“I can enhance it, later. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on, Charlie?”
“I will when I’m sure myself.”
Charlie watched Fish hurry from the room, adding another uncertainty to all his others: Why hadn’t Pavel made contact by now? It was irrefutable logic that the Russian would-should-have done so, after the television revelation, quite irrespective of all the Petrovka lines being tapped by Guzov’s FSB.
When Charlie got the answering machines on two of Pavel’s numbers and an unavailable signal from the third-which Charlie assumed to be jammed to overflowing-he rang the main Petrovka switchboard. The operator insisted that no one in the headquarters building knew the militia colonel’s whereabouts. There was no reply from the personal line Charlie had for Mikhail Guzov and although there was a listed number for the Federal’naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti, Charlie held back from ringing it, reminding himself that he was not officially supposed to know that the man was a serving officer.
Charlie’s frustration was broken by Harry Fish’s return, two closely typed foolscap pages in his hand. “Now I’ve read what she said as well as hearing it. I’d say Svetlana Modin is one hard-assed bitch.”
Charlie didn’t speak until he’d read the transcript through himself, twice. On his third reading he worked on the typed pages, deleting and rearranging the context. Finally looking up at the other man, Charlie said, “I’d say she’s a hard-assed professional and that she’s going to think she’s got me by the balls even before she gets here.” He handed the marked pages back to Fish and said, “You think you can keep our master copy but make another record, still in our respective voices, what I’ve written there?”
Fish looked quizzically up from what Charlie had created. “They surely wouldn’t do this! You told her yourself that we were making our own copy: We could refute it.”
“Remember the golden rule of propaganda,” urged Charlie. “Tell a lie enough times to a big enough audience and it’ll become the truth.”
Both men looked toward the suddenly ringing telephone, at once recognizing Halliday’s voice on the speaker phone. “For Christ’s sake, turn on your television!”
The picture that flickered on to the screen was a virtual replay of the media scrum outside the embassy gates the previous day, the frenzy greater now because of Reg Stout and his two escorts being the focus in its very center. Robertson and his two panelists were separately surrounded by more jostling, yelling journalists and cameramen. There were two uniformed British Airways stewards attempting as ineffectually as three uniformed Russian militia officers, to force a path along the airport concourse to the waiting London flight. As Charlie and Fish watched, the TV camera abruptly zoomed in upon the embassy security officer tight enough to show his escorts were gripping Stout by either arm to force him on and that the man was struggling against them, his head thrown back as he shouted inaudibly. The Russian voice-over commentary was of Stout demanding protection by the Russian authorities and for the militia officers to intercede to prevent his kidnap, back to England. “He is saying,” reported the commentator, “that in London he will be put on trial for his life. The charge will be treason, the maximum penalty for which is the death sentence, despite the United Kingdom supposedly no longer having capital punishment on its statute books. . ”
“Jesus Christ!” exclaimed Fish.
“I’d like what I wrote back on the recording and ready for replay before Svetlana Modin gets here,” said Charlie. “She’s due in fifteen minutes and I don’t expect her to be late.”
She wasn’t.
From the concealment of the gatehouse Charlie decided that if Svetlana Modin was indeed as hard-assed a professional as she was attractive, he was confronting a formidable adversary. The jacket of her full-skirted, dark brown business suit was cut wide to make the brown-trimmed yellow shirt a part of the ensemble, one too many buttons unfastened to hint at the deep cleavage beneath. The blond hair, meticulously fashioned by an attendant hairdresser, brushed her shoulders, and on the second by second countdown to a live transmission a makeup girl applied last-minute touches to an eyebrow that arched questioningly on cue as the woman began her piece to camera. Enclosed as he was, Charlie was unable to hear what she was saying but saw almost overexpansive gestures toward the embassy and from the reaction of other journalists and cameramen closest to her guessed the woman was announcing her impending, exclusive entry into the embassy. He was proved right when, with her camera still running, Svetlana Modin handed her microphone to an expectant sound recordist before walking to the gatehouse door where she stopped and posed before pushing into the entry control area. Once over the threshold, she relaxed the tightly fixed presentation smile, twitching the cramp from her face, and began, “I have an appointment. .” before she saw Charlie at the far side of the shadowed cubicle.
She said: “Thank you, Mr. Muffin, for inviting me here to talk at length about the murder and everything else that has happened in and around the embassy.”
“There was an agreement about recording,” reminded Charlie.
“Because of which I have not brought a machine with me.”
“You have no recording equipment whatsoever?”
Smiling, Svetlana held her arms away from her body, stretching the shirt further over the impressive breasts and said, “Search me, if you wish.”
“Let’s go into the complex,” invited Charlie. He remained silent as they crossed the forecourt. At the main building he said, “No unauthorized electronic equipment works now.”
“I told you I don’t have any electronic equipment.”
“I heard what you told me,” assured Charlie, ushering her into Robertson’s interrogation room.
Svetlana said at once, “This looks like a torture chamber.”
“Nothing electronic works in here, either.”
“You really don’t believe I’m clean, do you?”
“Did you really expect me to?”
“Not if you’re the intelligence agent I believe you to be. That’s what you are, aren’t you? An agent?”
To Svetlana’s obvious bewilderment, Charlie said, “We’re ready.”
Her frown cleared at the entry of Harry Fish, a flashlightlike device in his hand. “A club to beat me with?”
“Are you still willing to be searched?”
Now her face hardened. “Why shouldn’t I be?”
“Are you still willing to be searched for electronic recording equipment?” repeated Charlie, formally.
Svetlana smiled, once more extending her arms in an expansive invitation. “Enjoy.”
Harry Fish was professionally, painstakingly thorough, standing behind her to sweep every inch of Svetlana’s back and sides, even going over the curtain of hair beneath which something might have been concealed, reversing from the heels of her shoes to their toes to start ascending from her front. A bleep accompanied the sharp flash on Fish’s sensor when he got to the top of the woman’s thighs. “There it is,” said the man, unnecessarily.
“You’ll be escorted to a cloakroom to take off whatever recording apparatus you’ve got under your clothes,” announced Charlie.
Slowly, provocatively, Svetlana lifted her skirt above her waist. She wasn’t wearing any underwear. The brown stockings were supported by a black lace suspender belt, framing her natural blondness. The device was strapped around her right thigh, tight against her crotch.
Not looking at the woman exposing herself, Harry Fish said, “It’s a microphone.”
Ignoring her, too, Charlie said, “Would it have transmitted from the gatehouse and coming across the courtyard?”
“Yes,” confirmed Fish, at once.
Eventually looking back to Svetlana, who was letting her skirt gradually drop, Charlie recited, “Thank you, Mr. Muffin, for inviting me here to talk at length about the murder and everything else that’s happened in and around the embassy. That really was too scripted, although I didn’t expect the pubic demonstration as well. Take the microphone off.”