Authors: Brian Freemantle
Dead Men Living (13 page)
“Denebin wouldn’t say,” said Charlie, moving easily on to his other query. “Have you managed to establish the weight of the bullets?”
Novikov smiled. “There’s a slight variation between them. The one that killed the Englishman was ten grams, the one I recovered from the American—which was more damage—was just over nine. Does that tell you anything?”
“It might, if there was the third bullet for comparison,” said Charlie. And he was sure there was. The uncertainty was whether Denebin would admit to finding it.
“There!” said Novikov, abruptly pointing through the gloom.
The gulag emerged like a mirage, at first a skeletal outline. It seemed a long time before they were able to distinguish buildings on the left of the approach road from the mine on the right. That was brightly lit, with two descent shaft derricks.
“Gold,” identified Novikov. “There’s three, quite close together. We won’t be able to stop. As it is, my registration will be logged. There are diamond and gold mines about thirty kilometers farther on.”
As they slowed, a straggled line of men emerged from the camp of single-story wooden shacks elevated from the ground. Some had their hands on the shoulders of the man in front. All walked head down, scuffling in jangling ankle manacles, crossing to the mine. They all wore uniforms padded against a cold that didn’t exist. All the guards were armed. One began waving Novikov’s car on urgently.
“Convicts?” queried Charlie.
Novikov nodded. “It will be the afternoon shift. The mines are worked twenty-four hours.”
Charlie was concentrating on the camp. The huts were in regimented lines, five to a line. Charlie counted thirty. There were two control towers like those he’d seen in the photographs in the museum. Charlie frowned, knowing he should be aware of something but unable to decide what. Then he said, “Wire! There’s no wire.”
“There rarely is. Look where we are: what this place is. Where is
there to run? People tried, of course. Still do. They’re never chased. It isn’t worth the effort. The locals find them frozen to death when the snow melts. That’s why run aways are called ‘snow drop.’”
there to run? People tried, of course. Still do. They’re never chased. It isn’t worth the effort. The locals find them frozen to death when the snow melts. That’s why run aways are called ‘snow drop.’”
The cemetery was on the far side of the camp, what appeared to be hundreds of lines of uniformed crosses. They were close enough for Charlie to see there were no names, just numbers.
“So this is what it was like?”
“No,” said Novikov. “This is civilized—humane—by comparison.”
Charlie had just finishing spraying the room with insecticide, after another meaningless conversation with the Moscow embassy, when Miriam’s knock came at his door. Charlie thought he kept any reaction from showing when she entered the room, but he wasn’t sure. His own hands and arms were swollen from bites, but the woman’s face was ballooned, hamster-cheeked and bumped and very red, despite whatever cream she’d smeared upon it. There were still isolated globules she hadn’t properly rubbed in.
“Meet the bride of Frankenstein.” Her skin was so stretched it was difficult for her to speak. “You don’t need me to tell you I’m not coming down for dinner tonight.”
“No,” accepted Charlie.
“You’ve been playing quite a game,” she accused. “The consensus is you’re a no-hoper.”
“Everyone’s entitled to an opinion.”
“It’s not mine,” she said. “Saul filled me in before I left Moscow: it’s been fascinating watching you. That’s why I haven’t interfered.”
As fascinating as it’s been watching you, reflected Charlie. “Don’t read too much into it.”
“I’ve come to warn you.”
For a reason, guessed Charlie. “What?”
“Our calls to Moscow are being monitored.”
There’s a clever girl, thought Charlie. “Who told you?”
“Ryabov, trying to get into my pants. They know you’re not getting anywhere.”
It had to be getting pretty crowded inside Miriam’s pants, thought Charlie: there wouldn’t have been room for him even if he’d been
interested. “How about you? You got anything that gives any sort of lead?”
interested. “How about you? You got anything that gives any sort of lead?”
Miriam started to shake her head but abruptly stopped, wincing at the discomfort. “Lestov says there was something in the grave: that he’ll tell me when he finds out. And I’ll tell you, obviously. The locals haven’t got a clue. They just want to get rid of us. According to Ryabov, the Russians aren’t going to be included in tomorrow’s meeting and he thinks Polyakov is planning what he regards as a coup, but Ryabov doesn’t know what it is.”
She was wrapping up her eagerness very well, Charlie decided. For his own amusement he said, “Not sure I like being used.”
“You haven’t said what you’ve picked up,” prompted the woman.
“A lot of isolated bits, nothing making any sort of sense, any picture,” avoided Charlie. “I need to get back, start putting the picture of the man to work. There are a lot of checks that have got to be made with that. And I don’t just want to get the body and its organs back to London, for our own pathologist. There’s the uniform, too, for forensic tests.”
“I thought you had more,” said the woman, disbelievingly.
“Nothing crystallized yet.”
“We are working together on this, aren’t we, Charlie?” pressed Miriam. “I mean, Washington and London have agreed?”
“What I get, you’ll get. Trust me.”
“That’s what I’ve got to do!” agreed the girl. “Learn to trust you.”
“Perhaps things will pick up tomorrow.”
Miriam said, “I’d like to think so.”
When it did, neither of them was happy.
Charlie was totally trapped. Miriam, too. He experienced every feeling, beginning and ending with the same numbed, disbelieving fury. There was a lot of that in between, too. He was furious at being tricked—and at not anticipating it—and at not being sure what, if
anything, was salvageable—and perhaps most of all at his helplessness because Charlie Muffin hated most of all being in a situation over which he had absolutely no control. So a lot of the anger was directed at himself.
anything, was salvageable—and perhaps most of all at his helplessness because Charlie Muffin hated most of all being in a situation over which he had absolutely no control. So a lot of the anger was directed at himself.
There’d been no warning, although maybe he should have suspected more from Commissioner Ryabov’s hotel foyer announcement that the Russians were excluded from the meeting with the Yakutsk chief minister, wrongly assuming that to be the “something funny” the militia commander had warned Miriam about. Charlie had withdrawn to the sidelines of the inevitable argument from the Moscow homicide detective, uncertain whether to try to force Novikov’s hand by announcing his return to Moscow after the formal release of the body, which was the purpose of the meeting to which he and Miriam were going. He’d actually checked the availability of late afternoon and evening flights.
There had been no indication, either, from their initial reception by Valentin Ivanovich Polyakov. The full-bearded, towering chief minister had greeted them with handshakes, samovar tea and cakes in what had to be the only room in the government complex not in imminent danger of collapse. He’d said he appreciated the cooperation there appeared to have been with the Yakutsk force and in return Charlie and Miriam had promised its continuation after their return to Moscow, from where a lot more inquiries needed to be made. And Polyakov had agreed at once to the bodies and the possessions being returned to Britain and America. He had, declared the Yakutsk leader, already officially informed London and Washington and had the necessary papers prepared and ready. Even more prepared—an indication Charlie missed—he summoned a photographer to record the documentation formally being handed over. Charlie was speculating again about the last evening flight when Polyakov rose unexpectedly from behind his ornately carved desk in what Charlie first thought to be in dismissal but instead said, “Now perhaps you’d be good enough to come with me?”
Charlie followed, imagining a courtesy meeting with the rest of the local ruling assembly, smiling in expectation at the murmur of people when Polyakov thrust open linking doors to a larger room. Charlie later decided, when he saw the video, that the fatuous grin
froze on his face as rigidly—and almost as terrorized—as those of the murder victims.
froze on his face as rigidly—and almost as terrorized—as those of the murder victims.
The lights from the television cameras that recorded his expression made it difficult for Charlie to see the extent of the press conference. From the immediate North American-accented questions, against which Polyakov held up his hands, Charlie finally realized the surprise that Ryabov had told Miriam about was a press contingent flown in certainly from Canada and probably from the United States as well. And knew how the media leaks that Cartright had warned of had come about.
Charlie had spent his entire operational life trying always to be as amorphous as the graveside mist and until this appalling, stomach-dropping moment had succeeded. So shocked—bewildered—was he by the abrupt exposure that for perhaps the first time in that operational life Charlie’s mind went completely blank, momentarily refusing to function. He was conscious of Polyakov (“the conniving, manipulative bastard!”) thanking the Canadian and American media for flying in at such short notice and the inconvenience and of being introduced, with Miriam, by name (holy shit, no!) as he was herded toward a table to sit upon a raised dais behind a hedge of microphones. Yuri Vyacheslav Ryabov and Aleksandr Andreevich Kurshin were already seated, waiting. Able at last to focus, Charlie saw translation booths along the left side of the room and that a lot of the waiting journalists—close to thirty, he guessed, as well as two television teams—wore earphones.
It was at that moment, in reality only a hiatus of seconds, that Charlie began to function, to try to assess and calculate: and from whichever and whatever way he considered it, he reached the same conclusion. It was an absolute fuckup. And worsening by the second, steered inexorably toward further and greater disaster by Valentin Polyakov.
The Yakustkaya chief minister had achieved his lifetime’s ambition, gaining an international audience to denounce successive Russian leaders who perpetuated what Stalin had begun by turning an entire country into a penal colony. At last, declared Polyakov, there was going to be the opportunity for the world to be made aware, after half a century, of the crimes against humanity exceeding those of the Holocaust. Six million Jews had perished in that attempted
genocide. Double that number had been worked to death and put to death in the Siberian gulags. To Charlie’s fidgeted discomfort, Polyakov inferred the two lieutenants (“brave, fearless agents”) had been murdered because they had discovered the secrets of Yakutskaya (“a secret terrible enough to have destroyed war time alliances”).
genocide. Double that number had been worked to death and put to death in the Siberian gulags. To Charlie’s fidgeted discomfort, Polyakov inferred the two lieutenants (“brave, fearless agents”) had been murdered because they had discovered the secrets of Yakutskaya (“a secret terrible enough to have destroyed war time alliances”).
At this point Polyakov gestured to either side of him, to include Miriam and Charlie. “Now, after so long—too long—two more brave, fearless agents have come to this godforsaken country, to rediscover and expose secrets Russia even now would prefer kept hidden. Now, at last, the world will eventually be told the truth.”
It
was
a disaster, Charlie recognized. An utterly unparalleled, irrevocable disaster. His cover, always the paramount consideration, was blown. Which did not create the physical, life-threatening danger it once would have, but as bad on every other level. None of which was the most important consideration. His new creed, the doctrine constantly preached, was never, under any circumstances, to become involved in a diplomatic incident. And here he was—they were—by association, by sitting beside a ranting xenophobe, denouncing Russia and by so doing causing not a diplomatic incident but an inevitable, devastating diplomatic sensation. Beyond that—worse than that—even : it was, potentially, personally devastating. This was of recall and dismissal magnitude: the collapse of the house of cards. As things were between them at the moment, he didn’t think Natalia would bring Sasha to London. She’d virtually said so. And it was immaterial whether he was dismissed or resigned from the department. He’d be refused residency permission to remain in Russia.
was
a disaster, Charlie recognized. An utterly unparalleled, irrevocable disaster. His cover, always the paramount consideration, was blown. Which did not create the physical, life-threatening danger it once would have, but as bad on every other level. None of which was the most important consideration. His new creed, the doctrine constantly preached, was never, under any circumstances, to become involved in a diplomatic incident. And here he was—they were—by association, by sitting beside a ranting xenophobe, denouncing Russia and by so doing causing not a diplomatic incident but an inevitable, devastating diplomatic sensation. Beyond that—worse than that—even : it was, potentially, personally devastating. This was of recall and dismissal magnitude: the collapse of the house of cards. As things were between them at the moment, he didn’t think Natalia would bring Sasha to London. She’d virtually said so. And it was immaterial whether he was dismissed or resigned from the department. He’d be refused residency permission to remain in Russia.
The immediate barrage of questions, in English, were all directed at Charlie and Miriam, too many and too quick at first to isolate one from the other. Charlie didn’t wait properly to hear, desperate to limit the damage. It was, he insisted, important to stress that it was neither an American nor English investigation. He and his FBI colleague were observers on a joint inquiry being conducted by a Moscow murder squad working with the local militia. To the visible face-hardening from Polyakov, earphoned for the translation from English, Charlie said the Moscow team—to which Polyakov had studiously not referred—was kept from the conference by continuing inquiries. Charlie spoke accepting that his qualifications would be overwhelmed by the carefully prepared drama of the chief minister’s
claims but was not, at that moment, addressing the media. He was talking to whoever later examined the transcript at whatever inquiry there would unquestionably be to decide his future.
claims but was not, at that moment, addressing the media. He was talking to whoever later examined the transcript at whatever inquiry there would unquestionably be to decide his future.
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.
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, 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.
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