Dead Men Living cm-12

by Brian Freemantle

  “What, then?”

  “A second, much deeper burial that this time won’t be affected by freak weather.”

  “The bastard!” exclaimed Miriam. “No reason at all!”

  “Just that he’d been recalled immediately, he didn’t know why or for how long. And that he’d either call from London or be in touch as soon as he got back.” The Savoy barman ignored Lestov’s ruble-waving effort to attract attention, concentrating upon the dollar-tipping Americans at the other end of the bar.

  “That’s bullshit! Of course he knows why!”

  “I already worked that out,” said Lestov, pained.

  In her fury Miriam missed the sarcasm. It had to be something very dramatic indeed for Charlie to have been called back like this. So she wasn’t ahead of everyone after all. The opposite. Way behind. But why hadn’t the son-of-a-bitch called? Making a point, obviously. Bastard! And why was Washington closing her out, insisting they couldn’t locate the relevant OSS files? Or trace any of the German names she’d asked to be identified, which she didn’t think Lestov had believed when she’d told him? Who the fuck’s side were they on? She grew angrier at her impotence. Petulantly she said, “So much for share and share alike! All right by me. I’ll play his rules from now on. Cut him out.”

  Well aware by now of Miriam’s stop-at-nothing ambition, Lestov was not surprised at her peevishness but thought she sounded vaguely ridiculous. “Don’t you think we should wait to see if we can afford to?”

  The Russian was right, Miriam accepted. “Let’s take a rain check on tonight, darling. I need to get back to the embassy and tell Washington straightaway.” She couldn’t think of a way to avoid admitting Charlie had gone off without telling her and knew she was going to appear pretty damned stupid.

  Lestov wasn’t surprised at that announcement, either. His own possible benefit already worked out, he said, “One thing this should prove to us is the importance of you and I exchanging absolutely everything: no holding back, whatever we might be officially told to do.”

  “I thought that was our understanding already,” said Miriam. She probably would have to do so if she stood any chance of catching up and saving her ass.

  “It’s certainly mine,” said Lestov. He wasn’t particularly upset at Miriam canceling the evening. On his way to the hotel he’d become excited by an idea he had no intention whatsoever of discussing with her, as well as an oversight that needed correcting. Now he could go back to the ministry and start working at once. The barman finally condescended to move toward them. It gave Lestov a lot of satisfaction to walk away before the man reached them. He didn’t leave a tip for the previous drinks, either.

  At the Lesnaya apartment Sasha handed the telephone back for Natalia to finish the conversation with Charlie and afterward said, “He is going to stay my daddy, isn’t he? He is coming back?”

  “Yes,” said Natalia. “He’s going to stay your daddy forever.”

  “Good,” said the child, positively. “I don’t want anybody else.”

  “Neither do I,” said Natalia.

  “The Foreign Office has been told by the State Department Charlie Muffin is here in England,” protested Patrick Pacey, the political officer. “According to the Ministry of Defense he’s turned up in Berlin. Both want explanations why they weren’t informed!”

  “Charlie must have detoured,” said Dean, easily. “And have a reason. And we’re not required to advise departments either in advance or after initiating an inquiry in an investigation that we’re officially in charge of. The Ministry of Defense and Washington can go to hell.”

  “He should have advised us,” said Hamilton. “He just can’t go wandering off.”

  “I warned you,” said Gerald Williams. “Warned everyone. The man does what he likes and we’ll all suffer because of it.”

  Charlie had been right about the reaction from the rest of Whitehall, thought Dean, reflectively. And why was it so important to America?

  “Berlin is quite safe,” insisted Boyce. “We tidied it up when it all began.”

  “Where, exactly, is the damned man? England or Germany?”

  “Dean thinks he’s moving somewhere between the two.”

  “Thinks! Why doesn’t he know? I don’t like this man doing what he likes, when he likes. We’re not properly in control,” objected Peters. “I’ve got a replacement for Packer. I don’t think we should wait any longer.”

  “It wouldn’t look right, so soon. Don’t forget what Dean put on record. He’s too independent: he’d make a fuss. I’m still seeing everything that’s coming in. Muffin’s still way off course. We’ll let him continue going around in circles. It’s actually causing more confusion than we’d hoped to create.”

  “I’m going to close down my end,” decided Peters. “I think you should do the same.”

  “Not yet, Kenton,” said the other man, who disliked the American’s need always to be in complete charge. “We’ll let my end run on for the moment.”

  25

  It rained, very softly, a drenching mist. The ground had become soaked before they tried to extend the surrounding plastic for some overhead protection. There wasn’t enough sheeting. All it had done was narrow the gap through which the water came, adding to themorass in which they stood. The mud of the partially redug grave came up to the diggers’ ankles and the surrounding grass was quickly churned into mire beneath the shuffling feet of the rest of them. Jackson’s inappropriately bright red and white golf umbrella kept their heads and shoulders dry, but Charlie could feel the dampness seeping in through his spread-apart shoes. The need to wear them into comfortable collapse was always a problem in the wet.

  There had been formal introductions at the cemetery lodge but no conversation afterward. The German officials hunched under their own umbrellas. The plump medical examiner, whose name Charlie had caught as Wagner, kept looking accusingly at Charlie, as if their dawn misery was his personal fault. The embassy padre, now occupied in head-bent prayer, had earlier looked equally upset at Jackson’s umbrella. The priest himself didn’t have any covering. His hair and nose dripped. It was more crowded than originally intended inside the dank enclosure because of Charlie’s visit the previous day.

  Charlie and Jackson had gone directly from the cemetery to the embassy and failed to find any official approach to account for the three recorded but untraceable visits, which, inexplicably in Charlie’s opinion, had caused the head of chancellery to send a second secretary today. His attendance had, in turn, ensured that of the previous day’s registration clerk, no longer patronizingly hostile but instead anxious for them to know she had gone through the entire ledger to ensure the slips hadn’t been wrongly indexed, which they hadn’t been, and a nervous official from the War Graves Commission, who’d assured Charlie there was nothing in their local Berlin directories, either, but that a full search was being carried out in London. Charlie acknowledged that the official motions had to be gone through and didn’t tell them they were wasting their time. He also didn’t tell Jackson.

  The diggers were even more deeply immersed when they located the coffin, which they did at first by feel, and sunk even farther, up to their elbows, groping into the quagmire to slip lifting canvas beneath the casket.

  There was a muffled, shoulder-shrugging conversation between the German officials before Wagner said to Charlie, “What are you looking for?”

  Charlie shrugged back. “Whatever’s there.”

  “Anything of forensic importance could be destroyed, attempting a preliminary examination in these conditions.”

  “Don’t let’s try, then,” said Charlie, who’d already decided that, as he’d also decided that, remote though the possibility would have been, anything outside the coffin, at the bottom of the grave, would have been lost, too.

  The embassy padre invited them all to pray as the slime-coated coffin came into view with a slurped, sucking sound, and Charlie dutifully bent his head with everyone else, wondering idly where God had
been when Simon Norrington’s head had been blown off in Siberia, or, indeed, throughout the entire Second World War. Perhaps He’d been busy.

  Instead of edging back against the sweating plastic to make room for the box, Charlie led the way out. The ambulance attendants, who’d so far remained dry inside their vehicle, emerged reluctantly to accept the body. Jackson promised the medical examiner he knew the way to the mortuary and the registration clerk and the War Graves officially repeated that they’d go on looking for the missing dockets and Charlie said he appreciated their continuing efforts. The cemetery official exchanged signed documents with the medical examiner.

  Their wetness inside the BMW caused the windows to steam when Jackson put the heater on full. Charlie knew it wouldn’t be sufficient to dry his feet. He was lucky, he supposed, not to suffer from rheumatism.

  Jackson said, “You think you’ll learn anything from whatever’s inside the coffin?”

  “Just confirmation of what I already suspect, if indeed there is a body.”

  The car swerved slightly at the attache’s snatched sideways look. “You think it might be empty?”

  “I wouldn’t be speechless if it were.”

  But it wasn’t.

  The skeleton, largely in its expected shape, was still inside the now-opened coffin being extensively photographed when Charlie and Jackson were shown into the glassed observation annex raised above the forensic pathology examination room. Because of the elevationCharlie could see almost everything inside the box. What remained of the hairless skull was on its left side, horizontal to the shoulder area, which also appeared disarranged. There were isolated wisps of a thin, gauzelike cloth that Charlie presumed to be the shroud.

  The medical examiner was standing back for the photographs and saw them enter. He was gowned, despite there being no risk of outside contamination of a corpse so long dead. Only when the German’s voice echoed into the viewing chamber (“There’s communication between us; there are permanent microphones on the ledge in front of you”) did Charlie see the pathologist was wearing a headset and voicepiece.

  “Anything specific you want to establish?” Wagner added.

  “Extent of the injuries that killed him,” set out Charlie, his list mentally prepared. “Every possible body measurement. And height. Your opinion, if you can reach it, about his possible body weight. It looks from where I am as if all the hair has gone, but if there are traces I’d like to know the color. Any orthodontistry which might help. Any indication from the bones of injury prior to his death: broken leg or arms, something like that. Anything, obviously, that might be in the coffin that you wouldn’t expect. Particularly personal objects. And anything else you can think of and I haven’t.”

  Jackson sniggered at Charlie’s final remark. Wagner didn’t. After a pause the German said, “I will talk as I examine.”

  The pathologist worked alone, lifting what sometimes appeared bone only a few millimeters in either length or diameter, virtually dismembering and reassembling the entire skeleton. Everything was measured and weighed in the transfer, every piece identified by its proper medical name, its size and weight itemized. What Charlie regarded as of major significance registered very early in the examination, but he did not interrupt until the pathologist finished the reconstruction.

  “Severe physiogmatic trauma?” echoed Charlie.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Would the face have been destroyed beyond recognition?”

  “Without any doubt. There’s no trace of either cheekbone or the left jawbone, including the eye socket surround. Any teeth that remained have been shattered beyond any orthodontic comparison. There’s no nasal formation whatsoever. In my opinion he got hitdirectly in the face: death would have been instantaneous.”

  “You also used the word severe to describe the hand injuries?” said Charlie.

  “You can see for yourself, from where you are,” said Wagner.

  “From where I am it looks as if both hands were totally smashed.”

  “They have been,” agreed the doctor. “There is no right thumb or index finger.”

  “What about the tips of fingers?”

  Wagner had been looking toward the panoramic window separating them. Briefly he turned to bend over the examination table before coming back to them. “No finger-nor the left thumb-extends its full length to the final joint. Perhaps he put his hands in front of his face at the last minute, to shield himself from whatever hit him.”

  It was a further two hours before the examination was complete. It was established that the unknown dead man had been one and three-quarter meters tall and from chest and body structure reasonably thickset. The dead man had suffered no bone damage injury prior to his death. There was no surviving hair, nor any unexpected personal objects in the coffin.

  It was still only midday when they emerged from the mortuary. The rain had changed, driven down in solid walls by a wind that hadn’t been blowing earlier. Charlie didn’t think the graveside plastic would have survived if it had been. His feet got soaked again on his way to the car.

  “Well?” queried Jackson, once they were inside.

  “Sometimes it’s not what you find but what you don’t,” said Charlie.

  Natalia was thinking the same, in Moscow.

  She looked up from the yellowed sheets that Lestov had set out in front of her. “It could simply have failed to be recorded.”

  The homicide colonel, bristle-chinned and light-headed from a totally sleepless night at his desk, shook his head. “It was my first chance fully to examine the records of Gulag 98, after getting them back from Travin. We all missed something important. They’re perfect. No omissions, no gaps. It was a very special camp indeed, at least while it existed.”

  “So?” demanded Natalia.

  “Look at the plot numbering,” urged the man. “It’s consecutive, a name recorded against every plot in a cemetery that no longer exists. There isn’t an entry for Larisa Krotkov. She was sentenced to life imprisonment, but there’s no record of her dying there. Or being buried there.”

  What possible connection could there be with the disappearance of the visitors’ slips in Berlin? Natalia wondered, remembering the previous night’s telephone conversation with Charlie. “Gulag 98 was closed very soon after Stalin’s death. Inmates were either released or transferred.”

  “She wouldn’t have been released, for conspiring with the enemy ….” He gestured to the mound of papers in front of Natalia. “Two hundred people were transferred. Every name is there. Larisa Krotkov’s isn’t.”

  “What have you done about it?”

  “Asked St. Petersburg for trial depositions. There aren’t any, for her. There are for five others, all men, accused of the same crime directly after the siege was lifted. The sentence was mandatory: execution.”

  Natalia had spread the papers across her desk for comparison. Slowly she began stacking them, one on top of the other. “Conclusion?”

  “Larisa Krotkov wasn’t sentenced to Gulag 98. She was sent there, a supposed prisoner, for a reason. And the only possible reason is something connected with Tsarskoe Selo. Which links her with Raisa Belous.”

  It was wildly speculative, thought Natalia. But then so was everything else. “It could only have been with the knowledge-the positive direction-of the NKVD.”

  “A search would need your authority,” Lestov pointed out.

  Always looking backward, thought Natalia. “We’ve got a name and a date. It shouldn’t be too difficult to locate, if anything exists. She could even still be alive!”

  “All we need to understand it all is someone living, not dead,” agreed Lestov.

  “I’m station chief!” yelled Saul Freeman.

  “And I’m the person you were happy to assign to this becauseyou were too fucking frightened of all the political implications to get involved yourself!” Miriam shouted back. She was red-faced, sweating, needing to support herself as she leaned across his desk to confront him, whic
h was what she’d been waiting to do when he’d entered the office that day. Her overnight cable to Washington and its response lay between them.

  “I don’t remember you putting up much of a fight.”

  “I’m putting one up now. It’s totally political, isn’t it?” She put a flat hand close to her chin. “Right up to here? And I’m the fall guy if anything goes wrong-so fucking anxious to get there, fight for everything, that I didn’t see the curve. You bastard!”

  Freeman picked up the cables. Miriam’s read, Demand immediate OSS identification of American victim, which understand British already have. Further understand London about to go public.

  Freeman said, “You should have cleared this with me.”

  “If I’d known what the fuck was going on, I would have. And that’s what I’m going to tell each and every inquiry when I get back to Washington, as ordered.”

  Freeman made a warding off movement toward Miriam. “Ignoring all the rules, first cabling, then calling Kenton Peters direct at the State Department instead of going through headquarters, was unforgivable! You know that! What else did you expect?”

  “What I expected-but sure as hell didn’t get-was to be properly treated as a special agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. And told the true reason for monitoring an investigation by Britain and Russia which I was not intended in any way to contribute to. And obstructed as much as possible so that I couldn’t.”

  “What did Peters tell you?” sighed Freeman.

  “That I didn’t have to bother. That Russia would never find out and if they did, would admit nothing. And that whatever Charlie Muffin and his department came up with would stay as buried as it had been for the last fifty years and that they were fall guys, too. And then he realized what he’d said-including me as a fall guy-and said he hadn’t meant it the way it had sounded and that I was to forget that, too.”

  Freeman indicated Miriam’s just-replaced telephone. “And then you called him a son-of-a-bitch and to kiss your ass.”