Dead Men Living cm-12

by Brian Freemantle

  “All over, then?” greeted Charlie. “Anything interesting?”

  Denebin didn’t respond. Instead Lestov said, “What happened?” The attitude was hostile.

  “We were totally conned,” admitted Miriam. Succinctly, missing nothing but not elaborating, either, she recounted Valentin Polyakov’s stage-managed performance, frequently quoting the chief minister verbatim, which Charlie noted. He listened and watched with one hip lodged on a laboratory bench to ease his feet, intent upon the Russians. Olga’s face was the most readable, instant anger, washed away just as quickly by dismayed awareness that the television coverage guaranteed Moscow seeing it. Even the normally enigmatic forensic scientist shifted beside his samples, his irritation needing movement, although his features remained unmoving. Only Lestov showed any objectivity.

  “He didn’t mention us: give a reason for our not being there?”

  “Charlie did,” said Miriam. Just as succinctly she paraphrased Charlie’s responses. Before she finished, Charlie was the sole object of attention.

  “Where’s your evidence for all this special wartime prisoner conjecture?” Denebin demanded.

  “Doesn’t what you recovered from the grave support that supposition?” Charlie came back, never the poker player to miss the chance to bluff.

  “No,” denied the man.

  Miriam was determinedly silent, recognizing the game. Vitali Novikov’s eyes were everywhere, seeking guidance and not getting it. Lestov and the other pathologist were equally lost but concealed it better.

  “What contradicts it?” demanded Charlie. The other man was playing well.

  “What supports it?” matched Denebin.

  “It was a nine-millimeter bullet, wasn’t it?” tempted Charlie.

  “No. It …” blurted Denebin, too intent, before realizing the admission.

  “That certainly knocks my theory,” said Charlie, in apparent defeat. “What was the caliber?”

  “The bullet was too badly distorted for me to be certain,” said the scientist. “A lot of it had splintered against a rock.”

  Show-your-hand time, decided Charlie. “But the casing you recovered-what was it, from that fourth section of the grave you taped off? — that wasn’t damaged at all as far as I could see.”

  Denebin stared directly at Charlie for several moments, red-faced, throat moving. There was no sound or movement from anyone else. Even the insect buzz seemed subdued. Finally the forensic scientist said, “It was.38.”

  “Now, that really means I’ve misled everyone, doesn’t it? But gives us a lot more to think about. What conclusion have you reached about that?”

  “I haven’t,” said the Russian, tightly, seemingly aware for the first time of their audience.

  It should all be downhill from now on, Charlie thought. “What about the shrapnel? You must have a theory about that? So much of it?”

  “A bomb of some sort.”

  “Several small bombs? Grenades, for instance?”

  “Possibly.”

  “That’s what I thought,” said Charlie. It was always essential to get a positive confirmation. It wouldn’t have taken them long to realize that neither German nor Russian handguns of the Second World War fired.38 bullets, but without the significance of the torn-out trouser band label it would just be an additional mystery, mostprobably dismissed as having come from a captured Western weapon. And still would be because he didn’t intend telling them. He turned to Novikov, offering the release papers. “Could we call the American embassy from here, get the aircraft on its way?”

  “You’ve finished?” The pathologist frowned.

  “No,” said Charlie. “We’ve scarcely started.”

  Miriam emerged from Novikov’s office and said, “Saul is already on his way here with the plane. All hell’s broken loose.”

  The transportation coffins were remarkably well made, but Novikov, embarrassed, couldn’t find anything better than newspaper to wrap the uniform. To keep the recovered contents safe, Charlie put them back into tightly buttoned pockets and folded the clothing in upon itself. Miriam did the same. It was all completed quickly enough for the Russians to wait and accept Novikov’s offer to drive them all back to the Ontario.

  The ambush-particularly the already-setup television cameras-was visible some way from the hotel.

  Olga at once said, “No!”

  Lestov turned to Charlie, ignoring her. “It happened just as you told us?”

  “Exactly how Miriam said,” assured Charlie.

  “Then yes!” insisted the homicide detective.

  They were briefly engulfed as they got out of the car, and Charlie swallowed against laughing. There clearly hadn’t been sufficient graveside protection and everyone was gargoyle-faced from bites and stings, some more bubbled and bumped than Miriam had been at her worst. One very badly swollen TV reporter was making a point of his appearance in a live introduction: Charlie heard “hell on earth” and decided the country-proud Valentin Ivanovich Polyakov was going to be a very pissed off chief minister and that the bastard deserved it.

  It got worse the moment Lestov began talking, but the melee helped cover Lestov’s initial stammering, which quickly went. He was glad, said the militia colonel, that the Russian participation had been made clear at the earlier meeting. He could not understand why they had been excluded from that meeting. He could only assume a misunderstanding, which was unfortunate, or intentional obstruction,which would be curious and which he understood even less. He expected Moscow to ask the Yakutsk authorities for an explanation, Russian help having been very specifically asked for because of local investigative limitations. It was fortunate the working relationship with the two Western investigators had, by comparison, been so good. It was only when Lestov suggested that the Yakutsk militia commissioner might be able to explain the problem that Charlie became aware of Ryabov and Kurshin at the edge of the press pack. The attention and the cameras immediately switched to the word-blocked local police chief.

  Vitali Novikov hadn’t moved from beside his car. Neither had Charlie. The pathologist said, “You’re going back immediately?”

  Charlie said, “Yes.”

  “I wanted more time!”

  “There isn’t any.”

  The pathologist swallowed, not immediately finding the words. Then, in a rush, he said, “Get us out: me and Marina and the boys. Please!”

  “What have you got?”

  “Get us out first.”

  “Do you know the whole story?”

  “Most of it.”

  “You don’t, do you?” challenged Charlie.

  “More than anyone else. I told you about the camp.”

  Quickly Charlie passed the man his official card with his direct embassy number. “I will do everything I can.” It would surely be easy: Natalia worked in the very ministry necessary to grant permission.

  “Get us out and I’ll give you everything.”

  “You’d have to.”

  There were two waiting demands from Raymond McDowell for his calls to be immediately returned when Charlie finally entered the hotel, warding off, as he walked, repeated demands for individual interviews and photo opportunities. His telephone was ringing as he entered his room.

  McDowell said, “This is terrible!”

  “No it’s not,” contradicted Charlie. Polyakov wouldn’t have canceled the monitor.

  “London wants a full explanation at once.”

  For the benefit of the listening public, Charlie said, “I’m sure they do. I think there should be an official note to the government here, asking for one.”

  There was momentary silence. “What are you talking about?”

  “Our calls are tapped!”

  The silence this time was longer. “What’s happening?” asked McDowell, less stridently.

  “I’m coming back tonight, on an American charter. With the body and what was found on it.”

  “What shall I tell London?”

  “That I’ll speak t
o them tomorrow. And to go on watching television.”

  It took another $50 note to persuade the hotel receptionist to summon a taxi, which seemed to be collapsing as dramatically as most of the buildings they passed on their way to the airport. The two coffins were already there. The Aeroflot charter wasn’t. Its arrival was promised within thirty minutes.

  Both Charlie and Miriam chose to remain in the luggage shed with the bodies rather than go into the hard-chaired, tobacco-fugged departure lounge. They didn’t find a lot to say. They were both alert to the entry into the shed of any vehicle or uniformed official, other than those handling the luggage of schedule flight passengers. Charlie thought his newspaper-wrapped uniform was better-packaged and — tied than a lot of the items that went by on the arthritic conveyor belt. Miriam hadn’t surrendered hers since bundling it up in the mortuary, either.

  The charter was an hour late. Saul Freeman flurried officiously into the shed, immediately set off balance by Charlie’s presence beside a second coffin.

  At once the FBI chief said, “There’s no agreement about this! We’ve got enough-”

  “Saul!” stopped the woman. “Shut the fuck up. We’re getting out together. No discussion. Okay?”

  Freeman looked hesitantly between Miriam and Charlie. “You’vegot to understand-” he tried, but again she cut him off.

  “Saul! You’re not listening! Let’s get the coffins on the plane and the plane off the ground, while we’re still able. I’m sure you’ve got a great speech prepared and I can’t wait to hear it later. But later!”

  There were some luggage handlers, none Asian-featured superstitious Yakuts, hovering and Charlie waved more $10 notes like flags at a parade. At once the coffins were loaded onto trolleys. Automatically Miriam and Charlie walked beside that for which they were responsible, each with a protective hand resting on the lid. There was only a very small passenger area beyond the hold, but neither Charlie nor Miriam looked for it until after the coffins were not just roped securely into their carrying space but the loading bay ramp was raised. Both finally sagged with the click of its lock.

  “I want to know what went on-is going on!” demanded Freeman, when they finally pushed aside the curtain separating the cargo bay and slumped into canvas bucket seats.

  “It’s a very long story that can wait,” said Miriam. “Charlie and I have a lot to talk about ourselves first, before we can make any sense of anything. So please, let’s wait until we can get our heads straight.”

  “We’ve got people flying in from Washington, for Christ’s sake!” said Freeman, awed.

  “Good,” said Miriam. “You brought anything to drink?”

  “A little Jack Daniel’s,” admitted the Bureau chief, blinking.

  Miriam held out her hand, unspeaking. From the briefcase beside his seat Freeman produced a bottle three-quarters full and when she remained with her hand outstretched followed with polystyrene cups.

  Miriam drank deeply and, looking out of the window at the moment of takeoff, said, “It’s like being in one of those great escape movies.” She lifted her cup in a toast. “We made it!”

  “I wasn’t sure we would,” admitted Charlie.

  “For God’s sake, will someone tell me what’s going on?” implored Freeman.

  “We got set up,” conceded Miriam, simply. “But out of ten I’d score our recovery at six.”

  “That’s about right,” agreed Charlie.

  “And we got our Unknown Soldier back. Both of them.” Miriamstretched out, pushing herself as far back in the stiff canvas as she could. “Now I’m pretty exhausted.”

  “You’re happy for this to be your thing, is that right?” demanded Freeman, hopefully.

  “I guess that’s it,” sighed Miriam.

  “Your choice,” said the man. “It’s your ass.”

  “I just made it,” said Miriam. “And the ass is intact.”

  They all settled as best they could, trying to sleep, but Charlie was always subconsciously aware of being aboard a droning aircraft and gave up after about an hour. As he thrust himself up in his seat he became aware of Miriam sitting up, too. Freeman snored on.

  They didn’t speak for a long time, their refilled cups in their laps. Finally Miriam said, “You know what I think?”

  “What?”

  “I think if some gal had something you needed badly enough to know and if to screw her was the way to get it, you’d screw her.”

  Charlie said, “There a point to this conversation?”

  “Don’t want you sitting in judgment on me, like you’ve got the moral high ground, Okay?”

  “Okay,” said Charlie. There was a lot he liked about Miriam Bell.

  “I thought he did something dull … something to do with trade!” said Irena. “Now I learn he’s …” she waved her hands across the dinner table, seeking a metaphor. Remembering a Russian-dubbed English series that had just ended on Moscow television, she finished, “A Sherlock Holmes!”

  Probably not for much longer, thought Cartright, glad he was on the absolute edge of the hurricane that was sweeping through the embassy. He was still recovering from the revelation that Charlie was living with Irena’s sister. “It’s kind of an unusual job.”

  “How’d he get an apartment like they have? It’s in what used to be a palace. Incredible!”

  “So I understand.”

  “Does everyone at the embassy live like that?”

  “He’s not properly attached to the embassy,” said Cartright, knowing from the military attache that deniability was already being considered. “I guess you’d say he was freelance.”

  “Obviously a very successful one!” Cartright was much better looking than the American and she hoped he would be better in bed, too. He obviously wasn’t so mean. The restaurant was just off the Arbat, called the Here and Now, and was the social spot of the moment at which to be seen, which she considered promising. So was the imported champagne he’d automatically ordered. She was glad she’d worn the Donna Karan she’d bought in New York. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her cleavage.

  “Hasn’t Natalia told you all about him?” questioned Cartright, trying to get the conversation on track.

  “We’re not particularly close,” dismissed Irena. She was sure the five-man group at the bar were mafia. One smiled at her. She smiled back.

  “See a friend?”

  “I thought I had. It wasn’t.”

  “Natalia probably considers herself very lucky, able to live in an apartment like that. Accommodation isn’t easy in Moscow, is it?”

  “She had a pretty impressive place before.” Irena didn’t return the mafia man’s smile this time.

  “If it’s as grand as you say, they probably do a lot of entertaining?”

  “I wouldn’t know. Like I said, we’re not close.” The quail was wonderful and from the attention she was attracting Irena was sure the dark-haired girl who’d just come in was the star of the gangster series getting the top TV ratings. Irena was enjoying herself. The tuxedoed band began playing Glen Miller’s “In the Mood.” “A girl could get jealous at someone being more interested in her sister than in her,” Irena protested, pushing her plate and her chair away at the same time. “Come on! Let’s dance. And stop talking about Natalia and Charlie.”

  Enough, decided Cartright. There was absolutely no hurry, she had the most spectacular tits and there was Saul Freeman’s recommendation.

  During the evening the man she was sure was mafia intercepted Irena on her way to the washroom and asked her if she needed rescuing. She said no but added that she appreciated the gallantry and when he said anytime she gave him her telephone number.

  Cartright started to get out of his car when they got to her apartment, in the Moscow suburbs on the way conveniently to Sheremet’yevo airport, but she stopped him, lying that she had to be up very early the following morning for a flight.

  “Perhaps next time,” she said. Maybe she’d found herself someone with money, like Natalia. Di
scovering what he was like in bed could wait.

  14

  They had remained in conference practically the entire day, broken only by Sir Rupert Dean’s summons to Downing Street. Patrick Pacey, the department’s political officer, went with him. The director-general had also several times spoken to the Moscow embassy by telephone-to the ambassador as well as to the head of chancellery-and when he’d finally managed a connection to the Ontario Hotel in Yakutsk it had been eight P.M. local time there and he’d been told that Charlie had checked out.

  Throughout the day the attitudes toward Charlie Muffin ebbed and flowed. Initially, after his Nazi-secret declaration, the criticism and accusations had been virtually unanimous, determinedly led by an inwardly very satisfied Gerald Williams, totally supported by the deputy director-general. A lot of the condemnation became muted-or stopped altogether-after the second TV transmission of the hotel parking lot interview with Colonel Vadim Lestov.

  Dean said, “We don’t know enough to reach any conclusion or judgment.”

  “And whose fault is that?” demanded the finance director. “Muffin was repeatedly told-ordered-to maintain the closest contact and report back everything we needed to know and at all costs avoid any reference to possible intelligence and difficult diplomatic situations. He’s done the total and complete opposite, as he always does. And as I have consistently warned that he would. To relay a message telling us to watch television was arrogant impertinence.”

  “Made sense, though, to see and hear what the Moscow detective said, didn’t it?” sighed Jeremy Simpson, the legal adviser. “Muffinalso told the Moscow embassy his phone was tapped. Seems a good enough reason for saying nothing.”

  “He said a lot on television,” pointed out Jocelyn Hamilton.

  “Which remains the problem,” agreed Patrick Pacey, knowing the political thinking from having attended the cabinet Intelligence and Security Committee meeting at Downing Street with the director-general. “The last thing the government wants is reminders of Germany’s wartime past, now that we’re European partners. Or having one of our people sitting beside the Yakutsk leader like that, publicly associated with an anti-Russian attack.”