“What I get, you’ll get. Trust me.”
“That’s what I’ve got to do!” agreed the girl. “Learn to trust you.”
“Perhaps things will pick up tomorrow.”
Miriam said, “I’d like to think so.”
When it did, neither of them was happy.
12
Charlie was totally trapped. Miriam, too. He experienced every feeling, beginning and ending with the same numbed, disbelieving fury. There was a lot of that in between, too. He was furious at being tricked-and at not anticipating it-and at not being sure what, ifanything, was salvageable-and perhaps most of all at his helplessness because Charlie Muffin hated most of all being in a situation over which he had absolutely no control. So a lot of the anger was directed at himself.
There’d been no warning, although maybe he should have suspected more from Commissioner Ryabov’s hotel foyer announcement that the Russians were excluded from the meeting with the Yakutsk chief minister, wrongly assuming that to be the “something funny” the militia commander had warned Miriam about. Charlie had withdrawn to the sidelines of the inevitable argument from the Moscow homicide detective, uncertain whether to try to force Novikov’s hand by announcing his return to Moscow after the formal release of the body, which was the purpose of the meeting to which he and Miriam were going. He’d actually checked the availability of late afternoon and evening flights.
There had been no indication, either, from their initial reception by Valentin Ivanovich Polyakov. The full-bearded, towering chief minister had greeted them with handshakes, samovar tea and cakes in what had to be the only room in the government complex not in imminent danger of collapse. He’d said he appreciated the cooperation there appeared to have been with the Yakutsk force and in return Charlie and Miriam had promised its continuation after their return to Moscow, from where a lot more inquiries needed to be made. And Polyakov had agreed at once to the bodies and the possessions being returned to Britain and America. He had, declared the Yakutsk leader, already officially informed London and Washington and had the necessary papers prepared and ready. Even more prepared-an indication Charlie missed-he summoned a photographer to record the documentation formally being handed over. Charlie was speculating again about the last evening flight when Polyakov rose unexpectedly from behind his ornately carved desk in what Charlie first thought to be in dismissal but instead said, “Now perhaps you’d be good enough to come with me?”
Charlie followed, imagining a courtesy meeting with the rest of the local ruling assembly, smiling in expectation at the murmur of people when Polyakov thrust open linking doors to a larger room. Charlie later decided, when he saw the video, that the fatuous grinfroze on his face as rigidly-and almost as terrorized-as those of the murder victims.
The lights from the television cameras that recorded his expression made it difficult for Charlie to see the extent of the press conference. From the immediate North American-accented questions, against which Polyakov held up his hands, Charlie finally realized the surprise that Ryabov had told Miriam about was a press contingent flown in certainly from Canada and probably from the United States as well. And knew how the media leaks that Cartright had warned of had come about.
Charlie had spent his entire operational life trying always to be as amorphous as the graveside mist and until this appalling, stomach-dropping moment had succeeded. So shocked-bewildered-was he by the abrupt exposure that for perhaps the first time in that operational life Charlie’s mind went completely blank, momentarily refusing to function. He was conscious of Polyakov (“the conniving, manipulative bastard!”) thanking the Canadian and American media for flying in at such short notice and the inconvenience and of being introduced, with Miriam, by name (holy shit, no!) as he was herded toward a table to sit upon a raised dais behind a hedge of microphones. Yuri Vyacheslav Ryabov and Aleksandr Andreevich Kurshin were already seated, waiting. Able at last to focus, Charlie saw translation booths along the left side of the room and that a lot of the waiting journalists-close to thirty, he guessed, as well as two television teams-wore earphones.
It was at that moment, in reality only a hiatus of seconds, that Charlie began to function, to try to assess and calculate: and from whichever and whatever way he considered it, he reached the same conclusion. It was an absolute fuckup. And worsening by the second, steered inexorably toward further and greater disaster by Valentin Polyakov.
The Yakustkaya chief minister had achieved his lifetime’s ambition, gaining an international audience to denounce successive Russian leaders who perpetuated what Stalin had begun by turning an entire country into a penal colony. At last, declared Polyakov, there was going to be the opportunity for the world to be made aware, after half a century, of the crimes against humanity exceeding those of the Holocaust. Six million Jews had perished in that attemptedgenocide. Double that number had been worked to death and put to death in the Siberian gulags. To Charlie’s fidgeted discomfort, Polyakov inferred the two lieutenants (“brave, fearless agents”) had been murdered because they had discovered the secrets of Yakutskaya (“a secret terrible enough to have destroyed war time alliances”).
At this point Polyakov gestured to either side of him, to include Miriam and Charlie. “Now, after so long-too long-two more brave, fearless agents have come to this godforsaken country, to rediscover and expose secrets Russia even now would prefer kept hidden. Now, at last, the world will eventually be told the truth.”
It was a disaster, Charlie recognized. An utterly unparalleled, irrevocable disaster. His cover, always the paramount consideration, was blown. Which did not create the physical, life-threatening danger it once would have, but as bad on every other level. None of which was the most important consideration. His new creed, the doctrine constantly preached, was never, under any circumstances, to become involved in a diplomatic incident. And here he was-they were-by association, by sitting beside a ranting xenophobe, denouncing Russia and by so doing causing not a diplomatic incident but an inevitable, devastating diplomatic sensation. Beyond that-worse than that-even: it was, potentially, personally devastating. This was of recall and dismissal magnitude: the collapse of the house of cards. As things were between them at the moment, he didn’t think Natalia would bring Sasha to London. She’d virtually said so. And it was immaterial whether he was dismissed or resigned from the department. He’d be refused residency permission to remain in Russia.
The immediate barrage of questions, in English, were all directed at Charlie and Miriam, too many and too quick at first to isolate one from the other. Charlie didn’t wait properly to hear, desperate to limit the damage. It was, he insisted, important to stress that it was neither an American nor English investigation. He and his FBI colleague were observers on a joint inquiry being conducted by a Moscow murder squad working with the local militia. To the visible face-hardening from Polyakov, earphoned for the translation from English, Charlie said the Moscow team-to which Polyakov had studiously not referred-was kept from the conference by continuing inquiries. Charlie spoke accepting that his qualifications would be overwhelmed by the carefully prepared drama of the chief minister’sclaims but was not, at that moment, addressing the media. He was talking to whoever later examined the transcript at whatever inquiry there would unquestionably be to decide his future.
There was an audibly shouted question-“Just what were these guys doing, all that time ago?”-directed to Miriam by name and Charlie looked along the table, unaware if she had already fully accepted their entrapment but conscious of her additional discomfort. A lot of the previous night’s swelling had gone and her face wasn’t as purple-red as it had been, but it was still lumped in places-one eye was half closed-and greasy from that morning’s antiseptic balm. She wore absolutely no makeup. She sat apparently trying to shield her eyes from the camera lights, in reality hoping to conceal as much of her face as possible, and two still photographers crouched at the lip of the dais were repeatedly gesturing for her to lower her hands. She still had difficulty in talking, too.