Free Kings of Many Castles by Brian Freemantle

…”
    “We’re not making our own, independent investigation!” cut off Anandale.
    Smith unconsciously bit his lip, at once regretting not letting Kayley take the original question. “That’s what I’ve got men on
their way to do, under John’s command. I think, though, it would be useful for me to come over personally.”
    Speaking with ominous quietness, Anandale said, “I want the attempted murder of the American president’s wife investigated by Americans. Until I’m satisfied that’s happening-satisfied that Aleskandr Okulov is keeping every cooperation promise he’s made to me today-any treaty discussions are on the back burner, with the heat down low …”
    North and the secretary of state exchanged brief, frowning looks. Scamell urged again, “There has to be a statement of some sort, Mr. President.”
    Anandale remained silent for several moments. “Here it is. We’re in consultations with the emergency Russian leadership … need to consider the implications of the attack … our pledge to continued cooperation and detente unaffected … that sort of stuff. It’ll fit the hospital pictures. We don’t agree any joint media event with Okulov until we get all we want.” He went to the secretary of state and the ambassador. “I want you to liaise with Wendall. Really find out the communist strength. It might play better back home to go hawkish and keep the defense system.” He looked around the table. “Any thoughts?”
    “Yudkin—or his successor—need the treaty to survive. That’s why we’re here,” reminded Scamell. “We leave them with nothing, we’re edging the door open to the opposition.”
    “We don’t leave them with nothing,” said Anandale. “You find the words, Jamie. The only thing they don’t get is the final signature. We’ve surely blown enough smoke about how difficult it all is to make that totally believable!”
    “I guess so,” accepted Scamell.
    Anandale went to Wendall North. “Get on to Yudkin’s chief of staff.” He stopped, snapping his fingers.
    “Yuri Trishin.”
    “Trishin,” picked up the prompted president. “I don’t want him—or anyone he’s got to tell—left in any doubt who’s going to run this investigation as far as my wife is concerned. You clear on that?”
    “Quite clear,” said North.

    “Would you like me to come over personally, Mr. President?” hopefully asked the FBI Director over the satellite link.
    “No!” rejected Anandale, at once. “We’ve got enough chiefs here already. What we need is Indians.”
    John Kayley, with his early settler family legend of part-Cherokee ancestry, didn’t like the smoke signals he thought he was reading.
     
    The emergency Downing Street meeting was scheduled for the entire day but Sir Rupert Dean, the director-general, returned to the Millbank building with political adviser Patrick Pacey by early afternoon. The rest of the control group were already assembled.
    “It’s accepted to be an inherited problem but the decision is that it’s our problem,” announced Dean. Already his spectacles were working through his fingers like worry beads, a stress indicator the others had come to recognize. It was unfortunate that the man’s receding hair rose from his head like a tidal wave, adding to the impression of startled nervousness.
    “Because no one else wanted to come within a million miles of it,” said Pacey.
    “Hardly surprising,” accepted Jeremy Simpson, the service’s legal advisor. “I’ve heard from the Attorney General. We’re arranging legal representation.”
    “We were told,” said Pacey.
    “Muffin was on, while you were at Downing Street. He thinks there’s something odd about the shooting. But who better to imagine something odd than the man himself?” said Jocelyn Hamilton. The bull-chested, thinning-haired deputy director-general was more unsettled than Dean at the Russian crisis, although concealing it well. He’d supported the earlier effort to oust