“Now it’s all falling apart around them?” accepted Charlie, adding to their glasses.
“Panic time, because of what Sakov’s said during the fight,” agreed Kayley. “But these guys are resilient. They know from Lvov, who’s right there literally on top of Bendall, that the guy’s unconscious. By the time he comes round in Burdenko after surgery, Agayan is there, authorized to surgeon-administrator Badim’s satisfaction by General Leonid Zenin, in over-all charge of the militia investigation …”
“Why doesn’t Agayan kill him?”
“Sakov says he doesn’t know how Agayan managed it-it’ll certainly be a hard question for Badim-but no one else at the hospital apart from Agayan was ever totally alone with Bendall. If Bendall died we’d have demanded an autopsy. Agayan would have put himself in the frame, slipping him some unauthorized drug. And obviously he couldn’t do it in front of Badim or the nurses or the guards. It was just always too busy.”
“Jesus!” said Charlie. “And we thought only Sakov would be shitting himselfl”
“I told you Agayan was Mr. Mind Bender. The way Sakov understands it Agayan convinces Bendall he’s got a second chance of revenge against Lev Yudkin, in public. By making the exposing declaration he was trying in court when Davidov shot him …”
“Now there’s a lot of questions here,” stopped Charlie. “Bendall knows Sakov tried to kill him.”
“Because all along, according to Agayan, Sakov was in on the plotto kill Isakov. Which he was! But Agayan convinced the poor bastard that Sakov was working for the Kremlin, under Yudkin’s orders! That was going to be part of the courtroom denunciation.”
“Which gets us to Davidov. How’s he get into the picture?”
“Panoramic screen,” corrected Kayley, smiling. “According to Sakov a KGB department unaffected by the supposed reforms and still maintained within the FSB is the Executive Action Department-Department V-to organize and carry out assassinations. Davidov served in it. He was simply ordered by Deputy Director Mittel to carry out the killing. Davidov was heading for a particular door because he’d been told his escape was arranged: actually there was another shooter outside-probably one of the gunmen who shot at the presidential group outside the White House-waiting to take Davidov out. But the militiaman put him down first.”
Charlie shook his head. “Davidov had the same tattoo. I saw it!”
“It’s not an arrow between two lines: it’s supposed to be a bullet, in the barrel of a gun. It’s traditional for marksmen, in Russian army sniper units, marks them out as an elite. Which I remember you getting close to unscrambling. Davidov was a sniper, although Sakov doesn’t remember him being a contemporary of Bendalls. He must have been ‘spotted’ by someone and brought into Department V when he left the army. His KGB records are lifted, along with everything else that was taken, probably to be embarrassingly ‘found’ when he’s identified from his army records.”
“Isakov and Sakov were both cameramen,” challenged Charlie.
“It was a love symbol for Isakov, when he and Bendall were together in the army. Made them elite-special-together. It was Agayan who insisted Sakov have it done, to make him part of the group-a blood brother-when they all got together at the TV station. Sakov had all the other shit put on his arms to make him one of the boys in the army: his father was actually a career office, a major in the KGB. It was Agayan who guided Sakov organizing their special evenings, drinking and singing that wailing song, which again was some fraternity crap they went in for in Afghanistan.”
Charlie was glad he had more Islay malt in the office closet. The bottle they were drinking was almost empty. “Mittel lifted all the missing records and files, totally to incriminate the FSB?”
“Every one, he and whoever else he’s working with at the Lubyanka,” agreed Kayley.
“Making it-and Viktor Karelin’s chairmanship-look ridiculous?”
“Karelin could never have survived.”
“Neither could Okulov,” recognized Charlie, remembering the recommendations of Natalia’s official enquiry. “Whatever the outcome of the commission-or whether Okulov accepted its findings or not-there would have been no way Okulov could have convinced anybody the assassinations weren’t orchestrated with the help of old KGB friends, to get his presidency confirmed. It would have been a walk-over for the communists.”
“Even with their problems with the commission, it was a brilliant game plan,” said Kayley, emptying the last of the bottle between them. “The communists win by a landslide, Okulov, Karelin and reforms vanish into oblivion and the communists regain the Kremlin and hold the Duma. Gennardi Mittel gets the chairmanship of the FSB and Leonid Zenin transfers as his deputy. Vladimir Sakov goes back into the fold, his field life over, to become chairman of whatever FSB Directorate he wants and Boris Lvov is appointed head of the militia. And finally Washington is given the stiff middle finger to its Son of Star Wars treaty in the hope of making things awkward for the American president, even if he’s not killed.”
Charlie heard the other man out but said at once, “What problems with the presidential commission?”
“Mittel apparently persuaded Karelin to let him represent the FSB, so he could really stir the shit. But the chairperson was a fiesty gal who sent him packing and insisted on Karelin appearing personally. And Zenin expected to get the commission chairmanship: imagine that as a destructive duo!”
Fiesty gal, picked out Charlie. Natalia was still in danger if the Grand Jury hearing didn’t evidentially produce everything Kayley had just told him. “They’ll run, make some move when they know Sakov’s gone!”
Kayley looked curiously at the bottom of his empty glass. “Anticipated it!” he said, triumphantly. “Mittel was Sakov’s direct contact. I had Sakov call him-recording it, obviously-to say he wasgoing out of town. Got Mittel on tape ordering him-a supposed television cameraman, don’t forget! — to stay in Moscow and wait to be told what to do next, that everything was under control. Sakov comes from Gorkiy: that’s where they’ll be looking for the next few days, not Washington.”
“How quickly will the Grand Jury return the indictments?”
“Sakov’s the only witness. It only took me about four hours to get what I’ve told you.”
“What’s the route then?”
Kayley shrugged. “Anandale talks to Okulov direct, to fix their simultaneous prime slot television appearances, giving Okulov time to brief Karelin to get everyone in the bag first. And you know the best bit?”
“What?”
“Okulov gets his sweeping election victory when the communists are exposed. And Anandale gets the sons-of-bitches that maimed his wife, maybe even the actual guys from Department V who pulled the trigger. But without having to suspend or cancel America’s missile defense system, which guarantees his second term, too. Ain’t that the prettiest thing?”
“And you?”
“I was called by the president into the Oval Office and with the acting head of the FBI and Wendall North as witnesses got told I could choose whatever internal Bureau division I want. You really have got me into the Hall of Fame, Charlie.”
“You’re welcome.” It might have been by proxy but he’d maintain the never lose, never be beaten philosophy. He got the second bottle from the corner cupboard.
“All we’ve got to do is keep up the frustrated act over the next few days,” said Kayley.
“It’ll be a walk in the park,” insisted Charlie. Who did he have to walk with? he wondered.
“That’s what both the American and the Englishman are saying?”
“According to Kayley, American newspapers are openly saying that it’s a conspiracy between Okulov and his old friends,” said Olga.
“What about official investigation?” asked Zenin.
“They say there’s nothing positive they can do, they’re waiting for the result of the commission, like we are.” Olga cleared the table while Zenin carried the remains of their dinner wine into the lounge.
“I’ve been talking to people,” said Zenin. “There’s no way Okulov or Karelin can survive.”
“Do you think a change of government will affect us personally?”
“Who knows?” smiled Zenin.
Olga sat at Zenin’s feet, her arm looped over his knees, her wine glass in her other hand. “Can I ask you something?”
“What?”
“You’re not unhappy, are you: not thinking things aren’t working out between us?”
“Of course not! Things are working out! Why do you think they’re not?”
“In the last few days you’ve just seemed … I don’t know … distant, I suppose.”
“A man can’t make love every night!”
“I didn’t mean that.”
“I’ve been considering a lot of options: trying to find a way to move forward. I want to get it over with. Finished.”
“It will be, soon,” said Olga, emptily.