“That is. .” started Charlie.
“. . what I want,” finished Irena. “Make it happen for me.”
Charlie ignored the waiting messages and contact-insistences waiting for him, descending at once to his communications cell in which he remained for more than three hours recounting the approach and final encounter with Irena Novikov, up to and including her concluding asylum demands. He also attached scanned copies of the thirty-two pages of the stolen KGB and FSB material, designating Director-General Aubrey Smith the sole your Eyes Only recipient. He did so with increasing reluctance, pridefully, even conceitedly, wishing he could have kept everything to himself until he was able to deliver a complete and comprehending solution to the murder investigation and the eighteen-year-plus Russian intelligence operation. But with professional objectivity, he accepted that he couldn’t without the essential code key.
It was not until the end of those three exhaustively concentrated hours that Charlie allowed himself to think beyond the topmost secret Russian intelligence material and its potential significance, to his physical possession and the overwhelming need for it to be totally safeguarded. In normal circumstances that would not have been a consideration, let alone a problem, but with an apparent spy still deeply embedded within the embassy, circumstances were far from normal. There was no one that he could trust. Except, as always, himself. But that would require his permanently carrying everything with him at all times, as he’d briefly carried it from Irena’s apartment, by taxi to avoid the constant danger of Metro pickpockets if not physical attack and robbery as the assassinated Sergei Pavel had been searched, if not actually robbed.
To pad himself like that again would not only attract the attention of Mikhail Guzov and his watchers outside the embassy but the quizzical curiosity of everyone, including the undetected mole, inside it. To carry constantly the thirty-two sheets in a never-surrendered briefcase, an encumbrance with which he rarely bothered anyway, would create the same Russian interest and conceivably FSB robbery, either in a street or far more likely from his Savoy suite.
Could he chance the complete opposite from permanently keeping the material with him by creating his own dead letter drop, an unguarded, insecure hiding place known only to himself? Dead letter boxes, contact caches between spy and controller, were tried and trusted tradecraft facilities which Charlie had utilized but never trusted, but from which, in objective honesty, he had never once lost an exchange.
Not a decision he had immediately to make, Charlie reminded himself. Tonight and tomorrow, every available minute of which was going to be devoted to Ivan Oskin’s hoard, a briefcase would go unnoticed. As anxious as he was to start his examination, Charlie hoped that any waiting calls wouldn’t take much time or throw any surprises.
It didn’t take long to be disappointed.
“It will probably go beyond postponement,” announced Mikhail Guzov when Charlie asked the obvious question. “Everything’s resolved, after all. The thought now is to let the court hearing provide all the answers.”
Charlie’s instant thought was of the disposal of Ivan Oskin’s body and Irena’s determination that the murdered man should be buried in England. His next and almost as quick awareness was that it would spare him the Russian’s intended humiliation. “There are still a lot of questions to which I don’t have answers.”
Guzov didn’t reply at once. “A complete case file is being prepared for you.”
The cancellation had to be connected with the Lvov demonstration hijack, Charlie guessed. But how? “I-and through me, London-don’t have any evidence that everything has been resolved. Until we do-and there is complete and mutual agreement that it is resolved-I am going to work on the understanding that it remains an ongoing, combined criminal investigation. . ” Now it was Charlie who paused, thinking again of Ivan Oskin’s remains. “Which means I expect every item of evidence, including the body to support whatever medical evidence is produced at the trial, to remain intact and available.”
“That’s ridiculous!” protested Guzov, the condescension finally going. “I’ve told you how it’s all been sorted out. It’s over!”
“A lot of accusations were made by Stepan Lvov when he took over your press conference,” reminded Charlie. “Won’t abandoning it altogether be a virtual confirmation of those accusations?”
“That’s a political consideration,” dismissed Guzov, badly.
“Canceling altogether an international press gathering intended to illustrate the professional ability of Moscow police isn’t a political consideration,” easily contradicted Charlie. “That’s a militia and special investigatory consideration and decision, surely?”
“I have not been included in the discussions.”
“Perhaps you should have been, as much to protect your personal reputation as that of the organization you represent.”
“If I’m consulted I will make your opinion known: certainly your belief that the investigation has not been concluded,” said Guzov, with forced formality.
Guzov was ducking everything! “This number you left for me to call? It’s not what I had before for your Petrovka office?”
There was a further hesitation from the other end. “We’ve closed down the incident room at Petrovka.”
Which effectively ended any further contact, acknowledged Charlie. “I’m keeping everything running here. There could be some reaction to your drug gang announcement. Where shall I courier it to you, if it does?”
“Perhaps you’d call me on this number,” said Guzov, after another long pause.
“And perhaps you’d call me when a definite decision’s reached about the press conference?” pressed Charlie.
Charlie was glad he’d spoken to Guzov ahead of returning Svetlana Modin’s call, sure as he was of a link between the two. The broadcaster instantly answered her direct line, the impatience in her voice going the moment she recognized his. “I’m just about to make the pre-recordings, before going on air.”
“Do you want me to call back?” asked Charlie, sure of her reaction.
“No!” Svetlana snatched, anxiously. “We haven’t spoken for a couple of days.”
“No,” agreed Charlie, waiting for her lead.
“Did you see and hear all about my arrest?”
“It would have been difficult not to.”
“What about Lvov’s move today?”
At last! thought Charlie, hopefully. “I haven’t heard about any Lvov move.”
“He’s demanded more about the covert investigation between Britain and America, pointing out that what London and Washington have so far said isn’t a positive denial.”
“He won’t get a response,” predicted Charlie. And wouldn’t expect one, he guessed. It was a political stunt, to continue embarrassing the existing government and keep his name and face on international television screens. But it explained the possible press conference cancellation, to prevent it being hijacked a second time by the presidential contender.
“Why not?” questioned Svetlana.
“He’s not the Russian president yet,” argued Charlie “So why should they respond? Lvov hasn’t got authority officially to demand any sort of explanation, nor the right to expect one. He’s just keeping up the pressure on the government here because of the election.”
“Or perhaps Britain and America don’t want to make an outright denial, only later to be publicly caught lying,” she suggested. “That’s the angle of my exclusive interview with Lvov tonight.”
She was trying to authenticate the story he’d implanted in the first place, Charlie realized, smiling at the irony. “Another exclusive! Congratulations.”