He was back at the embassy an hour before the scheduled meeting with McDowell, Cartright, and Gallaway. He considered passing on to London what he’d learned about the German POWs but decided against it until after the encounter with Vitali Novikov the following day. He limited himself to cabling that the Russians were still refusing to disclose their intended media release and occupied the remainder of the time deep in paper-plane-building reflection. He ended it even more instinctively sure that only one or two doors remained closed against his understanding virtually everything.
Charlie put on a very positive performance in the head of chancellery’s office, guessing at progress in Washington as well as that the impending Russian announcement would be startling but admitting that London had been an entirely unproductive, embarrassing expedition. He was, further conceded Charlie, anxious for whatever input any of them might have.
“Jackson called, from Berlin: some crossed wires with London about your going there,” said the military attaché. “He thought you learned a lot?”
“That someone else had been murdered to fill Norrington’s grave,” said Charlie. “We’ll never know who it was.”
“But the Russians did it?” said Cartright.
“They returned a body,” lured Charlie. “I’m not sure they can be blamed for the murder.”
“Who else could have done it?” demanded McDowell.
“There wasn’t any law, order or anything else in Berlin at the time,” said Charlie. “It was a perfect place for a perfect murder. Don’t forget the second officer at Yakutsk. I’m keeping an open mind.”
“Did you tell London that?” asked Cartright.
Charlie shrugged. “No reason to fill their heads with theories I couldn’t substantiate.”
The three other men looked uncomfortably between themselves.
Cartright said, “You’re telling us. Why didn’t you tell them?”
“Because they’ve got to act upon what I tell them, so they need facts, not impressions. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t tell working colleagues something about which they’re not going to act, is there? I’ve got quite a few others I’m keeping to myself, too.”
“Like what?” pressed Cartright.
“It doesn’t matter,” refused Charlie. He only wanted to see how far one red herring would swim.
“What’s the general feeling in London?” asked McDowell.
“I don’t know about a general feeling. I don’t think my own department imagine I’ve got a clue which is why I’m going to surprise them.” No reason why one red herring shouldn’t be channeled in the right direction.
Vitali Maksimovich Novikov stood slightly apart from his family, as if wishing to disassociate himself from them, his eyes moving toward anyone in uniform. His wife fidgeted tightly with their two sons, string-tied packs of belongings between them. The larger cases had already been loaded. No one talked. The elder boy, Georgi, looked constantly and unblinkingly at the arthritic indicator board. Everyone jumped at the sharp, metallic departure announcement.
Novikov joined his family at last. “Ready?”
Marina nodded, saying nothing. The boys began collecting the packages. Novikov had not put down a bulging briefcase since their arrival at the airport.
As they walked toward the departure ramp, Marina said, “We’re never coming back, are we?”
“Never,” promised Novikov.
“You haven’t forgotten anything?” the woman said, looking at the briefcase.
“Nothing.”
Natalia stared at Charlie, letting the shock show. “Why?” she demanded.
“All I want is a name. They’ll all be on file, won’t they?
“Why?” repeated Natalia, insistently.
“I am not going to trade currency,” said Charlie, equally insistent. “I just want the name of one of the biggest dealers, that’s all. Might be necessary to mislead someone who’s taking an irritating interest in me.”
33
Vitali Maksimovich Novikov kept the door on its security chain, easing it open just sufficiently to see it was Charlie. The man hesitated before opening it. As Charlie entered, the doctor said, “You are very quick.”
“So was your residency permission.”
“I meant we’re glad to see you,” said Novikov, instantly apologetic. “We never—”
“I know,” stopped Charlie. “But it has happened. You’re here.”
It was a wide but short entrance hall, leading directly into the one living room. Cases and tied bundles were piled in its center. Marina and the boys were grouped around their belongings, as if awaiting permission to unpack, still wearing the quilted outer coats that were normal for Yakutsk. It was another Napoleon day outside.
Charlie said, “Welcome to Moscow.”
“We didn’t expect it to be so big,” said Marina. Hurriedly, correcting an oversight, she said, “Thank you. We all want to thank you.” The boys on either side of her nodded.
A tiny kitchen was to the left, already furnished with a cooker and cupboards and a table, although only with two chairs. There was also a glass-fronted cabinet and a fabric-faded, wooden-armed settee in the living room. There was a door to the right that Charlie assumed to be to the one bedroom and wondered where the boys would sleep. The entrance hall was big enough, he supposed.
Aware of Charlie’s examination, Novikov said, “It’s a wonderful apartment. I’ve already met the concierge. He wants to sell me some allotment space in the garden at the back.”
The apartment was on the eighth floor of one of the Brezhnev-era blocks that ring Moscow—this one in the Lyublino suburb—like decaying teeth in need of treatment. Vegetable-growing allotment spaces came automatically with each flat, but Charlie decided against telling the doctor. There was nothing to be gained by alienating the concierge by challenging his private enterprise. Novikov and his family had to learn for themselves how to live in the big city. He handed the Macallan whiskey to Novikov and offered the chocolates to the woman. “Housewarming presents,” he said.
The man said, “Thank you.” His wife accepted the box and said, “It’s all we ever seem to do, to thank you. There’s so much.” Her voice faltered. She swallowed heavily and said, “I’ll make some tea.”
“I feel numb,” said Novikov. “We all do.”
The man was blinking more rapidly than Charlie remembered. He said, “I kept my promise.”
“We both have,” said Charlie.
“Let’s talk in the kitchen,” invited the doctor, leading the way. It was cramped with the three of them in it until the two men sat facing each other across the table. Marina put their tea in front of them and left. At once, defensively, Novikov said, “I only ever told you I might be able to help.”
“I remember everything you told me,” said Charlie. “What is it you have?” At last, he thought. What would it be, all or nothing?
“My father was originally sentenced to Gulag 98.”
“You told me that, too.”
“Even after he was allowed to transfer to the town, he remained the camp doctor—”
“In 1945?” interrupted Charlie, impatiently.
“Yes.”
Charlie felt the stir of anticipation. “What did he tell you?”
“He didn’t tell me anything. He was a doctor. He kept medical notes. There are conditions particularly prevalent to the region, frostbite the most obvious. A lot of crush injuries, from the mines. In my father’s day he often had to improvise treatment. He kept records to help me.”
Charlie sipped his milkless tea, letting the man talk. How many missing pieces would Novikov have? Charlie said, “You read them all?”
“I’ve got them all,” declared Novikov, simply. “I’d not read every single entry. Never intended to, until the bodies were found. Then I did, for any reference to a camp near Yakutsk in 1944 and 1945. I knew Camp 98 existed, knew my father had been sentenced to serve there, but I never knew its exact location.”
“Got th
em?” echoed Charlie. “You mean you brought them with you, here to Moscow?”
Instead of answering, Novikov leaned beneath the kitchen table to a briefcase Charlie hadn’t been aware of until then. There was a marker in the scuffed hardback ledger the man lifted on to the table, rotating it for Charlie’s convenience. Novikov said, “The first date you need is May fourth, 1945. Read on from there.”
The brittle, easily split paper would have been the cheapest and the ink would probably have been watered to make it go further. It was already beginning to fade, in places quite badly, but the handwriting was legible, missing letters and words easily filled in where they had become unreadable.
May 4. Camp 98. 8 p.m. Infirmary emptied. Ordered by Moscow officials. Unidentified woman. Early 30s. Blond, well nourished. Severe abdominal trauma. Extensive venous hemorrhage, blood in wound and mouth. Very pale. Obvious hypotensive. No exit wound. No AB transfusion available. Plasma. Pulse erratic. Pressure ninety over fifty. Sedation. Exploration impossible until stabilized.
10 p.m. Male Caucasian. America. Officer. No physical trauma. Deep shock. Unresponsive visual or pain stimulation. Involuntary temporary spasms. Hallucinations. Mutterings of an execution. Sedation.
11:30. Search for second Caucasian. Fierce arguments about his disappearance. Warn of frostbite. Ignored. Request for heating for transferred patients to administrative building refused. Gangrene concern for crush victim Osadochy. Communication with Moscow opened by officials. Clearly security. Drugs and plasma requests refused.
Charlie felt out unseeing for the now-cold tea, needing the respite. Not the victims in the grave. Raisa had been brunette: shot in the head. Timpson, too. Larisa Krotkov? Hank Dunne? Who was the missing Caucasian? The Englishman? Why had they been allowed to live, the others killed?
May 5. 1:30 a.m. Woman deteriorating. Persistent severe hemorrhage. Continuing hemorrhage. Violent hallucination. Name repetition —Georgi. Assassination. More Moscow officials. Deep concern.
2:15 a.m. Oppose adrenaline resuscitation of American. Risk of psychological damage counteracting chlordiazepoxide. Accepted after Moscow contact. Permanent line established. No-one allowed in the infirmary except myself Patient spasmic. Killing fixation.
Charlie lifted and replaced the cup, without drinking, conscious of Novikov still sitting before him, motionless. There wasn’t any sound from the other room, either. It had to be Larisa Krotkov and Hank Dunne. Some intentionally put to death, some intentionally allowed to live. Nothing about Hitler’s bunker staff in the same camp. Wouldn’t be, Charlie acknowledged, irritated at the intrusion. This was a doctor’s log, nothing more. He had to work out the rest. Closer but still not close enough.
3:30 a.m. Woman died, without regaining consciousness. Calls for Georgi. And a priest. Progressive exsanguination and hypotension. Body claimed by Moscow officials. No reference in camp infirmary log. Commandant instructed.
6:45 a.m. Arrival of British officer. Severely traumatized. Hypothermic. Frostbite to extremities. Hot baths. Massage. Repeated assassination fixation. Hand washing obsessively. Speech refusal.
10 a.m. Able to save most extremities, although possible damage ulnal two digits. No obvious functional impairment. Left ear lobe gangrenous and amputated.
3:30 p.m. Refusal to allow evacuation to Moscow overruled. Deep sedation necessary, to subdue psychologically driven violent spasm. Evacuation by stretcher to military aircraft. American comprehending but still in shock. Sedated. After departure amputated left arm of crush victim. Gangrene.
Beneath that final entry for May 5 was a list of drugs and the amounts that had been administered, each listed against a time. Also noted were temperatures and blood pressure counts, ironically marked under the believed nationalities as the man’s son had itemized his findings against the bodies of the Yakutsk grave more than fifty years later.
“It was the same incident, wasn’t it?” demanded Novikov, anxiously.
“Yes.”
“So there were witnesses? Others involved?”
Which he’d already known, thought Charlie. There was nothing new; nothing that took him one step—one millimeter—further forward. And yet … ? His mind remained blank. Trying too hard; hoping too hard. Nowhere else to go. Nowhere else to look. “There’s nothing more?”
Novikov’s face was ashen. “This is not enough?”
“I’d hoped for more.” Charlie heard the faintest of noises from the entrance hall behind him and guessed Marina had eased herself to within hearing. “It won’t affect your being here.”
The man opposite him visibly sagged with relief. “I’m sorry. I thought it was valuable, would help.”
Instead of immediately replying, Charlie went back to the notes, reading everything for a fortnight prior to May 4 and for a full month after May 5. Camp 98 was not mentioned again. It became a repetitive catalogue of mine injuries often resulting in amputation and of illness and disabilities caused by the climate. There were a lot of deaths recorded and frequent complaints of Moscow’s refusal or inability to provide drugs. At last Charlie said, “I’d like to take this ledger, for the May entries.”
Novikov’s concern was immediate. “It would have been an offense for my father to make notes like that. Still would be, for me to have kept them. The references to Moscow officials? They had to be security, didn’t they? The Narodny Komitet Vnutrennikh Del, then?”
“No one else will ever see it but me. And I already know you have it.”
“You are asking me to trust you: putting ourselves in your hands.”
“You did that in Yakutsk.”
Abruptly, a man making an impulsive gesture he might quickly regret, Novikov thrust the log farther across the table toward Charlie. “Promise me that no one else will ever see it. And that when you no longer need it you will destroy it.”
“I promise,” said Charlie, putting the log into his own briefcase before the doctor could change his mind.
“Will I see you again?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps not.”
“Thank you, then, for the last time. I think of you as a good man.”
That wasn’t Charlie’s impression of himself, riding the metro back into the center of Moscow with his briefcase clutched to his chest. At that precise moment he thought of himself as a failed man, not knowing where else to look, what else to do. And yet … ? He physically shrugged aside the unanswerable self-question, irritated by it and the foot twinge that came with it and which he never usually ignored. This time, for once, it had to be wrong. Charlie didn’t like not knowing what to do.
“It was obviously something you had to know immediately,” said Lestov.
“Of course,” accepted Natalia. She’d accepted Nikulin’s refusal to disclose any reason for the Russian decision because she’d had no alternative; had secretly been relieved at the thought of the whole thing drifting to an inconclusive end just as long as it ended without any danger to her and Charlie—and Sasha—personally. Now, in minutes, everything was thrown into total confusion again. “She wouldn’t say why?”
Lestov shook his head. “Just that it was an official instruction from Washington.”
“It could be a trick,” suggested Natalia.
“Where’s the trick?”
“Lulling you into believing you could safely share with her something you might be withholding,” guessed Natalia.
Lestov shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t think so.”
Natalia got up from her desk, walking head bent toward the huge ministry window. She arrived in time to see a GIA traffic policeman, on foot, extract payment from a flagged-down motorist preferring to pay an instant bribe rather than waste a day in court protesting an invented speeding offense. Charlie hadn’t told her anything about the American withdrawal. He’d insisted nothing had emerged from the lunch with Miriam Bell: claimed to be worried about the lack of progress. The American girl was sleeping with Lestov, according to Charlie. Maybe she’d told her lover but not Charlie. Or Charlie
was keeping things back from her in the belief that she’d lied about not knowing why the Russian decision had been made. Which took them back to their distrustful beginning. Her fault, then—her decision, she acknowledged. Surely it wasn’t necessary for Charlie to balance everything, like for like? Over her shoulder Natalia said, “What about the Englishman?”
“He claims the London visit was for reevaluation,” said Lestov. “He didn’t offer anything new yesterday.”
“You believe him?”
“No.”
“So he’s still actively investigating?”
“He gave every impression of doing so. Kept pressing about what our announcement was going to be. Are you going to tell Dmitri Borisovich?”
Natalia turned back into the room. “That’s why I asked to see you. Dmitri Borisovich intends to issue the press release today. Wants to know about Belous.”
“He’s still in custody.”
“Have you told him what will happen to him if he says anything about his mother being NKVD?”
Lestov nodded. “And he believes me.”
“Keep him in custody for the next few days, just the same.”
“Are you going to tell Dmitri Borisovich about America?” pressed Lestov. He was where he was now—liked being where he was now—because of some earlier internal intrigue he still didn’t properly understand. As the bearer of the message, he didn’t himself want to become a victim by its not being passed on to everyone who should know. Searching for the persuasion, he said, “It might affect his making the release.”
“I know,” said Natalia, coming back to her desk to pick up the telephone.
Dead Men Living Page 36
