The change of attitude was palpable. The deference was back from everyone except Sobelov and his demeanour was obvious, too. The man was scared, panicking, not thinking before he spoke and looking more and more foolish with every argument he attempted.
‘They can’t guarantee that much!’ Sobelov protested.
‘They can. And they are. And there’s a revised value. It could be worth as much as $100,000,000, in total.’
‘It’s a trap,’ persisted the challenger.
‘Not for us it isn’t. And the way I’m organizing it you get your war with the Chechen. Except we don’t have to get involved or distracted by it. We just make the money while other Families destroy each other, making fresh opportunities for us.’
‘It’s brilliant!’ said Oleg Bobin, publicly changing sides. ‘Absolutely brilliant.’
Silin let the silence stretch for as long as he felt able. Then, heavily, he said, ‘So I have everyone’s confidence? And agreement to conclude the negotiations?’
The assent was unanimous and immediate, from everyone except Sobelov. Relentlessly, Silin prompted, ‘Sergei Petrovich?’
‘We should be involved in the negotiations,’ persisted the man.
‘It’s always been this way in the past.’
The fool’s worst mistake so far, isolated Silin. ‘To suggest a change would frighten them off, risk the entire deal. Does anyone want it done differently?’
No one spoke.
‘You seem to be alone, Sergei Petrovich.’ Which was how the man was going to stay from now on, thought Silin.
‘Negotiations, yes,’ finally conceded the man. ‘But what about the details of the robbery itself?’
That would leak anyway, from what he had already initiated, Silin decided. Patiently he set out how the robbery was planned but made it sound as if it had all been his idea, not that of the others.
‘Brilliant!’ enthused Bobin again, when Silin finished. ‘Absolutely and totally brilliant!’
‘It’s too complicated!’ protested Sobelov.
‘No, it isn’t,’ refused Silin, sure of himself. ‘Complicated for other people but not for us. Because we’ll be orchestrating everything.’
‘It only wants one person to break.’
‘They won’t,’ said Silin. ‘They’ll die if they do. After watching their families die in front of them.’
chapter 7
C harlie genuinely tried the new Hush Puppies, wanting his renaissance to be complete, but they hadn’t sufficiently spread and hurt like a bugger after a few practice steps around his mausoleum apartment, so he’d put them back on the stretching shoe-trees. The existing blancmange pair destroyed the attempt with the new blue striped suit and the just-unwrapped shirt and the pristine tie, but it would have been destroyed totally by his hobbling about like someone tortured by the medieval Iron Boot.
A solicitous Thomas Bowyer greeted Charlie with a much-endangered solemn-faced enquiry about difficulty getting a taxi and Charlie resigned himself to the nonsense with the Marlboros already in mocking circulation. He’d never particularly minded people taking the piss out of him: it always put them at the disadvantage of imagined superiority.
Bowyer said the scientific briefing was fixed for that afternoon, which gave them time to tour the embassy and make all the necessary introductions first. Very quickly Charlie realized there was no one he could remember from his earlier Moscow episode any longer stationed at the river-bordering Morisa Toreza, which was hardly surprising because Moscow was a strictly regulated, two-year term appointment.
The tour began, obviously, at the intelligence rezidentura, which Charlie remembered but nevertheless went through the new-to-everything charade of the appropriate noises, until he got to the room Bowyer declared to be personally his. It was definitely smaller than the hutch he’d so briefly occupied at the new Embankment building and automatically Charlie looked to the window, which was spared any pigeon assault. It was covered instead with layer upon layer of Moscow street grime so thick Charlie estimated any available light was filtered by half. The dimly obscured but familiar view was of a blank wall.
‘Don’t expect you’ll want to occupy it for any length of time,’ said Bowyer, in lukewarm apology. ‘Somewhere to store your stuff, really.’
‘It’ll do fine,’ accepted Charlie. Its only use was what Bowyer suggested, a storeroom. But one with a difference, a place he didn’t mind inquisitive people prying into: somewhere, in fact, in which to leave lying about titbits of information he might very much want transmitted back to London.
It was a confrontation of icy formality with the Head of Chancellery, Nigel Saxon. Charlie listened with polite assertiveness to the familiar lecture against embarrassing the embassy and at its end he dutifully reassured the grey-haired, disdainful man he had been fully briefed in London. Saxon announced he would be attending that afternoon’s scientific guidance and Charlie wondered who was going to be the greatest embassy burden, Bowyer or the Head of Chancellery: it would probably be a close-run contest.
Paul Smythe appeared not to want to talk about anything else but Lesnaya. As well as being the housing officer, Smythe was responsible for the diplomatic concessionary facilities for which the man went to great lengths to accredit Charlie, all the time trying to draw Charlie out on why he’d been allowed such accommodation privilege. Charlie realized Smythe believed his being allowed Lesnaya indicated power and influence beyond what was obvious from the stated purpose of his being there and decided the apartment could be less of an encumbrance after all. Intentionally feeding grist into the rumour mill, Charlie carefully remained vaguely ambiguous to Smythe’s most direct questions, conveying just the right degree of over-familiarity with upper-echelon London names.
The last of the necessary moving-in meetings was with the embassy’s financial officer, Peter Potter. Once more, Charlie cultivated the impression of unspecified London influence, which was even easier than it had been with Smythe because Potter had already received from Gerald Williams the scale of allowances Charlie was to be permitted and which clearly overawed the local accountant. He assured Charlie there would never be any difficulty in advancing expenses in any currency Charlie required, in addition to dollars.
Bowyer insisted on being luncheon host in the embassy dining room, where there were several further introductions and where Charlie was conscious of a lot of curiosity-at-a-distance attention from other people whom he didn’t officially meet.
‘Seems to be pretty much general knowledge what I’m here for,’ said Charlie. He’d chosen steak and decided the food was better than he remembered from his other visits.
‘It is generally known,’ agreed Bowyer. ‘There was no security restriction put out by London. The embassy was openly informed of your coming – and why – the same time as I was.’
‘How have you handled this nuclear business up to now?’
Bowyer shrugged, toying with his wine glass. ‘Accepting what we were told by the authorities. There’s no other way. Until your coming here we didn’t even have a remit to become involved; I’m not sure that we have even now. Everything I’ve seen so far talks of liaison.’
The excuse of an ineffectual man, thought Charlie.
‘What’s the relationship with the Americans?’
There was another shrug. ‘Good enough. At least there’s a designated agent who gets fed stuff from Europe and the Middle East, from other FBI stations. Which gives him some weight to pressure the Russians into cooperation.’
From whom or from where was he going to be fed material with which to negotiate? wondered Charlie. Something to be sorted out in one of his first exchanges with London. ‘Maybe a good idea to make early contact with the Americans.’
‘They sent some stuff across addressed to you last night.’
And he’d been in the embassy for more than three hours without being told, calculated Charlie. ‘What is it?’