simple report might lie around undistributed for days. If we indicate concern, it’ll get some reaction: get it sent to the right departments.’ The diplomat paused before adding: ‘I just know it’s going to be bad. Disastrous.’
‘I think you are right,’ said Samuels, at the door. ‘I think Gower has been arrested. So God knows what the end is going to be.’
The wording of the cable did result in it being instantly directed across the river from Whitehall to Westminster Bridge Road: Peter Miller was alerted by telephone in advance of its actual arrival, so Patricia Elder was already with him when it was delivered.
‘No official denunciation or protest,’ Patricia pointed out. ‘There would have been, if he’d broken.’
‘We can’t anticipate the severity of the questioning,’ said Miller. ‘But we’ve got to try to minimize that as best we can. The only way is the strongest possible protest: make them apprehensive of treating him badly. I’ll give the Foreign Office briefing personally. Gower’s cover is one hundred per cent: the line has to be that he’s an innocent diplomat, wrongly detained.’
‘There’s too much we don’t know,’ protested Patricia. She nodded towards the message. ‘What’s their guidance?’
‘To make every possible enquiry!’ said Miller, contemptuously.
‘We’re hamstrung, not knowing
‘If it were unarguably incriminating there
‘It’ll be the most unholy mess if Gower breaks.’
‘He was the most resistant to interrogation, in his entry course. He won’t break easily.’
Natalia felt herself in the middle of a tightrope with both ends fraying, not knowing which way to dash to safety. It all had to be perfectly coordinated, and at the moment it wasn’t. The Federal Prosecutor, who was responsible for any prosecution of Eduard, had acknowledged her approach and then written in greater length, and the previous day there had been a telephone call which she had avoided, with an innocent message left with a secretary for her to return the call, to arrange a meeting. Natalia did not think she could put it off much longer. Two days, she decided. Three at the most. That was the maximum she could allow herself. Just three days.
In his office further along the same corridor and on the same level at Yasenevo, Fyodor Tudin was finalizing the plans he was sure were going to get rid of Natalia Fedova for ever. He was very excited.
Thirty-four
Fyodor Tudin took every possible precaution, fully aware just how dangerously he was initially exposing himself, with no chance of correcting any mistake once he started. He had to get it all right the first time.
For the second and all-important visit to Petrovka he chose the most senior assistant from his own secretariat to take the notes and formulate the affidavit, but called a lawyer from the general Directorate pool with whom he had no provable association, to lessen any accusation of a clique or cabal, conspiring against the woman.
The lawyer’s name was Anatoli Alipov, and as soon as the man entered his office Tudin concluded he was ideal for the official inquiry he was going to demand. Alipov was a slow-moving, slow-talking man of about forty- five, grey-haired and dark-suited, the personification of a solid and dependable legal figure.
‘It is punishable, under legal statute?’ questioned Tudin, after explaining the reason for the summons.
‘Most definitely.’
‘And under the regulations of our service?’
‘Even more definitely.’
Tudin smiled, satisfied. ‘We’ll press for both.’
‘There will need to be corroboration,’ warned the lawyer.
‘It will be provided,’ guaranteed Tudin, confidently. The Militia investigator would have no choice, to save his own neck. And he’d know it, the moment the situation was spelled out to him.
‘I dislike this sort of business,’ protested the lawyer. ‘Bad for the service if it becomes public: continues all the overhanging prejudices against the old KGB as a self-protecting organization above all laws or criticism.’
‘No!’ challenged Tudin, at once. ‘It’ll prove the very reverse: that when corruption and abuse is discovered, it’s legally and publicly prosecuted under the new democratic system by which this country is now being run.’ Which was the ultimate beauty of the whole thing. Natalia Nikandrova Fedova wasn’t going to be destroyed by any connived or manipulated coup.
Alipov said: ‘If that’s how it’s to be done, then I agree with you.’
Tudin telephoned Petrovka to warn of his return, but without saying there would be others with him, and Kapitsa’s unsettled surprise was obvious when they got to Militia headquarters.
‘There is a problem?’ questioned the investigator. A comforting cigarette clouded into life.
Tudin shook his head. ‘We’ll obviously need a statement, won’t we?’ he said, intentionally ambiguous, hurrying to prevent Kapitsa thinking too fully about what he was being told: once he had the boy’s deposition it wouldn’t matter, but at this critical moment Tudin wanted the investigator’s unquestioning cooperation, not any suspicious objections. ‘We’ve got to get something written down: recorded. You see that, don’t you …?’
‘I suppose …’ Kapitsa started to agree, but Tudin bustled over him, close to bullying.
‘… While we’re doing that, I’d like a copy of the written record of the investigation so far.’
‘Yes, but …’
‘Doesn’t matter what sort of order or shape it’s in. Just the bare facts are all we need. We’d like to see the boy now: get it all over with.’
Kapitsa hesitated before stumbling: ‘Yes, of course. No problem. I’ll do … take you down … of course.’
Tudin reassessed his earlier opinion. The investigator was not just one of the old school, which was invaluable enough in itself: in addition Kapitsa was – rare for anyone in the Militia – intimidated by what he clearly still considered to be the KGB, with all its power and influence. Which in these very particular circumstances was valuable in the extreme. ‘Good! … Good …!’ he urged, backing gratefully from the smoke-fogged room to bring Kapitsa out with him: once he’d attained access to the boy, Tudin considered himself inviolable. Dutifully Kapitsa allowed himself to be drawn out, leading them downstairs: they had to wait in the interview cell for Eduard to be brought to them.
He arrived complaining loudly, practically bursting into the room in the expectation of confronting his mother, jerking to a halt at encountering strangers. ‘What’s this?’ he demanded.
Tudin, who throughout a long career in the former KGB believed himself to have developed into an excellent if amateur psychologist, instantly categorized the stale-smelling, newly bearded man in front of him. Characteristics: bombast and pretension. Approach: initially soft, quickly aggressive. Affect: eggshell thin, defensive arrogance easy to crack. Outcome: whatever he wanted it to be.
‘Sit down.’ Tudin was soft-voiced, inviting.
‘I want …’
‘Sit down!’ Immediately loud, intimidating.
Eduard sat abruptly on the chair he had occupied during the meeting with his mother. He made no attempt to push it back upon its rear legs this time.
To the Militia officer Tudin said: ‘We’ll handle this now. I’d like you to assemble the arrest reports. Have everything ready for when we leave.’
Kapitsa backed out into the corridor, nodding agreement. Tudin felt the satisfaction ballooning inside him. Done it, he thought: got here without argument or suspicion from the one person who might have obstructed him! So he was there: he’d virtually won.
‘Who are you?’ Eduard tried to make the question demanding, but his voice wavered and Tudin detected it.
‘Eduard Igorevich Fedova?’ The soft approach was back.
‘You’re from my mother’s department?’ said Eduard, smiling expectantly.
The idiot was making it even easier. ‘Yes,’ Tudin agreed, honestly.
‘Thank God for that! Why has she left me this long?’
‘That’s what we’ve come to talk about.’ Tudin gestured the note-taker to the chair directly opposite Eduard,
