Dead Men Living

by Brian Freemantle

  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. “Muffin also 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.”

  “Made worse by drawing attention to the sort of place Yakutskaya was,” persisted Gerald Williams. “I can’t imagine Russia wants that raked over. From whichever way we look at it, Muffin has put us—this department—in an appalling situation.”

  “One, in fact, that we’ve already agreed we had to do everything to avoid, with our whole future so uncertain,” endorsed Hamilton. “There might be an explanation of sorts, but I’ll need a lot to convince me it was justified.”

  “That’s a gross exaggeration,” argued the bald, mustached lawyer. “Quite obviously there were a lot of local problems we don’t yet know anything about. The Moscow detective went out of his way to say how good the relationship was. Which was exactly what Muffin was told to establish.”

  “I think the enormous publicity is unfortunate,” said Pacey, echoing another concern from the earlier Downing Street crisis meeting. “There’d been no public announcement of our being officially allowed to have a man in Moscow. The inference that Russia needs Western help to fight its crime isn’t something we wanted to become too obvious.”

  “Which it didn’t. And hasn’t,” insisted Dean, forcefully. “It’s entirely acceptable that someone from the UK—whose department was never identified—should have been in Yakutsk looking into the murder of a British officer, whenever the killing occurred. It was never stated that Charlie was based in Moscow or that he had any intelligence agency background. You inferred it was said, because you know.”

  Pacey flushed, caught out. “No,” he remembered. “It wasn’t, was it?”

  Williams felt a further fray in what he’d been so sure was the noose from which Charlie was at last going to dangle. He said, “With anyone else, it would not be necessary for us to be having this discussion: having to defend ourselves, cap in hand, in Downing Street! If this department becomes subsidiary to all those willing and eager to take over our traditional role, it will be dated back to this episode.” The finance director looked to the required records taker. “None of us will be here in a year’s time for us to be reminded of the warning I’ve just given.”

  “If, on the other hand, we were all here—and I called for a transcript of what you’ve said all day—you’d be shown to be an absolute fool, wouldn’t you Gerald?” said Simpson. He stroked the drooping mustache. “And I will. There! You’ve got a whole year to work out an explanation for being so wrong.”

  “I don’t want this to become personal,” warned Sir Rupert Dean.

  “Unfortunately—and usually unfairly—it’s always been personal between Charlie Muffin and Gerald,” said Simpson.

  “Every complaint and every warning about this man has been justified by what’s happened,” insisted Williams. “It’s no pleasure for me to have been proven right.”

  “You haven’t been,” said Simpson. “Not yet.”

  “When’s our first chance to speak to him properly?” asked Hamilton.

  “Tomorrow morning,” said Dean.

  “Every conceivable thing that could have gone wrong has gone wrong,” insisted Gerald Williams, desperate for the last convincing word.

  At that moment Natalia was entering the Russian analysis meeting thinking exactly the same thing. She also suspected her personal survival could be at risk. She hoped she hadn’t miscalculated as she believed her opposition had. It wouldn’t take her long to find out.

  “Outrageous!” declared Dmitri Nikulin. “Internationally we have been made to look ridiculous by a tinpot quasi republic still living in the Stone Age. How? Tell me how!”

  The head of the presidential secretariat talked directly to Natalia, who in turn looked to Petr Travin beside her. She said, “My deputy has had all the operational dealings today. Unfortunately, there hasn’t apparently been time for him to advise me.”

  Travin had three times claimed he was too occupied talking direct to Yakutsk to give her an account of what was happening, an open challenge to her authority. She knew the man wouldn’t have attempted that without the backing of the deputy interior minister, Viktor Viskov, who sat opposite, fixed-faced, studiously avoiding the man he’d personally appointed to be her deputy and his spy. If this was their chosen moment for a coup, they’d mistimed it.

  This afternoon’s meeting had initially been scheduled for the following day, which would possibly have given them the opportunity to complete whatever they were manipulating. But Nikulin’s unexpected decision to bring it forward gave her the most influential audience in front of which to fight, turning Travin’s evasion back upon the man by insisting—in memoranda to the president’s chief of staff—that Travin attend to explain his lack of contact. And bringing the meeting so abruptly and unexpectedly forward hinted the intervention of the president himself, which she guessed to be the main reason for Viskov’s discomfort. From his implacable silence she decided presidential pressure was also the inference drawn by the deputy foreign minister, Mikhail Suslov, the fifth person in Nikulin’s office.

  Nikulin frowned between Natalia and her deputy and then said to Travin, “What’s going on here?”

  “It’s been very difficult … bad communications,” stumbled Travin, losing his usual smooth-mannered control. “From what I understand, there was no warning, no agreement, to meet the press. The Westerners imagined they were only going to see the chief minister, possibly the Executive Council. We were specifically excluded.”

  Charlie had looked trapped, Natalia remembered. Why hadn’t he called? She would have been so much better prepared if they’d talked. It was like trying to walk blindfolded in the dark, but she was sure there was some high ground she could gain if war had been openly declared. She said, “Colonel Lestov was my choice and I think he’s proved to be a good one. He made the whole episode, which I accept we still have properly to have explained, appear the mistake—the stupidity—of the Yakutsk authorities … .” She looked directly at Travin again. “He talked on television of our demanding an explanation. What did he say to you about that?”

  “We didn’t go into that,” said her deputy, uneasily. “At the moment there’s some difficulty about the release of the body they believe to be that of a Russian woman. The Americans and the English are on their way back with their nationals.”

  Natalia avoided any surprised reaction to the news of Charlie’s return. “Our pathologist has conducted
her own autopsy, hasn’t she?” she persisted, not allowing Travin any relief.

  “As far as I understand it, yes,” said the man.

  “Don’t you know?” demanded Nikulin, exasperated.

  “Yes,” blurted Travin.

  “What about everything else? Is there anything more for them to do there?” demanded Natalia.

  “I don’t … I thought they should wait, to bring the body back. To avoid it appearing that they weren’t in control. The media are still there. You’ve seen the headlines in our own press. I gather it’s much more in the West.”

  “I don’t think they should wait at all!’ said Natalia, looking more fully around the chief of staffs office.”Let’s use the media and the Yakutsk stupidity. Recall our people, having completed their investigation, and let them announce their regret at the body being held and prevented from a civilized burial. Match it with a statement from here, formally asking why that proper burial is being prevented of someone obviously the victim of a terrible crime. Yakutsk will be caught, whichever way they respond. If they return the body, they’ll be complying with our demand. If they don’t, a proper burial there will also be what we demanded … .” She looked at the deputy interior minister.”Don’t you agree that publicly we would appear to be in control either way?”

  “I suppose so. Perhaps,” conceded Viskov, reluctantly.

  “It sounds good to me,” said Mikhail Suslov.

  “I can’t see a problem with it, either,” said Nikulin. “In fact, I think it’s something we should do … .” Pointedly addressing her, the presidential aide said. “And I think it is something that you should do personally, Natalia Nikandrova. Brief Colonel Lestov and prepare our announcement from here.”

  Travin was white-faced, staring accusingly at Viskov, who still refused to answer the look.

  Carefully trying to judge a safe contribution to the discussion, the deputy foreign minister said, “What do we know about this Englishman’s story of wartime mysteries?”

  Travin shifted, the attention back upon him. “Colonel Lestov was only with him and the American woman for about two hours before they flew out. It was the woman who gave them a resume of what he’d said but not any explanation—any facts—to support it.”

  “So we are dependent upon cooperation?” said Nikulin.

  As I have been from the beginning, acknowledged Natalia, finally. Charlie would tell her all she needed to know, to answer all the questions, but most importantly to defend herself—themselves—from any internal attack, within the ministry. Refusing to give up on Travin, she said, “You brought them officially together, as a group. Will there be sufficient cooperation?”

  Imagining an escape, Travin said, “I don’t believe there’s been a lot of exchange so far. I found the Englishman belligerent: obstructive. The impression in Yakutsk has been that he’s ineffective.”

  Charlie’s favorite chameleon color, Natalia recognized. “Let’s hope you’re wrong.”

  “What do we know about him?” asked Nikulin, abruptly.

  Natalia felt the first jump of concern. Quickly she said, “He was posted here by agreement, about a year after the official assignment of FBI representation, to cooperate on organized crime—”

  “And was largely responsible for the breaking up of a nuclear smuggling incident involving Natalia Nikandrova’s previous deputy,” came in Viskov, accusingly.

  “And other government officials,” fought back Natalia.

  “He’s here by our permission, like the FBI?” queried Nikulin.

  “Yes,” agreed Viskov.

  “Then I don’t see that we have a problem,” said the presidential adviser, going to the deputy foreign minister. “If there isn’t a full exchange, we tell his government to withdraw him.”

  How much more impossible was it all going to get? Natalia wondered.

  The man traveling on the State Department plane with Kenton Peters lay Charlie Muffin’s file aside and said, “Ornery son-of-a-bitch.” There was a strong Texan accent.

  “Who did the Agency a lot of harm in the past,” reminded Peters.

  “You want it to be an accident? Or obvious?” The operational name on the passport was Henry Packer. It was his own idea of a joke to describe himself as a pipeline specialist on his visa.

  “I haven’t decided yet. At the moment you’re just getting sight of the rabbit.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “Does it matter one way or the other?”

  “No,” said Packer. “Just want to provide maximum satisfaction. I aim to please as well as aim straight.

  That was another joke, but Peters didn’t smile.

  15

  It was what Muscovites call a Napoleon Day, the dawn sun burning from a cloudless sky to set fire to Moscow’s near-deserted streets as they really had been torched to drive out the briefly occupying French emperor. Charlie hoped it wasn’t an omen. The Americans had transportation—a van large enough for both coffins—at Domodedovo airport and Charlie continued to impose, actually being driven first and direct to the river-bordering Morisa Toreza. He parted from Miriam Bell in the British embassy forecourt with promises to talk later in the day.

  “Make sure you do,” insisted the woman. Saul Freeman barely waved.

  The embassy watchman complained he hadn’t been warned about the arrival of a corpse and wasn’t sure about storage because he hadn’t had to deal with a dead body since his posting. The man couldn’t find a cart and he and Charlie needed several stops staggering with the coffin between them to the canteen’s walk-in refrigerator in the basement. The watchman said the chef wouldn’t like it and Charlie agreed he probably wouldn’t and promised to take the blame.

  “You’ve got a rotten job,” remarked the man.

  Charlie said he knew. The night duty officer at the embassy switchboard was dozing when Charlie walked in, snuffling awake at Charlie’s greeting. It only took Charlie minutes to discover what he wanted in the London telephone directory and he smiled at something proving easy for a change.

  Everything in his hutchlike officer was filmed with dust. The paper plane prototype he’d been working on lay forgotten under the desk: the cleaners had obviously forgotten the room altogether. There were three demands for immediate contact from Sir Rupert Dean on his voice mail, the last at ten the previous night. Charlie put messages on theirs for McDowell, the military attaché and Cartright, telling them he was back.

  So clear was everything in his mind that it only took Charlie an hour to write what he intended telling London at that stage, which wasn’t everything. There was, for example, no mention whatsoever of Vitali Maksimovich Novikov, only of Gulag 98. It was still only six-thirty when he made his way familiarly to the cipher room for his findings to be encoded, satisfied that because of the time difference it would reach London to coincide with Sir Rupert Dean’s arrival for his normal day.

  Charlie guessed he had about half an hour. Natalia answered on the first ring. “Good to hear your voice.”

  “My telephone was tapped.”

  Natalia smiled bleakly to herself. “I guessed there was a reason.”

  “How’s Sasha?”

  “Missing you.”

  “How about you?”

  “Don’t ask a silly question.”

  “Can I speak to her?”

  “She’s still asleep. She wondered what you were doing on television.”

  “A lot of people did. And still do. You all right?” He thought she sounded subdued.

  “There’s another problem, to go with all the others.”

  “Serious?”

  “Could be. Depends how I handle it.”

  “Connected with this?”

  “People seeing an advantage in it.”

  “Who’s ahead at the moment?”

  “I think I am.”

  “We’ll keep it that way.”

  Natalia smiled again, warmed by the confidence. “I saw both television transmissions. It looked chaotic.”


  “Something like that.”

  “How’d it work out?”

  “Pretty good, I think. We’ll talk about it.”

  “We need to,” she said, pointedly.

  The final good-bye to separating integrity, he guessed: it would be a giant leap forward. “I can keep you ahead, believe me.” I hope, he thought.

  “What about Yakutsk itself?”

  “Unbelievable.”

  “How was the American girl?”

  “Clever.”

  “She looked a mess on TV.”

  Charlie frowned at the obviousness. “That’s why I didn’t sleep with her.”

  “You get the chance?”

  “Natalia!”

  “I was joking.”

  Charlie wasn’t sure she had been, but either way that was an improvement, too. Past pressure or whatever had arisen now? “So was I.”

  “When will you be home?”

  “It’s going to be a busy day. Do you want to talk on the telephone?” It was a coded question.

  “Maybe not.”

  So she wasn’t sure if the Lesnaya telephone was clean. But it was his apartment: if their telephone was tapped, their being together had already been discovered. Natalia wasn’t thinking clearly. “We could lunch?”

  “Maybe walk, like we used to a long time ago.”

  She was worried, Charlie realized. During his phony defection, when their relationship would have meant automatic imprisonment or, for her, even worse, they’d risked trysts in the botanical gardens on Botanicheskiy Sad. “Noon,” he suggested.

  “It is good to have you back.” Her relief was obvious.

  “For me, too.” The second line on his console began flickering urgently. “I’ve got to go.”

  “At last!” greeted the director-general, when Charlie pressed the button.

  “No one’s going to like the idea of another English officer being a killer,” criticized Dean at once. The man had the calm, encouraging voice of the university professor he’d once been, inviting debate.