Authors: Brian Freemantle
Dead Men Living (2 page)
Yakutsk is the capital of the partially autonomous Russian republic of Yakutskaya, one of the most remote and inhospitable places on earth and provably the coldest, where temperatures plunge to minus eighty degrees centigrade. As well as being certain of the Evil Eye and the magic power of shaman witch doctor priests, the Yakut people who exist there believe unheard conversations freeze in the winter to be heard in the brief summer thaw.
In that region the summer is plagued by mosquitoes that sting so viciously that grazing reindeer and cows and horses that are not driven mad by the pain often suffocate from the attacking clog in their nostrils and mouths. Men and women have been driven insane by a concerted swarm, although the more frequent dementia is caused by the vodka intended to numb every feeling.
The freak weather of the El Niño had awakened the insects early and the melting grave was blackly thick by the time the mayor got
back to it with the two official investigators. The mayor and his council were all Yakuts, less troubled by the mosquitoes than Colonel Aleksandr Kurshin and Vitali Novikov, both of whose ancestry was Russian. Kurshin, the homicide chief, at once lit supposedly repelling smoke candles that made everyone’s eyes sting but did little to drive away the bugs. Novikov, the pathologist, put on a personally adapted and mesh-visored hat and gauze mask and protected his hands with rubber medical gloves. He didn’t have a spare mask, but he gave his extra gloves to Kurshin, who snatched at them.
back to it with the two official investigators. The mayor and his council were all Yakuts, less troubled by the mosquitoes than Colonel Aleksandr Kurshin and Vitali Novikov, both of whose ancestry was Russian. Kurshin, the homicide chief, at once lit supposedly repelling smoke candles that made everyone’s eyes sting but did little to drive away the bugs. Novikov, the pathologist, put on a personally adapted and mesh-visored hat and gauze mask and protected his hands with rubber medical gloves. He didn’t have a spare mask, but he gave his extra gloves to Kurshin, who snatched at them.
“Where’s your hat and mask?” demanded Novikov, who’d made the same face protection for the other man, a boyhood friend as well as a professional colleague.
“Forgot,” said Kurshin.
“That’s stupid,” said Novikov. Everyone drank too much in Yakutsk but Kurshin was increasingly drinking more than most and it worried Novikov. Kurshin had stunk out the mortuary vehicle on the way there. The weather and its effect worried Novikov, too. Malaria had never been a problem in such a frigid climate, but if this unnatural weather lasted, the disease could become an insect-borne epidemic. If it remained so warm for too much longer he’d warn the Health Ministry in Moscow, despite Yakutskaya’s independence pretensions. He couldn’t be accused of negligence if he sounded an alarm before a problem arose. It was ingrained in people whose forefathers had been exiled to permanent imprisonment, albeit without jail walls, to arrange defense before accusation.
Novikov was not, however, thinking of malaria at that precise moment. As he stared down into the grave, other thoughts—desperate, half–formed fantasies—were swirling through his mind, so distracting that he had consciously to try to push them back. He looked beyond the grave, squinting through the permanent half darkness of the Yakutskaya day over the flat, empty wasteland. He was sure he was right, but there was nothing to see, not the slightest trace. As if, in fact, a shaman had cast a spell to make everything disappear. How, he wondered, could he make it come back again?
Neither Aleksandr Andreevich Kurshin nor Vitali Maksimovich Novikov were frightened of the supernatural, although they were familiar with all the superstitions. Neither sneered at the folklore beliefs, either. Novikov, who also practiced as a general physician,
knew of at least seven shamans in Yakutsk. He knew, too, that the townspeople consulted them as much as they came to him and that sometimes people whose maladies he had failed to diagnose recovered from whatever the shamans prescribed. Novikov considered himself a man of science, but didn’t know of a better medicine than the power of absolute, mind-over-matter conviction. Unable to resist another fantasy, he was curious if he possessed it sufficiently himself.
knew of at least seven shamans in Yakutsk. He knew, too, that the townspeople consulted them as much as they came to him and that sometimes people whose maladies he had failed to diagnose recovered from whatever the shamans prescribed. Novikov considered himself a man of science, but didn’t know of a better medicine than the power of absolute, mind-over-matter conviction. Unable to resist another fantasy, he was curious if he possessed it sufficiently himself.
Kurshin, a fat, rumpled man who had little conviction about anything apart from the anaesthesia of vodka, said, “They look like wartime uniforms.” He couldn’t possibly be expected to solve something that had happened such a long time ago.
“This whole area was closed then, like Yakutsk,” reminded Novikov. His father, like Kurshin’s, had been exiled there during the Stalin era on trumped-up charges of political conspiracy. It had left both with an inferiority complex—an apprehension of authority—that both tried hard to conceal. Too often when he was drunk Kurshin wept for no apparent reason.
“It doesn’t make sense,” agreed the policeman, uncomfortably.
“This is too important for us,” judged Novikov, as anxious as his friend to avoid any accountability. He was a thin, nervous man whose blinking increased in proportion to his apprehension. It was very rapid at that moment. This would, he knew, attract the attention—maybe even the involvement—of faraway Moscow. Could there in some way be the salvation he almost maniacally dreamed of? Or the disaster that had overwhelmed his father?
“I know that, too. We’ve got to get everything right,” agreed Kurshin. He’d solved each of his eight previous murders because they had all been barroom brawls or mining camp disputes where the killers had either been standing over their victims or pointed out to him when he’d gotten to the scene. He’d had to shoot dead one man crazed from vodka, not mosquito bites. The first two shots had missed. The third had only hit because the man had lunged toward him.
“I intend to,” said Novikov. He checked to ensure his camera was loaded, even though he had put in the new film himself before leaving the mortuary. There weren’t any proper forensic facilities in Yakutsk. The two men were expected to provide their own.
The Kiriyestyakh group, as well as the two Yakut mortuary attendants
who’d come with Novikov, backed away from the grave roughly by the same distance that the medical examiner advanced toward it: a disturbed dense mass rose up toward him and before every exposure he had to shake the camera to dislodge the persistent cloud. Every print would be speckled. It couldn’t be avoided. He worked his way around the entire grave, taking a picture at each sideways step.
who’d come with Novikov, backed away from the grave roughly by the same distance that the medical examiner advanced toward it: a disturbed dense mass rose up toward him and before every exposure he had to shake the camera to dislodge the persistent cloud. Every print would be speckled. It couldn’t be avoided. He worked his way around the entire grave, taking a picture at each sideways step.
Behind him Kurshin made a rough sketch against which to put his measurements. It was a vaguely round, banked hole, the still partially earth-covered bodies at its lowest point. Several times the measuring tape came free of the stones with which he tried to tether it, so he had to repeat the process. It would have been pointless asking any of the withdrawn group to come closer to hold it in place. Reminded, he said, “I suppose I’ll have to touch the bodies as well as you to get the Eye before your people will take them out?”
“Of course,” said Novikov, surprised at the question.
“I’m being stung to death. It’ll be worse in there.”
“You shouldn’t have forgotten your hat and mask.”
“It doesn’t help to be told.”
There was a murmur from the watching Yakuts as Novikov stepped as delicately as possible into the grave, medical bag hanging from its strap over his shoulder. Flying things engulfed him, encroaching beneath his jacket and trouser cuffs. Bites began to burn their way up his arms and legs. Kurshin was right about it being worse inside the grave, even though it was far colder than he’d expected.
Kurshin, also under attack, said, “Let’s hurry.”
Novikov said, “We can’t afford to.”
The bodies were still frozen too solidly to intrude a thermometer into any part of either body from which Novikov would have normally attempted a reading. He laid the thermometer against the outside of each grimaced face. Flies and bugs were crawling in and out of the stretched-apart mouths and their faces were swollen and bumped from stings inflicted at their moment of death, unknown years before. Novikov took close-up photographs of the obvious wounds. The backs of both heads were totally gone, exposing brain pulp. In the center of each was a trajectory hole he hoped still contained the fatal bullet. He wrote
E
for English and
A
for American
in his notebook and against the
E
recorded the twist of the man’s foot. It would, he guessed, be a green-bone ankle fracture, from the fall into the pit. Strangely the American’s spectacles were still perfectly in place, although the left lens was shattered. Novikov himself had taken the chance and worn his contact lenses, in which he preferred to work, although he had glasses in his medical bag. Normally at this time of year it was so cold that contact lenses froze in the eye, making them impossible to wear. He was the only person in Yakutsk who bothered with what was considered a pointless ophthalmic invention. He said, “It won’t be easy getting the Englishman into the van, with his arm thrust out like that.”
E
for English and
A
for American
in his notebook and against the
E
recorded the twist of the man’s foot. It would, he guessed, be a green-bone ankle fracture, from the fall into the pit. Strangely the American’s spectacles were still perfectly in place, although the left lens was shattered. Novikov himself had taken the chance and worn his contact lenses, in which he preferred to work, although he had glasses in his medical bag. Normally at this time of year it was so cold that contact lenses froze in the eye, making them impossible to wear. He was the only person in Yakutsk who bothered with what was considered a pointless ophthalmic invention. He said, “It won’t be easy getting the Englishman into the van, with his arm thrust out like that.”
“How would that have happened?”
“Muscle spasm when he was struck by the bullet,” guessed Novikov. He tried but couldn’t open the Englishman’s tunic pockets. “I would have expected the clothing to have thawed by now.”
“You think they were prisoners of war?”
Novikov shook his head, deciding against telling even his best friend what he thought he knew and what he was thinking. Kurshin would have laughed at him, as he’d laughed before about the things he’d tried to do for Marina and the boys. “They’re too smart. Look! You can see the creases in their trousers. You want to get in here and touch the bodies, so we can get my people to move them?”
Waving his arms against a fresh insect upsurge, Kurshin stepped into the grave and tapped both corpses. Each was ice-cold and rock-hard. Looking back at the village headman, Kurshin said, “Moscow will have to be told.”
“Naturally.”
“Shouldn’t we leave the bodies here for Ryabov to see—be photographed looking at, perhaps?” Yuri Vyacheslav Ryabov was Yakutsk’s publicity-conscious, eager-to-pose militia commissioner.
“Fuck him,” said Novikov.
“You don’t have to rely on him like I do,” complained Kurshin.
“I don’t want animals eating at the bodies, even though it’s still going to be some time before they thaw,” said Novikov. He shouted to the two mortuary attendants, who reluctantly approached with stretchers.
Kurshin remained in the grave for the two Yakuts to see that he
had touched the bodies and attracted the bad spirits, before climbing out. He was halfway toward the road, pacing out its distance from the grave, when the shout came. He turned in time to see the two attendants scrambling out; one actually fled toward the Kiriyestyakh group. Kurshin ran back himself, unable at first to hear what Novikov was yelling from the hole.
had touched the bodies and attracted the bad spirits, before climbing out. He was halfway toward the road, pacing out its distance from the grave, when the shout came. He turned in time to see the two attendants scrambling out; one actually fled toward the Kiriyestyakh group. Kurshin ran back himself, unable at first to hear what Novikov was yelling from the hole.
“What?” Kurshin shouted, still some distance away.
“There’s a third body,” said Novikov. “It was covered by the other two. It’s a woman.”
Taking Sasha to the state circus, all part of Charlie learning fatherhood, had been wonderful, as it always was, but they’d had to stand in line for half an hour to get into McDonald’s, which was a long time for Charlie to stand comfortably. Neither Charlie nor Natalia had ordered food and now Charlie wished he’d chosen the cola instead of the coffee, which was awful. He pushed it aside. Trying to be philosophical, Charlie supposed a thirty-minute wait was practically moving at the speed of light for a Russian restaurant. And Sasha, her face greased by her cheeseburger, was enjoying it.
“I checked again,” announced Natalia. “There’s nothing on you apart from your appointment details.” Long before Charlie’s Moscow posting, Natalia had used her colonel’s rank within the then-existing KGB to expunge all Charlie’s records from the organization’s files, as Charlie had double-checked the embassy’s security archives against those in London to establish there was no file on Natalia.
Charlie looked sadly at her. “You already knew that.”
“Just wanted to be sure.”
“So now you are.” He’d badly misjudged how difficult it was going to be. Even Sasha seemed aware of her mother’s uncertainty.
Searching for a new topic, he said, “I didn’t know you had a sister.”
“We’re not close.” The letter from Irena had been among the mail she had collected from the apartment she still maintained in Leninskaya.
“What does she want?”
“Says she hasn’t been able to contact me. She flies for Aeroflot and brings things from abroad for Sasha.”
“What have you told her about Sasha?”
“That there was an affair that ended.” She looked directly at Charlie. “I thought it had.”
And maybe would have liked it to, Charlie thought. “Am I going to meet her?”
“Maybe,” said Natalia, noncommittally. “I suppose I should call her or write. There’s something else about us.”
“What?”
“I don’t expect you to ask me anything—to use my position—and I don’t expect you to share anything with me.”
“Neither’s crossed my mind,” Charlie said with a smile, trying to lighten the atmosphere. McDonald’s hardly seemed the place for such a conversation, but then what—or where—was?
“That’s bollocks and you know it,” accused Natalia, using the word that Charlie had taught her.
“It doesn’t sound the same when you say it.”
“It means the same.”
Charlie accepted that he’d abused Natalia’s professional position badly enough in the very beginning, after he’d staged his phony defection to Moscow and deceived her when she’d been assigned to debrief him. So her distrust was justified, like everything else. Natalia had sufficient professional integrity to make up for any that he might lack. Still seemed a pity, if the facility was there. But then … Charlie abruptly stopped the reflection. He wouldn’t cheat or treat Natalia badly, ever again. In fact, he had to do even better than that. He had to make her love him again.
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