“What’s your name?”
Charlie had to swallow again. “Please call your mother to the telephone.”
Charlie heard the sound of Natalia’s approach and of Sasha’s voice, away from the mouthpiece, say: “It’s a man.”
“Who is this?” demanded Natalia.
“Me,” said Charlie, unthinkingly repeating Sasha’s identification.
“Oh.”
“Sasha’s very good on the telephone.”
“She likes answering it.” Natalia’s voice was neutral, neither welcoming nor rejecting.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call when I said I would.”
“I didn’t expect you to.”
“I guessed you’d understand.”
“I feel. . it doesn’t matter.”
“It matters a lot,” said Charlie.
“What’s happened hasn’t made things any easier.”
“I told you I’d get out of the business.” Had he? Charlie asked himself: he couldn’t remember. When she didn’t respond he said, “Natalia?”
“I’m in a mess. . don’t know what to say. .” she suddenly blurted.
Charlie was surprised, not able to recall Natalia ever sounding so uncertain: lost even. Another impression, a hope, began to form. “We were going to talk about meeting.”
“You sure you can safely do that now?”
He’d never been safe in his life, reflected Charlie. “You know I’ll never put you or Sasha at any risk; wouldn’t ever endanger either of you.”
“I’m not sure.”
He couldn’t let her uncertainty grow, give her any reason to refuse: “I won’t allow any risk!”
“I’ve promised to take Sasha to McDonald’s on Saturday.”
Charlie was jolted by the recollection that McDonald’s was where the one-armed man had most likely eaten his last meal. Bulldozing her, not allowing her any escape, he said, “How do you want me to do it? Be there and approach you?”
Natalia hesitated. “Just come in. I want time to be sure: you take time ordering. Look about for a seat when you get your meal. If I look directly at you, it’ll be okay. If I ignore you, it’s not. Or at least I don’t think it’s okay.” There was a muffled sound of someone calling, which Charlie didn’t hear, not sufficiently even to decide if it was Sasha. Clearly turning away from the telephone, Natalia said, “In a minute.”
Charlie began: “Who was. .?” but abruptly stopped.
There was another pause before Natalia said, “No one’s here with me, apart from Sasha.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I.”
“How will you explain to Sasha what I’m doing at McDonald’s?”
“That you’re someone I know. It will be all right. But you must be sure you’re clean.”
There was nothing to be gained from trying further reassurance. “How long does it take you to get there?”
“Half an hour.”
“What time will you arrive?”
“Lunchtime. . say twelve.”
“Don’t leave the apartment until I call, to tell you it’s okay. . that I can make it.”
“I’ll still take her, of course. Even if you say you can’t make it. That’s why it’s important.”
“You don’t have to tell me the importance of anything.”
“Maybe I just need to keep telling myself,” said Natalia.
Better-far better-than he’d hoped, assessed Charlie, as the conversation ended. This, right now, would have been her moment: her arm’s length opportunity to tell him everything was over between them. But she hadn’t! More than that, even; very much more. She’d agreed to meet him with Sasha. She wouldn’t do that-even contemplate that-if she’d already made her final, irrevocable decision. But enough, for the moment. Until Saturday.
Charlie got back to the Savoy in time for the main evening news, which as he expected was led by anchorperson Svetlana Modin’s overexaggerated claim to have another world exclusive based on her fortunately coincidental encounter with two of the senior investigators into both murders. There were photographs of Pavel but neither Charlie nor Guzov were initially named, although there was footage of the press conference and of the kiosk in which Pavel had been shot. There was also, predictably, a lot of location-establishing footage of Svetlana going in and out of the embassy: she relied heavily upon impressive-sounding although empty cliches like “major international exchanges” between Moscow and London being considered at “the highest levels,” and used the word “major” again-as well as sensational-when she hinted at impending developments. Just as Charlie believed he’d escaped identification there was more footage showing him dismissing a question about “a highly trained, international and professional Murder Incorporated assassination squad”-which at the time he’d refused even to speculate upon-edited to appear instead as if he’d suggested such a ridiculous possibility and that there was indeed an international search for such a group with airline checks and requests to worldwide intelligence agencies.
Charlie was conscious of several looks of recognition as he went through the lobby on his way to his nightly bar-stool ritual, sure that in turn he recognized the girl-although tonight with a different surveillance partner-who’d played the role of a hand-holding lover the night of Guzov’s unexpected visit. Sure of Guzov’s professionalism, Charlie knew her repeated presence was not an oversight but something he was intended to recognize. Maybe even a warning against established routine. They’d briefly discussed such precautions during the drive between the mortuary and Petrovka. It was perhaps something to which he needed to pay more and closer attention, although not so much for his own safety-which he never endangered-but for the now absolutely essential security for his Saturday rendezvous.
The bartender and the already poured vodka were waiting when Charlie got to his wall-protective stool. As Charlie settled himself the man said, “I reserved it for you. I’ll do that from now on, shall I?”
“I’d appreciate it,” accepted Charlie. The program being shown mute on the bar television was that which followed the evening news, so the man would have seen the transmission. Charlie guessed at an approach from the way the bartender’s attention switched beyond him and turned from his corner before Bill Bundy reached him. Charlie said, “I think I need to employ an appointments secretary.”
“What?” the American frowned.
“I seem to get a lot of visitors here.”
“I’m not surprised. You’re getting enough publicity to stand against Stepan Lvov,” smiled Bundy.
The predicted new Russian president and reason for Bundy’s return to Moscow, Charlie remembered, after a momentary blankness. “It’ll be mineral water, right?”
“I’ll break the seal,” reminded Bundy, in Russian and loud enough for the bartender to hear. More quietly the American said, “Tried you earlier at the embassy to make sure you were all right. . not involved, I mean.”
“What do you mean?” queried Charlie.
“The accident. Haven’t you heard?”
“What accident?”
“One of your embassy cars got driven off the embankment road. There was a piece on the TASS wire. When I couldn’t get you I spoke to Paula-Jane. She told me the driver was pretty smashed up-might have broken his back even. She said she hadn’t heard from you all day.”
Charlie swallowed against the sudden nausea. “What about the other car involved?”
“Didn’t stop,” said Bundy. “The militia are looking for it. You catch tonight’s television news?”
“There wasn’t anything about it on the channel I saw.”
“I wasn’t talking about the accident. I meant Svetlana Modin’s.”
“I knew it was going to be screened,” said Charlie, forcing the calm. Why hadn’t Paula-Jane or Halliday-anyone-made contact to tell him about the accident, which hadn’t been an accident at all. Because he hadn’t told anyone about the exit subterfuge and no one had made the connection yet.
“Why are you feeding her exclusives?”
“I’m not. It’s a confused story.”
“Which you’re not going to tell me,” anticipated Bundy.
Charlie didn’t bother to reply, gesturing instead for another drink.
Bundy said, “You know Guzov, your new partner, is big time FSB?”