Free Kings of Many Castles by Brian Freemantle Page A

Charlie from Moscow and knew he had been lucky to escape with a formal censure when it had gone wrong.
    Dean frowned at the obvious personal dislike. “What?”
    “He’s shipping over a selection of television footage. Wants an audio and timed comparison of the shots.”
    “Jesus!” said Pacey, in quick understanding. “His theory? Or Russian?”
    “His, as far as I understand.” Hamilton hesitated. “He’s asked
the ambassador to include him on any official access to Bendall. I told him he should have waited for official guidance from here. I’m assuming, of course, we’re sending a team from here.”
    Dean let silence be the rebuke. Only when there were discomfited shifts around the table did the director-general say, “Why would you assume that?”
    The deputy colored. “The magnitude of it. Surely too much for one man?”
    “Swamping Moscow with people would be a panicked, knee-jerk reaction,” rejected Dean. “Muffin alerted us to George Bendall hours before any official communication. He’s obviously well established.”
    “And it is an inherited problem,” repeated Pacey. “Bendall’s been in Moscow for almost thirty years. Downing Street’s thinking is that he’s British by little more than a fluke. He’s not ours anymore: never was. We’ll do all we’re asked but let Moscow and Washington take the lead.”
    “What about the technical checks Muffin wants?” persisted Hamilton.
    “It could be a complication,” admitted the director-general.
    “There’s invariably a complication with Charlie Muffin,” warned the deputy.
     
    Max Donnington was waiting for Anandale in the same lounge at the Pirogov Hospital that had earlier been used for the photo-call. The large, silver-haired naval surgeon still wore a sterilized ward coat and ankle-high theater boots.
    Anandale said at once, “What’s the change?”
    “No worse. You can talk to her in a moment.”
    “To tell her what?”
    “You’ll understand better if you see the plates. I’ve set up a room along the corridor.”
    Anandale followed the surgeon further into the building. Cables from an unseen, inaudible generator were taped along the newly shined corridor lined every five meters by Secret Servicemen who came to attention as the president passed. The room into which
Donnington led the president was bright from newly installed neon strips and against one wall glowed an already lighted X-ray viewing screen. There was a heavy smell of disinfectant.
    Donnington slotted the first plate into its clip and traced his finger around a large, completely black area at the end of the shoulder. “That’s where the bullet hit Ruth. It’s called the brachial plexus. Into it run the nerves from the neck, routed from between the fourth cervical and first thoracic. In layman’s terms, think of it as a junction box. From the brachial plexus emerge three nerves specific to the arm, the radial, median and ulnar …” He changed plates, showing the arm. “The bullet that struck your wife destroyed those nerves at the branchial plexus … .”
    “Does it have to be amputated?” demanded Anandale, hollow voiced.
    “No,” said the surgeon, immediately, putting the third plate into place. “I’ve had to wait this long to ensure that there is no interruption to the blood flow. There isn’t. It missed the arteries. The First Lady will have a permanently numb and powerless arm but there is no risk of gangrene. The arm can stay.”
    “No use in it whatsoever?”
    “None,” said the surgeon, bluntly.
    “Nerves can be reconnected. You read about it all the time,” blurted Anandale.
    “The damage here is too great,” rejected Donnington.
    “You could be wrong … there could be a medical—surgical—advance,” insisted Anandale.
    “Of course you need a second opinion … and a third and a fourth, every expert you can consult,” acknowledged Donnington, unoffended. “I’m giving you my initial but at the same time considered,