the previous day, the frenzy greater now because of Reg Stout and his two escorts being the focus in its very center. Robertson and his two panelists were separately surrounded by more jostling, yelling journalists and cameramen. There were two uniformed British Airways stewards attempting as ineffectually as three uniformed Russian militia officers, to force a path along the airport concourse to the waiting London flight. As Charlie and Fish watched, the TV camera abruptly zoomed in upon the embassy security officer tight enough to show his escorts were gripping Stout by either arm to force him on and that the man was struggling against them, his head thrown back as he shouted inaudibly. The Russian voice-over commentary was of Stout demanding protection by the Russian authorities and for the militia officers to intercede to prevent his kidnap, back to England. “He is saying,” reported the commentator, “that in London he will be put on trial for his life. The charge will be treason, the maximum penalty for which is the death sentence, despite the United Kingdom supposedly no longer having capital punishment on its statute books. . ”
“Jesus Christ!” exclaimed Fish.
“I’d like what I wrote back on the recording and ready for replay before Svetlana Modin gets here,” said Charlie. “She’s due in fifteen minutes and I don’t expect her to be late.”
She wasn’t.
From the concealment of the gatehouse Charlie decided that if Svetlana Modin was indeed as hard-assed a professional as she was attractive, he was confronting a formidable adversary. The jacket of her full-skirted, dark brown business suit was cut wide to make the brown-trimmed yellow shirt a part of the ensemble, one too many buttons unfastened to hint at the deep cleavage beneath. The blond hair, meticulously fashioned by an attendant hairdresser, brushed her shoulders, and on the second by second countdown to a live transmission a makeup girl applied last-minute touches to an eyebrow that arched questioningly on cue as the woman began her piece to camera. Enclosed as he was, Charlie was unable to hear what she was saying but saw almost overexpansive gestures toward the embassy and from the reaction of other journalists and cameramen closest to her guessed the woman was announcing her impending, exclusive entry into the embassy. He was proved right when, with her camera still running, Svetlana Modin handed her microphone to an expectant sound recordist before walking to the gatehouse door where she stopped and posed before pushing into the entry control area. Once over the threshold, she relaxed the tightly fixed presentation smile, twitching the cramp from her face, and began, “I have an appointment. .” before she saw Charlie at the far side of the shadowed cubicle.
She said: “Thank you, Mr. Muffin, for inviting me here to talk at length about the murder and everything else that has happened in and around the embassy.”
“There was an agreement about recording,” reminded Charlie.
“Because of which I have not brought a machine with me.”
“You have no recording equipment whatsoever?”
Smiling, Svetlana held her arms away from her body, stretching the shirt further over the impressive breasts and said, “Search me, if you wish.”
“Let’s go into the complex,” invited Charlie. He remained silent as they crossed the forecourt. At the main building he said, “No unauthorized electronic equipment works now.”
“I told you I don’t have any electronic equipment.”
“I heard what you told me,” assured Charlie, ushering her into Robertson’s interrogation room.
Svetlana said at once, “This looks like a torture chamber.”
“Nothing electronic works in here, either.”
“You really don’t believe I’m clean, do you?”
“Did you really expect me to?”
“Not if you’re the intelligence agent I believe you to be. That’s what you are, aren’t you? An agent?”
To Svetlana’s obvious bewilderment, Charlie said, “We’re ready.”
Her frown cleared at the entry of Harry Fish, a flashlightlike device in his hand. “A club to beat me with?”
“Are you still willing to be searched?”
Now her face hardened. “Why shouldn’t I be?”
“Are you still willing to be searched for electronic recording equipment?” repeated Charlie, formally.
Svetlana smiled, once more extending her arms in an expansive invitation. “Enjoy.”
Harry Fish was professionally, painstakingly thorough, standing behind her to sweep every inch of Svetlana’s back and sides, even going over the curtain of hair beneath which something might have been concealed, reversing from the heels of her shoes to their toes to start ascending from her front. A bleep accompanied the sharp flash on Fish’s sensor when he got to the top of the woman’s thighs. “There it is,” said the man, unnecessarily.
“You’ll be escorted to a cloakroom to take off whatever recording apparatus you’ve got under your clothes,” announced Charlie.
Slowly, provocatively, Svetlana lifted her skirt above her waist. She wasn’t wearing any underwear. The brown stockings were supported by a black lace suspender belt, framing her natural blondness. The device was strapped around her right thigh, tight against her crotch.
Not looking at the woman exposing herself, Harry Fish said, “It’s a microphone.”
Ignoring her, too, Charlie said, “Would it have transmitted from the gatehouse and coming across the courtyard?”
“Yes,” confirmed Fish, at once.
Eventually looking back to Svetlana, who was letting her skirt gradually drop, Charlie recited, “
The skirt rose again. “Why don’t you help me?”
“Both of us or do you have a preference?” asked Charlie.
She shrugged. “I’m a fun person.”
Charlie jerked his head backward. “Your vagina’s been on camera now for close to five full minutes, maybe longer. You look closely you can see the fish-eye lens just above the light switch on the wall opposite you. And my sound system isn’t affected by what will have destroyed yours, once you got inside the embassy. I can’t imagine that you thought you’d get away with it. I even warned you!”
The microphone came away from her groin with a crackle of torn-apart Velcro with the second descent of the skirt. “Motherfucker!”
“Listen,” said Charlie, smiling, and nodding to Harry Fish. At Fish’s press of the replay button the room was filled with the sound of Charlie’s edited version of his earlier telephone conversation with Svetlana Modin, dominated by her voice.
Svetlana Modin:
Charlie:
Svetlana:
“I’m not suggesting that is precisely how you planned the edit, but it’s pretty close, isn’t it? Screened with the scenes at Sheremyetevo Airport this morning you’d have had another world exclusive, wouldn’t you?”
“You really are a motherfucker, aren’t you?”
“We’ll complete the check, shall we, Harry?”
The second microphone was between the fulsome cups of her bra, black lace to match the suspender belt. Charlie said, “Let’s not fuck about with helping you disconnect it. Just take it off.”
As she did so, quickly buttoning her blouse afterward, Svetlana Modin slumped into the interrogation chair, legs splayed but covered. “What do you want?”
“The name of your informant.”
“You know I won’t do that. I’ve got a much better idea. You give me something, I’ll give you something. If you’re as clever as you’re making yourself out to be, you’ll have the name and I’ll have the exclusive I hope to get. How’s that sound?”
