“We have a routine,” said Natalia. “If she’s done well, which she did with the summer school project, I take Sasha to the central park of culture to let her enjoy herself on the rides and amusements. We’re going there tomorrow afternoon.”
Everything was arriving from London tomorrow, Charlie remembered. And he still didn’t know why Pavel had approached him as he had, insisting upon the Varvarka rendezvous. “You want us to meet there?”
“No,” said Natalia, sharply. “I thought you wanted to see her. I don’t want you suddenly to appear, like a ghost. I want to prepare her, before any meeting.”
“There might be a problem with tomorrow. Some things might be happening.”
“It won’t matter if you can’t make it,” said Natalia, realistically. “We’re going anyway, around three o’clock. Be by the Ferris wheel if you can: Sasha always likes to ride it. If I don’t see you, I’ll know you’re held up and I’ll wait for another call, like this.”
“I’ll be there,” promised Charlie, unsettled by the arm’s length dismissal.
“If you’re not, call.”
It hadn’t been the sort of conversation he’d expected or wanted, Charlie thought, as he continued on toward Varvarka, sure from watching everything around him that he remained quite alone. Natalia had obviously acknowledged their only chance of being together permanently was for her and Sasha to resettle in England. So why wasn’t he feeling encouraged? Because, he supposed, of the reservations in almost everything she’d said, capped by her idea of his seeing Sasha from afar but not meeting her. But Natalia was right about preparing the child. Perhaps, even, it was a good idea that he be prepared, too. He hadn’t done anything about a present, for either of them. Plenty of opportunity for that. Better, probably, not to go bearing gifts the first time they got together as a family.
Charlie had no difficulty locating the workers’ cafe in the side street off the main road. In these casual, inexpensive bar/cafes, there was normally a scattering of places to sit but the preferred way of eating and drinking appeared to be standing up at small, mushroom-style tables. Pavel was already at one, a salami sandwich before him. There was no recognition. Charlie bought himself a coffee at the counter, intent upon any warning gesture of refusal from the waiting detective as he went toward the rear of the smoke-fogged cafe, finally going to Pavel’s stand.
“This might have all been overdramatic,” apologized Pavel, at once.
“What, exactly, are we doing?” opened Charlie, cautiously.
“Meeting properly by ourselves, as we should be doing, not having everything monitored and orchestrated by Mikhail Aleksandrovivh Guzov.”
Pissed-off policeman or poorly prepared provocateur? wondered Charlie. Whatever, he had to go along to see where it led but watch his back even more closely and carefully than he was already doing, if that were possible. “You got a professional problem?”
“You know he’s FSB, don’t you?”
“It wasn’t too difficult to guess,” tiptoed Charlie, waiting for the question about his own genuine profession. Which, surprisingly, didn’t come.
Instead Pavel said, “The way things are going-or rather
Which in general terms was what he’d already worked out for himself, decided Charlie, becoming increasingly bewildered by the conversation. “Why does he want to sabotage everything?”
“I don’t know, not completely,” admitted Pavel. “But there’s one thing that I think might be an indicator. Guzov is absolutely insistent that the listening devices weren’t planted by the FSB. Or by the
“How else could listening devices get into the embassy unless FSB officers put them there!”
Pavel shrugged. “I don’t have an explanation for that, either, but if the murder investigation ends in a mess then so, too, do allegations of planting bugs and spying. Leaving you and me, the two failed investigators, taking the blame for each and every failure. I don’t want that-couldn’t professionally survive that-and I don’t imagine you want to fail, either.”
Certainly not after the litany of complaints and criticisms he’d endured from London over the last few days, acknowledged Charlie, that thought colliding with another, that no provocateur could be as inept as Pavel was showing himself to be. “What do you want me to do?”
“Start making things happen, the way they should be happening. Despite Guzov’s interference and obstruction, I’ve done all the routine stuff: missing persons, gang feud rumors, informer whispers. I’ve gone through forensics until I can recite every finding practically from memory. And got nowhere: we’re looking at the perfect murder. There’s got to be something innovative to break it open and I don’t know what it is. Or could be. And even if I did, Guzov would overrule whatever I suggested. . ” The Russian paused, smiling tentatively. “But he couldn’t do anything to stop you, which is why he wants to be at your shoulder every time we meet.”
Charlie found a lot-most-of Pavel’s reasoning convoluted and obviously unsubstantiated, leaving him with only one point of total clarity: he couldn’t for a moment professionally risk everything collapsing as the Russian was predicting. But could he remotely consider exposing himself in the way Pavel was suggesting? There was a way, he supposed, although it would expose him to public recognition, which he’d never done before and had argued against so very recently. But did that matter if he were going to resign the service to make possible what he wanted with Natalia and Sasha?
“If I do something to exclude Guzov, he’ll exclude me from anything you’re going to do.”
“He’s doing that anyway. But I wouldn’t exclude you: we could go on like this.”
“Why are you taking such risks?”
“I stand to lose either way,” Pavel pointed out.
“I need to think things through,” said Charlie, consciously avoiding the commitment.
“If Guzov knows we’ve met like this he’ll get me off the case, which he’s already tried to do,” disclosed Pavel. “He wants to replace me with his own tame militia man.”
“How can we stop him from doing that?”
Pavel shrugged. “Lose me and you lose any possible cooperation.”
In how many different ways could he lose? Charlie asked himself. And didn’t bother to start counting.
12
For something upon which Charlie’s future, if not his actual existence, still depended, the supposed forensic evidence of assassination appeared remarkably inconsequential, apart from the totally manufactured CCTV record and its freeze frames showing the entry into the embassy grounds of the victim and his killers. The only other tangible evidence was a comparatively small vial of provable embassy soil, into which AB blood had been introduced and a sliver of provable Russian metal from a provable 9mm Makarov bullet. There were also photographs of the supposed score mark caused by that ricocheting exiting bullet. There were also duplicated stacks of technically phrased forensic tests and findings, in Russian, to accompany and support every exhibit.
Charlie ran the loop through the replay machine several times before going just as exhaustively and individually through every exhibit and report, finally convinced, despite the reservations of technical director Jack Smethwick, that with the exception of DNA testing it was all unchallengeable.
Positively separating the professional and personal dilemmas with which he was confronted, Charlie concentrated first upon the bizarre cafe confrontation with Sergei Pavel. And always arrived back at the conclusion he’d reached walking with aching feet back along Varvarka the previous evening: that Pavel’s approach and reasoning was so open to question and doubt that it had to be genuine, not a layered deception devised to eliminate him from an investigation the Russians were determined to keep to themselves.
Which was how he put it to the Director-General from the familiar communications room, reluctantly making the approach not so much from the need for a general sounding board but very specifically to relay Guzov’s disclosure to a fellow Russian that the FSB was not responsible for bugging the embassy.
“The devices are provably Russian!” exclaimed Aubrey Smith, impatiently. “Who else but the FSB put them
