“It could,” qualified Charlie. Now to the more difficult part, he thought. “There’s something more you-and London-needs to know. I believe the Russian coordinating their side of the murder investigation is, in fact, an officer of their counterintelligence service. And that the Russian intention is not to solve the crime but make the failure a British responsibility. If the conference is approved, I intend that man be excluded.”
Maidment remained silent for several moments. “I will not be drawn-I will not allow this already embarrassed embassy to be drawn-into any further difficulties.”
“It won’t be,” insisted Charlie. “It’s to avoid any further difficulties that we’re having this conversation.”
There was another pause. “Are you convinced this whole thing is necessary?”
“Beyond any doubt. I don’t believe the Russians have made any progress whatsoever, despite a genuine effort from the militia officer involved.”
“Have you got any evidence to substantiate that belief?”
“None.”
“This isn’t going to be an easy discussion with London.”
“I wish there were more I could offer,” said Charlie, sincerely. “I expect there to be a lot of pressure for it to be a joint British-Russian affair.”
“What will you do if you’re refused permission?”
It would be the easiest-and safest-course for the man to take, accepted Charlie. “If I am refused, I will lose the control I want-I
“And you’ve no idea what that is?”
“Absolutely none.”
“We might even return to London together, both empty-handed,” reflected the man.
“Quite possibly,” accepted Charlie, fatalistically.
Charlie was in Gorky Park’s cultural center with time to spare, despite the necessary Metro-dodging trail clearing, on a bench that gave him a view of every path approach to the Ferris wheel over a concealing copy of that day’s
Charlie told himself he’d done everything and more to push-start his role in the investigation. The rest of the day was personally his. He was going to see for the first time in five years the daughter he adored. And the woman with whom he was determined to spend the rest of his life, wherever and whatever that life might be.
There was a physical stomach jump when he saw them. Natalia was wearing a cream skirt and a deeply colored shirt, dark blue or maybe even black, Sasha’s hand in hers. Sasha was taller than he’d expected from the photographs, up to her mother’s waist. She was wearing light-colored trousers, faded jeans perhaps, and a roll- necked sweater as dark as her mother’s. Her blond hair was long, practically to her shoulders, in a ponytail that jumped and tossed in time as she skipped at Natalia’s side, gesturing excitedly toward the slowly revolving Ferris wheel.
There was not the slightest recognition, but Charlie was sure Natalia had isolated where he sat, watching. He kept to their arrangement, remaining where he was as they joined the short queue, not getting up to move closer until they were next in line to get into their gondola, moving close enough to the ride, the better to see Sasha before it rose above him. Natalia looked very directly at him then but still showed no recognition; Sasha was looking up, to see how high they were going, still gesturing for Natalia to look, too.
Charlie backed off, although not as far as his original bench, stopping about five yards away. That was close enough to see them both when they got off, see them practically near enough to touch and imagine what it was going to be like when they were all together in England-or wherever Natalia wanted them to live. Charlie followed their ascent until his neck ached from how far back he had to strain and picked them up again on their descent, seeing Natalia pick him out as the gondola got closer to the ground. At first, she remained as impassive as she had been when they lifted off but when they were at the point of getting off, Natalia’s face broke into a frown and Charlie hurriedly, although as unobtrusively as possible, shook his head in reassurance that he wasn’t going to attempt any encounter, physically pulling back farther.
It was Sasha who got off the ride first, obviously saying something to her mother as she did so, and not stopping on the raised platform but running down the steps with her arms outstretched toward a fair-haired, Slavic- featured man in jeans who held his arms out toward her, lifting her, laughing, high in the air and twirling her around and around.
13
Charlie Muffin drank for enjoyment, not oblivion, which kept the bottle of Islay single malt untouched upon the bureau of the Savoy suite in which he slumped, the conflicting half thoughts jostling in his uncertain mind.
This wasn’t Natalia; couldn’t be Natalia. Or could it? She was a KGB-schooled debriefer, trained to suspend all personal operational feelings: that was how they’d met when she’d been his relentless interrogator determined to discover if his British jailbreak and supposed defection was genuine or phony. He’d professionally cheated her then, not just by convincing her he was an authentic defector but by persuading her and her superiors that the real defector with whom he’d fled England was the fake. He’d cheated her again, on that occasion personally as well as professionally, when-not knowing she was pregnant with their child from their Moscow affair before he escaped back to England-he hadn’t trusted her sufficiently to keep their London rendezvous from which, just once, she
He’d atoned, Charlie mentally insisted, seeking a balance to his own deceits and failings. When he’d learned about Sasha-no, he stopped himself, refusing the self-serving excuse: when, belatedly accepting his being in love
Could-should-he really be so surprised that after suffering all those abandonments Natalia had chosen the revenge she had orchestrated those few hours ago in the park? Yes, he answered himself. Despite what had happened he could never-would never-conceive Natalia to be a vengeful person.
So what had it been? Why had she set up the opportunity for him to see their daughter-virtually choreographing the situation-to include a man whom Sasha very clearly knew and trusted and into whose arms she’d so unhesitatingly ran?
Charlie didn’t know, no matter how many different conflicting, contradictory arguments he advanced to himself. And so he couldn’t conclude it to be anything other than understandable and ultimate revenge for all the hurts and fears and uncertainties he’d inflicted upon her. Which inevitably brought more conclusions, the most numbing of which was that she’d forced herself to make the nostalgic Botanical Gardens reunion-nostalgic for him, if not for her-to set up the scourging Gorky Park proof that everything was over between them: that she’d found another man-a younger, even more presentable Russian man-whom she loved and whom Sasha very obviously loved.
Which he could do nothing but accept. Charlie acknowledged that it was finally time for long overdue reality. He’d have to convince her it wouldn’t be difficult for him to make everything as easy as possible for her and Sasha, although in reality, it would be impossibly, achingly difficult. He didn’t know anything about Russian civil law but they’d been apart for five years, without any cohabitation, which should make grounds for a divorce straightforward enough for her. Desertion was the most obvious, he supposed, if it existed on the Russian statute books. If it didn’t there was sure to be something similar that would fit. Would he surrender Sasha for adoption, if Natalia wanted to remarry? That wasn’t even a question. Of course he would. He’d have to, to make everything complete for them. That’s what he had to do, make everything complete for both of them, as easily and as smoothly as possible.
