“You’re right, of course,” agreed Charlie. “What else could I have expected?” More professionalism, he thought, answering his own question.
“I’m relieved that Robertson and Fish have solved their problem,” announced the Director-General.
“Have they?” questioned Charlie, from his suspended telephone booth.
Aubrey Smith hesitated. “They will have when the new sweep is completed and if we locate some fresh bugs that will give us even more evidence.”
“I would have appreciated being told directly that they’d been seconded to my investigation.”
There was another pause from the London end. “Let’s not get petulant. Robertson called to tell me what had been found in Stout’s rooms and how Stout being kept at the press conference helped. There was a natural progression to the conversation that followed. You can’t be expected to handle everything by yourself. I thought Paula-Jane could be brought in, too. Her speaking Russian would help, wouldn’t it? Maybe Halliday, too. MI6 have offered their help.”
“I don’t want any permanent embassy staff included,” argued Charlie.
“Why not?”
“There’s been very little so far to give me any confidence or faith in existing staff here. I want to maintain the separation.”
“Robertson and Fish are sure Stout’s their spy.”
“I’m not,” disputed Charlie.
“Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“This was-and still is-an appallingly mismanaged embassy,” reminded Charlie. “My investigation should remain entirely independent from anyone here. Unquestionably the people with Robertson and Fish are sufficiently security cleared, but I need a system under which I personally examine and assess all recorded messages without my authority being questioned, apart from by you.” Charlie’s irritation was growing. “I know a secondary recording system has been installed ensuring calls will be taped to provide you with immediate access to every contact. I would like your guarantee that you will not instigate any action whatsover, as a result of what I have begun today, without prior discussion with me-”
“That is impudent insubordination!” interrupted the Director-General.
“That is a very necessary operational request, expressed as directly as it was to prevent the slightest misunderstanding between us,” persisted Charlie, glad that as always the exchange was being automatically recorded in London. “You have gone with me-trusted me-so far in risks that I have accepted to be entirely my responsibility. If I fail, I want that failure to be of my own mistakes and making, not through the interference of others following their insufficiently prepared initiatives or an agenda of which neither you nor I have prior knowledge.”
“I’ve read your file, know your history: Charlie Muffin, the maverick loner bucking all authority and opinions other than his own,” warned Smith. “And I’ve backed you all the way. Sometimes I’ve got to defer to collegiate pressure here.”
The internal counterintelligence department in which Robertson and Fish operated was under Jeffrey Smale’s direct control, Charlie remembered, many unexplained irritations abruptly becoming clearer.
The Director-General continued, “I think, upon reflection, that misunderstandings have occurred. Robertson can come back with his other two adjudicators, leaving his support staff with Fish and his people to provide your backup.”
Was Smith according him the battle honors? Or allowing Paul Robsertson a tactical retreat? “I’ll let Robertson know you want to talk to him again.” If he hadn’t won the battle he’d at least come out best in the skirmishes, Charlie decided.
“Don’t, for a single moment, forget anything I’ve told you,” pressed the man.
“Not for a single moment.”
Hunched on his bar corner stool at the Savoy Hotel, Charlie resisted the sink into self-pity, surprised at the feeling: self-pity wasn’t an emotion he very often, if ever, allowed himself. Of all his feelings after such an overfilled day-Natalia still firmly compartmented-the hovering depression was the easiest to identify. When he’d finally left the embassy, less than an hour ago, there had only been six calls to his dedicated telephone numbers: four of them, predictably, had been from journalists, seeking the earlier-refused personal interviews or follow-up information. The other two, predictable again, had been from cranks, a woman complaining that she was being sexually motivated by the FSB with a mind-controlling laser beam, and a man who interspersed his insistence upon a return to communist rule with a slurred rendition of one of the former Soviet Union’s marching anthems. Charlie had tried Pavel’s personal line as well as the two publicly supplied Petrovka numbers and got the answering service on all of them.
Working to retain his momentarily lost objectivity, Charlie acknowledged that it had been ridiculous to expect a worthwhile response so soon after the press conference. As yet, the appeal with its all-important contact numbers was virtually confined to television coverage and the late editions of two evening newspapers, and so far the TV coverage would not have been seen by anyone working normal office or factory hours. Charlie was encouraged by the one early evening TV repeat he had already seen in his suite by the station’s assurances of two additional and longer segments later that night, and the promise of an extended, although edited, version being carried the following day. He wasn’t, though, encouraged by his own hesitant stumbling and very visible perspiration during the press conference questioning. By his own judgement he’d appeared amateurish, suspiciously ill at ease, and haphazardly disheveled alongside the other three men. Briefly allowing a thought of Natalia to emerge from the locked part of his mind, Charlie hoped she would not have watched the full live coverage.
“The victor, savoring his triumph,” said the easily recognizable voice, behind him.
“You staying with fake scotch?” Charlie asked Halliday, not needing to turn to identify the man.
“It’s an acquired taste,” accepted the MI6 man, settling on the adjoining stool.
“What’s the triumph?” asked Charlie, ordering from the attentive bartender.
“Been watching satellite TV,” said Halliday. “CNN got hold of the viewing figures for your event to compare with those of Stepan Lvov’s keynote speech to his party’s annual assembly. You got 76 percent against Lvov’s 24. His people are going to be pissed off with that.”
“The success or otherwise of Stepan Lvov’s election isn’t in the forefront of my mind,” dismissed Charlie.
“It’s picking up elsewhere,” remarked Halliday. “
“I’ve had a few others things on my mind,” said Charlie, sourly.
“And now you’re going to get a hell of a lot more,” predicted Halliday. “Really thought Paula-Jane and I would be seconded to help with the workload.”
There was a throb in Charlie’s left instep, along with the thought that he’d be running out of come-join-me tickets if he’d turned it all into a commercial venture. “You know the problem involving embassy personnel in high- profile situations like this.”
“Paula-Jane’s really upset; thinks it’s personal.”
“Do you and Paula-Jane get included in everything that London decides here?”
“I’m sure I do: it’s a question of courtesy.”
“What about Paula-Jane?” questioned Charlie.
“I get the impression she does, too,” said Halliday. “What do you think about Reg Stout?”
“What about Reg Stout?”
Halliday actually turned for a more direct confrontation, glass suspended before him. “Charlie! I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt-
“Is it?” asked Charlie, doubtfully.
He had his question answered when, back in his suite, he tuned into the late evening ORT station’s news which, quoting “informed sources,” led with the disclosure of Reg Stout’s arrest and the suggestion that the
