Authors: Brian Freemantle
Dead Men Living (11 page)
Miriam said, “Found something?”
Too anxious, Charlie thought: so she was having difficulty. “I don’t know yet.”
Pointing to the photograph he held, Charlie called to Novikov, “That’s how you found them in the grave? You hadn’t touched them?”
“That’s how they were, exactly,” the man called back.
Charlie said, “They’re not properly dressed, are they? Look. The fly to the Englishman’s trousers is wrongly buttoned. And two jacket buttons are undone, as well as the shirt.”
He was able to see the American, too. “The shirt buttons are unfastened here, too … ?”
“They’d been stripped of all official ID,” said Novikov. “No dog tags: no military identification at all.”
Charlie turned to the blood-clotted uniform, immediately seeing that there was no regiment designation on the brass buttons but that the shoulder insignia was that of a lieutenant. As casually as he was able, Charlie gently opened the jacket. Where the maker’s name and customer details should have been was an empty, cotton-framed rectangle where it had been torn out: the cloth had actually been ripped, more so at the top where the initial cut, probably with a knife, was clean.
Charlie went immediately but still attempting casualness to the trousers, briefly pausing to locate the mud marks on the knees where the man had been forced to kneel to be executed, which Charlie had known anyway from the downward trajectory of the wound that Novikov had already spelled out. The tailor’s duplicate label, upon which the owner’s name and measurements would have been recorded, had been yanked off even more roughly than from the jacket, a scrap of the label still remaining. There was sufficient to make out what looked like a half C, which was all Charlie thought he needed. He became even more confident when he found in the record of Novikov’s earlier autopsy the precise list of the dead man’s measurements.
Charlie double-checked his examination to fill in the time, not wanting the others to guess what he considered quick and unexpected success. He even ventured to the adjoining table, where Miriam was still frowning over the displayed contents.
She looked up at his approach and said, “You think we’re ever going to be able to make sense of this?”
“Not from what I’ve seen so far,” lied Charlie, who was sure he could identify the dead Englishman, just as he knew that the murder had been committed certainly with the knowledge of some people within the NKVD, the wartime forerunner of the KGB, although he guessed for a reason far removed from Yakutsk.
His more startling conviction—one he knew was going to cause an upheaval of seismic proportions—was that another Englishman had in some way been involved in the killing, which totally justified his keeping to an absolute minimum what he’d so far worked out. Until he discovered much more, he’d even have to keep the English involvement from Natalia.
“Who?” queried Irena.
“Cartright. Richard Cartright. I’m a friend of Saul Freeman’s. Just arrived in Moscow and trying to make some friends here.”
“You at the American embassy?”
“No. The British.”
Irena smiled to herself. “What have you got in mind?”
“A drink? Dinner, maybe?”
“Sounds fun.”
The mortuary and the militia headquarters were part of the same gradually sinking administration complex: some of the corridors along which they silently followed the heavy-footed military commissioner noticeably inclined and even more steeply declined like the decks of a wallowing ship. The crepe-soled grip of the Hush Puppies helped and briefly Charlie’s hammer-toed feet were at peace.
Charlie was more than content with the day so far. No one else seemed to be. Charlie was happy about that, too. The most dissatisfied was Olga Erzin and the Russian forensic scientist, the woman because she’d been unable substantially to improve on the first autopsy findings, Lev Denebin because in the woman’s determination to find something the postmortems had occupied the entire day. Now it was almost six in the evening, too late to go out to the grave, which Denebin had pressed for since midday, to the visible annoyance of Yuri Ryabov, who’d refused to alter his prearranged schedule.
There was no clue to its normal use in the sag-windowed room
into which Ryabov led them. It was starkly bare except for a communal table against which the precise number of chairs were already arranged, with a separate table and chair for the solemnly waiting secretary. Charlie dismissed his predictable committee claustrophobia, for once, rarely, benefiting by being part of a group. During the protracted time it had taken Olga Erzin to complete her examinations, Charlie had openly studied the clothing and the pocket contents of both Russian and American victims, maneuvering the opportunity by inviting the others to do the same with the belongings of the Englishman, confident they’d miss a lot of what was significant to him. It was important now to discover precisely what they had learned. Even more important was finding out if there was something he’d missed.
into which Ryabov led them. It was starkly bare except for a communal table against which the precise number of chairs were already arranged, with a separate table and chair for the solemnly waiting secretary. Charlie dismissed his predictable committee claustrophobia, for once, rarely, benefiting by being part of a group. During the protracted time it had taken Olga Erzin to complete her examinations, Charlie had openly studied the clothing and the pocket contents of both Russian and American victims, maneuvering the opportunity by inviting the others to do the same with the belongings of the Englishman, confident they’d miss a lot of what was significant to him. It was important now to discover precisely what they had learned. Even more important was finding out if there was something he’d missed.
So for the moment Ryabov’s tight orchestration was not to his disadvantage; in fact, it was even more to his advantage than anyone else’s, Charlie hoped. He didn’t have the slightest doubt that he had enough. But that wasn’t sufficient. It never was. Charlie wanted it all, each and every time.
“I hope we’ve learned from our first day’s work—made progress …” opened the police chief, from the very positively chosen head of the table. He looked challengingly at Lev Denebin, who sat, totally withdrawn, doodling on a pad, refusing to take any part in the meeting. Ryabov shifted his attention, going encouragingly toward the Russian pathologist. “And that work has been largely yours, I think?”
Quickly Charlie said, “I was very impressed by the detail of the original examinations, by Dr. Novikov. I’d certainly like to hear what additionally Dr. Erzin discovered.”
The Russian medical examiner fixed him with the cast-in-stone look that Charlie expected and didn’t care about. With what Charlie judged to be attempted—and doomed-to-failure—avoidance, the woman said, “I have to subject all the organs to appropriate scientific examination, which hasn’t yet been properly done …”
Charlie snatched an opportunity he hadn’t anticipated. “Which you will, over the coming days?”
Imagining an escape, the woman said, “It will be necessary to take everything back to Moscow for total analysis.” She smiled triumphantly.
“What about your preliminary findings?” pressed Charlie, smiling not at the woman but at the tightly attentive Vitali Novikov.
The woman’s triumph faltered. “Comparatively straightforward,” she conceded. “I believe, however, that there were burn markings to the skull fragments I extracted: that the gun was placed directly against the backs of their heads.”
Which I could have told you, thought Charlie. He said, “The preservation of the bodies is remarkable, though, isn’t it?” No one was opposing his taking over the meeting and Charlie was glad, needing to be the ringmaster. They probably expected him to disclose something in his apparent eagerness. Hope in vain, he thought.
“Yes?” agreed the woman, although questioningly.
“So you
were
able to secure fingerprints, despite the fact that they died so long ago?”
were
able to secure fingerprints, despite the fact that they died so long ago?”
“Yes,” said the woman, again. The reluctance was obvious.
“And you also took photographs of the faces not distorted by rigor?” Charlie had much earlier realized that the fogging of some of Novikov’s earlier scene-of-crime pictures was caused by insects blocking the camera lens, not bad development. It was all going remarkably well, he decided. He could have written the script himself. In fact, he realized, at that moment that was virtually what he was doing.
“You saw me do it,” said the woman, impatiently.
“So we have made progress!” declared Charlie, using the police chief’s expression. “You will be able to let my American colleague and I have fingerprints
and
photographs—as they were when they died—of people we have to identify. That’s wonderful.”
and
photographs—as they were when they died—of people we have to identify. That’s wonderful.”
Olga Erzin didn’t immediately reply, aware not just of what she’d been trapped into conceding but that she now had no way to avoid surrendering both. Tight-lipped, she said, “Yes.”
Charlie continued to smile, apparently grateful, in reality anticipating the coup de grace. “As notes are being taken of this meeting—which I know are going to be made as available as the fingerprints and the photographs—I think it should also be made clear that the previous examination by Dr. Novikov was totally thorough and complete, wouldn’t you say that, Dr. Erzin?”
“That is so,” conceded the verbally straitjacketed doctor.
Charlie said, “I’d like my appreciation to be recorded as being expressed on behalf of the British government.”
Novikov beamed and Charlie relaxed, satisfied. As asshole-crawling went, this had gone on long enough. He hoped he’d encouraged the local doctor beyond what the man had so far been willing to talk about.
“I think what primarily has to be established is whether, in your opinion, the male bodies are those of British and American nationals,” said Kurshin.
“I’m sure they are,” said Charlie.
“So am I,” agreed Miriam.
“Is there sufficient to identify them?” demanded Lestov, at once.
“It’s far too early to give any opinion on that,” refused Charlie.
“There’s more personally identifying material on the Englishman,” insisted Miriam.
Not bad, acknowledged Charlie; not enough to put him under any pressure, though. He said, “We’ve certainly got the initials of a name, from the inscription on the cigarette case. But that just gives us one very small needle in a huge haystack. There has been an obvious attempt to remove any identification, ripping out names from the uniforms and taking all the dog tags.” He waited for the challenge, although he hadn’t seen anyone examine the English victim’s inside trousers band.
“Why, I wonder, were any belongings left at all?” asked Ryabov.
If you genuinely do wonder, you shouldn’t be chief of police, thought Charlie. Instead of spelling out the significance—that their being left proved a motive other than personal robbery, an element of premeditation, and that the killings had nothing whatsoever to do with the Yakatskaya gulags, to whose prisoners the articles would have represented a fortune—Charlie said, “Panic, perhaps. They took the obvious identification, snapped neckties and hurriedly redressed the bodies, anxious to get away from the scene …” He was conscious of Miriam Bell looking curiously at him. “What do you think?”
“That could be the reason?” replied the American, although without conviction. “What’s the inscription mean in the cigarette case? What’s a ‘First’?”
Another good try, conceded Charlie. “A high college pass.”
“So you’ve a direction?” she persisted.
Shit, thought Charlie. “It could be from a hundred schools: more than a hundred,” he lied. “And have been gained anywhen over a period as long as twelve years, if we accept the top age estimate of thirty-five. It’s a search we’ll have to make, of course. But I’m not hopeful.” He wasn’t volunteering, but he wasn’t learning, either. Which was significant enough in itself, proving how determined everyone was not to share the smallest scrap.
“Why would an American officer carry a magnifying glass and tweezers?” asked Lestov.
It was a question that Charlie couldn’t yet answer, although he had a vague, half-formed thought prompted by the fact that none of the uniforms carried regiment or corps crests on their buttons. Once again it was the absence of an article rather than its presence that Charlie considered important: wearing a Sam Browne proved the man wasn’t armed. Would the other officer whom Charlie was sure had been at the scene have been wearing a more practical battle dress, complete with sidearm? There were no markings on the uniform to show the American might have carried a weapon, either. Whoever they’d been and whatever they’d been doing, neither had belonged to a fighting unit. Which narrowed the possibilities.
Miriam Bell lifted and then dropped her shoulders at the Moscow detective’s question. “My only thought is that it could have something to do with a hobby.”
People didn’t bring their hobbies to Yakutskaya then or now, thought Charlie: it was the first slip Miriam had made. Hoping to generate something—anything—Charlie said, “We need more than we’ve got to take this inquiry forward … to take it anywhere.” If he suggested a comparable photographic check against graduation pictures from America’s military academy at West Point she might come back at him with the British counterpart at Sandhurst, so he decided to leave it.
“In view of the media interest, there might be a response if the photographs that Dr. Erzin took today were issued?” suggested Kurshin.
There could, Charlie conceded, be satellite television somewhere in the town, but the Ontario didn’t have CNN, because he’d already checked. So how, apart from monitoring Charlie’s British embassy
call during which Cartright had talked of the publicity leak, could Kurshin have learned of the media awareness? Charlie was glad he hadn’t booked a traceable call to Natalia through the hotel switchboard. He wouldn’t attempt to reach her while he was here. And needed to be more careful than he had been the previous night when he next spoke to the Moscow embassy. Charlie looked between the two doctors and said, “The Russian woman had childbirth marks. Is there any way to establish how recent to her death she’d had the baby?”
call during which Cartright had talked of the publicity leak, could Kurshin have learned of the media awareness? Charlie was glad he hadn’t booked a traceable call to Natalia through the hotel switchboard. He wouldn’t attempt to reach her while he was here. And needed to be more careful than he had been the previous night when he next spoke to the Moscow embassy. Charlie looked between the two doctors and said, “The Russian woman had childbirth marks. Is there any way to establish how recent to her death she’d had the baby?”
“It should be possible for a gynecologist,” Novikov said at once.
“It’s a test I intend to make when I get the organs back to Moscow,” said Olga.
“Something else I look forward to receiving from you,” reminded Charlie.
The pathologist nodded but didn’t speak.
“The child could still be alive,” Charlie pointed out. “Conceivably, so could the woman’s partner. There could be an identification if her photograph was published in Moscow.”
“I’ll suggest it,” agreed Lestov.
Charlie doubted that either London or Washington would issue pictures until a reason was found for the two men being where they had been, despite media pressure. But it didn’t hurt to go along with the local homicide chief’s suggestion.
“Now that we’ve agreed on the nationality of the victims, I assume there’ll be no difficulty repatriating the bodies?” said Miriam.
“That’s more a political decision,” avoided the police commander.
“But you won’t object to the release of the bodies?” pressed Charlie, hoping to infer something from the reply.
Before either local man could respond, Olga Erzin said, “I really do need to get all the organs back to Moscow. There’s absolutely no reason for anything to remain here any longer.”
“It has to be the decision of the Executive Council,” said Ryabov.
Awkwardness for awkwardness’s sake? Or something else he couldn’t at that moment fully understand? Charlie’s first thought would have been perverseness, but now he wasn’t totally sure. There would have to have been some local official awareness all that time ago of a tweezer-carrying American and an unarmed English officer being where no other Westerner had been before. And increasingly,
as he tried to fit the pieces together, Charlie was getting a nagging feeling that the reason for their presence might be buried locally far more successfully than the bodies had been. Maybe it made sense after all for him to play diplomat and meet some local leaders. He said, “Perhaps we need personally to make the request?”
as he tried to fit the pieces together, Charlie was getting a nagging feeling that the reason for their presence might be buried locally far more successfully than the bodies had been. Maybe it made sense after all for him to play diplomat and meet some local leaders. He said, “Perhaps we need personally to make the request?”
“That would be best,” agreed Kurshin.
The convoy arrangements definitely established, Charlie lingered for Vitali Novikov when the meeting broke.
The man said, “Thank you, for what you said. Putting it on the record like that.”
“Nothing that wasn’t the truth,” flattered Charlie.
“You’ll want some protection from insects out at the grave tomorrow,” offered Novikov, trying to reciprocate.
“
Exactly
the sort of local knowledge I do need,” prompted Charlie.
Exactly
the sort of local knowledge I do need,” prompted Charlie.
“Have you any arrangements for tonight?” asked the pathologist.
“None,” said Charlie, at once.
“My wife would be very happy for you to join us for dinner.”
“So would I be, to accept.”
Charlie had completely orientated himself and knew they were driving north from the town center. Very quickly the brick houses for crooked people gave way to wooden ones on stilts, securely upright without any subsidence, although the connected streets were haphazardly disjointed, afterthoughts to link places originally erected where the whim took the builder, before roads were considered.
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