“It will,” insisted Charlie, feeling as claustrophobically enclosed as he had in the communications compartment in the embassy basement. But not, Charlie was determined, in the way that these two men planned for him to be.
14
Charlie got his preferred corner stool in the hotel bar, with its fuller view of anyone who might approach from behind reflected in the glass-fronted bar mirror. He was as expectant of an approach as he had earlier been for the first entry into his office, although as equally unsure now as he had been then as to who might come. He knew only that it most certainly wouldn’t be Paula-Jane Venables. Which was a comfort.
Charlie still wished he’d known about her second clearance, not from any mistaken interference on his part but rather for its reassurance. What he didn’t find reassuring-or even believable-was that Jeremy Dawkins could possibly be the spider in the middle of any embassy web.
He was more than content for Robertson and Fish to be co-opted although, unsuspected by them, on his terms, not theirs. He needed people to sift the hoped-for kernels from the chaff, for which Robertson’s investigators were preeminently suited. Charlie was reasonably confident he could manage the essential secondary sieving to separate those leads he intended personally to pursue from the cranks he’d leave to Robertson’s team. The further, even surprising, benefits from their embassy planning session had been Robertson’s apparent expectation, before it being suggested, that he should appear on the conference podium and Fish’s insistence that he could generate during the conference sufficient white noise to defeat any mobile or landline spying interception of all communication.
Charlie nodded his acceptance of another vodka from the attentive bartender, finally confronting the reflection he’d consciously refused to consider all day, trying to convince himself that he hadn’t expected contact from Natalia. For him to have done so would have been like budgeting to win a lottery. The approach had to come from him and with the press conference not scheduled until Wednesday, there was no reason why he shouldn’t initiate it, apart from fear of rejection.
Drink in hand, on the point of finishing it before making the call, Charlie turned more fully into the gradually filling bar, curious about which of the supposed relaxing drinkers was the watcher assigned to him, professionally sure that there would be one: possibly even one of the assembling working girls, grouped conveniently for an easy exit close to the door in the hope of early evening trade. Charlie raised his glass to drain it but abruptly stopped, halted by the most unexpected approach of all.
“I’m glad I found you,” said Mikhail Guzov.
From their obvious reaction to Guzov’s appearance, Charlie decided his surveillance was a dual operation between a bearded man and a full-breasted blond girl who’d ruined the charade by snatching her hand from her pretend lover, as if embarrassed at being caught out by her FSB superior.
Charlie began to doubt his expectations when, instead of choosing mineral water at his drink invitation, Guzov asked for vodka, suggested a toast-to friendship-and settled comfortably on the adjoining stool without following up on his opening remark.
To fill the gap, Charlie said: “You’ve got all my numbers.”
Without looking away from his drink, Guzov said: “And you’ve got all mine. And didn’t call any of them about the press conference.”
“You knew I was organizing it.”
“And you knew we wanted participation.”
“I also told you of the problem with that. Which I can’t do anything to reverse.”
“You know none of our intelligence agencies had anything to do with planting those devices.”
“I know you continue to tell me that: to tell the same to the embassy here and the Foreign Office in London.” This was going beyond-far beyond-the normal diplomatic denials, almost into the realms of farce, thought Charlie.
“It’s true.”
Charlie spread his hands, palms upward, in a gesture of helplessness. “It’s an impossible situation. And one I can’t do anything about.”
“You could authorize our attendance.”
“Our?” queried Charlie, pedantically.
“Myself and Sergei Romanovich. This is supposed to be a joint investigation. If we are not publicly there, it amounts to a positive accusation and will be interpreted as such.”
The man was genuinely concerned at the personal, professional damage of his being excluded, Charlie suddenly decided, warmed by the further, unnecessary recognition that everyone at their level lived at the receiving end of the shit sluice. With that reflection came another, far more important awareness. This encounter wouldn’t be taking place if the Russians had subjected his phony forensic material to DNA testing. Charlie said, “Surely it won’t be a personal accusation against you and Sergei Romanovich?”
“There needs to be a Russian presence,” insisted Guzov, giving Charlie the cosmetically salvaging cooperation opening he’d never anticipated getting.
“I’m not handling the attendance applications,” said Charlie. “But the conference is sure to be covered in its entirety by Russian television. A full tape-not an edited transmission version-will provide you with every question and every answer. I also undertake to make available the embassy film and audio recordings.”
It was Guzov who gestured for more drinks before sourly looking sideways. “The purpose of press conferences is to generate public response. What’s your undertaking about that?”
“Responses will be made available, along with everything else,” replied Charlie, expecting the demand. For you to chase the chaff behind Robertson’s crew, Charlie thought.
Guzov looked back into his drink. “I was forbidden from making this sort of approach.”
“Why did you?” asked Charlie, astonished that Guzov was shoveling the special relationship, professional-to- professional crap.
“It was a mistake to try,” admitted the Russian.
“I’ve given you every possible undertaking that I can. There isn’t any more.” Charlie had turned more fully into the bar for the conversation with the Russian and got an impression-which was all it was, the barest flicker of a face, of a person-at the entrance to the bar, which he imagined to be Natalia.
“Things aren’t as they seem,” declared the Russian.
“I don’t understand,” said Charlie, dismissing the distraction.
“And I can’t explain.”
“That’s even more difficult to understand.”
“I know.”
Charlie gestured for more drinks but Guzov covered his glass with his hand. “Can we meet, officially, tomorrow?”
“Of course,” agreed Charlie.
“Petrovka, at noon?”
“I’ll be there.” For what? wondered Charlie, deciding not to ask, his mind still held by the split-second image of Natalia, knowing that was all-the only thing-it could have been, a mental trick.
It was an additional ten minutes, the time it took him to finish his drink and get to his suite floor, before Charlie learned, after the briefest of alarms, that it was nothing of the sort.
It was not a shifting sound or the faintest breathing but instinct alone and Charlie stopped his hand short of the light switch, knowing at once there was someone already in the room. And when the single sidelight clicked on it was not he who caused it but the momentarily still unseen intruder who said, “Close the door,” and Charlie finally knew who it was.
“You frightened me,” he said.
“Guzov frightened me.” Natalia moved from the shadows, for Charlie to see her at last. She was wearing a
