Read Online Red Star Falling: A Thriller by Brian Freemantle - Free Book Online Page A

Charlie strained. He was sure he heard heal at least three times. Then what sounded like flat or maybe flag . Week was very clear. So was infection. The new dressing was far less mummifying, the bindings brought around his chest only to keep the bandages in place. There was far more consideration getting him off the table. Once more, briefly upright, he needed support to regain the wheelchair.
    ‘It’s a perfect operation: with that little tidying there’ll hardly be any scarring,’ promised the surgeon.
    ‘Was it really worth the effort?’ asked Charlie. They’d expect the beginning of depression at his growing realization of helplessness.
    The ever-ready smile clicked on. ‘I take professional pride in everything I do. Whatever the circumstances.’
    A smaller entourage took Charlie back to his room, only his ward guards and the two male nurses who’d manhandled him onto the examination table. They took another, seemingly longer route, although again through deserted, semi-lit corridors past silent, padded doors.
    Mikhail Alexandrovich Guzov was already there.
    *   *   *
     
    ‘The doctor tells me you’re making a remarkable recovery: that we can start today,’ greeted the immaculate Russian, dismissing the room guards with a jerk of his head. The trouser of Guzov’s crossed leg was arranged for the razor-sharp crease to run unbroken from knee to burnished boot.
    The extended return had enabled a discussion with the surgeon, Charlie guessed, as his medical escorts helped him, more gently now, from the wheelchair to the bed, in which, in his absence, a back support had been fitted to put him into a virtually upright sitting position. Testing his assumption, Charlie said, ‘I’ve just undergone surgery.’
    ‘Surgical vanity,’ said the FSB general, confirming Charlie’s guess. ‘There’s no reason for further delay.’
    ‘What’s there to talk about?’
    Guzov smiled, broadly. ‘I’m not in any hurry, Charlie. I want what’s going to happen between you and me to last as long as possible. My only impatience is for it to start.’
    ‘You told me,’ sighed Charlie, dismissively. His shoulder began to ache as the anaesthetic wore off.
    ‘There’s been the usual diplomatic request for consular access,’ declared Guzov.
    Don’t hint eagerness, Charlie warned himself. ‘It’s nice to know somebody cares.’
    ‘I don’t imagine it’s philanthropic concern, after all the problems you’ve caused.’
    ‘I don’t understand that.’ When would the access be, for his chance to discover what had happened to Natalia and Sasha? Charlie agonized. Guzov would enjoy—would exacerbate—the torment if he knew its significance. Or did he know? Was this it, the beginning of the threatened torture? Stop! Charlie told himself, angrily: Guzov would be winning if he inculcated eroding uncertainty.
    ‘They’re not going to make any real effort to help you,’ goaded Guzov. ‘Not you or Denning or Beckindale. You know Denning and Beckindale, don’t you, Charlie?’
    He was achieving nothing from perpetual denial, Charlie recognized again. He had to convince Guzov and through him as many others as possible that they were achieving control and then mislead and misdirect them for as long as he could. The FSB would know from their embassy surveillance the precise arrival of all three MI6 men, just as they knew, from the same observation, that he hadn’t been anywhere near the embassy during that period. So there was no provable link between him and the two back-up MI6 survivors. ‘The names don’t mean anything to me. Do they know me?’
    ‘They’ve told us all there is to tell.’
    A fatuous boast, discarded Charlie. ‘That should minimize the time we need to be together, until I’m repatriated.’
    ‘You imagine we’re going to accept that you’re not guilty of serious offences under Russian law?’
    Charlie didn’t imagine it for a moment but snatched at the indication of London’s diplomatic