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succeeded—to kill the president of Russia and seriously wounded the wife of the American president!” demanded Okulov, incredulously.
    Not a question for her, Natalia decided.
    “I have appointed an investigatory team. The senior colonel is by Bendall’s bedside, waiting for him to recover from surgery,” said Zenin, hurriedly responding. “His belongings included a workbook, in the name of Gugin, Vasili Gugin. He was employed, in the name of Gugin, by the NTV television channel. He was a gofer, a messenger who fetched and carried. He got the rifle up to the platform in an equipment bag. The address in the workbook is Hutorskaya Ulitza … .”
    “Where did we get his real name?” interrupted Trishin.
    “From his mother, at Hutorskaya Ulitza. She uses the name Gugin, too. But has kept her English given name, Vera.”
    “She in custody?”
    “Of course,” said Zenin. “So far she’s denied knowing anything about what her son was doing or where he got the rifle. It is an SVD sniper’s weapon. It’s being forensically examined, naturally.”

    “The mother must have said something more about him!” demanded Okulov.
    “He’s been ill … mentally ill but she claims he got better.”
    “Do you believe her?”
    “It’s far too early to ask my people that.”
    Okulov went to the chief of staff. “What about the British?”
    “There’s been a formal approach through the Foreign Ministry, for information,” said Trishin.
    “The Americans?”
    “They want access to Bendall. Full investigative cooperation from everyone involved here.”
    “Which we’ll give them. The British too,” decided Okulov. He was contemplatively silent for several minutes. “We have to emerge with unchallengable credibility. There will be maximum liaison between each and every investigatory department …” He smiled across the table. “And you, Natalia Fedova, will coordinate everything …”
    Natalia’s first realization was that she’d been made the most vulnerable of them all. Another awareness was that no one had asked—was bothered even—about the other two victims of the shooting.
     
    “The trial must be totally open, a media event,” declared Okulov, who’d insisted upon the chief of staff remaining after dismissing the rest. “I mean what I said about openness with the Americans and the British.”
    “Of course.”
    “There’s no danger of the Americans refuting the security lapses being their fault?”
    “They won’t officially be in court,” Trishin pointed out. “There’ll only have observer status. We’ll have the stage, they won’t. And there really is a lot of confirming paperwork.” This was the man with whom, initially at least, he was going to have to work with more than anyone else. The second realization was that Okulov’s chances of being elected to the presidency was even more uncertain that Yudkin’s had been.
    “Good,” accepted the other man, warming to the increasing personal possibilities. “We’ve got to discover a great deal more about
this man Bendall or Gugin or whatever he calls himself.”
    “Whatever he calls himself isn’t important,” insisted Trishin, rebuilding his own bunker. “He isn’t Russian. He’s British, the son of a spy who was allowed to come here under the protection of an earlier communist government.”
    Okulov nodded, smiling, content for the other man to spell out the further personal advantage he’d already isolated. “Which he doubtless represents. We need to know if he’s a supporter of the old ways. Anxious for their return. That could be useful.”
    Trishin was encouraged by the direction of the conversation. “I didn’t get the impression from any of the hospital doctors that there’s a possibility of Lev Maksimovich making a full and active recovery, if he survives at all. Which will be a tragedy.”
    “A great tragedy,” agreed Okulov, refusing to respond too quickly to the obvious approach.
    Bastard, thought Trishin. “Yours