Red Star Rising

embassy security man was involved in the murder investigation as well as the spy hunt.

18

By the time Charlie reached the embassy the following morning, just after seven, the message capacity on one of his dedicated telephones was blocked by the overflow of incoming calls, and the register on the second showed there was less than two minutes recording space left. There were just three minutes remaining on his personally assigned line. It only took seconds for two of Fish’s technicians to download the messages from all three instruments, each of which was switched to speaker reception. Practically every call they reviewed was a media demand-worldwide approaches almost equaling those from within Russia-for comment or more information on the previous night’s ORT disclosure. So were all but seven on the overnight tapes. Three of the outstanding seven were cranks, one again from the singing communist zealot. Charlie ordered all but four of these calls-each duplicates from ORT-to be wiped, with no intention of responding. Of the four that remained, three were from men, the other from a woman. Two of the men insisted the murder of the one-armed man to be a gang killing, offering an identity for money-one for?5,000, the other for?1,000-which had to be left in advance at designated places before they’d call back with the name. The third man, who didn’t leave a return number, said he personally knew the victim and would make contact again. The woman, who sounded old, thought the one-armed man was her husband who hadn’t returned from the siege of Leningrad during the Great Patriotic War.

One exception, on Charlie’s personally allocated line, was from Bill Bundy. The CIA man said: “You feel in need of a sympathetic ear, you’ve got my number, Charlie.”

“Robertson was as pissed off as hell at being called back to London,” said Fish, who’d remained in the room with his technicians listening to every playback. “He’ll be even more upset about the TV disclosure.”

“I’m sure he will be,” agreed Charlie, philosophically.

Fish indicated the tape still containing the television station approaches. “You going to return those?”

“I need to know who’s still leaking from inside this embassy.”

“You think the station’s going to tell you!”

“I won’t know unless I ask, will I?” said Charlie.

A woman answered the ORT number, her voice lifting the moment Charlie identified himself. “We very much appreciate your calling back, Mr. Muffin.”

“You are?”

Harry Fish turned from the apparatus he was now operating alone, nodding confirmation that the sound levels were providing a perfect recording.

“I am Svetlana Modin, ORT’s main news anchor. Your information at yesterday’s conference was extremely useful.”

Fish gave a thumbs-up, nodding approvingly at the identification and mouthing that they had her image on film.

“You called me?” invited Charlie, his feet beginning to throb in warning.

There was just the slightest uncertainty in the laugh. “We certainly have a lot to discuss.”

“About what?”

The laugh was stronger this time. “About your security chief, Reginald Stout, the man close to you on the platform yesterday.”

“Are you recording this conversation?” demanded Charlie.

“I can assure you that we at ORT are jealous of our integrity and consider accuracy the cornerstone of our journalism.”

“That’s not an answer to my question.”

“Do you want me to stop the recording?”

“Your integrity didn’t extend sufficiently to your telling me what you were doing.”

“I’ve stopped doing it now.”

“Why don’t you come to speak to me here, at the embassy?”

“With a film crew?” the woman asked, urgently.

“No, definitely not with a film crew,” refused Charlie. “I will see you here in one hour. I have also recorded this conversation. You will not be allowed to bring any recording equipment into the embassy. Don’t attempt any hidden devices, after openly surrendering an obvious machine at the gatehouse: the room in which we meet will be electronically protected against any attempted recording.”

“I can’t accept those restrictions,” the woman tried to argue, hurriedly.

“Then there is no purpose in continuing this conversation or in your coming here. Good-bye-”

“No!” blurted Svetlana, anxiously. “Okay! I accept the conditions.”

“That sounded pretty good to me,” suggested Fish, as Charlie replaced the telephone. “But I still don’t imagine she’ll give you her source.”

Reflectively Charlie said, “I think Svetlana Modin’s a very, very clever lady. And that she thinks I am a very, very stupid man, which is hardly surprising after my performance. Can you get me a written transcript of that conversation?”

“Did I miss something?” Fish frowned.

“I think the definite intention was that I should,” judged Charlie. “We still got yesterday’s cameras on the gatehouse.”

“Yes.”

“And they’re still operational in Robertson’s inquiry room, with all the recording gear there?”

“Yes,” said Fish.

“Can you record whatever conversation I have with her there while at the same time preventing her using a concealed device?”

“It won’t be perfect,” said the electronics expert, cautiously.

“But still audible?”

“I can enhance it, later. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on, Charlie?”

“I will when I’m sure myself.”

Charlie watched Fish hurry from the room, adding another uncertainty to all his others: Why hadn’t Pavel made contact by now? It was irrefutable logic that the Russian would-should-have done so, after the television revelation, quite irrespective of all the Petrovka lines being tapped by Guzov’s FSB.

When Charlie got the answering machines on two of Pavel’s numbers and an unavailable signal from the third-which Charlie assumed to be jammed to overflowing-he rang the main Petrovka switchboard. The operator insisted that no one in the headquarters building knew the militia colonel’s whereabouts. There was no reply from the personal line Charlie had for Mikhail Guzov and although there was a listed number for the Federal’naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti, Charlie held back from ringing it, reminding himself that he was not officially supposed to know that the man was a serving officer.

Charlie’s frustration was broken by Harry Fish’s return, two closely typed foolscap pages in his hand. “Now I’ve read what she said as well as hearing it. I’d say Svetlana Modin is one hard-assed bitch.”

Charlie didn’t speak until he’d read the transcript through himself, twice. On his third reading he worked on the typed pages, deleting and rearranging the context. Finally looking up at the other man, Charlie said, “I’d say she’s a hard-assed professional and that she’s going to think she’s got me by the balls even before she gets here.” He handed the marked pages back to Fish and said, “You think you can keep our master copy but make another record, still in our respective voices, what I’ve written there?”

Fish looked quizzically up from what Charlie had created. “They surely wouldn’t do this! You told her yourself that we were making our own copy: We could refute it.”

“Remember the golden rule of propaganda,” urged Charlie. “Tell a lie enough times to a big enough audience and it’ll become the truth.”

Both men looked toward the suddenly ringing telephone, at once recognizing Halliday’s voice on the speaker phone. “For Christ’s sake, turn on your television!”

The picture that flickered on to the screen was a virtual replay of the media scrum outside the embassy gates