There was an audibly shouted question—“Just what were these guys doing, all that time ago?”—directed to Miriam by name and Charlie looked along the table, unaware if she had already fully accepted their entrapment but conscious of her additional discomfort. A lot of the previous night’s swelling had gone and her face wasn’t as purple-red as it had been, but it was still lumped in places—one eye was half closed—and greasy from that morning’s antiseptic balm. She wore absolutely no makeup. She sat apparently trying to shield her eyes from the camera lights, in reality hoping to conceal as much of her face as possible, and two still photographers crouched at the lip of the dais were repeatedly gesturing for her to lower her hands. She still had difficulty in talking, too.
As soon as she began to speak, Charlie recognized that in her anxiety to escape, Miriam Bell was panicking, offering far more than was necessary. She repeated Charlie’s insistence upon jurisdiction and cooperation and babbled on that they hadn’t established a reason for the killings, nor any victim identities, although they had no doubt of nationality. Her disclosure of the method of execution at once prompted a shouted interjection.
“Wasn’t a bullet in the back of the head the favorite killing method of Russian intelligence in Lubyanka?”
“Yes,” agreed Miriam.
“So they were killed by Russian intelligence?”
“We don’t know who they were killed by,” intruded Charlie, still working damage limitation. “That’s what the Russian team is trying to establish. Why there is such excellent international cooperation.”
He held back at a demand to know what specific leads they had, curious for his own part how Miriam would reply, but she said there weren’t any.
“What’s your next move?” shouted a woman from the rear of the room.
“Analyzing the autopsy and forensic evidence,” Charlie came in quickly, anxious to be as vague as possible, but Polyakov added, “And the items found upon the bodies.”
“Which at this moment we don’t intend to make public,” persisted Charlie. Thank Christ he hadn’t discussed what he considered significant. An enterprising journalist could still get a lot from the cigarette case inscription. The thought lodged in his mind. There hadn’t so far been the concentrated questioning he’d feared—no one, for instance, had asked about photographs of bodies perfectly preserved—and he abruptly wondered how of and how far he could manipulate the situation into which he’d been thrust. He would be taking a hell of a risk by trying and if he got caught out it could go catastrophically wrong, but they already had a catastrophe, so there was very little more to lose.
“We have,” he began, “probably one of the greatest unsolved mysteries of the Second World War. Two Allied officers. A Russian woman. And a secret that has lain buried for fifty years … .” He had them, Charlie decided. There was scarcely a sound in the room, the coughs muted. Charlie thought faster than he could remember in any previous back-to-the-wall situation, sifting the innocuous from anything that could give the slenderest clue to his real thinking, determined to out-exaggerate Polyakov and spread as many false leads as he could make up on the spot. He acknowledged that it had obviously been a covert mission (“What other reason for it remaining secret when it went wrong?”) and invented the possibility of special German prisoners being incarcerated in special gulags (“in the remotest, most unreachable part of the world”). Hitler had Mussolini snatched from captivity after the Italian dictator’s overthrow. What if, held somewhere in Yakutskaya, there had been a German, possibly several, with the knowledge of a weapon or a development—jet propulsion, of which the Peenemünde rockets had been the forerunner, nuclear fission ahead of the Americans’ Los Alamos development—that would have shortened the war?
Enough, Charlie decided: stop before he became a contender for the Nobel prize for Fantasy. Time to let his still-enraptured audience work up their own embellishments. There was a fresh cacophony of demands from which he picked those most likely to mislead, ignoring those that could have been pertinent. After seeming to prevaricate, he allowed himself to concede his belief that the three victims could have been an advance reconnaissance group and that there could be other victims, in undiscovered graves. He intentionally shifted questions about surviving registers of possible German prisoners to Valentin Polyakov, enjoying the man’s difficulty admitting they had either been lost or intentionally destroyed. Quickly Charlie picked up that there should be some files in British and American intelligence archives, although finding them would undoubtedly be hard and conceivably impossible if the operation was covered by a special, time-restricted security release.
Polyakov made a determined effort to stop Charlie’s takeover and to bring it back to the intended anti-Russian platform by switching the questioning to the local militia, which was a mistake. Yuri Ryabov was too excited by an international spotlight, never managing to complete replies too convoluted for Kurshin to finish for him and in his desperation the homicide chief seemed to agree that the investigation was concentrated as Charlie had suggested and Polyakov hurriedly tried to conclude the conference by repeating an apparent earlier undertaking to escort everyone to the grave site. There was an immediate demand from both television teams for individual interviews with Charlie and Miriam.
Miriam followed Charlie’s lead by refusing. And did so again when he insisted he would not be photographed near the grave, either.
As they hurried back into Polyakov’s office, Miriam whispered in English, “We got well and truly suckered.”
“We got well and truly fucked,” corrected Charlie.
Charlie guessed Polyakov’s anger matched his but hoped his was better controlled. He’d had time now to rationalize his mistakes, acknowledging that he’d underestimated everything and everybody, which had been foolishly arrogant. He wasn’t sure how much of a recovery he’d managed, but he had to go on working at it and at the same time not lose sight of the fact that, devious, conniving bastard though he’d been, Valentin Ivanovich Polyakov was a diplomatically recognized head of a semi-autonomous republic who had to be accorded the respect due to his title. It didn’t necessarily extend to the man himself, of course. Only the three of them had returned to Polyakov’s suite, leaving Ryabov and Kurshin to organize the transportation to the grave. Possibly his first advantage, recognized Charlie. He’d have to make sure he isolated all the others.
For that reason Charlie waited for Polyakov to speak, but unexpectedly it was Miriam who broke the angry silence. “That was monstrous! I am going to make a full report to my embassy in Moscow. Ask that protests are made from my State Department in Washington.”
Wrong, thought Charlie. There was no threat in that: Polyakov, who’d caused the offense, was the same man who’d sit in judgment upon any diplomatic complaint about it. Don’t get sore, get even, remembered Charlie, calling upon another dictum. What other advantages were there? The eavesdropping was a definite advantage there: a signpost to follow, in fact. He’d told McDowell and Gallaway he was getting nowhere—probably never would—and the listening Polyakov had believed him. The bastard would never have chanced a trick like the one he’d just pulled if he’d known Charlie’s bullshit was going to be spread thicker than his. The benefits were stacking up. What else? He had the official release of the body and possessions snug in his inside pocket. Important to ensure those possessions, including the uniform, weren’t picked over by anyone else. There were the lists, of course, carefully prepared by Vitali Novikov. But the local medical examiner had not been able to read the English lettering of the cigarette case inscription, so the danger was minimized there.
Insufficient for a total recovery, assessed Charlie objectively. Publicly—in Moscow and London and Washington—it would still probably be regarded as an unmitigated debacle requiring his head on a pole. If he stood any chance at all of keeping it instead on his shoulders, he had to solve all the mysteries, not make up any more. But not here, at this precise moment. At this precise moment he had verbally to
manacle Valentin bloody Polyakov as effectively as the victims they were trying to identify. And Charlie thought he could do it. Calmly, conversationally—no longer, in fact, furious—he said, “You should have told us: prepared us for what you were going to do back there.”
“I achieved all I wanted.”
Charlie discerned the faint doubt. Shaking his head, he said, “Maybe if you’d been more forthcoming we could have helped you make it better.” He refused to answer Miriam’s abrupt look, willing her not to say anything, make any interruption, until she understood what he was doing.
“What do you mean?” demanded Polyakov.
“I mean that both of us have been aware from the beginning that all our contacts with Moscow have been monitored,” said Charlie, easily. “Which is why we’ve said nothing to indicate our thinking or what we’ve already been able to decide. But most importantly there’s been no discussion, either, of what was discovered in London or Washington before we came here. Or what’s been shared by Moscow.”
The other man’s uncertainty was obvious now. “I want to know everything about this Nazi business!”
“After what happened this morning, I don’t feel at liberty to tell you,” said Charlie. “As far as I’m concerned, that’s something you’ll have officially to approach London about.”
“And Washington, as far as I am concerned,” came in Miriam, once more following in Charlie’s footsteps.
“Your being allowed here was on the understanding of complete cooperation,” threatened Polyakov, inadequately.
“That was our understanding, too.” Charlie nodded in the direction of the just-left room. “There wasn’t much evidence of complete cooperation in there. And I expect London to be outraged that what were official discussions between myself and my embassy were monitored.”
“Washington, too,” endorsed Miriam again. “I think the whole episode was extremely unfortunate. You would probably have been able to avoid a great deal of embarrassment by first discussing the claims and accusations you made today.”
Careful, thought Charlie worriedly.
Polyakov said, “I demand to know everything that’s been discovered elsewhere!”
“I have to refer you to London,” said Charlie. “Or my embassy in Moscow.”
“You are both here with my permission: under my sufferance,” further threatened the bearded chief minister. “It’s I who have to authorize the release of the bodies and their effects.”
Charlie thought Polyakov and Stalin would have gotten on well together. He said, “You told us earlier you’d already been in contact with London and Washington, agreeing that. We were photographed being given the official release papers.”
Polyakov’s face began to burn.
Sure of herself—of Charlie’s script—Miriam said, “This really could get most unpleasant. My embassy has an aircraft on standby to recover our national. I think everything is out of our hands now. Any decision to hold the bodies will be taken on a diplomatic level.”
The man was close to being out of his depth, Charlie guessed. His mind still on limitation, Charlie said, “I agree. I regret—and I feel sure my government will very much regret—what occurred today. At my level—the level of the investigation—I think it would be most unwise if the media for whose invitation you are responsible were allowed any more information or facilities than they already have been given. That’s as far as I feel able to go, guiding you about what’s known elsewhere about this case.”
“I can’t add to that,” said the woman.
The television teams had, of course, brought satellite communication equipment and the conference was instantly syndicated by their respective stations to be seen worldwide during the course of the day.
In London Sir Rupert Dean turned to his assembled committee and said, “Charlie Muffin will need a damned good explanation for this!” For Gerald Williams it was a superhuman effort not to speak or keep the satisfaction from his face.
In Moscow, McDowell, Gallaway and Cartright looked between each other in matching incredulity. Gallaway said, “Oh, my God!”
McDowell said, “I’ve got to speak to the bloody man,” but at once corrected himself. “No. I need to speak to London.”
And in the Lesnaya apartment Sasha said, “That’s Daddy. What’s he talking about?”
“I don’t know,” said Natalia. Their situation had never stood a chance of succeeding, not from the very beginning.
“Inconceivable!” protested James Boyce.
“Definitely a need for some close control: find out what the dangers are,” said Kenton Peters. “Sounded awfully like your man knew something he shouldn’t.”
“And your woman, too,” said Boyce. “Yakutsk itself was always our greatest weakness: a problem if the bodies were discovered, not knowing ourselves precisely where the grave was. Never in a million years expected it would melt like that.”
“Do you think Muffin is getting too close?”
“I’ve absolutely no way of knowing, not until he gets back to Moscow. I’ll get a full account then,” said Boyce.
“I think I should go personally,” said Peters. “Best you stay clear: more to lose in some ways with your man still living. And I’ve got a presidential problem because the damned idiot acted without consulting me, which is unforgivable.”
“You stopping by on your way?” asked Boyce.
“Think it’s best if I go to Moscow first. Assess the degree of danger on the ground.”
“Probably the better idea,” agreed Boyce. Heavily he said, “You going alone?”
“Muffin has to be identified,” reminded Peters. “It’ll be the ideal opportunity.”
“Try to make it on your way back,” urged Boyce. “Putting the boat in the water at the weekend.”
“That sounds nice.”
13
It was Miriam who suggested, “What was on the bodies and the clothes?” and Charlie said, “Yes” and they went directly from the encounter with Valentin Polyakov to the mortuary. It was several minutes before either realized that with the local militia officers acting as tour guides to the visiting media, they were alone and unchaperoned.
“I am going to look like Frankenstein’s bride on film,” complained the woman.
“I’d probably pass as Frankenstein’s creation as well, two dummies together.”
“I’m sure Ryabov would have warned me if he’d known.”
“Too late now.”
Miriam said, “How much of what you told the media was kosher, how much bullshit?”
“Bullshit that fit,” said Charlie.
“You think Polyakov bought the line afterwards?”
“Most of it. It helped, you picking up as you did.”
She shrugged. “We’re in a hell of a mess, aren’t we? You see a way out?”
“Solving everything, with no embarrassments to anyone, would be a start.”
“So would a cure for cancer,” she said.
“You really got a plane on standby?”
“Small cargo freighter, chartered from Aeroflot. This thing’s getting a lot of play back home. Secret Grave of the Unknown Soldier, that sort of thing. Good bandwagon for a president with falling poll ratings to get on board.”
“Any chance of sharing?” Charlie was panting, climbing up and down tilting corridors. He wished she wouldn’t walk so fast.
“That’s what I keep asking you, remember?” avoided Miriam, making a point.
“What did you get out of Ryabov and Lestov?” Charlie countered.
“Nothing out of Ryabov, apart from the eavesdropping, which I’d guessed anyway. All he wanted was to get into my pants. That was Lestov’s main aim, too. But he was prepared to trade, to get there. Olga didn’t get anything extra from the autopsies and is pissed about it. Denebin got a lot of metal out of the grave, apparently.”
“Grenades,” identified Charlie, simply.
Miriam stopped, turning to look at him. “Grenades!”
“
That’s how the grave was made, the quickest way, throwing two or three grenades one after the other at the same place,” said Charlie, grateful for the chance to rest his feet. “And they were either German or Russian. The grenades both used, during the war, had wooden handles: they could be thrown farther than the British and American pineapple type. I saw Denebin pick up quite a lot of burned wood fragments.”
“You sure about grenades? You’re not still bullshitting?”
Charlie began walking again. “No bullshit. Anything else?”
“You think there was?” fenced Miriam.
“Denebin picked up a shell casing. And I think the bullet that killed the woman.”
“You expect them to tell us that?”
“No.”
“Were you going to tell me?”
“Depends what you had to trade,” replied Charlie, honestly. And she did have a convenient plane.
“That magnifying glass and the tweezers are specialized, not the sort stocked by a 7-Eleven or whatever convenience stores were called that long ago: Woolworth’s I guess. Our laboratories in Washington might be able to narrow down the sort of thing they were used for. Give us a specialization.”
“He was very definitely a specialist,” agreed Charlie. It would be picked up by American forensic examination anyway and there wasn’t anything to be gained holding it back from her. “The one unbroken lens in his spectacles was particularly thick. Your labs will be able to establish the degree of impairment, but he’d never have passed an army medical with eyesight as bad as his. He was in uniform because there was a special need for whatever he did.”
“I missed that,” admitted Miriam, unoffended. “What about the uniform?”
“It didn’t tell me anything. Again, your forensic people might get something.”
“It wasn’t tailored to fit, not like your guy’s,” said the American. “I checked the measurements. I guess our officers didn’t go in for that sort of stuff.”
Dead Men Living Page 12
