Some uniformed Russian militia officers had arrived to supplement the British security cordon, keeping the pedestrian door clear. They weren’t doing anything, though, to prevent the television cameramen and photographers from taking pictures, and Charlie told his taxi driver to continue on to a telephone kiosk farther along the embankment and wait while he made a call. “Ashamed to be seen with me?” Paula-Jane asked, flirtingly, when Charlie warned of the likely ambush. “You don’t need to be identified with me by the FSB and I don’t want to be linked with you by them.” “Don’t you think they already know who we’re from: you’ll be on file, for Christ’s sake!” “Why advertise it?” “There’s caution for you!” she mocked. “Pity there hadn’t been a lot more of it in the last few weeks,” said Charlie, heavily. “You had a bad day?” “Not at all,” denied Charlie, hoping he wasn’t showing his disappointment at not finding a telephone message from Natalia when he’d gone back to the hotel to change.
