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Authors: Brian Freemantle

BOOK: Kings of Many Castles
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“I’d welcome the general’s suggestions how it could have progressed any quicker or more practicably!” said Zenin, in stiff, personal indignation.
“It was not a criticism! It was an observation,” said Natalia. “Of course the American director’s instructions is ill considered and reprehensible and I am not arguing against a protest if the feeling is that our making it is justified. But it also shows impatience, which I think is understandable. Let’s not forget that it is our FSB that
can’t find files that could be important. Or that according to Vera Bendall, unknown people-people we can’t trace-took from her apartment what could be other evidence that might be equally, if not more, important. Or that the military still haven’t provided anything more than the most basic of George Bendall’s records. Or that in Russian custody Vera Bendall died in what could, at least, be suspicious circumstances …” She was going on too long, Natalia realized; almost appearing to offer a defense for the Americans, which she hadn’t set out to do. “Certainly this latest episode with George Bendall—coupled with our awareness of what would appear to be the official American attitude towards the investigation—should be our most direct concern. But I think there would be a benefit considering it in context with the other things I’ve set out.”
There was a momentary silence, heightening Natalia’s discomfort. It was the rotund chief of staff who moved them on. Yuri Trishin said, “There is a further purpose for this meeting: the establishment of the presidential commission …”
“I had already decided it should be concentrated upon the FSB …” took over Okulov. He smiled towards Natalia. “But which I’m now persuaded should be expanded to include the points you’ve just raised … perhaps others, as well …”
“ … Which will provide an answer to any complaints Washington might make against us for how the investigation is going,” said Trishin, completing the double act.
This was hardly the emergency meeting Natalia had believed it to be. From the expression on Zenin’s face, it wasn’t what he’d anticipated either. The police chief said, “When will that commission convene?”
“That’s a matter for its members,” said Okulov. He smiled again. “I’m appointing you, Natalia Fedova, to be its chair. I’m aware, of course, of your previous connection with the KGB, just as I am even more aware of the constant public reminders of my previous association. But I consider that a benefit rather than a disadvantage: you don’t have to be introduced into its workings nor, hopefully, will it be as easy to keep things from you as it might from someone unaware of those workings. I think speed is of the essence and you won’t need to be briefed on the progress of the investigation you’ve
been monitoring and liaising since it began. And you’ve given us ample evidence this morning of your impartiality …” The man switched his attention. “You, Pavl Yakovlevich, are obviously necessary for the legal application of the enquiry. The third member of the tribunal will be Yuri Fedorovich, which ensures I am fully aware of everything at all times. Yuri Fedorovich has the terms of reference. Quite simply they are that you have the presidential authority to bring before you whatever witnesses and material you demand, with physical imprisonment at your disposal for anyone who fails fully to cooperate. And I want a preliminary report within a week, sooner if that’s possible. Any questions!”
Natalia was sure there would be a lot but at that moment so complete was her astonishment that she couldn’t isolate one from another, her thoughts like dust swirls in the wind. Was she more exposed? Or better protected? Was her ability being recognized—rewarded—or was she being made a target? Did she really have the authority? Would it be acceded to her by Filitov and Trishin and whoever else she might now have to confront? Or was she a puppet, a totem? And—inevitably, the ghost always hovering in the corridors of her mind-would it, could it, endanger her and Charlie as much as she’d feared when she’d first learned there was going to be such an enquiry? The immediate positive, she urged herself again: all the other uncertainties could wait. “I appreciate the confidence. I will do everything I can to fulfill it.”
“If I hadn’t believed you capable, I wouldn’t have appointed you,” said Okulov.
The transition, from gray to black,
was
remarkable, Natalia decided. Answering-for the moment at least-one of her own questions she decided the appointment strengthened rather than weakened her.
Zenin said, “How will this affect Natalia Fedova’s liaison role, with the existing group of which I am part?”
“Not at all,” said Okulov. “For the reasons I thought I’d already made clear.”
Zenin’s face imperceptibly although only briefly tightened at the public rebuff. Before there could be any further reaction, one of Trishin’s aides came quickly into the ante-room and gave an obviously
pre-arranged signal to the militia chief, who’d started getting to his feet at the secretary’s entry.
There was a hiatus after Zenin’s departure. The Federal prosecutor said he would be pleased to serve on the tribunal, as if he had a choice, and Natalia sat trying to get her thoughts into order, deciding that while her appointment carried with it power-full access to the acting president himself—and prestige, it was also the path into an unmapped minefield in which she risked making many enemies, both known, which would be unnerving, and unknown, which could be potentially disastrous. And forcing the examination further, she honestly acknowledged that for once Charlie was not a primary, endangering factor. She’d been pushed farther across the swaying bridge between professionalism and politics. The reverie was broken by Zenin’s reappearance, the shoulders-back march to the table almost a parody of Okulov’s earlier entry.
“Well?” demanded the standby leader, before Zenin properly sat.
“There was provable traces of thiopentone in Bendall’s blood,” declared the militia commandant, stretching his announcement for its maximum effect.
“What’s that?” said Okulov.
“Pentathol,” identified Zenin. “A truth drug in common use in American agencies.” He extended a further pause. “But not available as such in this country.” He came sideways to Natalia. “Perhaps not as circumstantial as it was an hour ago?”
“Evidence, not proof,” refused Natalia, dogmatically. She wasn’t concerned at Zenin not being an ally. She hoped, though, that he didn’t become an enemy.
“Proof or not, we have to react in some way,” insisted Okulov. Consciously bringing the American expression to mind, he decided that whatever the outcome of the investigation—and long after—the FBI director’s message was going to be a smoking, quickly reloaded gun.
“And there’s a way readily to hand,” suggested Foreign Minister Boris Petrin. “Let’s not forget the American secretary of state stayed on, after the president’s hurried exit. I propose that I summon the American ambassador, and James Scamell, and ask them to explain their director’s message. And at the same time ask how they
think an unprescribed drug—a truth drug—was found to be in George Bendall’s system so soon after his interview with American officials.”
“Perfect,” accepted Okulov. He allowed a pause as theatrical as Zenin’s, earlier. “And make it clear we will do our utmost to prevent it being leaked to the media, which we were unfortunately unable to do about a second gunman.”
 
The Home Office pathologist was a nervously moving, distracted man named Geoffrey Robertson whose strained and bulged laboratory coat had clearly been bought before the weight gain from the sort of overflowing, doorstep-thick sandwiches he was eating when Charlie arrived. There was a dab of mayonnaise on the man’s chin. He frowned, seemingly unable to remember Charlie’s confirming telephone call before saying, “The Russian business!” and leading Charlie to a side table in his office on which everything that Charlie had provided was laid out in meticulously neat order, dominated by the Russian photographs.
In advance of any professional protest Charlie said, “I accept the difficulties, asking you to work like this. I’m looking for something a bit more positive than the Russians are prepared to agree.”
“I need properly to examine the body, of course,” said the pathologist. “And there’s virtually no scene-of-crime material whatsoever, but I’m prepared to agree with you that she was much more likely to have been manually strangled than suffocated by her own hand in a botched attempt to hang herself … .” He paused, looking down at the photographs with Charlie beside him. “Look at those closing sutures, after their examination! She’s almost been nailed back together. I’m always offended by the lack of respect in stitching like that.”
“Vera Bendall was someone who didn’t get any respect in life, either,” said Charlie. “But you were saying … ?”
“The post lividity bruising, as you said in your notes, is the most obvious. That and the complete neck-encircling bruising, with the crushing of the cricoid cartilage of the larynx. But look here …” he demanded, isolating four photographs. “I’ve done a comparison between
the bruising on either side of the neck. See, it’s heavier on the right side than it is on the left. To have garrotted her as totally as this, her killer would have had to stand behind her pulling right to left, left to right. That heavier bruising, to the right of the neck, shows in my opinion that her killer was left handed: that’s the stronger pressure. And here …” He picked out two more photographs. “See those two slight, side-by-side bruises, above the ligature mark? I’ve seen those before, in these sort of strangulations. They’re made by the killer’s thumbs, where he drove them into the neck for additional leverage. And you’re right, in my opinion, about the shoulder blade markings. That’s where she was pulled back against the knees of the man strangling her …”
“Can you give me that, in a report?”
The man shook his head, dislodging the mayonnaise to add to the stains on his already marked coat. “Not to be produced in any court. I haven’t personally examined the body. There is
no
scene of crime material …”
“Not to be produced in court,” interrupted Charlie. “All I want is a contrary, more positive opinion than the Russian pathologist is giving.”
Robertson remained doubtful. “I’d have to qualify it, make it clear that it was entirely an opinion based upon the photographs.”
“But that opinion would be what you’ve just told me?”
The man nodded, slowly. “I suppose I could say that.”
“Please say it,” encouraged Charlie. “And there was the blood sample?”
“It showed 200mg,” said the bulged man, too glibly and without consulting his side-desk preparation.
“Spell it out,” insisted Charlie, satisfied more than surprised.
“The legal alcohol limit beyond which someone is incapable of being in charge of a moving vehicle is 80mg per 100ml of blood,” said the doctor, literally responding to Charlie’s demand. “Bendall was two and a half times over that limit.”
“Drunk?” persisted Charlie.
“By our legal driving standards, yes.”
“Those readings are incontrovertible?”
Robertson appeared surprised. “They’re scientific!”
“Which I can have, in written analysis, to take back with me to Moscow?”
“I don’t know what the legal alcohol limit is to drive in Russia,” protested the man.
“I’d guess it’s nonexistent but I’m not investigating a drunk driving offense,” said Charlie.
Robertson’s laboratory was in north London but Charlie still managed to get back to Millbank by mid-afternoon. Spence told him the director-general did not want to see him unless there was a positive development and that he could use the same temporary inner courtyard office that he’d been allocated the previous day. Charlie reached Donald Morrison on the basement incident room extension.
The younger man said, “A lot seems to be happening, but I don’t know what it is. When Kayley and I got to the cemetery the exhumation had already taken place. There was just an empty grave and a militia guard who wouldn’t talk to us. Kayley said he wanted to speak with you but he was called upstairs about an hour ago and hasn’t come back.”
“So the investigation’s stalled?”
“Has it ever started?”
Charlie smiled at the cynicism. “Our pathologist’s just agreed Vera Bendall was murdered. And George Bendall was drunk when he fired.”
“Surprising that he hit anyone.”
“That’s what I’m thinking.” It had been automatic professionalism for Charlie to bring back from Moscow not just the Russian ballistic evidence but actual firing tests conducted by the Americans using the rifle recovered from George Bendall. Now he was glad he had. It was probably fortunate, too, that offended prima donnas at Woolwich Arsenal had staged their go slow.
“Can I tell Kayley?”
“No!” refused Charlie, at once. “I need to discuss it with others first.” Not others. Only Anne Abbott preparing George Bendall’s seemingly impossible defense.
“Nothing’s come from re-interviewing the witnesses but the personnel
director at NTV confirms it was Vasili Isakov who got Bendall the job. Anything else you want me to do? I feel a bit like a spare prick at a wedding, hanging around with nothing to do.”
Charlie smiled again, this time at Morrison’s too obvious, oneof-the-street-boys’ ribaldry. Aloud he said, “There aren’t supposed to be any spare pricks at a wedding.”

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