Pavel, as if he were reading from a prompt card.
Altogether too soon, too quick, judged Charlie: he could afford to bluff more. “That’s intriguing.”
“Why?’ demanded Pavel, the curiosity very evident in the no longer neutral voice.
“It’s not quite either the indication or the impression I’ve been getting from those who’ve come across from London to go through everything at the embassy,” lured Charlie, knowing the arrival of Harry Fish and his team—and their digging expedition the previous afternoon—would have been recorded by the diligent FSB gardener informers, even if Pavel himself was at the moment unaware. “We really do need to meet. Exactly how many of the reports have you managed to assemble?”
“Some photographs . . . the preliminary medical report,” stumbled the other man, confronted with something different from what he’d expected.
Charlie doubted that whatever Pavel was minimally offering was actually assembled yet. To give the Russian time to go through the pretense of collation—and doubtless speak to others about the unexpected approach—he said, “Why don’t I come around this afternoon, for us to get started? Three o’clock’s good for me.”
There was another hesitation. “I should have everything together by then, although I can’t guarantee it.”
If the Russian wasn’t sure he could get his own bullshit together in five hours, nothing at all had yet been assembled. Not believing that possible, Charlie said, “It’ll be a start.”
Which wasn’t any way the object of Charlie’s exercise. It was to bluff Pavel, and through him the inevitable monitoring FSB and Foreign Ministry, that there was a lot they’d missed in their comparatively short forensic examination at the scene inside theBritish embassy grounds. The FSB bugging of the embassy electronics worked more to his benefit than theirs in taking advantage of the security stupidity presented to them on a shiny silver platter. They’d believe him because he would be telling them what they already knew. Or imagined they knew. He was going to have a dream hand for his poker game. The expertise was going to come in his not overplaying it.
The scurrying activity at the embassy reminded Charlie of an anthill. There were at least a dozen photographers and journalists grouped outside the firmly closed gates and there was uniformed security forming an admission cordon around the pedestrian entrance adjoining the gatehouse. Inside the gatehouse, the now properly working CCTV cameras displayed in sharp panoramic detail the entire front of the building. Charlie endured the ritual of ID checks and descended into the communications room. Waiting there for him was a warning from the head of the technical and scientific services division that, until the arrival of the discarded CCTV loops, they could not guarantee his detailed overnight request was possible—their more normal function was to detect counterfeit and deceiving enhancement, not create it—but that what Charlie wanted was certainly scientifically and technically feasible: It might help, after they’d received the recording material, for Charlie to talk directly by telephone, as well as in more detailed messages answering their specific questions. Charlie detected a note of tetchy irritation in the assurance that they had samples of 9mm Makarov ammunition. There was also a personal acknowledgement from Director-General Aubrey Smith, insisting that Charlie continue working not just totally independently from everyone at the embassy—especially those most likely to have been compromised—but also from the incoming internal inquiry team. All communication had to be personal, between the two of them, which left Charlie undecided between the advantages compared to the disadvantages of such close contact with the man who for several months had appeared the loser in the power struggle with his deputy. Smith was a university professor of Middle Eastern
Altogether too soon, too quick, judged Charlie: he could afford to bluff more. “That’s intriguing.”
“Why?’ demanded Pavel, the curiosity very evident in the no longer neutral voice.
“It’s not quite either the indication or the impression I’ve been getting from those who’ve come across from London to go through everything at the embassy,” lured Charlie, knowing the arrival of Harry Fish and his team—and their digging expedition the previous afternoon—would have been recorded by the diligent FSB gardener informers, even if Pavel himself was at the moment unaware. “We really do need to meet. Exactly how many of the reports have you managed to assemble?”
“Some photographs . . . the preliminary medical report,” stumbled the other man, confronted with something different from what he’d expected.
Charlie doubted that whatever Pavel was minimally offering was actually assembled yet. To give the Russian time to go through the pretense of collation—and doubtless speak to others about the unexpected approach—he said, “Why don’t I come around this afternoon, for us to get started? Three o’clock’s good for me.”
There was another hesitation. “I should have everything together by then, although I can’t guarantee it.”
If the Russian wasn’t sure he could get his own bullshit together in five hours, nothing at all had yet been assembled. Not believing that possible, Charlie said, “It’ll be a start.”
Which wasn’t any way the object of Charlie’s exercise. It was to bluff Pavel, and through him the inevitable monitoring FSB and Foreign Ministry, that there was a lot they’d missed in their comparatively short forensic examination at the scene inside theBritish embassy grounds. The FSB bugging of the embassy electronics worked more to his benefit than theirs in taking advantage of the security stupidity presented to them on a shiny silver platter. They’d believe him because he would be telling them what they already knew. Or imagined they knew. He was going to have a dream hand for his poker game. The expertise was going to come in his not overplaying it.
The scurrying activity at the embassy reminded Charlie of an anthill. There were at least a dozen photographers and journalists grouped outside the firmly closed gates and there was uniformed security forming an admission cordon around the pedestrian entrance adjoining the gatehouse. Inside the gatehouse, the now properly working CCTV cameras displayed in sharp panoramic detail the entire front of the building. Charlie endured the ritual of ID checks and descended into the communications room. Waiting there for him was a warning from the head of the technical and scientific services division that, until the arrival of the discarded CCTV loops, they could not guarantee his detailed overnight request was possible—their more normal function was to detect counterfeit and deceiving enhancement, not create it—but that what Charlie wanted was certainly scientifically and technically feasible: It might help, after they’d received the recording material, for Charlie to talk directly by telephone, as well as in more detailed messages answering their specific questions. Charlie detected a note of tetchy irritation in the assurance that they had samples of 9mm Makarov ammunition. There was also a personal acknowledgement from Director-General Aubrey Smith, insisting that Charlie continue working not just totally independently from everyone at the embassy—especially those most likely to have been compromised—but also from the incoming internal inquiry team. All communication had to be personal, between the two of them, which left Charlie undecided between the advantages compared to the disadvantages of such close contact with the man who for several months had appeared the loser in the power struggle with his deputy. Smith was a university professor of Middle Eastern
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