work with Washington in the background. But that they’ve beaten you-not you personally, your people-by solving everything first.”
That had to come directly from Guzov! seized Charlie. And fitted perfectly with what he was trying to implant in the woman’s mind. “If they are, then I know nothing about it. But then perhaps I wouldn’t.”
“I don’t understand?”
You’re going to right now, determined Charlie. “Perhaps I was never intended to be the proper investigator, just the person everyone, including the Russians, were supposed to believe had been assigned to the case.”
“Are you suggesting there was-still is-an entirely separate investigation that no one knows is going on?”
“It would explain a lot of strange things that have happened in the investigation up until now.”
The word “humiliation” did not feature in that evening’s ORT broadcast, and Charlie was only mentioned once by name and without a photograph being shown. It was the lead item, fronted by Svetlana Modin, and once more claimed to be a world exclusive. A combined and absolutely covert investigation between British and American intelligence had been defeated by the brilliance of Russian detectives who had solved both the murder of the mystery man at the British embassy and that of the originally appointed Russian investigator. The revelation, insisted the woman, would further worsen diplomatic relations between Moscow and the two Western capitals, both of which had issued statements strenuously denying any such joint operation when it had been put to them. A Russian presidential spokesman was quoted that, despite the already issued denials, formal explanations were being demanded from Washington and London.
Had he manipulated the program sufficiently to deflect any further physical attacks? wondered Charlie, hunched over a tumbler of Islay single malt in his firmly secured hotel suite. Still too unsure to relax, he decided, turning to the promised and combined Russian dossiers that had arrived an hour before he quit the embassy and carried back with him to the Savoy. It took Charlie three hours fully to read the dossiers the first time and an additional two to reread everything for a second before finally pouring himself his second Islay single malt of the evening, his minimal satisfaction at manipulating the television broadcast muted by the Russian material.
Charlie had seen weaker evidence, some of it more obviously fabricated, overwhelm barristers in English courts. In what passed for justice in Russia, total victory was a forgone conclusion. The Russians hadn’t missed a single trick.
It was to take another twelve hours for Charlie to change his mind. There was one trick, which even Charlie couldn’t at that moment have imagined. Or hoped for.
24
Charlie changed direction, reaching for the ringing telephone instead of the television remote control for the first broadcast of the day. David Halliday said, “Have you seen the news?” and Charlie pressed the power button in time to see a photograph of Svetlana Modin fading from the screen and to catch “strongest protest” as the commentator’s voice-over finished, too.
“What’s happened?” demanded Charlie.
“According to the broadcast, she was arrested at four o’clock this morning,” relayed Halliday. “The station says they’ve no idea where she’s been taken or what charge is being made against her, if any. One suggestion was that she is being accused of acting for a hostile foreign power in the dissemination of false information.”
“Is there such a charge?” So much, thought Charlie, for fame keeping her safe.
“Probably. I haven’t checked.”
The TV picture now was of ORT’s senior newsreader, Svetlana’s photograph in the background. The man expanded the protest statement beyond that from the station itself to include the Moscow journalists’ union. There was a reference to that morning’s scheduled murder press conference, which the anchorwoman had intended covering, with the speculations that Russian journalists might boycott it in protest at her arrest. That was followed by stock footage of Svetlana’s most recent appearances, accompanied by a commentary describing them as a series of unrivaled world exclusives.
“They’re going to sweat her, for her sources,” predicted Halliday. “You think they’ll disclose them, when she tells all?”
He had to be wary of the recording equipment in the suite Charlie reminded himself. “They might, if it serves their purpose.” And totally destroy him in the process if they chose to do so, he accepted, if his belief of Guzov initiating Svetlana’s approach to him the previous day was right.
“You think it could cause us more problems here at the embassy?” asked Halliday, with unknowing prescience.
“It could, I suppose. I’ll just go to the conference, see what I can pick up there,” said Charlie. And lay himself out for sacrifice if Guzov were listening, which Charlie was sure the FSB general was. It didn’t really matter whether the Russian press boycotted the event. The rest of the world media most definitely wouldn’t and there he would be, displayed for all to see, if Guzov chose that moment to denounce his contact with the woman.
“You spoken to London since last night’s broadcast?”
“No,” said Charlie.
“Don’t you think you should, particularly now that she’s been arrested?”
“I intend to.”
“Harry Fish has been withdrawn, incidentally. Did you know that?”
The planted bugs! Charlie thought, deciding the conversation had to end. “No, I hadn’t heard. I need to get going. I’ll see you at the embassy.” Could he infer Fish’s removal to be a victory for Aubrey Smith? At that moment, Charlie didn’t think it was safe for him to assume anything. And even if he did-and was right-he couldn’t imagine that it would indicate anything to save or protect him.
It was a last-minute thought to order an embassy car to collect him, and Charlie was glad he had as he approached the legation. It was once more under media siege, the embankment road close to being impassable. He was recognized during the vehicle’s slow progress through the crush and it took several moments for Charlie to recover from the flash and strobe-light blindness when they finally reached the sanctuary of the inner courtyard. Charlie asked his driver to wait to take him to Petrovka, unsure what to expect within the building.
The answer to which appeared to be very little. Neither P-J nor Halliday-despite his earlier conversation with the man-were in their offices, although in Halliday’s there was a pile of that day’s newspapers, all headlining the TV program. There was already waiting for him in the communications room a message from the Director-General that the claim of a covert American/British operation was being officially denied and an instruction that he should not become embroiled in any public or private discussion whatsoever about it. The message concluded that the man would be unavailable the entire day which, without conceding paranoia, Charlie took to be abandonment, compounded by his being told when he called the ambassador’s suite that Peter Maidment was at the Russian Interior Ministry and not expected to be available until late in the afternoon. Neither in the rabbit-hutch office nor in the set-aside apartment was there any message or notification of Harry Fish’s withdrawal. The same two sullen operatives of the previous day were on duty again. The overnight log, again offered by the elder of the two, listed seventy-eight press calls in the two hours following Svetlana Modin’s program.
An obviously alerted Paul Robertson arrived at the apartment five minutes after Charlie, just as Charlie was replacing the phone from being told that Mikhail Guzov was also unavailable.
“Has there been a nuclear explosion I didn’t hear? Everyone appears to have been vaporized,” Charlie greeted.
Robertson ignored the remark, going instead to the other two men. “Why don’t you two take a break? We’ll handle anything for the next fifteen minutes.” The man waited until the door closed behind them before coming back to Charlie. “Maybe people don’t want to become contaminated by the fallout you’ve caused. And on a very personal note.”-the man nodded generally around the room “-which you know is going on record as we speak, I resent and refute all the inferences in your note to the Director-General. I’m not part of any cabal or conspiracy, and I’m demanding a formal personnel inquiry when I get back to London into any suggestion or claim that I am. I don’t know-and don’t want to know-what games are going on back there. Or here, apart from what it’s my function to uncover and expose. That clear?”
“Good for you,” mocked Charlie, refusing the rehearsed attack. “Harry Fish isn’t here any longer though, is
