“The victor, savoring his triumph,” said the easily recognizable voice, behind him.
“You staying with fake scotch?” Charlie asked Halliday, not needing to turn to identify the man.
“It’s an acquired taste,” accepted the MI6 man, settling on the adjoining stool.
“What’s the triumph?” asked Charlie, ordering from the attentive bartender.
“Been watching satellite TV,” said Halliday. “CNN got hold of the viewing figures for your event to compare with those of Stepan Lvov’s keynote speech to his party’s annual assembly. You got 76 percent against Lvov’s 24. His people are going to be pissed off with that.”
“The success or otherwise of Stepan Lvov’s election isn’t in the forefront of my mind,” dismissed Charlie.
“It’s picking up elsewhere,” remarked Halliday. “Time magazine made him and that gorgeous Marina their cover story this week-THE MAN TO REVOLUTIONIZE RUSSIA FOR THE SECOND TIME. Thought you would have seen it.”
“I’ve had a few others things on my mind,” said Charlie, sourly.
“And now you’re going to get a hell of a lot more,” predicted Halliday. “Really thought Paula-Jane and I would be seconded to help with the workload.”
There was a throb in Charlie’s left instep, along with the thought that he’d be running out of come-join-me tickets if he’d turned it all into a commercial venture. “You know the problem involving embassy personnel in high-profile situations like this.”
“Paula-Jane’s really upset; thinks it’s personal.”
“Do you and Paula-Jane get included in everything that London decides here?”
“I’m sure I do: it’s a question of courtesy.”
“What about Paula-Jane?” questioned Charlie.
“I get the impression she does, too,” said Halliday. “What do you think about Reg Stout?”
“What about Reg Stout?”
Halliday actually turned for a more direct confrontation, glass suspended before him. “Charlie! I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt-just-for keeping Paula-Jane out. But I know that you know about Reg: it’s the only thing anyone’s talking about at the embassy! You ask me, Robertson and his band of merry men were pretty fucking inefficient, taking so long to expose the obvious. At least now the embassy is finally secure.”
“Is it?” asked Charlie, doubtfully.
He had his question answered when, back in his suite, he tuned into the late evening ORT station’s news which, quoting “informed sources,” led with the disclosure of Reg Stout’s arrest and the suggestion that the embassy security man was involved in the murder investigation as well as the spy hunt.
18
By the time Charlie reached the embassy the following morning, just after seven, the message capacity on one of his dedicated telephones was blocked by the overflow of incoming calls, and the register on the second showed there was less than two minutes recording space left. There were just three minutes remaining on his personally assigned line. It only took seconds for two of Fish’s technicians to download the messages from all three instruments, each of which was switched to speaker reception. Practically every call they reviewed was a media demand-worldwide approaches almost equaling those from within Russia-for comment or more information on the previous night’s ORT disclosure. So were all but seven on the overnight tapes. Three of the outstanding seven were cranks, one again from the singing communist zealot. Charlie ordered all but four of these calls-each duplicates from ORT-to be wiped, with no intention of responding. Of the four that remained, three were from men, the other from a woman. Two of the men insisted the murder of the one-armed man to be a gang killing, offering an identity for money-one for?5,000, the other for?1,000-which had to be left in advance at designated places before they’d call back with the name. The third man, who didn’t leave a return number, said he personally knew the victim and would make contact again. The woman, who sounded old, thought the one-armed man was her husband who hadn’t returned from the siege of Leningrad during the Great Patriotic War.
One exception, on Charlie’s personally allocated line, was from Bill Bundy. The CIA man said: “You feel in need of a sympathetic ear, you’ve got my number, Charlie.”
“Robertson was as pissed off as hell at being called back to London,” said Fish, who’d remained in the room with his technicians listening to every playback. “He’ll be even more upset about the TV disclosure.”
“I’m sure he will be,” agreed Charlie, philosophically.
Fish indicated the tape still containing the television station approaches. “You going to return those?”
“I need to know who’s still leaking from inside this embassy.”
“You think the station’s going to tell you!”
“I won’t know unless I ask, will I?” said Charlie.
A woman answered the ORT number, her voice lifting the moment Charlie identified himself. “We very much appreciate your calling back, Mr. Muffin.”
“You are?”
Harry Fish turned from the apparatus he was now operating alone, nodding confirmation that the sound levels were providing a perfect recording.
“I am Svetlana Modin, ORT’s main news anchor. Your information at yesterday’s conference was extremely useful.”
Fish gave a thumbs-up, nodding approvingly at the identification and mouthing that they had her image on film.
“You called me?” invited Charlie, his feet beginning to throb in warning.
There was just the slightest uncertainty in the laugh. “We certainly have a lot to discuss.”
“About what?”
The laugh was stronger this time. “About your security chief, Reginald Stout, the man close to you on the platform yesterday.”
“Are you recording this conversation?” demanded Charlie.
“I can assure you that we at ORT are jealous of our integrity and consider accuracy the cornerstone of our journalism.”
“That’s not an answer to my question.”
“Do you want me to stop the recording?”
“Your integrity didn’t extend sufficiently to your telling me what you were doing.”
“I’ve stopped doing it now.”
“Why don’t you come to speak to me here, at the embassy?”
“With a film crew?” the woman asked, urgently.
“No, definitely not with a film crew,” refused Charlie. “I will see you here in one hour. I have also recorded this conversation. You will not be allowed to bring any recording equipment into the embassy. Don’t attempt any hidden devices, after openly surrendering an obvious machine at the gatehouse: the room in which we meet will be electronically protected against any attempted recording.”
“I can’t accept those restrictions,” the woman tried to argue, hurriedly.
“Then there is no purpose in continuing this conversation or in your coming here. Good-bye-”
“No!” blurted Svetlana, anxiously. “Okay! I accept the conditions.”
“That sounded pretty good to me,” suggested Fish, as Charlie replaced the telephone. “But I still don’t imagine she’ll give you her source.”
Reflectively Charlie said, “I think Svetlana Modin’s a very, very clever lady. And that she thinks I am a very, very stupid man, which is hardly surprising after my performance. Can you get me a written transcript of that conversation?”
“Did I miss something?” Fish frowned.
“I think the definite intention was that I should,” judged Charlie. “We still got yesterday’s cameras on the gatehouse.”
“Yes.”
“And they’re still operational in Robertson’s inquiry room, with all the recording gear there?”
“Yes,” said Fish.
“Can you record whatever conversation I have with her there while at the same time preventing her using a concealed device?”
“It won’t be perfect,” said the electronics expert, cautiously.
“But still audible?”