evasion to keep the hoped-for appointment than he would normally have done to defeat any Russian surveillance, which he had to anticipate, the more so since the most recent publicity about the American approach. Since that publicity, he had not been able personally to reach his replaced Russian liaison, indicating further exclusion as the result of the debacle.
Charlie concluded the unaccustomed officialese by formally requesting that his protest-to which he added the addendum that it was being copied as a matter of courtesy to both Harry Fish and Paul Robertson-be attached to his personnel file, for production at any future inquiry into the manner and outcome of the investigation.
So protectively cocooned was the communications room against any outside electronic intrusion that it was not until Charlie got into the corridor outside that his pager showed two calls from Mikhail Guzov, the second within fifteen minutes of the first. Harry Fish was no longer in the set-aside apartment when Charlie reached it. The earlier operatives had been replaced by two men, both of whom regarded him sullenly. Without speaking, one offered a log of eight new incoming calls, all from journalists, in addition to the two from Guzov.
The FSB general personally answered the Petrovka phone, immediately breaking into Charlie’s greeting. “We know who your dead man is. Everything’s wrapped up.”
The man was in the former office of Sergei Romanovich Pavel when Charlie arrived at the headquarters of the Organized Crime Bureau. There was another plainclothes man introduced as Leonid Toplov, from the Interior Ministry, and two in militia uniform. Nikolai Yaskov wore the epauletes of a colonel, Viktor Malin those of a major. Slightly behind the four stood the pathologist, Vladimir Ivanov, whom Charlie at first failed to recognize out of his stained autopsy scrubs. An extremely attractive blond stenographer was at a side table Charlie could not remember being there before, notebook open in readiness, which Charlie thought an unnecessary prop. On Guzov’s commandeered desk was an already diminishing bottle of vodka, its cap discarded Russian-fashion: once opened, a bottle’s contents had always to be drunk. All five men held glasses and as soon as he saw Charlie, Guzov filled a waiting glass and said, “Join the celebration!”
Charlie accepted the drink, touched invitingly offered glasses from the other men and cautiously said, “Everything seems to have happened very quickly?”
“And proven us right from the beginning,” insisted Guzov.
“Who was he?”
“Maxim Semenovich Poliakov,” announced the uniformed colonel. “Professional criminal, major activities include pimping prostitutes and trafficking heroin from Afghanistan. Ran with a Chechen gang that we finally broke up entirely three days ago. We wouldn’t have been able to do so, without Poliakov. We got him a month ago coming into Moscow with two kilos of heroin and did a deal, information in return for no prosecution.”
“But missed out protection?” observed Charlie.
“He thought he could look after himself,” said Guzov.
“You got an admission of the murder from other members of the gang?” asked Charlie, intentionally ingenuous.
Guzov gave a derisory laugh. “These guys are too professional to confess to anything. They’re actually claiming not to know anyone named Maxim Poliakov. But they’ve given away enough for us to realize they’d discovered Poliakov was our original source. We’re sure three of them were involved in planning the Beslan school massacre, too.”
“It all seems to have been resolved remarkably quickly. And completely,” encouraged Charlie. He was reminded of a theatrical production in which everyone knew their scripts but recited rather than performed them.
“It almost seems”-Guzov searched for the expression-“an anticlimax, after all that’s happened over the last few weeks.”
“Any theories why they killed him in the British embassy? Have they said?”
“Something we’ll probably never know,” dismissed the colonel, Nikolai Yaskov, shaking his head.
“Maybe to cause all the distractions by making it an international incident, bringing your country into the investigation,” suggested Guzov. “They certainly succeeded in doing that, didn’t they?”
The absurd suggestion was undisguised mockery, Charlie accepted. They were baiting him.
“These people believe they’re above any law,” offered the colonel. “They like making grandiose gestures, aping the gangster movies they try so hard to model themselves on.”
“Isn’t murdering senior militia detectives more than grandiose?” asked Charlie. “I’m assuming, of course, that you believe they also killed Sergei Pavel?”
Guzov nodded. “Sergei Romanovich was the investigator who personally arrested Poliakov: persuaded him to turn informant. Killing Sergei, as well as Poliakov, was their settling every score. And of showing their derision of us.”
“That’s how we got them,” came in the colonel. “Going back through all Pavel’s cases. There it was, someone who perfectly matched the description of your dead man. Everything fell into place.”
It was a lie, a setup, from start to whatever finish they intended, Charlie realized. Pavel would have at once remembered personally arresting a one-armed man; he would have recognized the body even without a face that very first day in the mortuary. And then Charlie remembered Pavel’s assurance that he’d found no similarities in the complete archival search he had personally carried out. But why? Why the hell were Guzov and his team of amateur actors putting on this performance? Playing the part in which they’d clearly cast him, Charlie said, “What proof is there that the gang killed Sergei Romanovich Pavel?”
Guzov, who was going around the group adding to their glasses, snorted another laugh. “We’re hardly likely to get a confession, are we? Even without charges, no one in the court is going to be left in any doubt who killed both men. But we’re going to get the proper, fitting punishment even if we can’t proffer the actual charges of murder: heroin trafficking on this scale carries the death penalty. And we’ve got enough proof of that against every single one we’ve arrested. It’s going to be a show trial!”
Stalin was good at show trials, reflected Charlie, on even less manufactured evidence than this. He still couldn’t understand why they were doing it! “I should congratulate you on such a successful investigation. I’m sorry-embarrassed perhaps-not to have been able to contribute.” He hoped the attractive note-taker behind him hadn’t missed the denial of any part in the farce.
“You’ve had a lot of side issues to distract you,” emptily sympathized Guzov.
Was that a reference to the embankment incident? Hardly, decided Charlie. In fact, the belief that it had been a Russian initiative didn’t square with the bullshit they were shoveling now. If they were setting out to smother the two murders this way, there would have been no point or purpose in mounting the embankment crash. From the almost imperceptible lisp, Charlie guessed the Russian was getting slightly drunk. “I’d appreciate a complete dossier. I’ll obviously have to submit a full report, despite being able to contribute so very little.”
“We anticipated that you would,” said Yaskov. “Everything’s being duplicated.”
“I’d also like a full copy of Poliakov’s criminal record.”
There was a hesitation from the uniformed colonel. “I’m not sure. .”
“Of course you can have it,” came in Guzov. “And we can also provide you with a more complete medical report-more complete, even, than that which your medical examiners in London gave us-can’t we, Dr. Ivanov?”
The chill began to envelop Charlie.
“Yes, we can,” said the rehearsed pathologist, the nervousness making his voice almost as hoarse as the unknown woman on the phone.
“Dr. Ivanov realized there was no DNA recorded, on either his initial report or that from your people,” expanded Guzov. “He and other specialists carried out tests on hair follicles and skin tissue, as well as the blood, which in your case was heavily contaminated. Now you’ll have everything to take back to London.”
They knew what he’d done! How he’d faked everything to stay involved in the case, Charlie accepted. And they’d neutered him against any possible challenge because by making one, arguing against anything they intended to say or do, he would expose himself and his own attempted deceit! And not just himself: London and the department, as well. Forcing himself to go on, Charlie said, “You’re making an official announcement, I suppose?”
Guzov looked theatrically at his watch. “In an hour’s time.” He came back to Charlie. “And tomorrow we’re holding a full press conference, although I don’t imagine it will be as extensive as yours at the embassy. I’m presuming you’ll want to attend with me?”
