‘I don’t know.’
This time the silence was longer. ‘Between ourselves?’
‘That’s how I’d like it to stay.’ Balg might have a reason to break the undertaking, so Charlie supposed he’d have to say something to Kestler. But there was no immediate hurry: self-preservation – with the new addition of protecting Natalia – was always the paramount consideration. And it was, after all, American information which they already had in Washington: probably in full, not intermittent like he had it.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ promised the German.
‘I’d like to be involved.’ It was a lot to expect but if you don’t ask you don’t get, thought Charlie. So it was worth a try.
Having dealt with things in order of priority, Charlie came back to the decision he’d reached on his way back from the ambassador’s office. He wrote steadily for half an hour, leaving until the end the final inscription on the fronting page and was actually putting it into his desk drawer when Thomas Bowyer appeared at the door.
‘You’re being recalled to London,’ announced Bowyer, triumphantly.
‘I hoped I would be,’ replied Charlie, spoiling the other man’s moment. But not until the following day, Charlie decided: he couldn’t leave without talking to Natalia.
‘We’ve been excluded,’ announced Dean. As he had at the still-inconcluded confrontation with Peter Johnson, Dean spoke extremely slowly, measuring out his anger in every word.
‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir.’ Unthinkingly Fenby had picked up Henry Fitzjohn’s unctuously polite mannerism: it was not unusual for him to copy speech affectation he admired.
You’re going to be, determined Dean. He didn’t yet fully know how, because it had to be to his maximum benefit and advantage. All he had at the moment was an implacable determination to overturn with as great an upheaval as possible whatever the water-drinking, salad-eating, ego-driven bastard imagined he was doing. Today was a simple declaration of war, which he expected Fenby too stupid to realize. ‘So was I. The nonsense about governmental leaks didn’t justify it.’
‘You think that was the reason, sir?’ The FBI Director sat with his chair tilted away from the foot-resting desk of his top-floor office, gazing up Pennsylvania Avenue towards the Capitol with the telephone cupped loosely into his shoulder. Fenby’s mind was only half on the conversation: my town, he was thinking; my town and I’m a central player.
‘Can you think of another one?’
‘I thought we gave a satisfactory explanation from here. Guess you did, too, from your end.’
‘We gave an explanation,’ agreed the Director-General. Heavily he added, ‘An explanation for ourselves, that’s all. In fact I think you should see it. The sanitized version and what really happened. I’m shipping both over in the diplomatic bag from your embassy today.’ Charlie’s itemized complaints against Kestler were already in front of Dean, isolated in an unusually cleared space on his desk.
In Washington Fenby frowned, at the ‘what really happened’ remark. ‘Much obliged, but I really can’t see the need.’
‘In return, I’d be interested to see how you handled it, to find where I went wrong. We’re treating the whole thing as a joint operation, after all.’
Fenby brought his feet down from the desk. ‘Happy to send it over, sir; try to get it in your embassy bag tonight.’ It would involve another morning creating another phoney response, that was all.
‘It’ll make both our records as complete as possible.’
‘Politics is the art of the possible, isn’t that what they say?’
The ill-fitting response momentarily silenced the Briton with its absurdity, although not by its significance. Rupert Dean did have the excellent memory of which he’d assured his deputy. Whom he remembered paraphrasing that very same axiom of his revered Bismarck at their briefing review just before Charlie Muffin had gone to Moscow. Another indication, which he didn’t need, of how closely and how much Peter Johnson had maintained his back-door communication with the American. Would Johnson have already warned Fenby? He was still waiting for Johnson’s response to his ultimatum. Briefly Dean considered taunting Fenby about the inane remark, sure the American knew nothing whatsoever about the statesman who’d unified Germany. Instead he said, ‘Of course, ironically, I’m glad it’s happened.’
‘Glad?’ Fenby frowned, beginning to concentrate.
‘I’m temporarily withdrawing my man, obviously.’ Dean wished it had been a face-to-face confrontation: he would have liked to see Fenby’s complacency begin to crumble.
The FBI Director swivelled away from his powerhouse view. ‘I’m not sure I’m following you on this, sir.’
‘Well, I know you haven’t swallowed that reassuring nonsense put out by Moscow.’
Fenby smiled in the solitude of his office. ‘Got a very balanced account from my people.’
‘Then you’ll know there isn’t a hope in hell of the Russians getting it all back: maybe none of what’s still missing. We’re going to have a major crisis – maybe more than one – on top of an already major disaster. With the Russians frantic to put blame on everyone but themselves. So the best place to be at the moment is as far out of it as possible, wouldn’t you say?’ Dean spoke looking at the muted television set already focused on the House of Commons chamber, in readiness for the prime ministerial statement. He’d have to congratulate Charlie Muffin, after the way the Downing Street briefing had gone: there couldn’t be any doubts about the Moscow posting, from today. Or of the snipe-free security of the department.
In Washington Fenby felt the cold breath of uncertainty. He actually shivered. ‘It’s certainly going to need a lot of care.’
Dean grimaced at the inadequacy. ‘Thought we should talk things through, to ensure we agree the scale of the problem.’
‘I’ve already spelled it out to my people,’ lied Fenby. But he was going to, the moment he got this damned man off the telephone.
‘I look forward to getting your package,’ said Dean.
‘Like I am to getting yours,’ said Fenby.
You won’t when you read it, thought Rupert Dean. When the need arose – particularly if that need was to protect Charlie Muffin and the Russian appointment – he intended utilizing it through every media and diplomatic outlet to reverse their Moscow expulsion. The threat alone should be sufficient to bring John Fenby to heel, which by itself was a pleasing thought.
The first praise came from Dmitri Fomin, who’d entered the Interior Ministry prepared to be annoyed at the abrupt summons but whose attitude changed within minutes of Natalia giving a precis of her interrogation of Lev Yatisyna in advance of playing the full account to the ministerial group. The presidential aide called it outstanding and there was a brief discussion about reconvening the operational committee in advance of the following day’s planned session before it was decided to be impractical. Natalia said she had already arranged for an artist to make the promised sketches and pointed out ahead of anyone else there couldn’t be any question of their being publicly issued until after Yevgennie Agayans was in custody. Radomir Badim said if necessary he would actually get an official clemency document prepared to extract everything there was from Yetisyna, assuring Fomin at the same time it would be rescinded or simply torn up when they’d got all they wanted. Fomin said that politically, most particularly to avoid embarrassment in the West, any mass trials of corrupt policeman would have to be held quite separate from hearings involving the attempted or successful nuclear thefts. Badim pointed out that would be difficult if Militia officers were actually named in connection with nuclear thefts. The encounter ended with Fomin increasing his earlier praise by promising to identify her in a memorandum to the President.
Natalia decided, apart from Charlie Muffin’s expulsion, it had been a hugely successful day. That was how she set out to describe it to Aleksai Popov but when she got to their office level he’d gone. There was no reply from his apartment and she replaced the telephone, anxious to make the other necessary call.