Read Online Red Star Falling: A Thriller by Brian Freemantle - Free Book Online
Authors: Brian Freemantle
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Monsford didn’t call it off.’
He had to risk it, Elliott decided. ‘Diversion from what?’
‘MI6 had a walk-in.’
‘Into the embassy?’
‘At a government reception.’
‘He still in Moscow?’
‘Here.’
‘How big?’
‘The biggest.’
‘We talking professional?’
‘Personal: very personal. If it leaks, it can only have come from you.’
Fuck, thought Elliott. ‘What are we proving here?’
‘Each other. This is my commitment.’
5
Charlie expected the withdrawal of the catheter to be roughly performed, intentionally to hurt, but it wasn’t. It was extracted slowly, by a caressingly soft-handed, substantially busted blond nurse who frequently stopped to ask, smiling, if she was causing him discomfort. Each time Charlie assured her she wasn’t, glad that the procedure was finished and the bedcovering restored before the assembled, expectantly smiling medical team witnessed his lie. There was no pain, either, when she was helped by others to extract the cannula from the back of his hand and disassemble the metal stands supporting the two drips. While he’d lain there Charlie was sure he’d isolated the listening attachment at the mouthpiece corner of the permanently available oxygen supply: he’d always manoeuvred himself in its direction when breaking wind.
‘We’re going to look at the wound, put on a lighter dressing,’ announced the bearded, heavily moustached surgeon, coming out of the medical group. None had ever been identified.
‘Everything still feels numb,’ said Charlie. It was a pointless persistence, he accepted, but every gesture of resistance, no matter how minimal, was psychologically important. He guessed Mikhail Guzov was trying the same technique by ignoring him for an entire day to generate apprehension for what was to come.
‘So you keep telling me,’ said the physician. There was dutiful laughter among those assembled behind him.
Charlie stood unsteadily, momentarily dizzy from being upright on his usually uncomfortable feet for the first time in almost three days as well as from having only one free arm for natural balance. The team and the outside guards trailed behind when they emerged onto the corridor, giving Charlie an unobstructed view on his wheelchair journey, which he at once acknowledged to be another unsettling psychological trick. There were no obvious side corridors to general wards. Every door, its padded rubber exterior heavily studded by regimented, large-headed fixings, was closed. There were no sounds from inside any room he passed. Nor did they encounter another person in any of the half-lighted passages. The intention, Charlie knew, was for him to feel totally abandoned, which he did.
Charlie was stripped of his back-buttoned smock but retained the overly long trousers, which puddled around his ankles, making it difficult even to stumble the few steps to the examination table. He needed help to get onto it. This time the two assistants were men and far less careful, the purpose of which Charlie again recognized, staying rigid faced against the pain he was insisting he was still too numbed to feel. He tried to twist his head to his injured shoulder as the dressing was cut away but an unseen theatre nurse cupped his head and others turned him onto his uninjured side, giving the surgeon front and back access to his wounded shoulder. Charlie had to close his eyes against the blinding overhead light.
‘Although you tell me there’s no feeling we’ll still have a little local anaesthetic, shall we?’ mocked the surgeon.
Charlie counted three injections. Genuine numbness was very quick.
‘This could heal with too much external scar tissue, which we don’t need, do we?’ continued the voice, from behind. ‘Just a cosmetic snip, here and there.’
Charlie felt the pressure of an instrument, but no pain, then a different pressure, as if his shoulder was being prodded. A whispered conversation began, during which
He had to risk it, Elliott decided. ‘Diversion from what?’
‘MI6 had a walk-in.’
‘Into the embassy?’
‘At a government reception.’
‘He still in Moscow?’
‘Here.’
‘How big?’
‘The biggest.’
‘We talking professional?’
‘Personal: very personal. If it leaks, it can only have come from you.’
Fuck, thought Elliott. ‘What are we proving here?’
‘Each other. This is my commitment.’
5
Charlie expected the withdrawal of the catheter to be roughly performed, intentionally to hurt, but it wasn’t. It was extracted slowly, by a caressingly soft-handed, substantially busted blond nurse who frequently stopped to ask, smiling, if she was causing him discomfort. Each time Charlie assured her she wasn’t, glad that the procedure was finished and the bedcovering restored before the assembled, expectantly smiling medical team witnessed his lie. There was no pain, either, when she was helped by others to extract the cannula from the back of his hand and disassemble the metal stands supporting the two drips. While he’d lain there Charlie was sure he’d isolated the listening attachment at the mouthpiece corner of the permanently available oxygen supply: he’d always manoeuvred himself in its direction when breaking wind.
‘We’re going to look at the wound, put on a lighter dressing,’ announced the bearded, heavily moustached surgeon, coming out of the medical group. None had ever been identified.
‘Everything still feels numb,’ said Charlie. It was a pointless persistence, he accepted, but every gesture of resistance, no matter how minimal, was psychologically important. He guessed Mikhail Guzov was trying the same technique by ignoring him for an entire day to generate apprehension for what was to come.
‘So you keep telling me,’ said the physician. There was dutiful laughter among those assembled behind him.
Charlie stood unsteadily, momentarily dizzy from being upright on his usually uncomfortable feet for the first time in almost three days as well as from having only one free arm for natural balance. The team and the outside guards trailed behind when they emerged onto the corridor, giving Charlie an unobstructed view on his wheelchair journey, which he at once acknowledged to be another unsettling psychological trick. There were no obvious side corridors to general wards. Every door, its padded rubber exterior heavily studded by regimented, large-headed fixings, was closed. There were no sounds from inside any room he passed. Nor did they encounter another person in any of the half-lighted passages. The intention, Charlie knew, was for him to feel totally abandoned, which he did.
Charlie was stripped of his back-buttoned smock but retained the overly long trousers, which puddled around his ankles, making it difficult even to stumble the few steps to the examination table. He needed help to get onto it. This time the two assistants were men and far less careful, the purpose of which Charlie again recognized, staying rigid faced against the pain he was insisting he was still too numbed to feel. He tried to twist his head to his injured shoulder as the dressing was cut away but an unseen theatre nurse cupped his head and others turned him onto his uninjured side, giving the surgeon front and back access to his wounded shoulder. Charlie had to close his eyes against the blinding overhead light.
‘Although you tell me there’s no feeling we’ll still have a little local anaesthetic, shall we?’ mocked the surgeon.
Charlie counted three injections. Genuine numbness was very quick.
‘This could heal with too much external scar tissue, which we don’t need, do we?’ continued the voice, from behind. ‘Just a cosmetic snip, here and there.’
Charlie felt the pressure of an instrument, but no pain, then a different pressure, as if his shoulder was being prodded. A whispered conversation began, during which
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