on a half-finished operation. And he didn’t give a shit. Integrity was Natalia’s problem, not his. He didn’t care if she was even peripherally, unwittingly, involved: the suspicion was probably an aberration, like so many other bloody stupid things he’d done in the last few days. But he couldn’t take the chance. The only consideration was bridge building: keeping himself and Natalia and Sasha together. And to do that he was prepared to make any compromise and every concession.
Anne Abbott would expect an explanation. Which would be easy. He’d simply lie and insist that Bendall didn’t have a tattoo. Not tell her about Davidov or Agayan at all. Which only left Vladimir Sakov, whom she did know about. Easy again. She was more aware than he was that he had no legal authority to arrest or interrogate the cameraman. He’d tell Anne he’d done the only thing possible, alerting the Russians, and leave it at that. It wasn’t important anymore to impress Anne. Madness to have tried-wanted to-in the first place, to have been flattered by the adventure.
Should he admit it to Natalia? Confess to the madness that it had been and plead her forgiveness: flagellate himself, if that’s what it took? What if she couldn’t forgive him? Consider it his final betrayal, to go with all the rest. Too dangerous a strategy. Safer to say nothing, neither deny nor confirm. It was, after all, only intuition, remarkable though that had been. The next few days-he hoped not the next few weeks-weren’t going to be the best fun he’d ever had but he’d brought the ashes on his own head so he’d have to livewith it. Just as long as Natalia was living it with him.
There was an atmosphere of flatness-of everything being on half power-about the American incident room. John Kayley came odorously from his side office and said, “Tell me you’ve come up with something to keep this investigation on the road.”
“Like what?”
Kayley shook his head, in defeat. “We’re stymied. I’ve got everyone carrying out a total review but we’ve done that already, days ago. Now everything’s under Russian control.”
“Where is Olga?” asked Charlie, looking into the empty office.
“Hasn’t shown. I’ve got calls in. What are your people saying in London?”
“I’m to sit and do nothing, until told otherwise. Yours?”
“I’ve still got a murder and the maiming of the president’s wife, by a person or persons unknown. And until I find who those persons are, my ass is being burned every hour on the hour. Scamell’s gone to the Foreign Ministry, to try diplomatic pressure to get us actively involved but all we’ll get is the runaround. I’m fucked, Charlie. For the first time in my life, I don’t have a lead to follow or a path to take. After the fuck up with the director I thought I was fireproof but not any longer. This could be goodbye John Deke Kayley. So all suggestions will be gratefully received.”
The way to take everything forward-probably solved it allburst upon Charlie with complete clarity. He said, “Sorry, mate. I’m as stymied as you are.”
Charlie bypassed both Richard Brooking and Anne Abbott, once more locking himself away in his riverview office and actually standing at the window, running the idea through his mind for problems and finding none. Except one: causing difficulties for Natalia if she was being manipulated in some way, which was as high as he was any longer prepared to consider her being an unwitting inside source. And the danger of which was, after all, why he intended lying to Anne Abbott and doing nothing about what he’d discovered that day.
Turning his back, Charlie reminded himself again, for the first time ever. It irked him, like the nagging, persistent pain from anabscess that was going to go on hurting until it was lanced. Whatever compromise or concession, he thought in further reminder. His personal difficulty was that giving up had always been the one compromise he’d never been prepared to make. So now was the time to learn. At least he knew himself he could probably have brought everything to a conclusion although examined as closely as he was examining now it wasn’t one hundred percent certain that he and Kayley could have instilled sufficient fear.
Brooking agreed to see Charlie at once and said again how grateful he was when Charlie delivered the death certificate. A complication had arisen with the Russians arguing the embassy was responsible for Vera Bendall’s burial as well but at least in her case they had a certificate. The housing officer was arranging it all. They were hoping Peter Bendall’s plot would be big enough to accommodate two more coffins. With luck they’d manage the interment without the media learning about it.
Anne said it was bad luck that George Bendall hadn’t been tattooed but that it had been worth checking and agreed that they had no jurisdiction whatsoever to investigate Vladimir Sakov. She wondered what Olga would do with the information about Vladimir Sakov and Charlie said he didn’t know but the militia colonel had promised to keep him informed.
“So what’s that leave you to do?” she asked.
“Wait for London’s instructions,” said Charlie.
They were waiting for him on his personal fax machine when he got back to his office. With Bendall-and his killer-dead the enquiry became entirely one between Russia and the United States of America. He was to take no further active part in the investigation, merely to maintain a liaison role to enable the file to be closed when it was satisfactorily concluded.
Now he’d been officially told to turn his back, Charlie recognized. It still irked him because he’d never done that when officially ordered, either.
25
Charlie called out for Sasha, which he always did if he got home to Lesnaya at a time she would be up, but there was no scurried response. Natalia was sitting in one of the large lounge chairs, facing the door, as if she were waiting.
Charlie said, “I hoped you’d be home.”
“Did you?”
“Where’s Sasha?”
“Sleeping over at Marina’s.”
“She’s only five.” Marina was Sasha’s closest friend at preschool.
“Five and a half. Which is old enough.”
Retreat, Charlie warned himself. “Of course it is. We could go out to dinner if you like.”
“No,”
He’d poured the ashes over his own head, Charlie reminded himself. “I’m getting a drink. Would you like one?”
“No.”
From the drinks tray he said, “London’s told me to stand away from the investigation. Leave everything to the militia and the Americans.”
“Have they?” She shouldn’t have packed the cases waiting in the bedroom because she didn’t want to do it. Now that the moment had come-now that she’d made the plans-Natalia wanted to pull back but knew she couldn’t. Or could she? It was only the cases, really. Couldn’t she hide them in a closet, stay after he’d left the following morning and unpack them?
Charlie sat on the matching couch, close enough to reach out and touch her but not doing so. From the attitude so far it was going to be a long time before he’d be touching her. “How did today go?”
Was it fair to seek his advice? There was no one else-another, finally accepted professional although now cynical reason for changingher mind-and Charlie had a bat-like protective antenna. “Not the way I expected.”
Better! seized Charlie. “Let’s go through it.”
Natalia did, hesitantly to begin with, and Charlie didn’t once interrupt hoping he’d found the first bridge. When she finally finished he said, “I think you’re right about pressure from Okulov: he’s got to do something to impress Washington to get the treaty he needs for the election. And purging the FSB-which needs purging from what you’ve told me-would be a hell of a way publicly to do it.”
“With the commission, which recommends the purge, the casualty of any battle between the communist- leaning FSB and the existing group in the Kremlin.”
