D uring the subsequent forty-eight hours Natalia only saw Popov, and almost always among a crowd, by going along their communal corridor to his suite, into the adjoining dressing room in which he had a cot moved to avoid quitting the building at night.
The suite itself was transformed virtually into a war room. The map and chart display boards were brought from the conference hall and the double doors to an ante-room thrown back both to enlarge Popov’s normal quarters and to accommodate the radio link equipment. The command helicopter went to Kirov as soon as the phoney army manoeuvre camp was established for a series of test transmissions, all of which worked flawlessly. The spetznaz commanders were invariably with Popov, as well as various people from the Foreign and Interior Ministries, usually accompanied by the permanent secretaries who had attended all the planning sessions. Nikolai Oskin was also in constant attendance, as well as Petr Gusev, head of the Moscow Militia under whose authority Oskin was being transferred. Natalia reassured the Kirov commander of his protective transfer and issued instructions for temporary Moscow accommodation for his family. It was only when she was personally discussing the agreed move with Oskin that Natalia learned it would be impossible to bring Valeri Lvov to the promised security of the capital until after the raid: at the meeting at which its precise date and timing had been established Lvov had been told by the men terrorizing him that he had to be at the plant to enable their unimpeded entry. If he wasn’t there his wife and daughters would be killed by other gang members watching their apartment.
‘I’ve already organized a spetznaz unit to look after them,’ promised Popov, when she raised it with him at the end-of-the-day review session.
‘They won’t be able to go anywhere near the apartment until after everything has begun.’
‘I’ve thought of that, too,’ guaranteed Popov. ‘Our people will be in an enclosed van, less than a street away. With a radio tie-in to me. Everything will be secured before there’s a chance of anyone getting harmed.’
Natalia felt the latest threat to Lvov proved the wiseness of her banning Popov from the actual interception but didn’t remind the man. She was glad he hadn’t after all officially protested her ruling, which was why she in turn didn’t question the constant reviews and replanning sessions Popov repeatedly conducted. She personally felt some were unnecessarily excessive, like living in the ministry building was excessive, although she conceded such attention to detail made their planning virtually foolproof. She actually felt pride-by-association, too, in how it personally established Popov not just in their own ministry but in the higher echelons of the Foreign Ministry, as well.
The frantic activity was not confined solely to Moscow. Kestler’s long explanatory message why he had to provide the Russians with two supposed warnings to Washington – both false and one backdated – on the need for total security prompted a series of urgent and direct personal telephone calls from the nervously unsettled Director himself. Fenby initially forbade either being sent. When he fully realized the commitment Kestler had already and publicly made – confirmed unarguably by the faxed transcript of the planning meeting at which Kestler had given the undertaking – Fenby insisted on revising both messages to include Kestler’s supposed doubt about how the British would utilize the atomic smuggling information. When Kestler, uncomfortably reminded of his confrontation with Charlie and Lyneham, honestly protested he had no such doubts, Fenby snapped that it was an order that had to be obeyed. After getting the hopefully absolving cables entirely to his satisfaction, Fenby fabricated responses in which he gave apparent assurances from both the FBI and the State Department that the information would not be dispersed or shared to any other organization and most certainly not with any third country. Fenby’s second faked reply pointedly referred to the doubt about Charlie Muffin he’d had Kestler introduce into his cable. Only then did he return the courtesy of Peter Johnson’s earlier warning by calling the deputy British Director at home to advise what he had done.
In Moscow, Kestler complained to Lyneham, ‘Everything’s being dumped on the Brits.’
‘That it is,’ agreed the local Bureau chief, more interested in how far he was from any firing line. Lyneham was personally very sorry but professionally acknowledged that life – their life – was more frequently a bowl of dog dirt than a bowl of cherries.
‘That’s not fair. It was my fault,’ moaned the younger man.
‘I keep telling you fairness hasn’t anything to do with anything,’ reminded Lyneham. ‘If you feel that bad about it, ’fess up to the Director and resign. That way you get a squeaky clean conscience without a single Hail Mary.’
Sometimes, thought Kestler, the fat slob tried just a little too hard for the cynic-of-the-year award. ‘You know I can’t do that. It wouldn’t make anything right, anyway.’
‘Then shut up and do what you’re told and accept what’s known as political reality. I would have thought you’d learned all about that from your uncle.’
‘What’s my uncle got to do with anything?’
Lyneham’s eyebrows came close to his hairline. ‘You work it out! It’s all too complicated for me!’
By comparison, the forty-eight hours for Charlie were relatively uncomplicated. He had, of course, to prepare the bogus security restriction messages to comply with the Russian demand but his explanatory memo to Rupert Dean simply needed cross-referencing with his earlier complaint about the American, which he specifically ensured it did. His ostracism by Balg and Fiore, jointly designed to frighten him into realizing how great his isolation, if he didn’t include them, saved him the chore of lying to them any more: during one of their regular telephone conversations, Kestler told Charlie he was averaging two calls a day from both the German and the Italian. Kestler swore he’d said nothing.
Popov’s expanded office, which Charlie recognized from their introductory encounter, was crowded when Charlie and Kestler arrived precisely at the time stipulated by Popov before his departure to Kirov. There were about half a dozen women, the rest men. Seating was directed towards the radio bank at which two head-phoned operators sat, their backs to the room. The equipment glittered with power and sound level lights and there were several dial needles twitching in unison, like heart beat monitors, but there was no sound. In Popov’s absence, it was Natalia who resolved the doorway uncertainty, guiding them to seats once more separated from the general grouping. She did so quite detached, not looking directly at either of them or saying anything after the initial, automatic greeting until they got to their seats. There she indicated an open side door through which they could see long, white-clothed tables with attendants behind. There were urns and cups and saucers and salvers of sandwiches, with a gap separating wine and vodka and glasses.
‘If you wish,’ she said, with stiffly correct politeness, and then walked back to her own seat in the very front without waiting for either to respond. Apart from the open door, the hospitality room was distinctly separated from where the events at Kirs were to be relayed and was deserted, although a few people sat with glasses they’d carried back into the main office. Charlie and Kestler ignored the invitation.
With flashing lights and flickering needles the only other diversion, Charlie and Kestler were momentarily the objects of curiosity. Although it had minimal practical purpose, Charlie inherently gazed back even more intently, trying to fix faces for later indentification from embassy photographs to advise London who the audience had been.
When the sound did come a lot of people jumped, even though it was what they were waiting for.
‘Sighting!’ Popov’s voice was very clear, without any distortion, although slightly too loud.
One of the operators made an adjustment.
‘Definite sighting!’ A pause. ‘Timed zero one twenty-three.’