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The remark brought the American forward over his whiskey glass, as Charlie hoped it would. ‘What the hell does that mean?’

‘Thought I would have met him at the same time as you,’ said Charlie, accepting there were a hundred escapes for Lyneham to take. None of which the man did, which further intrigued Charlie.

‘Wanted us to meet first,’ said the Bureau chief, too simply.

For what, precisely, wondered Charlie. Aloud he said, ‘I’ve appreciated that, too.’

‘Keep in mind what I’ve said.’

‘I will.’

James Kestler responded to his superior’s summons as if he had been waiting on the other side of the door, entering the room as if there were some sort of spring device in his heels to enable him to move faster. Had he ever been as eager as this crop-haired, shiny-faced, bejeaned young man, wondered Charlie. He would have liked to think so but he doubted it. Charlie endured the pump-armed handshake and the repeated although slightly varied assurance they were going to be a good combination (a partnership Kestler appeared to believe already more definitely established than Charlie did, although there was still too much to be gained to dispute it) and the concluding demand to admit he saw himself at the very forefront against the most dangerous criminal activity currently being conducted by organized crime, not just in Russia but throughout the world. Kestler called it being at the cutting edge. Charlie said he supposed that’s how he did see it, yes, not wanting to bruise the younger man’s enthusiasm. Kestler stressed they had a lot to talk about and a lot to plan and a lot to accomplish and Charlie agreed with all of that, as well, because all of it was true. Throughout, Barry Lyneham sat overflowing his inadequate office chair, saying nothing and doing nothing but add occasionally to his and Charlie’s bourbon glass. There’d been no offer to Kestler, from which Charlie guessed that Kestler didn’t drink. The repeated gratitude at the German information, which had been officially delivered under Kestler’s name, brought a renewed flurry of eager guidance from Kestler that there were as many con men in the nuclear business as there were traders with insider access. ‘That’s what Braun was, a punk.’

‘I read the German file,’ promised Charlie.

‘It’s the excuse the Russians use all the time,’ intruded Lyneham. ‘They say most of what we give them from outside turns out to be a set-up to con the guys with the big bucks in the Middle East or wherever.’

Charlie waited patiently until Kestler had virtually exhausted himself before asking for a contacts list at the Interior Ministry. The American file was far more extensive than that which Bowyer had produced, but Natalia’s name still did not feature anywhere.

‘I need to meet the right man,’ said Charlie, unsuccessfully scanning the names for a second time and feeling he had to give a reason for the request in the first place.

‘Aleksai Semenovich Popov,’ identified Kestler at once, jabbing at the list. ‘Operational head of the anti-nuclear smuggling division, with the official rank of colonel. Nice guy. Makes time any time.’

Which Popov did, agreeing to a meeting when, at Lyneham’s suggestion, Charlie telephoned the Interior Ministry from the Bureau chiefs office. Charlie’s satisfaction was punctured at once when Lyneham said, ‘Don’t think everything’s going to be as simple, Charlie. He’s probably got nothing better to do.’

Nothing was going to be simple, Charlie accepted objectively in the taxi carrying him back to Lesnaya. He hadn’t even started yet and if Lyneham was to be believed he was going to be bloody lucky if he was ever going to start properly. But it had been a good beginning, apart from the expectable embassy friction. And that was nothing he couldn’t handle. The only disappointment so far, in fact, had been his inability to find Natalia. And if he was going to be sensibly objective, it had been ridiculous for him to expect to locate her so soon. If ever.

Back in the embassy, Lyneham said, ‘Well?’

‘Superfluous to requirements, put out to pasture,’ assessed Kestler, in youthful instant judgment.

‘Sure about that?’ asked Lyneham, who wasn’t sure himself but who hadn’t been as impressed as he’d hoped to be. ‘Don’t forget that past record.’

‘Trust me,’ said Kestler.

I wouldn’t trust your judgment if you had a beard and your name was Moses, thought Lyneham.

‘When?’ demanded Natalia.

‘Tomorrow. He said he was calling from the American embassy. Obviously it’s going virtually to be a joint operation,’ judged Popov.

‘It makes sense.’

‘His Russian wasn’t very good, but at least he tried. Which is more than the American did at first. We ended up with English, though.’

Charlie’s Russian had been excellent, remembered Natalia, virtually fluent even in his use of colloquialisms. He’d obviously lost it through lack of use, like she’d probably lost a lot of her English, although she and Aleksai amused themselves sometimes, practising together. ‘What did he say?’

‘Just that he wanted to introduce himself.’

‘Our not being told in advance of his arrival was a political criticism,’ declared Natalia, positively, less distracted by personal intrusion than she had been before and therefore thinking more clearly. ‘And there will be more, unless we manage something soon. Show him every consideration. And make sure he knows he’s getting it. I don’t want any more complaints than we can avoid between here and London.’

‘ Every consideration?’ queried the reluctant Popov.

‘Give the impression of cooperating.’ Natalia no longer wanted to be alone to think, as she had when she’d first learned of Charlie’s arrival. The opposite, in fact. ‘You said you were busy tonight?’

‘Dinner with our regional commander, from the northeast. I don’t think I should consider rearranging it; I’m not sure how long he’s going to be here.’

‘Of course you shouldn’t rearrange it,’ accepted Natalia.

‘Maybe you should come?’

‘Too late to arrange anything for Sasha.’

‘What about the Englishman? Still sure you don’t want to meet him?’

‘No!’ said Natalia, too loudly.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked the man.

‘Nothing.’

‘There’ll be a lot to talk about tomorrow.’

How much would there be of what she wanted to hear, wondered Natalia.

‘A confirmed $100,000,000!’ queried a staggered Frolov.

‘Deposits already lodged, from every purchaser,’ confirmed the Dolgoprudnaya boss of bosses.

‘And there’s no problem at the plant?’

‘They’re terrified. Doing exactly what they’re told, when they’re told, how they’re told.’

There was a movement from Sobelov, the look for acquiescence before the man stood. Unasked, he poured drinks and put them before everyone and then raised his own glass. ‘I think Stanislav Georgevich is to be congratulated,’ toasted the man. ‘I have questioned this because I doubted it could work. I no longer have any doubts. So I apologize and pledge my full support.’

Everyone drank and Silin briefly lowered his head in appreciation. If the bastard thought that was going to save him he was an even bigger fool than he’d so far shown himself to be.

chapter 8

C harlie, who was not normally given to such impressions, thought Aleksai Popov was probably one of the most dramatic-looking men he’d ever met. The person who strode across the high-ceilinged baroque office of the Interior Ministry to meet him was tall, well over six feet, model-immaculate in a dove-grey suit accentuating the slope from broad shoulders to blade-thin waist. The height and the obvious athleticism and the autocratic way the man held himself would have been sufficient to make him outstanding in most surroundings, but it was his facial appearance that was most striking. Popov’s deeply black hair ran into a very full but whisker-trim beard, fashioned into a definitive wedge, creating a startling similarity with all the photographs Charlie had ever seen of the last Tsar. The handshake was firm without being bone-crushing, the cologne subdued, and Charlie thought it was probably difficult for Popov to walk down a street without being tripped up by women eager to fall underneath him.