Novikov’s concern was immediate. “It would have been an offense for my father to make notes like that. Still would be, for me to have kept them. The references to Moscow officials? They had to be security, didn’t they? The Narodny Komitet Vnutrennikh Del, then?”
“No one else will ever see it but me. And I already know you have it.”
“You are asking me to trust you: putting ourselves in your hands.”
“You did that in Yakutsk.”
Abruptly, a man making an impulsive gesture he might quickly regret, Novikov thrust the log farther across the table toward Charlie. “Promise me that no one else will ever see it. And that when you no longer need it you will destroy it.”
“I promise,” said Charlie, putting the log into his own briefcase before the doctor could change his mind.
“Will I see you again?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps not.”
“Thank you, then, for the last time. I think of you as a good man.”
That wasn’t Charlie’s impression of himself, riding the metro back into the center of Moscow with his briefcase clutched to his chest. At that precise moment he thought of himself as a failed man, not knowing where else to look, what else to do. And yet …? He physically shrugged aside the unanswerable self-question, irritated by it and the foot twinge that came with it and which he never usually ignored. This time, for once, it had to be wrong. Charlie didn’t like not knowing what to do.
“It was obviously something you had to know immediately,” said Lestov.
“Of course,” accepted Natalia. She’d accepted Nikulin’s refusal to disclose any reason for the Russian decision because she’d had no alternative; had secretly been relieved at the thought of the whole thing drifting to an inconclusive end just as long as it ended without any danger to her and Charlie-and Sasha-personally. Now, in minutes, everything was thrown into total confusion again. “She wouldn’t say why?”
Lestov shook his head. “Just that it was an official instruction from Washington.”
“It could be a trick,” suggested Natalia.
“Where’s the trick?”
“Lulling you into believing you could safely share with her something you might be withholding,” guessed Natalia.
Lestov shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t think so.”
Natalia got up from her desk, walking head bent toward the huge ministry window. She arrived in time to see a GIA traffic policeman, on foot, extract payment from a flagged-down motorist preferring to pay an instant bribe rather than waste a day in court protesting an invented speeding offense. Charlie hadn’t told her anything about the American withdrawal. He’d insisted nothing had emerged from the lunch with Miriam Belclass="underline" claimed to be worried about the lack of progress. The American girl was sleeping with Lestov, according to Charlie. Maybe she’d told her lover but not Charlie. Or Charlie was keeping things back from her in the belief that she’d lied about not knowing why the Russian decision had been made. Which took themback to their distrustful beginning. Her fault, then-her decision, she acknowledged. Surely it wasn’t necessary for Charlie to balance everything, like for like? Over her shoulder Natalia said, “What about the Englishman?”
“He claims the London visit was for reevaluation,” said Lestov. “He didn’t offer anything new yesterday.”
“You believe him?”
“No.”
“So he’s still actively investigating?”
“He gave every impression of doing so. Kept pressing about what our announcement was going to be. Are you going to tell Dmitri Borisovich?”
Natalia turned back into the room. “That’s why I asked to see you. Dmitri Borisovich intends to issue the press release today. Wants to know about Belous.”
“He’s still in custody.”
“Have you told him what will happen to him if he says anything about his mother being NKVD?”
Lestov nodded. “And he believes me.”
“Keep him in custody for the next few days, just the same.”
“Are you going to tell Dmitri Borisovich about America?” pressed Lestov. He was where he was now-liked being where he was now-because of some earlier internal intrigue he still didn’t properly understand. As the bearer of the message, he didn’t himself want to become a victim by its not being passed on to everyone who should know. Searching for the persuasion, he said, “It might affect his making the release.”
“I know,” said Natalia, coming back to her desk to pick up the telephone.
Openly boasting to colleagues in the embassy of deceiving his own department, thought Gerald Williams, triumphantly. Colleagues who could be called as witnesses, if an internal tribunal could be convened. There’d be no way Rupert Dean or Jeremy Simpson could go on protecting their precious pet monkey once that was brought out. It all came very nicely on the back of Muffin’s appearance before them earlier in the week. Even Dean and the legal adviser had been hard-pressed to support the man then and the deputy director-generalhad certainly been receptive to the suggestion afterward that the investigation was going to fizzle out inconclusively, exposing the department to criticism if not open ridicule.
In fact, everything was coming together very nicely indeed.
34
Kenton Peters’s weekend house was original old colonial, white, columned and with an encircling veranda overlooking the immediate, oak-treed grounds and the paddocks and stables beyond, where the Arabians were bred. There was a stallion and three mares in the nearest one. Peters and Boyce sat savoring the tranquillity and privilege in shared contentment and in matching, high-backed wicker chairs that crackled slightly when they moved, their highballs on the separating table between them. It was their second. They were still dressed for golf, which had ended an hour earlier. Boyce had intentionally taken five on a par four on the back nine, to let Peters win their $25 wager. Boyce knew the American would have done the same for him, if they’d been in England. Everything in their ordered lives had understood rules.
Peters said, “Had some trouble with the damned woman in Moscow, towards the end. Impudent. Had her fired.”
Boyce said, “Really! I had the impression from some of the message traffic I’ve seen that she was still on station.”
“She hadn’t better be,” said the American, indignantly. He made a mental note to check.
“Was there any resentment, from the Bureau or the CIA or your military people?”
“I simply told the Agency and the military to keep out of it. The military are getting their Arlington glory with the president, so they’re happy. Bureau director was a bit stiff at first. But he’s a political appointee and they do as they’re told in the end, particularly if they get to like the job, which most of them do. As I said when all this began, it was your difficulty I sympathized with.”
“Used the principle of divide and rule,” reminded Boyce, toying idly with the tee he found in his pocket. “Knew all the archives were clean, so I just told each of them a little about the need to avoid difficulties if they had any skeletons in their department cupboards and left them to stumble around and get in each other’s way to cause as much confusion as possible with Dean’s people, whom I had the Intelligence Committee supposedly give the full investigation. It was all a bit of a farce, really. None of them knew they were performing in one, of course.”
The butler came inquiringly on to the veranda and Peters nodded to more drinks. To Boyce he said, “Eight suit you for dinner?”
“Perfect,” accepted the Englishman.
Peters said, “I’ve officially told the Bureau the investigation is over.”
“Was it wise, to do so officially?” queried Boyce. “Being professionally curious is the job of most of these people.”
Peters coaxed a slim but long cheroot into life, expelling a perfect smoke ring toward the distant horses. “I told the director it was national security, that most convenient of panaceas, and for everyone below it was on a need-to-know basis and they had no need to know.”