Kings of Many Castles (26 page)
Read Kings of Many Castles Online
Authors: Brian Freemantle
The man showed no surprise at Charlie’s arrival beside him, just slightly raising his voice above the earlier self-conversation. He said, “Plants have an intelligence, you know. They feel discomfort, injury.”
“So I’ve been told,” said Charlie. Perspiration was rivering his face and forming into tributaries down his back.
“Restful things, plants.”
“I’ve come about the Moscow tapes.”
“I know. See that plant there?
Dionaea Muscipula.
Have to feed it flies and insects. Isn’t it pretty?”
Dionaea Muscipula.
Have to feed it flies and insects. Isn’t it pretty?”
“Do you mind if I wait outside? I find it very hot in here.”
The man turned for the first time, fixing Charlie with pale blue eyes. “Hot? You think so?”
“Very much so.” Nolan wasn’t sweating at all, Charlie saw. The man’s cardigan was thick, all the buttons secured.
“If you need to. Shan’t be long.”
Charlie returned gratefully to the outside corridor, feeling the sweat dry upon him, wondering if he’d make his second meeting with Geoffrey Robertson. When he’d telephoned the pathologist the man had said he could only give him ten minutes and insisted Charlie be on time, an hour from now.
Charlie heard the shuffled scuff of Nolan’s approach before he saw the man. He was talking to himself when he finally appeared. Or maybe, Charlie thought, he was talking to the plants. He’d read that people did.
“Come on,” said Nolan, as he past, and Charlie obediently followed. Over his shoulder Nolan said, “Like to meet your man. Interesting.”
“I appreciate the difficulty of what I’m asking, your not being able to do that.”
“Awkward but not a problem,” said the psychiatrist. “Some things are fairly obvious, others not.”
Although he’d never actually seen one Charlie decided Nolan’s office looked like the inside of a bear’s cave after a winter’s hibernation. It was a completely shelved cavern of books which overflowed on to the floor and on to overstuffed leather chairs and a
couch, interspersed with apparently discarded papers and magazines and occasionally skeletal newspapers from which articles had been clipped. The debris was so great that there were clearly delineated paths through it, the most obvious to the overwhelmed, leathertopped desk, with side alleys to the bookshelves.
couch, interspersed with apparently discarded papers and magazines and occasionally skeletal newspapers from which articles had been clipped. The debris was so great that there were clearly delineated paths through it, the most obvious to the overwhelmed, leathertopped desk, with side alleys to the bookshelves.
“There’s a chair …” said Nolan, waving to his right with a distracted arm, as if he’d forgotten where one might be. When the man snapped his desk light on Charlie saw his tapes and their transcripts were neatly-surprisingly-stacked next to a pocket-sized replay machine.
“I’m only able to give you—to suggest—a general picture,” began Nolan, abruptly professional. “There are clear indications of a schizophrenia, which is too often used as a catch-all when people like myself can’t think of a more positive diagnosis. We’re not going to go all Hollywood and suggest there are strange voices telling Bendall what to do. I suspect, though, that he’s obsessional. He’d be very susceptible to being told what to do, particularly if he loved or felt particularly close to the person giving the instructions …”
“What about more than one person? A group?” interrupted Charlie.
Nolan pursed his lips. “Possible but there would still need to be one person in that group upon whom he would need to focus. But certainly a group could be important to him. Your notes were helpful. He’s classically dysfunctional, alienated from a splintered home. That’s why the army might have been attractive to him: somewhere in which he might have felt embraced, a family he did know or have. But I think it would have been too big, too amorphous. But a group, a brotherhood, wouldn’t have been. And let’s get a correction in here, because it’s important. All the interviews so far have been wrongly directed, the Americans most of all. Bendall needs to be encouraged-praised, admired, loved if you like, not ridiculed which has been the tone of everything I’ve listened to so far, with yours as a possible, partial exception. From what you’ve said in your notes, there’s certainly more than one person—a conspiracy—involved here but Bendall did what he did to become admired by his friends, in the same mentally disturbed way that loners have attacked—killed—famous people, to become famous themselves …”
“Did he-does he-know what he was doing?” broke in Charlie again.
“Very much so. That’s part of it, a very important part. That’s your way forward, when you talk to him again?”
“How can I get him to tell me who the others are?”
Nolan gestured uncertainly. “From your interview, more than any of the others, I got the impression that he
wants
to tell someone: after all his life being discarded and down trodden he’s suddenly
someone,
the object of everyone’s attention. He wasn’t just being used physically, to fire a rifle. He was being used—manipulated—mentally. Those short, staccato replies to you are indicative. He believed he was playing with you: testing you out. Let him go on thinking that. Let him think he’s superior, in charge.”
wants
to tell someone: after all his life being discarded and down trodden he’s suddenly
someone,
the object of everyone’s attention. He wasn’t just being used physically, to fire a rifle. He was being used—manipulated—mentally. Those short, staccato replies to you are indicative. He believed he was playing with you: testing you out. Let him go on thinking that. Let him think he’s superior, in charge.”
“There’s something that wasn’t in my notes, that I’ve only just discovered,” said Charlie. “Somehow—I don’t know how—Bendall was administered with an unauthorized drug, thiopentone. It could have been during the American interview when he broke down. Could that have any long term effects, combined with the other drugs with which he’s being treated: affect, in fact, how he might be in any future sessions?”
Nolan humped his shoulders. “You know what the prescribed drugs are?”
Charlie felt a burn of embarrassment. “I’m sorry.”
“Now he’s well out of surgery I guess it’ll just be some type of sedative,” suggested the psychiatrist. “Thiopentone shouldn’t react against any of the barbiturates.”
“So it wouldn’t have caused that outburst, during the American session?”
The psychiatrist shook his head. “That was far more likely to have been caused by the way he was being talked to. He was being ridiculed, which was how he’s been treated all his life. He simply closed himself down.”
“Why did he break all the models he made, which his mother told me he did?”
“Models of things that moved, could have taken him away from an existence he hated, had they been real,” Noland judged. “That was his physical way of showing that hatred of his surrounding—smaking
his imagined escape and then smashing it-before he began showing the actual violence towards others.”
his imagined escape and then smashing it-before he began showing the actual violence towards others.”
“Can I send you other tapes?”
“I’d like you to. I’ve never worked like this before: as I said, it’s interesting. And remember something else I told you. Let him think he’s superior: cleverer. You going to find that difficult?”
“Not at all,” said Charlie. “I’ve been doing that all my life.”
The pathologist was wearing a clean laboratory coat but it was again at least two sizes too small. Geoffrey Robertson gave the same answer as the psychiatrist when asked about thiopentone but promised to get a definitive assessment from a pharmacologist if Charlie sent back from Moscow George Bendall’s complete medication list.
“Can’t understand the point of it being done,” said the man.
“That
is
the point of it being done,” said Charlie. “For people not to be able to understand why. And it’s working brilliantly.”
is
the point of it being done,” said Charlie. “For people not to be able to understand why. And it’s working brilliantly.”
With the need—minimally productive though it turned out-for a second meeting with the pathologist Charlie had put back for an hour his appointment with the ballistics expert at the Woolwich Arsenal. But he was still late and knew at once from the man’s demeanor that Archibald Snelling had fantasized for the further delayed thirty minutes about the toothbrushed lavatory cleaning sentence he would have imposed in a much mourned earlier army career. From the man’s disapproving, top to toe and sideways examination, Charlie guessed his appearance would probably have got him denied the toothbrush and that he would have had to scour with his bare hands, if not his own toothbrush. Snelling had to be almost two meters tall and although there was a slight stomach sag in the parade ground rigidity his voice retained the come-to-attention bark. Into the man’s office, which actually did overlook a parade ground, came the occasional and distant sound of a weapon being discharged. The only chair available was straight-backed and wooden-seated and Charlie turned and sat with one arm crooked over its rear rail, just for the hell of it. Snelling was sitting to attention, shoulders squared, ramrod straight.
“You got something more to tell me!” demanded Snelling, at once.
“I’d hoped you’d have something to tell me,” retorted Charlie. The aggressiveness was an abrupt contrast with the attempted helpfulness of the other specialists that day but then, remembered Charlie, he had shown the man—or his colleagues-to be lacking. Charlie was more irritated than offended; he certainly wasn’t intimidated.
“I don’t understand,” complained the man.
“I don’t, either,” said Charlie. “It might help if you explained in more detail what the problem is.”
“You don’t have another Dragunov? Photographs?”
Charlie’s feet twitched, in aching unison. Slowly he said, “Why would you expect me to have another Dragunov?”
Color began to prick out on the man’s already red face. “You’re still only considering two rifles: the one recovered from the arrested man and the unknown, different caliber Medved?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s go into the workshop.”
It was a march more than a walk along a connecting corridor and Charlie’s feet hurt with the effort of keeping up. It was a long room, with what was obviously a firing range leading off to the right, some with unmarked targets, others with bullet-recoverable butts for analyses and comparison. Deeper into the room were benches equipped with vices and calibrating machinery and enhancing cameras. Snelling led past it all to the far end, where there were the sort of backlighted viewing screens against which X-rays are normally examined. Upon the entire bank were clipped what Charlie realized, when he got closer, to be the hugely enlarged photographs of the bullets recovered from the Moscow victims. Closer still he saw each was identified against the victim’s name. Separated by a gap was what were marked to be pictures of bullets test fired from Bendall’s gun by the American ballistics team.
“We’re not interested in the 9mm bullets, from the Medved,” dismissed Snelling, a blackboard pointer now in his hand. “This …” he tapped the third print “is the bullet recovered, according to your notes, from American Secret Serviceman Jennings. This …” the pointer went farther to the right “is from the Russian security man, Ivanov. And these …” Snelling moved over the division, to the American prints “are pictures described to me as
being three separate test firings, from the SVD recovered from the gunman, George Bendall … ?”
being three separate test firings, from the SVD recovered from the gunman, George Bendall … ?”
“Yes?” said Charlie.
“The SVD bullet from Ivanov is a better comparison than that from Jennings, although there’s still just enough,” said the ballistics expert. “Look at them. There’s no marking. But look at the American test firings. See it!” The pointer tapped impatiently. “There’s a groove line, on every one. You know was rifling is?”
Charlie did but he said, “No.”
Snelling sighed. “The barrels of rifles-particularly snipers’ rifles—are bored like the thread of a screw. It increases accuracy and velocity. There’s a fault, a snag, in the rifling of the SVD you say was used by George Bendall. Any bullet fired from it would be scored, like these three pictures of the American test firings show them to be identifiably marked.”
“But the bullets that hit Jennings and Ivanov are not?”
“There’s substantial impact damage,” qualified Snelling. “But they don’t appear to be from the photographs with which I’ve been provided.”
“So they weren’t fired by George Bendall?”
“I’ll go as far as saying that in my professional opinion it’s highly unlikely.”
Anne Abbott was again waiting in the bar when Charlie got back, late, to the Dorchester. “What would you say if I told you the bullets that killed Ben Jennings and cost Feliks Ivanov his leg weren’t fired by George Bendall?” demanded Charlie.
“I’d say holy shit and then I’d ask you to convince me.”
In Moscow the American embassy incident room quieted at John Kayley’s entry. Kayley said, “The president has accepted the resignation of Paul Smith as Bureau Director.”
“Will it be enough?” queried someone in the room.
“As far as I know there isn’t anything else.”
Sir Rupert Dean said, “Are you telling us George Bendall didn’t shoot anybody!”
It was the first interruption since Charlie had started to speak fifteen minutes earlier in the riverview conference room at Millbank and he was enjoying the unqualified attention. Even Jocelyn Hamilton hadn’t found anything to attack. Charlie said: “In the opinion of one ballistics expert, with fifteen years of specific forensic experience matching bullets with guns, it is highly unlikely from the photographs he’s seen that the two bullets thought to have come from Bendall’s rifle were in fact fired from it. He’s now submitted what he examined to two other specialists, for their independent assessment. He also wants to examine the physical evidence: all the recovered bullets and Bendall’s rifle. Until he’s able to do that, he says he can’t be categorical.”
“Will the Russians release them?” demanded Hamilton, at last.
“I won’t know that until I get back,” said Charlie. “At the moment they’re in the incident room at the American embassy. It could be that their ballistics people have come to the same opinion and carried out the tests our man wants to conduct. Reached a definitive conclusion, in fact.”
“You had this overnight, known about it for fifteen hours!” protested Hamilton. “What’s wrong with the telephone!”
“All sorts of things if the call’s made to the wrong place and number,” said Charlie, savoring being able to puncture the man’s attempts so easily. “I spoke to Morrison at our embassy, on a secure line, first thing this morning. Got him to check what’s been made generally available by the Americans on the incident room computers, which are supposed to hold all the evidence we have. It’s convenient our two embassies are so close. It didn’t take him long to
come back to me, again on our own secure line. There was nothing about this, as of an hour ago. So if the American have picked it up, they’re not sharing it.”
come back to me, again on our own secure line. There was nothing about this, as of an hour ago. So if the American have picked it up, they’re not sharing it.”
“How do you read that?” asked Jeremy Simpson.
“I don’t,” said Charlie. “They might not have found it yet. If they have, they might be holding it back to be some sort of bargaining counter, to recover with the Russians. Or they think it’s something only they’ve discovered and don’t intend sharing it at all. If they haven’t got George Bendall they haven’t got anyone who really matters.”
“Neither have the Russians,” Simpson pointed out.
“Let’s talk about that!” demanded Patrick Pacey, more to the lawyer than anyone else. “How clear are we, if what the director said is provable: that Bendall didn’t shoot anyone?”
They were aware of Anne Abbott, Charlie reminded himself. And there seemed no longer any reason why he shouldn’t refer to her. Charlie said, “A lawyer from the embassy’s legal department came back from Moscow with me. She’s postponed her return, because of this, to discuss it and possibly get different instructions.”
“Those instructions will have the advantage of Russian law, which I don’t know in sufficient detail,” said Simpson. “We accept there’s a conspiracy, which Bendall has in some way to be part. He was at the scene, he had a gun and he fired it, even if he didn’t hit anybody. If the bullets aren’t his I think it helps greatly with a mitigation plea, like the fact that he was drunk and that there’s a mental problem. If we get the real conspirators in the dock we could possibly show Bendall to be the totally manipulated dupe.”
“And if we don’t get the real conspirators in court?” persisted the political officer.
“We’ve got a defendable not guilty plea to murder, a guilty pleawith the mitigation I’ve talked about-to conspiracy to murder,” assessed Simpson. “But let’s not lose sight of the fact that under English law
conspiracy
to murder—premeditatedly planning a killing rather than committing the act in a moment of anger or passion—is held to be worse than the actual crime itself.”
conspiracy
to murder—premeditatedly planning a killing rather than committing the act in a moment of anger or passion—is held to be worse than the actual crime itself.”
“So we’re not a great deal further forward?” said Hamilton.
“I’m not qualified to offer a legal opinion,” said Patrick Pacey. “What I can assess is our ability to offer a political and diplomatic defense and I think that’s gone up tremendously.”
“And in so doing continues to justify this department,” agreed the director-general, looking pointedly at his deputy.
And his continued posting in Moscow, Charlie recognized. He wondered how Natalia would feel about that when he told her.
If
he told her. He probably wouldn’t. He hadn’t talked to her in any detail about the initial criticism in London which was now virtually immaterial anyway. It had been a more conscious decision to withhold the uncorroborated ballistic findings even before she’d told him of the FSB confrontation during the previous evening’s call. Despite getting the unintended admissions and concessions from the insufficiently programmed secondary witnesses, she’d gone farther than he would have liked or suggested in summoning the chairman of the FSB, particularly with the presidential uncertainty and it surprised him. He was even more anxious now to get back to Moscow and talk to her about it. What else was there for the two of them to talk about? Nothing, Charlie decided at once; no commitment, no recriminations therefore no guilt.
If
he told her. He probably wouldn’t. He hadn’t talked to her in any detail about the initial criticism in London which was now virtually immaterial anyway. It had been a more conscious decision to withhold the uncorroborated ballistic findings even before she’d told him of the FSB confrontation during the previous evening’s call. Despite getting the unintended admissions and concessions from the insufficiently programmed secondary witnesses, she’d gone farther than he would have liked or suggested in summoning the chairman of the FSB, particularly with the presidential uncertainty and it surprised him. He was even more anxious now to get back to Moscow and talk to her about it. What else was there for the two of them to talk about? Nothing, Charlie decided at once; no commitment, no recriminations therefore no guilt.
Jocelyn Hamilton said, “Are we in any way affected by the dismissal of the FBI director?”
“I don’t see why we should be,” said Pacey. “It’s obviously a political gesture, a pretty dramatic attempt to recover by the Americans; desperate, almost.”
“Might that not indicate that they haven’t got the ballistic analyses yet?” queried Dean.
“I don’t think so,” Charlie came in quickly, always aware that Sir Rupert was an academic, not a sewer soulmate. “You want to burst a dam, you set a heavy enough charge to ensure everything’s engulfed. The entire responsibility for the breakdown between America and Russia has been dumped upon their director, who’s blown away; charged, convicted and sentenced if not to death then to career oblivion. Washington’s adopting Russian precedent-purging-is easier for Russian to understand. And, hopefully, to be enticed back into the sharing, communal fold.”
“We do need to be part of a sharing, communal fold, don’t we?” suggested Sir Rupert Dean.
Charlie was way ahead of the older man’s reasoning-why, in fact, irrespective of today’s discussion, he’d never intended sharing the Woolwich Arsenal doubts until he got back to Moscow-but showing the deferential diplomatic awareness that would have surprised everyone in the room, he said, “I think so, sir, for all the reasons we’ve already discussed.”
“So we’ve got the way to achieve it, haven’t we?” said Dean.
Charlie smiled, as if in initial understanding. “Yes we have, haven’t we?”
Viktor Ivanovich Karelin was someone who strove—and succeeded—to be the sort of man crowds were made of, inconspicuous, unrecognized and unknown. He actually cultivated the amorphic grayness—gray face, gray hair, gray suit-traditional for an intelligence head but which was all the more necessary in the current leadership flux. He was a KGB-era bureaucrat, politically—and willingly—promoted by the president as a hopeful bridge across which the old would cross to the new in attitude and allegiance. Which some, although not all, attitudes and allegiances had and which added to what the pliably adaptable Karelin viewed as a major personal problem, his now being stranded in the middle of the bridge without knowing which side visibly to head for. Sending Gennardi Mittel in his place had put him on the traditional side of the divide. He had never, in a million years, expected the unthinkably direct—humiliating—challenge. Which had to mean that the intelligence he had so far had analysed on the likely succession-and Aleksandr Mikhailevich Okulov’s strength-was questionable. In which case there had potentially been a very bad miscalculation—a mistake for which professional analysts would be called to explain—and from which he had to recover. Or at least put himself back in the middle of the bridge. The problem was getting back there, without losing any further face. The truth—or what he believed to be the truth—would actually add to the humiliation.
There was none of the arrogant strut of his previous day’s emissary
when Karelin entered the Kremlin room, although there was a self-enclosed confidence about the man when he sat, folded his hands in his lap and waited to be addressed. I’ve come this farreluctantly—now you come to me. Only Yuri Trishin knew what the FSB chairman looked like, so completely did Karelin preserve his anonymity and that recognition came from an unpublished photograph on presidential record, not from any personal meeting. The photograph had been badly lit, to be intentionally misleading. Natalia’s immediate impression was of a self-assured professional. She hoped she was right. It would mean—
should
mean, if she were right—that he wouldn’t be taking this personally. It would have been worrisome that he looked intently and undividedly at all three of them—herself last and most intently of all-as if identifying them had she not earlier that morning received the acting president’s signed congratulations for her previous day’s handling of the FSB opposition.
when Karelin entered the Kremlin room, although there was a self-enclosed confidence about the man when he sat, folded his hands in his lap and waited to be addressed. I’ve come this farreluctantly—now you come to me. Only Yuri Trishin knew what the FSB chairman looked like, so completely did Karelin preserve his anonymity and that recognition came from an unpublished photograph on presidential record, not from any personal meeting. The photograph had been badly lit, to be intentionally misleading. Natalia’s immediate impression was of a self-assured professional. She hoped she was right. It would mean—
should
mean, if she were right—that he wouldn’t be taking this personally. It would have been worrisome that he looked intently and undividedly at all three of them—herself last and most intently of all-as if identifying them had she not earlier that morning received the acting president’s signed congratulations for her previous day’s handling of the FSB opposition.
The moment for their meet-in-the-middle diplomacy, decided Natalia. “Thank you, Chairman Viktor Ivanovich, for coming today.”
“I’m afraid there was a misunderstanding,” said Karelin. There was a slight sibilant speech impediment.
“Which is what we believed it to have been,” said Natalia. Hands extended, hands touched: no embarrassment.
“I would like to help the commission, if I could.”
“We hope you can,” said Natalia, more positively. Nudge him off the prepared path, she thought. “Was the FSB actively involved in the attempted assassination of the Russian and American presidents?”
Karelin gave no facial or physical reaction whatsoever. Neither did he artificially hesitate, as if surprised or offended by the question. “No.”
Not a hard enough push, Natalia decided, remembering the telephone call from Leonid Zenin. “Has the FSB any assets within the Burdenko Hospital?”
“I don’t understand that question,” said Karelin, again without hesitation. He’d demanded briefings on every possible question but the hospital hadn’t been mentioned.
“It’s a very simple one,” said Natalia. “Is there someone on the medical staff of the Burdenko Hospital who is an informant or operative of the FSB?” There would have been, when the organization was the KGB. There hadn’t been a government body, civilian institution or supposed independent organization that hadn’t been infiltrated.
“Not to my knowledge.”
“You are the chairman, Viktor Ivanovich. Such awareness would be far below your personal knowledge, wouldn’t it?”
Karelin’s concentration was absolute, the two men either side of Natalia non existent. “Yes.”
“This is a presidential commission. We have the highest security clearance.”
Karelin was churning inwardly, bewildered by the questioning. “I acknowledge that.”
“The FSB has taken over the responsibilities of the KGB?” Beside her Natalia was conscious of Pavl Filitov shifting, noisily, and decided the Federal Prosecutor was communicating with Karelin in sympathetic body language. It was going to be a surprise for him and Trishin when she stopped allowing both to hide behind her skirts. Knowing as they did of Okulov’s congratulatory letter, both men were noticeably deferential.
“In a greatly reduced and publicly accountable way.”
Natalia could not have anticipated that response and for a moment she needed to recompose herself—adjust her mind—to the maximum benefit. “Does the Fifth Chief Directorate still exist?”
“I had forgotten you were once a KGB officer,” said Karelin.
A weak response—weak threat—Natalia decided. “Does the Fifth Chief Directorate still exist?”
“With greatly reduced functions. And no longer under that designation.”
She had to be careful not to demean the man. “Will you undertake to have the former Fifth Chief Directorate, whose responsibility was to emplace KGB agents and informants in all public services, checked to see if your succeeding organization has an asset within Burdenko Hospital?
“Not without knowing the reason for such an enquiry.” Karelin
listened expressionlessly, still physically unmoving, to Natalia’s explanation and didn’t speak for several moments after she’d finished. When he did he said, “I will have that search made.”
listened expressionlessly, still physically unmoving, to Natalia’s explanation and didn’t speak for several moments after she’d finished. When he did he said, “I will have that search made.”
“We appreciate your cooperation,” smiled Natalia. She gave herself pause, to anticipate the moment. Then she said, “I’ll now hand the inquiry over to my colleagues.”
There was a deafening silence, more disconcerting for both Filitov and Trishin by the way the FSB chairman visibly moved his head between them, in expectation. It was the federal prosecutor who finally verbally stumbled into the exchange and almost at once Natalia was conscious of Karelin relaxing, settling more obviously—comfortably—into his chair. Filitov—and occasionally Trishin—recited their questions never once pressing the man. Nor did they pick up from the concessions that had been prised out of the previous day’s witnesses after their dismissal of Gennardi Mittel. Karelin
was
clearly a professional, so he would be reading the encounter—particularly Trishin’s part in it-as she was. The presidential chief of staff was nervous, deferring to the other man. So he was uncertain of the current political situation, according the organization Karelin represented—and Karelin himself-the respect of fear Russia’s intelligence apparatus had always commanded. There was another, more personal—and disconcerting—conclusion to be drawn. She hadn’t properly succeeded in including either Trishin or Filitov in the difficult questioning so she was very obviously isolated. It would be wrong for her to show the unease of the men sitting on either side of her.
was
clearly a professional, so he would be reading the encounter—particularly Trishin’s part in it-as she was. The presidential chief of staff was nervous, deferring to the other man. So he was uncertain of the current political situation, according the organization Karelin represented—and Karelin himself-the respect of fear Russia’s intelligence apparatus had always commanded. There was another, more personal—and disconcerting—conclusion to be drawn. She hadn’t properly succeeded in including either Trishin or Filitov in the difficult questioning so she was very obviously isolated. It would be wrong for her to show the unease of the men sitting on either side of her.
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