‘But that’s how Natalia Fedova discovered there was an attempt of infiltration in the first place!’ refuted Kalenin, who had again personally interrogated the woman.
Berenkov, who knew of his friend’s involvement, said: ‘That’s what Comrade Fedova insists.’
‘Are you suggesting Charlie Muffin was working quite separately: on something we haven’t realized!’
‘I’m suggesting we re-open the file on the whole episode of his being here,’ said Berenkov.
‘It would mean Comrade Fedova was mistaken,’ said Kalenin, in further reflection.
‘Or something worse,’ said Berenkov.
‘Oh no!’ said Kalenin, understanding. ‘That can’t be. She was the one who alerted me!’
‘Isn’t the classic way to avoid suspicion to shift it entirely upon someone else: particularly if that someone else is guilty?’
Kalenin was silent for several moments, then he said: ‘I agree the file should be re-opened. But personally, by you. I don’t want any suggestion of a mistake having been made.’
Berenkov nodded, accepting the order and said: ‘I think we should go beyond a re-examination. I think Charlie Muffin is too dangerous. I think he should be taken out.’
Kalenin sat regarding the other man for several moments, considering the suggestion. He said: ‘You’re surely not suggesting he should be killed in Switzerland?’
‘Of course not,’ said Berenkov. ‘It would attract far too much attention: actually confirm everything. But I think an operation should be devised for something very quickly afterwards.’
Once more Kalenin did not respond immediately. Then he said: ‘I admired him. Liked him, too.’
‘So did I,’ said Berenkov. ‘I don’t think that should affect our getting rid of him.’
‘Not at all,’ nodded Kalenin, in agreement. ‘But I want to know what he was doing here first. Discover that if you can, before you order it.’
Sulafeh Nabulsi felt gripped by an inner warmth, an excitement that would not dissipate and that she did not want to go away: she was scarcely conscious of anything around her on the way back across the city to the Rue Barthelemy-Menn, switching between taxi and tram but not really trying to weave any sort of false trail.
So enclosed was she that she did not hear Mohammed Dajani when he first called out in the hotel foyer, and still frowned at him in apparent lack of recognition when he put himself in her path.
‘Where have you been?’ Dajani demanded.
‘Out,’ she said.
‘I’ve been waiting.’
‘What for?’
‘You. I thought we could explore the city, like we talked about.’
It took Sulafeh a great effort to concentrate. ‘I’m tired,’ she said. Even to have the man near her was repulsive, after the ecstatic experiences of the afternoon.
Dajani’s face tightened. ‘I thought we were going to be friends,’ he said.
‘Leave me alone!’ she said, stepping around him. ‘Just leave me alone!’
The arrogant, career-minded, over-sexed bitch needed to be taught a lesson, to learn to whom it was necessary to show the proper sort of deference, recognized Dajani. So she would be taught.
Chapter Twenty-four
The Secretary of State and his wife used the underground link to get from the old Executive Office Building into the White House. Martha Bell wore a startling red suit which she’d told her husband was Ungaro: he didn’t know the significance but guessed it meant expensive. It usually did when she used designer names like that. The route meant they entered via the basement, working floor of the White House, and Martha enjoyed the obvious respect from the staff towards her husband, although of course she gave no indication. She’d hoped they would gather in the Oval Office, which she regarded as the fulcrum of the presidency, and so she was disappointed when they were directed instead to the small drawing room on the ground floor, overlooking the gardens and the fountain. The President and his wife were already there. Anderson came expansively forward, arms spread wide, and kissed her on both cheeks: as he did so she was aware of the odour of rye whisky on his breath competing with the sweeter smell of his cologne.
‘Good to see you, Martha!’ he said, boom-voiced as always. ‘Looking forward to Europe?’
‘Very much, Mr President,’ she said.
‘Going to be a great trip,’ forecast the man. ‘A great trip.’
Janet Anderson had remained standing by the back of the two easy chairs set either side of the fireplace. She was wearing a pale lemon two-piece, with a matching hat, and Martha Bell decided it did nothing for her at all: the woman looked washed out and faded, like she always did.
Martha smiled and said: ‘Hello Janet’ and Janet smiled back and said: ‘Hello Martha.’
Martha knew by now that such groupings were as formalized as medieval dances. She moved at once towards the other woman, leaving the men by themselves.
‘You look wonderful,’ she said to the President’s wife.
‘So do you, dear,’ said Janet Anderson.
‘I gather there are some sightseeing arrangements for us?’
‘If I can fit them in,’ qualified the President’s wife, wanting at once to establish the gap between them. ‘I’ve got a visit to a children’s orphanage in Berlin and separate receptions with the Presidents’ wives, both there and in Venice.’
‘I don’t think anyone realizes how hard you work,’ said Martha, in seeming admiration.
‘But of course,’ said the other woman, in apparent recollection, ‘you’re not coming immediately to Venice, after Berlin, are you?’
‘Geneva,’ confirmed Martha, going along with the charade. ‘And afterwards we’re going to stay on.’
‘Stay on?’
‘Paris for a few days. Then London …’ She smiled. ‘You must miss the freedom, as the President’s wife, of not being able to go out without a mob of Secret Service guards? Just wander about a store, like an ordinary person? Poor Janet.’
‘You learn to adjust,’ said the other woman, tightly.
Across the room Martha saw her husband refuse a Jack Daniels that early in the day and watched the President add to his own glass and wondered what Anderson was celebrating. Bell caught his wife’s attention and gestured her towards him. He said: ‘We’re going in the first helicopter.’
So that Anderson and his wife could by themselves get the maximum television and photographic coverage, Martha knew. She let Bell lead the way from the small room, out of the French doors on to the lawn where the naval helicopters were waiting, but halfway towards them she eased her way through the phalanx of State Department officials to get alongside the man, so that they arrived at the steps together. She timed it perfectly. Bell, who was an inherently polite man, hesitated to make non-committal replies to the shouted questions from the cordoned-off journalists and there was the clatter of camera shutters and the sudden yellowing of television lights. It kept up as they mounted the steps and continued when Bell paused at the top, to look back and wave, before ushering his wife ahead of him into the machine.
‘That’ll catch prime time television, won’t it?’ demanded Martha, as they buckled themselves in for the flight to Andrews Air Force base.
‘Every newscast, this early,’ agreed Bell.
‘Did you see Janet’s outfit?’
‘Not really.’ He wondered if that were Ungaro, too.
‘Looks like a dish rag that’s been boiled too often.’
The helicopter snatched up and went towards the Washington Monument, before turning south. The route took them over the Mall and just to the right of the Capitol Building itself. Further away to the right Martha could make out the traffic-clogged Beltway roped around the city: poor, ordinary people with poor ordinary lives, she
