incision, Charlie said to the pathologist: “There was nothing in your first report of stomach contents?”
“A partially digested meal, eaten maybe an hour to an hour and a half before he died,” replied Ivanov, at once.
“Possible to analyze?”
Ivanov nodded. “I don’t think it would have been, normally. There was some in the gullet, as if it was being expelled. I think he died as he was about to vomit from the agony of what was being done to him. I recovered ground beef and some bread residue. I’d say he’d eaten a hamburger. There was also some liquid mixed with the ort, with a high sugar content, which I’d say came from a cola.”
“McDonald’s is very popular here in Moscow,” offered Pavel.
“And our victim wore cheap clothes and shoes, so a man with a limited income would eat in a fast-food outlet, wouldn’t he?” said Charlie, familiar with the menu from his own London diet, eaten more for disinterested convenience than economy. Going back to the pathologist, Charlie said: “There is another thing I need to establish. Your first report didn’t give a blood grouping?”
“It’s in the addendum,” said Ivanov, defensively, picking up and letting drop the manila folder at the bottom of the slab. “It’s AB.”
Charlie nodded, head momentarily forward on his chest. “Of course it is.”
“What?” exclaimed Pavel, frowning.
“It’s what the British forensic people recovered from the separate soil samples from the area we examined,” Charlie lied. Five minutes earlier he hadn’t even thought of the need to match the Russian blood findings.
“We really do need to hear what you’ve got to tell us!” insisted Guzov, the earlier bombast weakening.
“As we really do need to examine one thing at a time,” argued Charlie, instantly registering Pavel’s apparent smile of approval at the confrontation. “What about toxicology?”
“Also in the report,” sighed Ivanov, tapping the folder. “There’s evidence of barbitumiv acid in the blood.”
“How concentrated?” demanded Charlie, identifying another Russian-convincing bonus.
“Weak.”
“Not barbiturates of anaesthetic strength?”
“Definitely not. Is that what your toxicologists found?” asked Ivanov, making it even easier for Charlie’s improvisation.
“They wouldn’t positively commit themselves,” tiptoed Charlie, cautiously. “My impression from the conversation was that it was a little stronger than sedative level?”
“I’d go along with that,” agreed the pathologist.
“Are you saying this man was sedated before he was tortured?” demanded Guzov, too eager again.
Charlie was almost too eager himself to put the Russian down but held back for the pathologist. “No, of course not!” rejected the doctor, careless of the obvious exasperation.
“Whoever did what they did to him certainly didn’t want to spare him pain,” picked up Charlie. “It’s an outside guess that his killers used sleeping pills or draughts to sedate him
“It was too faint for that,” argued Ivanov. “It’s a sleeping preparation.”
“I called it an outside guess,” reminded Charlie, an escape route prepared. Having established far more than he’d hoped, Charlie turned to Guzov and said, “Why don’t we talk things through now?” putting the impending exchange very firmly under his, not Guzov’s, control.
The room was a marginal improvement upon what Charlie had at the British embassy, but it would have required a micrometer to measure that margin. At least the smell of formaldehyde and disinfectant was less. And his success in reversing how Guzov had clearly intended their meeting to go had done a lot to ease the tightening alcoholic band around Charlie’s head: in fact, there was hardly any ache troubling him any longer. Determined to build upon what he had already achieved and using his newly acquired folder as a prompt, Charlie said at once, “This has been an extremely useful, confirming discussion. Our respective scientists have positively but independently matched the blood as well as the barbitumiv content within the victim’s body. There has been a very calculated and well-planned attempt to conceal the identity, not just upon the body, but by cutting all the labels from the clothing as well as emptying its pockets. . ” He looked between the two Russians, refusing to accord seniority to Guzov. “London believes there could be a lot more discovered from the clothes and so far we haven’t discussed them. I’m told forensically they could be far more productive, providing dust, fibers, hair other than that of the victim, under detailed analysis. I’ve been asked formally to request that everything the man was wearing be made available to London when your detailed examination is concluded, so that we can continue the cooperation that we’re enjoying now-”
“Let’s stop right there!” halted a now very red-faced Guzov, unable any longer to contain the indignation at being so completely steamrollered. “What cooperation? So far everything has come from us, nothing from you. I do not know anything about cooperation being agreed. And-”
“I thought I had explained my operational difficulty very clearly and fully,” blocked Charlie, in turn. “And understood from what you told me earlier today that Secretary Kashev was currently involved in trying to resolve that difficulty.”
“Until which time and until there is some reciprocity from your side, I do not consider a case for cooperation has been established or agreed!”
Hardball or softball? Somewhere in between, Charlie decided. “You also told me this morning that you were representing your ministry. Is the view you have expressed that of your ministry? If it is, then it is obviously a matter I shall have to raise with London.”
“I am talking of the lack of reciprocity.” The man backed off.
Which wasn’t an answer to his question but certainly was to Guzov’s bombast, thought Charlie. “I find myself at a loss to know how to continue this conversation. I believed I had made very clear the matching medical findings I shall be able to provide from London. As well as the CCTV enhancements that we talked about at the meeting at Petrovka. We’re at a stalemate here.”
“I am sure it is something that can be resolved, although perhaps not today,” came in Pavel, whose irritable looks at the other Russian, as well as annoyed shifting in his seat, Charlie had been aware of during his exchange with Guzov.
“I would certainly hope so, as soon as possible,” said Charlie. He’d achieved everything and more than he’d hoped, and there was still time to keep the luncheon appointment with Bill Bundy. He hoped he’d do as well there, too.
9
It was virtually instinctive for Charlie to check for unwelcome company, particularly when he was on foreign assignment, and after that morning’s confrontation with Mikhail Guzov, Charlie ratcheted up the concentration, not going directly to the Pekin but taking the taxi by a roundabout route to the Arbat shopping area and holding it while he briefly toured the stalls and outlets, ready actually to buy something for Natalia or Sasha if anything caught his eye. Nothing did, but a small BMW he’d isolated close to the mortuary continued three cars behind when the taxi moved off again. The detour and the traffic buildup on the freeway delayed his arrival and Bundy was at their table, mineral water already poured, by the time Charlie got there.
“Bad traffic,” apologized Charlie.
“Just got here myself,” said the American, which Charlie doubted, guessing someone as old school as Bundy would have given himself at least an hour to clear his trail.
Although not a hair-of-the-dog advocate, Charlie decided the success of his morning-and the gradual settling of his stomach-justified a preprandial vodka. Raising it to the other man in a toast, Charlie said, “To the death of all our enemies.”
“Difficult to pick them all out these days, don’t you think, Charlie?”
“I guess white hats against black hats or vice versa was easier,” encouraged Charlie, relaxing back in his
