‘Do you believe the Americans share what they get from outside?’
‘They told me they did. That’s why they’re pissed off, getting nothing in return.’
There was a slight frown at what Bowyer considered an obscenity. ‘You really think there’s the slightest chance of your being included at the tail-end of a genuine investigation?’
‘No,’ admitted Charlie, honestly. ‘But there wasn’t any harm in trying, was there?’
‘So it’s not as good as it looks on paper… rather a lot of paper?’
Fuck you, thought Charlie. ‘Why don’t we wait and see?’
It was an empty response but Bowyer wouldn’t know that. Would the sneaky bastard risk a direct intervention to London or leave it to Saxon?
Back at the Interior Ministry Aleksai Popov was coming to the end of his detailed account of his meeting with Charlie Muffin. ‘An unusual person. Certainly much cleverer than the American but then he’s much older…’ A man so obviously sartorially aware, Popov paused. ‘… Personally quite smart but with the strangest shoes.’
Natalia didn’t need to be told what Charlie had looked like.
She’d watched unseen from the corridor recess no longer containing the Lenin bust just outside her office door as Charlie had been escorted to Popov’s door. Although it was obviously Charlie, the crispness of the suit had surprised her, because he’d never dressed like that when she’d known him. But she’d recognized at once the puddled shoes and the eyes-missing-nothing head movement, actually jerking further into the recess in momentary fear he’d see her.
It hadn’t been at all like she’d expected. There’d been the stomach lurch, the hollowness, and the slight tingling at the unreality of it all. But it hadn’t been as bad as she’d feared. She hadn’t been overwhelmed by any emotion, confused beyond being able to watch and think quite dispassionately. In fact dispassionate perfectly summed up the way she’d felt, seeing again the father of her child and the man whom she’d once thought she loved. She no longer had any doubt about any difficulty in meeting him again, face to face. Not that she intended to. At that moment she was sure it didn’t matter to her whether or not she ever met Charlie Muffin again. ‘You don’t have any doubt about the impatience, from both London and Washington?’
Popov smiled. ‘I haven’t told you yet about last night’s meeting with our regional commander.’
The FBI Lear jet carried John Fenby to England and the fact that the Connaught was so close to the American embassy in Grosvenor Square was more than sufficient reason for his staying at what he justifiably considered the best hotel in London. He regarded the restaurant as the best, too, which was why he chose it for his lunch with Rupert Dean.
The British Director-General arrived politely ahead of time but Fenby, as always, was already waiting, the carefully chosen window table in the most discreet corner: he would have liked more distance between himself and the other tables but wasn’t well enough known to get it, like he was at the Four Seasons. It was their first personal meeting, an assessment-for-the-future encounter.
Fenby had, of course, had a check run on Dean and knew the academic background and considered it unfitting for the position the man now occupied. But that was a British problem, not his. Rather, it was his advantage. He’d already decided how to use the British appointment in more than one way, which was why he’d so strongly supported it, and knew Dean was too naive ever to realize how he was being manipulated. There was, of course, no way that Peter Johnson could know, either, but Fenby knew the British deputy would understand. He and Johnson understood each other, like the professionals they were. If he invoked the insurance he had so carefully established, it was even possible Dean would be destroyed, in which case it was more than likely Johnson would get the appointment that should have been his in the first place. Fenby hoped it happened: Johnson was the sort of man he could work with.
Rupert Dean had had an identical check run on John Fenby and knew not just the legal history of the New York circuit judge but the rumoured determination to create another Bureau legend. Dean found it easy to imagine the pleasure the surprisingly small, blinking-eyed man would have attained jailing people for life and wondered if he didn’t miss that particular power. He supposed Fenby had sufficient at the FBI to compensate.
Fenby was solicitous over the menu and suggested Dean order whatever wine he wanted, because he didn’t drink, which was something else Dean knew and wasn’t surprised about. Without consulting the wine list Dean asked the sommelier for a 1962 Margaux if it was available and when Fenby wondered if there’d be half bottles Dean said he wasn’t thinking of a half bottle. There was a ’62 and it was as good as Dean knew it would be. He savoured it even more than he savoured the American’s disapproval of his excess.
‘Your man seems to have achieved a lot in a short time,’ opened the American.
‘He’s very experienced,’ said Dean, who as a bridge-building courtesy and at Johnson’s suggestion, had earlier that morning sent Charlie’s overnight reports to the Bureau office at the nearby embassy.
‘Unconventional,’ suggested Fenby. He’d already decided to have the possible operational concession achieved by the Englishman recorded on FBI files as James Kestler’s success. And to tell Fitzjohn as soon as he got back to Washington.
‘It’s an unconventional position.’ Dean had found the other man’s remark curious.
‘I’m keen for us to work as a team: I’ve told my people in Moscow.’ Because by having the Englishman associated at all times, it achieved the all-important function of keeping dirt off my doorstep, he thought, smugly. As well as protecting James Kestler from being shown as the run-at-anything operator he was worryingly turning out to be.
‘I think that’s probably a good arrangement.’ Dean decided he didn’t like the American. It had been necessary to work with him to achieve the department posting to Moscow but Dean had no intention of making a friend, or even an acquaintance, of the other Director.
They stopped talking while the meal was served. Dean had chosen confit of duck and accepted mashed potatoes, as well as sauce thickened with stock and wine. Fenby had cold meats and a plain green side salad, without dressing.
‘But we’re going to have to be very careful,’ condescended Fenby, actually preparing his ground. ‘That’s why your choice of operative surprised me.’
‘That’s his usefulness,’ said Dean. ‘He surprises people.’
chapter 9
‘H e’s sure?’
‘Of course he’s not sure! How can he be?’
Natalia wished Aleksai hadn’t been so brusque. ‘Give me some idea!’ she demanded, matching his impatience.
‘He’s sure it isn’t a confidence trick,’ allowed Popov. ‘Oskin’s had enough of those to recognize each and every sign. This time the approach has been made to the security head of a nuclear site about five kilometres outside Kirov: the nearest township of any size is Kirs. It’s one of the installations we already know kept inaccurate records, to inflate their production norms.’
‘What isn’t he sure of?’
‘Carrying out a proper investigation. There’s still too much we don’t know: too much that could go wrong.’
‘Tell me about Oskin! How reliable is he?’ Natalia’s concentration had switched almost entirely from her deputy’s meeting with Charlie, although he remained a peripheral part of what she and Popov were now discussing. On the surface, Russia’s acceptance of yet another foreign investigator was the outward proof to the West of Moscow’s enforcement commitment. Hidden beneath the surface from everyone except herself was what Natalia interpreted it as a very clear and personal warning. If there was not soon some visible success to be trumpeted abroad, Natalia guessed the next political move – equally for foreign consumption – would be her very public replacement. Natalia’s primary concern was not for herself. It would be impossible for her ever to get another privileged government job, probably any worthwhile job at all. Which endangered Sasha. Although she knew it was premature and unprofessional, Natalia felt the excitement surge through her at even the vaguest possibility of mounting an operation: of doing something at last! And it wasn’t just excitement. There was a lot of relief mixed with it, which was equally premature and unprofessional.