the?” Then he said, “You take Bendall just a little further down the road and we’re going to have the others.
The last part was further reasoning that Charlie found difficulty with but he didn’t dispute that, either. “Let’s hope I can take him further.”
Kayley said, “I’ve got to go upstairs. There are people who’ll want to hear this.”
“They’re bastards, too!” said Morrison, vehemently, as he and Charlie returned to the main incident room.
“Don’t take it personally,” soothed Charlie. “They’d have tried to fuck me if I hadn’t come up with it.”
“You sure?” demanded Morrison.
“Positive,” said Charlie, who wasn’t but wanted to help the other man.
“Hope I haven’t disturbed your room too much,” said Morrison, when they reached it.
To Charlie it didn’t appear to have been occupied by anyone else. He settled into his place with its convenient foot rest and logged on to his computer to bring himself up to date, scrolling patiently through the alphabetically assembled files, stopping abruptly at the name Vasili Gregorovich Isakov. It had been compiled by three named FBI agents and ran to twelve pages, although it wasn’t the written material that immediately interested Charlie. Three photographs had been scanned on to the disk.
John Kayley was again included with the ambassador and the secretary of state for the satellite link with Washington but only Walter Anandale and his chief of staff were waiting at the White House end. He’d have to wait, Kayley knew, but it was difficult.
“So we’ve got a new game,” opened the president.
“Which we need to play very carefully,” advised James Scamell.
“How?” said Anandale.
“I think you need to come back for Yudkin’s funeral.”
“You serious! There are still guys out there who tried to kill me!”
“As serious as it’s possible to be, Mr. President. Your not attending will be read every which way, all of them bad. One spinwill be that you’re too scared. Another that you’re abandoning Okulov, to be beaten by the communists. Who are, incidentally, demanding an immediate election to confirm an elected president. Then there’s
