Red Star Rising (5 page)

As he accepted the dossier Charlie said, “For Christ’s sake, cut out the ‘sir’ crap, will you? What time were you told about the body?”

“Eight thirty-three exactly, as I say in my report. . . .” He just stopped himself.

“I want to hear your account, as well as read it. Who told you?”

“The man in charge of the gardening detail. He called me, here in the office.”

“A Russian?”

“Yes. He told me one of his workers had found a body; that it didn’t have a face.”

“What’s the name of the man who actually found it?”

“Maksimov. Boris Maksimov.”

Charlie nodded to the telephone on Stout’s desk. “Can you arrange for me to speak to Maksimov, as well as the Russian in charge?”

“I’m afraid you can’t. Not speak to either of them, I mean.”

“What’s the problem now?” demanded Charlie, the exasperation returning.

“Neither is here, at the embassy. One of the Russians who came when I raised the alarm told me to put both of them on extended leave, to help the organized crime bureau.”

“Colonel Pavel told you to do that?”

“I don’t know his name.”

Charlie had to swallow hard before he could continue. “You’ve got their home addresses?”

“The Russian staffs are supplied by the Foreign Ministry.”

To which they were supplied by the FSB, as they had been before the renaming of the KGB and before that by the MVD-MGB and before that by the NKGB-NKVD, Charlie knew. Nothing had changed except the titles. And everyone in the West imagining that espionage had been swept away in the flood of the Cold War thaw, worried instead about Islamic terrorism. “You spoke to Maksimov?”

“Briefly. He spoke hardly any English, I speak hardly any Russian.”

Charlie knew—every intelligence professional knew—that local Russian support staff spoke more than adequate English, which was why they were there, to listen and read everything they could. “Don’t leave out a single word, tell me everything you saw and talked about and heard.”

“It really was very brief. He’d started work at eight that morning, he told me. His job was to weed the flower beds around the conference hall. He said he saw the body the moment he finished the first bed and came around the corner to continue on the next section. He thought it was someone asleep or drunk until he got close enough to see what it really was, that it was a dead man. He ran to get his supervisor. He said he hadn’t done it.”

“He said what?”

“ ‘I didn’t do it. He was like that when I found him.’ That was the last thing Maksimov said to me.”

“Who was there ahead of you at the scene?”

“Demin, the Russian team leader, and Maksimov.”

“None of your security people?”

“No.”

“Had the two Russians touched anything?”

“They told me they hadn’t; that they were too scared.”

From the hesitation before the reply, Charlie guessed Stout hadn’t asked either Russian about touching the body. “Tell me, in every detail, what you found.”

The hesitation now was for recall, and the account was punctuated by pauses when the man finally began to speak. Charlie, who was well aware of the psychological peculiarity that few witnesses to dramatic events had the same recollection, was caught by the similarity in Stout’s account to that of Paula-Jane Venables.

“Did you touch the body?” picked up Charlie.

“No!” insisted the man, at once. “I didn’t go through any of his pockets.”

“That wasn’t the question,” persisted Charlie. “Did you touch
it? If the clothes were wet, it would give us an indication of how long it had been there, before or after dew might have fallen.”

“I didn’t touch it,” repeated the man. “His jacket looked as if it might be damp.”

“How much blood was there?”

“A lot, from what I could see.”

“Soaked into the ground?”

“Yes.”

Charlie thought that Stout was telling him what the man imagined he wanted to hear. “After the body was removed, the Russians—a forensic examiner—dug up the soil where what remained of the head had been, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“How big, wide as well as deep, was the hole?”

“I don’t know.” Stout frowned. “Why’s that important?”

“The size might have given an indication of how much blood there was, which in turn might have told us whether he was shot there or somewhere else. How deep it was might have suggested whether the bullet was found.”

“There was no sign of a bullet being found. It was a deep hole, maybe two foot round.”

Again what the man thought he wanted to hear, decided Charlie. “The forensic people took photographs?”

“I think so,” said Stout, immediately correcting himself. “Yes, yes, of course they did.”

“Didn’t you take photographs?”

“By then Mr. Dawkins had arrived. He told me it was a Russian investigation and that we should leave everything to them.”

Now it was Charlie who hesitated, unsure if there was anything to be gained from questioning any further. He wouldn’t know unless he tried, he reminded himself. “Tell me about nighttime security.”

“The gatehouse is staffed. Two men.”

“What about ground patrols?”

Stout shifted, uncomfortably. “No.”

“There used to be,” Charlie remembered.

“There hasn’t been, not for a long time.”

“London’s decision? Or local?”

“I was told by Mr. Dawkins.” As if in sudden recollection, Stout added, “There are ground sensors now! And CCTV.”

“Which, according to what I’ve heard, don’t work?”

Stout’s face clouded at Charlie’s awareness. “There have been some technical problems recently.”

“Like what?”

“Some of the cameras have blanked out.”

Could it possibly be? wondered Charlie. It should have been inconceivable. “These cameras that blanked out? Would they have covered the area where the body was found?”

There was a pause before Stout’s reply. “Not all of them.”

“Reg! Stop fucking about and answer the question!”

The man swallowed, a sheen of perspiration pricking out on his face. “Two of them do.”

“The two covering where the body was found? And the area between there and the gatehouse?” easily predicted Charlie.

The man nodded but didn’t speak.

“Were they out the night the body got to where it was found?”

“Yes. But it was happening for several days before the body was found.”

Of course it was, thought Charlie, although with the mentality here it hadn’t really been necessary to make it appear accidental. “Why weren’t they fixed?”

“They were. Electricians were called in and the cameras were okay for a day. Then they crashed again.”

“Technical electricians from London?”

“They’re due in the next day or two,” said the man.

Charlie’s pause this time was one of total, incredulous disbelief. Spacing his words when he did speak, he said: “Who was brought in to do the repairs that failed?”

“It wasn’t considered a difficult job, technically.”

“Answer the question,” insisted Charlie, his voice still hollowed in despair.

“A Russian contractor, recommended by the Foreign Ministry,” finally admitted the security manager.

“Were there two men on duty in the gatehouse the night the body got into the grounds?”

“Yes.”

“British?” The answer should have been obvious but Charlie had given up on anything being as it should have been.

“Yes. Hoskins and Jameson.”

Charlie nodded toward the desk telephone again. “I want to see them”—he looked at his watch—“in half an hour’s time. You got a spare room?” There wasn’t space for more than one other person in his contemptuously allocated office.

“No.”

“Here then.”

While Stout telephoned around the embassy to locate the two men, who were that week on day duty, Charlie sat, head bowed, anger burning through him. This was an out-and-out, all-time fucking nightmare of incompetence and ineptitude on an unimaginable scale demanding an internal investigation quite separate from that to which he had been assigned. But not yet, came the immediate halt, for several reasons, the least of which was escalating any hand-holding impressions in London. Feeling again the warning twinge in his left foot, Charlie reminded himself that nothing that had already occurred could be undone or rectified. Better to leave everything as it was but use it to his benefit.

“They’ll be here at a quarter to,” promised Stout, replacing the telephone.

“What was the duty period of these two men, Hoskins and Jameson?” resumed Charlie.

“Twenty-two hundred to six hundred.”

“No break?”

“One spells the other for half an hour, working it out between them. Not a lot to do except be there at that time of night.”

“What was in their log for that night?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember the log of the night a murdered man was found in the embassy grounds, the security of which you’re responsible!”

“It’s
because
of that I don’t remember anything else!”

“What about noise?”

“Noise?”

“A gunshot sufficient to blow off a man’s face would have made quite a noise, wouldn’t you think?”

“I wasn’t told about any unusual noise,” insisted the man. He finally took out a handkerchief to wipe his sweat-shined face.

“You still have the log?”

“We should have.”

“Should have!”

“There’s a loose-paged filing system. It’ll be there.”

“While I’m talking to your two night-duty men, I’d like you to find that particular log reference. And all the others in which the faulty CCTVs are recorded and individually identified. They
are
individually identified, aren’t they?”

“Yes.”

Uncertainty echoed in the man’s voice and Charlie decided that when he did blow the whistle, he’d recommend the sweating Reg Stout undergo interrogation to determine whether the man might have been suborned and actually
be
a security risk. The contradiction against his being so was that Stout was blatantly too stupid. The caveat to that dismissal came just as quickly. Unless, that is, Stout was the eminently qualified buffoon to conceal the person reducing the embassy to a security farce. That led inevitably to the question overhanging all others: What the fuck was going on?

Both William Hoskins and Paul Jameson wore campaign ribbons. Both had the backbones of career soldiers and Charlie abandoned any resistance to the word “sir” as verbal punctuation. They told him that because of their blank CCTV screens they’d taken turns to make short patrol walks, although not as far as where the body was found. For just two men to maintain any sort of proper security was virtually impossible without closed circuit television, particularly when the majority of the embassy’s outside illumination went off at midnight. There were no automatically
triggered movement or body-heat activated burglar lights. Ground sensors sounded an audible alarm by tread or passing movement, with no visual screen display. There had been nothing on the night of the body discovery that sounded like a pistol or automatic weapon report.

“Which we would certainly have recognized,” offered Hoskins, the plumper of the two ex-soldiers.

“Even below the rest of the noise that there was that night,” added the mustached Jameson.

“Below what noise that night?” quoted back Charlie.

Hoskins shrugged, dismissively. “There was a lot of noise around midnight. An altercation among a birthday party group, something like that, farther along the embankment.”

Charlie let the despairing frustration pass. “How much farther along the embankment?”

There was another dismissive shrug. “A hundred, hundred and fifty yards. Quite close to the pontoon. A bunch of guys trying to throw someone in the river.”

“How do you know it was something like a birthday party and that someone was being threatened with being thrown into the river?” asked Charlie, sure he already knew the answer.

The two men looked at each other. “We went along to check it out; make sure it wasn’t going to be a problem that might involve the embassy,” said Jameson. “That’s our job, making sure the embassy doesn’t get caught up in any trouble.”

“Yes.” Charlie sighed, as Stout reentered the room. “That’s what your job is.”

“I don’t understand it,” complained Stout, intruding into the meeting.

“Let me guess,” offered Charlie, wearily. “The log for the night of the murder isn’t in the file where it should be?”

Stout nodded, in agreement. “There are some other days that are missing, too.”

“Nights and days when the CCTV didn’t work?” suggested Charlie.

“How did you know?”

“It’s a knack I have,” said Charlie.

His meeting with the two nighttime guards over, Charlie insisted on being taken to the electrical control box governing the embassy’s CCTV cameras, his stomach lurching at the immediate discovery of at least twenty other control terminals forming part of the same bank.

“The Russian electricians had access to this box?”

“Of course. They had to have.”

“For how long?”

“An hour. Maybe a little longer.”

“Who was here, monitoring them?”

“I was,” replied Stout, his voice lifting at being able at last to respond positively.