Kings of Many Castles

The surgeon-administrator made a disparaging gesture towards the cardboad litter. “We aren’t funded sufficiently for cleaners, let alone a resident psychiatrist. Agayan is at the Serbsky Institute.”

Which was the principal KGB psychiatric institute in which Soviet dissidents were incarcerated and many made mad to justify their imprisonment at the height of the communist oppression, Charlie instantly recognized. “How did he come to be involved?”

“Seconded in, as part of the emergency when Bendall was admitted.”

“Seconded in by whom?”

Badim humped his shoulders, uncertainly. “The militia, I suppose. He would have been the obvious choice.”

There was another foot twinge. “Why the obvious choice?”

“He knew Bendall’s case history. Had treated him in the past, apparently.”

It only took minutes for Badim to complete the certificate. “Are you sure you’ve now got everything you want?”

“More than sufficient,” thanked Charlie. Once the floodgates opened, things usually seemed to come in a surge. But did he want it to anymore?

Her KGB career had been based on psychology and Natalia was sure she psychologically knew Charlie intimately and wished for once that she didn’t. He hadn’t denied it. If he had, positively, she would have accepted it because she wanted to accept it-believe itfor herself and for Sasha and for them-but he hadn’t. So he hadn’t wanted to lie to her personally and by not lying he’d confirmed what had only been the vaguest of suspicions, predicated upon nothing more than the television-captured look and whatever the lip-moving exchange had been between the woman and Charlie as she’d left the court. He hadn’t denied it. The four words were a continuing mantra in Natalia’s head, distracting her-deflecting her-from the reconvened meeting, which had just ended as inconclusively as every other session with Viktor Karelin. Now all she wanted to do was end it, to get away from these two men and their verbal carousel of avoidance. So enclosing was her despair that Natalia felt something close to the need to run-like Charlie had run from Lesnaya that morning- which was absurd because there was nowhere mentally or physically to run. But didn’t she have to? Didn’t she have to make some move, either physically or mentally, to end her impossible, perpetually conflicting situation with Charlie Muffin? What about loving him, which despite everything she still did? She at once acknowledged the much more important question. What about his loving her? He hadn’t, sufficiently, when he’d abandoned her in London all those years ago and he clearly didn’t now. So there was no point in going on with the pretense, convincing herself it was better for Sasha and better for her. There were too many risks, too many dangers, and she’d fooled herself into believing there was some way she could handle it. He hadn’t denied it. Now it was time for her to deny there’d ever been a chance of their making a life together.

Natalia forced the reflections back, willing her concentration entirely upon the more impending demands, almost as unsettled by the behaviour of the two men supposedly conducting the enquiry with her. Federal Prosecutor Pavl Filitov had tried as hard that morning as on every other occasion to be conciliatory and nonconfrontational towards the recalled intelligence chairman but Yuri Trishin’s attitude had been quite different and she still didn’t understand it. “It’s time to finalize our opinion and make our recommendations to the president, agreed?”

Yuri Trishin didn’t respond to Filitov’s inviting look. It was the chief of staff who said, “Yes.”

“Were either of you better satisfied with Chairman Karelin today than on previous occasions?”

“I was not impressed at all,” said Trishin.

Natalia felt the slightest lift of satisfaction at what, small though it might be, was the first positive opinion Trishin had volunteered since the commission had opened. Which he wouldn’t have offered if there hadn’t already been some discussion between the man and the acting president whom he represented. “Pavl Yakovlevich?”

“I believe there has been serious infiltration-sabotage-of which the disappearance of any details of Boris Davidov having once been an officer in the KGB or the FSB is a part,” said the Federal Prosecutor, stating the obvious-but avoiding a commitment-with a lawyer’s pedantry.

“That wasn’t the question, but let’s explore your answer,” said Natalia. “It isn’t simply records of Boris Davidov that disappeared from the federal intelligence archives! The man got into court using official identification from the Federalnaia Sluzhba Besopasnosti and shot dead with an officially issued weapon a man accused of murder. Wouldn’t you agree that’s an appalling lack-and breach-of internal security?”

Filitov stirred uncomfortably at the pressure. Before the lawyer could speak, Trishin said, “That’s very definitely my assessment.”

Further guidance from another Kremlin suite, Natalia recognized. From the quick look he gave the other man, she suspected Filitov at last realized it too. The lawyer said, “There are unquestionably grounds for criticism.”

“Not censure, for maladministration?”

Filitov waited for the chief of staffs lead but Trishin remained silent. Finally Filitov said, “That might be an extreme judgment.”

“We’ve been made to look internationally ridiculous,” said Trishin. “And throughout these hearings we-and the acting president-have been treated with contempt by everyone we have summoned from the intelligence community.”

Now it was Natalia who hesitated, surprised at the virtual confirmation of pressure from Aleksandr Okulov. But it was more than that. They were being told which way to go but the responsibilitywould be theirs, not Okulov’s. “What about an external investigation?”

“I do not believe the situation can be left to an internal FSB enquiry, which is very obviously and clearly Chairman Karelin’s intention,” declared Trishin.

“What recommendations do you propose?” invited Natalia, intent on the answer. She’d never expected to get this strength of argument, from Trishin’s earlier prevarication: wasn’t sure she wanted it after her earlier doubts about her and Charlie.

“What are your suggestions, Pavl Yakovlevich?” retreated the chief of staff, at the moment of commitment.

The Federal Prosecutor looked across the room at the note-taking secretariat.

“There should be criticism, for the lapses. And a request to Chairman Karelin to publish the result of the internal enquiries.”

“And yours, Yuri Fedorovich?” said Natalia, quickly, before the chief of staff could identify her as the proposer.

“There should be a totally independent, external investigation, with its result published,” set out the portly chief of staff. “It should be made clear to Chairman Karelin that he and his officers are legally required to respond to every enquiry, a requirement that has been blatantly ignored here. And our findings should also be that the existing senior command structure of the Federalnaia Sluzhba Besopasnosti is guilty of serious failings in its administration and that steps necessary to correct it should be made public.”

Was it conceivable that his political ambitions had turned Aleksandr Mikhailevich Okulov so totally against his former colleagues? Or was the determination to reject the speculation that the same ambition implicated him in some way with the attack upon the two presidents? Or something altogether different, an agenda she couldn’t guess at? She said, “What’s your feeling upon those proposals, Pavl Yakovlevich?”

The Federal Prosecutor stared for several moments at Trishin. “I believe they are too draconian. And you haven’t responded yourself yet?”

“I believe the attitudes and the events justify them.”

“Which gives you a two to one majority in favor,” acknowledged Filitov.

“Unless you care to make it unanimous?”

“I don’t,” said the lawyer. “I also wish to register a minority disagreement.”

“That’s your right,” recognized Natalia.

“I know it is.”

Charlie reached his decision-the only one there realistically could have been-long before he got to the American embassy. It was going to be the first time in his never-lose, never-be-beaten life that he’d turned his back