greater part of his concentration on why Guzov had so quickly included him, particularly after the previous TV entrapment at Petrovka. By the time Guzov arrived personally at the embassy, an hour earlier, Charlie had already been alerted to Pavel’s murder by the obediently returning Svetlana Modin, with the tape of the anonymous tip of Stout’s detention. She’d still been there when Guzov arrived at the embassy, recognized the man at once, and just as quickly addressed him familiarly by his patronymic, which was another memorized-for-later curiosity. As was Guzov’s apparent willingness to confirm to the woman that Pavel’s murder was unquestionably linked to that of the one-armed man, which had provided her with another exclusive to mitigate Charlie’s earlier outmaneuvering.
“At the junction of Bogoslovskij and Palashevsky,” identified the Russian intelligence agent, without hesitation.
“Two busy, inner-city roads in broad daylight!” exclaimed Charlie, knowing the location.
Guzov shook his head. “Bogoslovskij is closed off, for roadwork. There’s a lot of drilling, which would have covered the sound of a shot. We haven’t been able to find any witnesses: no one who heard anything.”
“Wouldn’t the roadwork and the drilling have still made it a bad choice?” persisted Charlie, hoping to encourage the Russian further. Was it a good idea to have brought Pavel’s murder tape with him?
“There’s no indication that he had made a call. The telephone was still on its rest when his body was found by one of the workmen farther along the street: if it hadn’t been it might have given us a lead. It’s possible he was lured there.”
Charlie briefly hesitated before taking from his pocket the CD Harry Fish had copied from the master tape of Pavel’s call. Offering it to the Russian, Charlie said, “He did make a call, to me. He manages three words-
“ ‘Charlie, I’ve got. .’ ” echoed Guzov. “What the hell had Sergei Romanovich got?”
“I doubt we’ll ever know,” accepted Charlie. “If he’d written it down it would have been found by whoever went through his pockets: maybe
“Why replace the telephone?” persisted Guzov.
“To prevent the call being traced,” said Charlie. “I didn’t get the impression of anyone listening, trying to discover if he’d made a connection. There was a noise, which until now I couldn’t identify. Then silence.”
“I’ve been put in charge of the investigation into Pavel’s murder,” disclosed Guzov, straightening at his side of the dissection slab as if expecting a confrontation.
“Which you told Svetlana Modin was connected to the first murder. Why’d you do that?”
“Hopefully it’ll make the killers think we know more than we do: that Pavel told others what he was doing.”
Charlie didn’t completely follow the other man’s reasoning but decided against questioning it. “Let’s hope you’re right and they make a mistake we can follow.”
“My being put in charge of the Russian side of the investigation means we’ll be working together, sharing everything,” said the Russian, staring very directly at Charlie across the corpse.
Which the FSB had been determined to achieve from the outset, recalled Charlie. And which probably explained Guzov’s quick arrival at the embassy, the obvious preparedness to include him in the most preliminary of medical examinations. Surely not! Charlie thought, as his reflection lengthened into a possible conclusion: surely the FSB wouldn’t have taken their determination to the extreme of sacrificing a militia colonel who’d openly opposed them, as Sergei Romanovich Pavel had done! Why wouldn’t they? Charlie at once asked himself. Pavel had even suspected he was being set up as a sacrifice, although not literally. There was an unarguable logic in Guzov taking over Pavel’s role, the switch from militia to FSB cosmetically easy to adjust by stressing Guzov’s prior participation.
“I look forward to that.”
“If the head of your embassy security is responsible for planting the listening devices he’ll break under interrogation?” suggested the other man.
“I would expect him eventually to make a
“When he does you’ll have to finally concede that no agency of the Russian Federation is in any way involved in a security breach within your embassy, nor in the death of the still unidentified man,” said Guzov. “When that is accepted we’ll be able to make progress in solving both crimes instead of constantly wasting time.”
Charlie Muffin knew all his faults and failings, but hypocrisy was not on his self-criticizing list. Neither was it a factor in the unsettling uncertainty that he began to feel as the day progressed.
Which was, inconceivably, that Russian intelligence might not be implicated in the bugging of the British embassy and genuinely sought not just to resolve the murder of the one-armed man but now that of militia colonel Sergei Romanovich Pavel.
From the mortuary he drove with the Russian directly to Petrovka where he was presented with sheaf after sheaf of transcripts of telephone responses to the press conference and with a minimal selection of actual tape recordings. The overwhelming majority of the printed log contained exactly the same-deja vu again-press approaches with a similar sprinkling of crank and confidence trickster demands for money in advance of information. There were six separate sheets, each with its relevant tape segment, that were selected as possibly informative, although none was sufficiently complete to be acted upon. Three had been traced to public telephones and Guzov anticipated Charlie by saying that none was that of the kiosk in which Pavel had been shot.
Charlie was impressed by the infrastructure assembled to monitor the inflow, the assigned telephones all in a large room Charlie guessed normally to be a conference facility but manned now by a staff of predominantly male operators on one side, divided from its other by a pool of mostly female typists maintaining a simultaneously transcripted record of the tapes’ contents. Six people-three men and three women-were in the center of the room, pointed out by Guzov as trained interrogators ready instantly to take a call from the initially alerted telephone operator who judged it sufficiently important to intercept and hopefully extend before any nervous disconnection. None was summoned during the time Charlie was in the room: all were in civilian clothes, as further confirmation that all were FSB.
After the practical demonstration, Guzov led the way back to Pavel’s office, which he’d clearly commandeered. It appeared much tidier than when Pavel occupied it, even during the ministerial-attended conferences. On the desk was a wooden frame, its back to Charlie. Intercepting Charlie’s look, Guzov turned it to show Pavel in the center of a family group and said, “He had three daughters. The youngest will be six next month.”
The month of Sasha’s birthday, too, Charlie recognized. He was a day late with his promised call to Natalia. He said, “That looks an impressive setup,” speaking of the telephone room.
Which Charlie didn’t imagine Pavel having either the resources or the authority to have established. Nor did he believe that Guzov and the FSB would have been able to create it in the short time-a matter of hours-since Pavel’s murder. Was that what Pavel had been so anxious to tell him-warn him-that the FSB were, quite literally, in total control of the Russian investigation, irrespective of Pavel’s attempted independence: reducing that effort to irrelevance, in fact? It was an unavoidable speculation that at the same time did nothing to undermine Charlie’s nagging thought that Guzov’s denials might be genuine.
Guzov said, “Does what you saw help to convince you?”
“Of what?” stalled Charlie.
“That we are as anxious as you are-as your country is-to bring this investigation to its proper and hopefully quick conclusion,” said Guzov. “As I believe is the case in your country, there is always a greater, more personal commitment to solve a murder in which a law officer is the victim. Shouldn’t we stop dancing around a situation and stop distrusting each other until there is a real and positive reason for that distrust. .?” The Russian smiled. “Which we both know and expect to happen before it’s all over.”
“I think perhaps we should,” allowed Charlie.
“The tip about Stout was definitely made through a synthesizer,” confirmed Harry Fish. “I’ve already had it transcribed in full. It’s pretty much as Svetlana Modin paraphrased.”
“What about the sex of the caller?” asked Charlie, accepting the transcript.
The electronic expert shook his head. “It’s not the usual sort of synthesizer: there seems to be an additional distorting device that jumbles the tonal range.”
