the familiar bar, Charlie in his back-protective corner seat and the drinks ordered, that Charlie was able to say, “What’s all the head shaking about?”
“They’re not the same,” declared Fish, with another appropriate head movement.
“What’s not the same?”
“The listening devices,” said Fish, patiently. “Remember I told you those in the embassy were state of the art, which I thought they were because I’d never seen anything like them before? These are even better! They’re fantastic and I’d sell my soul as well as my body to get hold of one to dismantle and reverse engineer.”
“What are you telling me?” persisted Charlie, feeling another sink of unwanted bewilderment.
“
“You tell me,” invited Charlie.
“I can’t,” admitted Fish. “But I’d like to be able to.”
So would he, Charlie decided, adding it to his list.
16
Charlie was glad he’d protectively warned the television media of the likelihood of pooled arrangements because overnight, effectively with just six hours before the start of what he realistically accepted to be one of the greatest gambles he’d ever taken, forty-three more attendance applications, ten of them from additional stations, were logged at Robertson’s embassy vetting room. By that time, Charlie’s painstakingly created priority list was mentally shredded by Harry Fish’s discovery in the Savoy Hotel suite, and Charlie personally and arbitrarily decreed the share between Russian, American, and British TV stations, rejecting any decision-reversing arguments against his edicts with the warning that any station refusing to accept his ruling would be refused attendance altogether. Anxious not to miss Sergei Pavel’s expected approach, Charlie accepted Fish’s offer of a pager attachment to his dedicated apartment telephones, as well as his previously allocated line, his suspicion of the man’s overall monitoring confirmed by Fish not asking for an explanation for the request. Charlie was surprised to the point of astonishment-although in turn not seeking an explanation-that Reg Stout was included by Robertson for their final tour of the specially assigned conference facility and the route to it from the gatehouse, accepting Fish’s assurances without fully understanding the detailed explanations that the embassy and its ancillary buildings were totally secured against electronic intrusion. Charlie did understand how completely those attending the conference would be recorded from the three television cameras presenting a 360-degree surveillance within the hall, in addition to those temporarily added to the now fully operational outside cover. There still hadn’t been any contact from Pavel when they ended the tour back in the conference chamber, with a complete rehearsal of the embassy secretaries who were to be stationed throughout the room with handheld microphones for individual questioners and a final check of the translator’s booth.
Charlie waited until Stout left for his self-appointed supervision of the gatehouse arrivals before saying, “Why’s Reg to be included?”
“He’s officially responsible for embassy security,” said Robertson.
Charlie’s intended protest at not being consulted was stopped by his pager’s vibration, its source registering on its screen. Charlie at once recognized the street phone number.
“It’s your now transferred original line: it’s not secure if it’s transferred a second time through the switchboard,” hurriedly intruded Fish.
“You’ve just told me everything electrical is totally secure behind a white noise barrier,” said Charlie, as the pager continued to reverberate.
“There’s a risk with a double transfer,” insisted the other man.
Mumbo-jumbo bullshit, decided Charlie, picking up the conference-hall extension and telling an immediately responding operator to put the call through.
The voice Charlie instantly recognized to be Pavel’s said: “Fifteen minutes.”
“Yes,” acknowledged Charlie, though unsure if the Russian heard him so quickly was the outside street telephone replaced. Turning back to the other two men, Charlie said, “Your secondary monitor, the one I’m not supposed to know you’ve attached to the apartment lines, wouldn’t have got that, would it, Harry?”
“A backup is an obvious precaution,” tried Robertson.
“Why play silly buggers and not tell me there was one?” demanded Charlie.
“We’re not spying on you,” insisted Fish.
“I would, if I were in your position,” said Charlie, sardonically. “I just wouldn’t be so bad at it.”
“Who was it?” demanded a tight-lipped Robertson.
Charlie’s hesitation was more to continue the other man’s annoyance than to avoid the answer. “Sergei Pavel.”
Initially, there was blank-faced silence from the two men, until Robertson said, “It was my understanding that no one officially involved in your murder investigation was to attend.”
“Working entirely independently from the FSB?” questioned Robertson.
“It’s my decision and my responsibility,” stated Charlie. He was unsure approaching the thronged entrance if the already assembled media were early arrivals or a separate assembly of FSB agents and informers to record and identify those arrivals. Within the gatehouse, in addition to its now totally functioning CCTV system, Reg Stout was virtually at attention behind Russian-speaking embassy staff there to confirm that every attending journalist and technician was listed against their official accreditation documentation. The setup reminded Charlie of the passport controlled and suspect-indexed checks at the long ago Checkpoint Charlie crossing between East and West Berlin during the numbing days of the Cold War. He’d once had to let a man be killed there to prevent being shot himself, he further recalled. It was wrong to remember; to invite ghosts.
It was difficult through the gate office window to isolate the face for which Charlie was looking, but from the main, better windowed exit and entry section he at last saw Pavel, trying to keep himself apart from the ebbing and flowing melee while at the same time hopefully using its protective concealment from the sweeping camera lenses. The Russian detective located Charlie at the same time, hurrying through the door Charlie opened to an instant explosion of camera lights.
“I didn’t expect this,” greeted Pavel. The man’s excitement was obvious.
“Who is this? I need an identity!” officiously demanded Stout.
It was Charlie, caught by a sudden idea, who answered, although in the Russian Stout was supposed not to understand. “Colonel Pavel is attending upon my authority,” Charlie told the registration clerks.
“I need to see some provable ID,” insisted the clerk, also in Russian.
“You’re looking at it. It’s me,” said Charlie, impatiently.
Stout shifted, as if to intrude further, but didn’t.
Pavel nodded back toward the gatehouse as they emerged into the crash-barrier controlled walkway. “Was that a problem?”
“We’ll see,” said Charlie. He was conscious of one of the temporary camera installations keeping them constantly under observation as they approached the hall. Neither Robertson nor Fish were there. Charlie led the way past Fish’s monitoring technicians making their last-minute equipment adjustments into a rear anteroom in which three closed circuit screens were already operating, although without sound. One showed the approach from the gatehouse along which they had just walked. The other two were focused on the inside of the hall from two different angles, totally covering the area. At that moment on both were pictures of sound technicians moving along the already set-out chairs, depositing on each ear pieces for simultaneous translation.
Pavel looked briefly at the screens. “It all looks very impressive.”
“It’s got to be impressive,” said Charlie. “If something doesn’t come out of this, I don’t see a way forward. I’ve lost any contact, certainly any cooperation, with Guzov: with everyone, except you. And what
“It’s a gamble I had to take. If they believe I’m the only conduit, being here today is my best guarantee to be
