Authors: Brian Freemantle
Dead Men Living (25 page)
Charlie and Natalia had exhaustively researched the discovery. The year of the coins found on Norrington and the April 1945 dates for the Berlin burial provided a year-long time frame for Natalia to work within. From that period she gleaned the names of fifty-five men and thirty-seven women whose records—spanning a range of art, art history and academic professorship—suggested people or occupations that might have been sufficient to lure the three murder victims to Yakutsk. Among the men were fifteen whose names and details identified them as German. There were no personal records for any of those fifteen, nor any reason for their imprisonment. Each was simply described as being of “special category.” Twelve were marked as having died before the closure of the camp. The location to which the other three had been transferred was not given.
Following the step-by-step preparation she had gone through with Charlie, Natalia delayed sending the Gulag 98 dossier to the man who was still her official deputy, needing to copy what she considered relevant sections. With the rest she sent a note, duplicated to everyone involved, reminding him the concentration upon anyone with fine art or antique expertise was now even more important in view of Raisa Belous’s history. Because it was also a connected part of the necessary further undermining of Viktor Romanovich Viskov and Petr Pavlovich Travin, she ambiguously worded her agreement to
Lestov sharing with the British and American investigators that afternoon’s interview with Fyodor Belous as if it were the homicide colonel’s idea rather than hers, curious if Charlie would again be proved right.
Lestov sharing with the British and American investigators that afternoon’s interview with Fyodor Belous as if it were the homicide colonel’s idea rather than hers, curious if Charlie would again be proved right.
He was.
To Viskov’s anticipated, within-the-hour objection, copied to the same circulation list to which she had also sent hers, was attached the minutes of their very first coordinating meeting, at which Dmitri Nikulin had specifically forbidden such cooperation. Viskov’s memo demanded an explanation for her disregarding the instruction of the presidential aide.
Natalia’s rebuttal was even quicker than Viskov’s to her: she’d had it already prepared, complete with her marked version of the same initial meeting. Dmitri Borisovich Nikulin had also specifically ordered that everything should be done to discover the undisclosed progress of the two Western investigators, which they might be able to estimate by carefully monitoring a shared interview with someone whose story was already public knowledge. Unable to prevent the bubble of uncertainty, Natalia wrote that she regarded the intervention of the deputy interior minister even more counterproductive than his brief cancellation of the gulag search. As the authority of Dmitri Borisovich had been invoked in both their exchanges, she was, of course, prepared to defer to his judgment, but unless she heard from the president’s chief of staff she intended the shared encounter with Belous to go ahead as planned.
No intervention came from Nikulin.
Charlie’s invitation to the Interior Ministry, personally telephoned by Lestov, was the prearranged signal that Natalia had won another battle. It would not be difficult for him seemingly to let something slip, apparently to show Lestov to be making all the right moves. Charlie wondered if out of it all he’d be able to extract a little in return. He expected to, because he hadn’t wasted the intervening, personally unproductive days. He’d read quite a lot about specific war history.
Charlie Muffin was a diligent reader of body language, too, and believed there was initially a lot to be learned in the first few near-wordless moments of the encounter with Vadim Lestov. Charlie’s
immediate impression was of the Russian colonel himself. Charlie knew from Natalia there had been further recognition from Dmitri Nikulin for Lestov achieving an identification by releasing Raisa Belous’s photograph. The change in Lestov was practically visible, as if he had grown in stature, filling out, becoming taller. There was nothing left of the earlier, close-to-overwhelmed reserve in the official surroundings of the ministry. Instead there was a smiled greeting, without any stammer, and tea—although no vodka—and the easy acceptance of Charlie’s congratulation at the quick discovery of Raisa Belous, without any acknowledgment that the picture-release idea had been Charlie’s. The Russian even wore a newer suit that didn’t shine with wear at the elbows.
immediate impression was of the Russian colonel himself. Charlie knew from Natalia there had been further recognition from Dmitri Nikulin for Lestov achieving an identification by releasing Raisa Belous’s photograph. The change in Lestov was practically visible, as if he had grown in stature, filling out, becoming taller. There was nothing left of the earlier, close-to-overwhelmed reserve in the official surroundings of the ministry. Instead there was a smiled greeting, without any stammer, and tea—although no vodka—and the easy acceptance of Charlie’s congratulation at the quick discovery of Raisa Belous, without any acknowledgment that the picture-release idea had been Charlie’s. The Russian even wore a newer suit that didn’t shine with wear at the elbows.
Fyodor Ivanovich Belous’s did. The striped jacket had once been part of a long-ago-divided suit and the gray trousers were bagged and shapeless. But here again there was no awkwardness and, remembering the
Moscow News
details of the man’s Communist Party past, Charlie guessed the confidence lingered from Belous once having been part—albeit a very small cog—of the ruling machine. The handshake was firm, the eye contact direct through rimless spectacles. When Lestov complained, mildly, at Belous telling his story first to a media outlet, Belous at once said he’d explained his reason for doing that in the article and Charlie further guessed the man’s imperiousness would have exceeded his position in a mourned regime Belous would clearly have welcomed back. Charlie also suspected Belous’s going to a newspaper had as much to do with a personal protest against the supposed and resented new order as it did with establishing his unknown mother’s reputation.
Moscow News
details of the man’s Communist Party past, Charlie guessed the confidence lingered from Belous once having been part—albeit a very small cog—of the ruling machine. The handshake was firm, the eye contact direct through rimless spectacles. When Lestov complained, mildly, at Belous telling his story first to a media outlet, Belous at once said he’d explained his reason for doing that in the article and Charlie further guessed the man’s imperiousness would have exceeded his position in a mourned regime Belous would clearly have welcomed back. Charlie also suspected Belous’s going to a newspaper had as much to do with a personal protest against the supposed and resented new order as it did with establishing his unknown mother’s reputation.
There was a stenographer at a side table and Lestov carefully took the man through what, at the first telling, was virtually a repetition of his newspaper account. Belous also produced the originals of his now-much-copied souvenir photographs, along with Raisa Belous’s award citation.
“That’s all I can tell you,” concluded the man.
“Let’s see,” said Lestov.
The homicide colonel’s questioning was thorough although unimaginative and Charlie decided the man would make an excellent support deputy for Natalia; the lateral thinking might come with time
and encouragement. Belous was discomfited conceding that his mother’s personal belongings had been disposed of after her death—refusing to use the word
sold
when Lestov talked of jewelry and the hero medal itself—and insisted he didn’t know what his grandparents might have done with any letters or documents apart from the medal certificate. Certainly nothing had survived. Belous couldn’t remember any discussion, ever, about his maternal grandparents and had always assumed they’d died before he was born.
and encouragement. Belous was discomfited conceding that his mother’s personal belongings had been disposed of after her death—refusing to use the word
sold
when Lestov talked of jewelry and the hero medal itself—and insisted he didn’t know what his grandparents might have done with any letters or documents apart from the medal certificate. Certainly nothing had survived. Belous couldn’t remember any discussion, ever, about his maternal grandparents and had always assumed they’d died before he was born.
“Where did your father’s parents tell you she was buried?” demanded Lestov.
“They didn’t. I mean, they didn’t know. They said there’d just been a notification that she’d been killed.”
“Where?” persisted the Russian detective.
“I don’t know that, either. They never said.”
Charlie deferred to Miriam when Lestov invited them to join the questioning, as always wanting the benefit of everyone else’s input before making his own. And was disappointed, even wondering if Miriam was using the same ploy to hold back for his contribution before making hers.
Charlie took his time, actually repeating some of Lestov’s questions hopefully to lessen the slightest edge of resistance he detected in Belous’s response to the American.
“Your grandparents were extremely proud of your mother?” he asked, edging toward his own agenda.
“Rightfully so,” said Belous. He had wispy, receding hair and the pallor of a permanent indoor worker.
“Indeed,” agreed Charlie, wondering at the defensiveness. “But they were your
father’s
parents?”
father’s
parents?”
Belous frowned. So did Lestov. Questioningly Belous said, “Yes?”
“Weren’t they proud of a son who died in one of the most heroic episodes of the Great Patriotic War?”
“Of course they were!” replied Belous, indignantly.
“None of your photographs show him with your mother.”
“The newspaper appeal was for information about her, not him.”
“So you do have photographs of them together?”
“Not now.”
“What happened to them?”
“I don’t know. My grandparents showed me some, when they were telling me about my parents. I don’t know what happened to them after my grandparents died.”
“What were they photographs of?” demanded Miriam.
“Their wedding.”
“When was that?”
“June 1941.”
“How many were there?” Charlie bustled in. He didn’t believe parents would dispose of photographs of their son but keep those of their daughter-in-law.
“Four, I think.”
“Doing what?”
The man shrugged. “They were wearing the same clothes in each, so I guess they were all taken at the same time. There was one I remember showing them relaxing; nothing in the background. It was dated June 1940. The other two showed the Catherine Palace behind them, so it had to be Tsarskoe Selo, where they worked.”
“They
worked?” seized Charlie. “You hadn’t told us that. What did your father do?”
worked?” seized Charlie. “You hadn’t told us that. What did your father do?”
Belous flushed. “He was the senior restorer at the palace. That’s how they met, when my mother joined the curator’s staff.” The man shifted uncomfortably.
Charlie’s feet gave a psychosomatic twinge, a usual body and mind indicator that he was going in the right direction, even if he didn’t know what the destination might be. Lestov and Miriam sat unmoving, waiting, as if they expected to learn something, too. Cautiously Charlie said, “I think we might have gone too quickly over what you told the
Moscow News.
And us, earlier. I’d like to make sure I’ve got everything right. Your mother and father worked together at Tsarskoe Selo until the German invasion in 1941. Your mother escaped, rescuing a substantial amount of the Catherine Palace treasures, and your father stayed behind and died just before the siege lifted, in 1943 … ?”
Moscow News.
And us, earlier. I’d like to make sure I’ve got everything right. Your mother and father worked together at Tsarskoe Selo until the German invasion in 1941. Your mother escaped, rescuing a substantial amount of the Catherine Palace treasures, and your father stayed behind and died just before the siege lifted, in 1943 … ?”
“No,” said Belous, shifting again. “The paper got that wrong; made it a better story, I suppose. My father was drafted into the army long before the invasion. He left St. Petersburg—or Leningrad, as it then was—almost immediately after he and my mother married.
According to my grandparents, they got married because he was being moved.”
According to my grandparents, they got married because he was being moved.”
“So where did your father die?” came in Miriam, again.
“They were never quite sure. My mother never showed them the official notice. They thought it was somewhere near the Polish border, Lvov in the Ukraine or on the other side, near Lublin.”
“You told us your grandparents virtually brought you up by themselves, after your mother came to Moscow?” probed Charlie, hoping Miriam wouldn’t interrupt again too quickly.
“I believe so. I can’t remember my mother.”
“Not ever having been with you?”
“No.”
“What age would you have been when they told you about her and your father?”
“I’m not sure. Seven, eight, nine—something around that age.”
“Is that when you saw the photographs of your mother and father together?”
“That would have been the first time, I suppose, yes.”
Charlie was intrigued at the man’s apparent selective memory. This was turning out to be a far different encounter than he’d imagined. “They were proud of her? Talked about her a lot?”
“Yes.” Belous relaxed slightly.
“When they told you about her for the first time, did they tell you she was away a lot?” Charlie was aware of the other man relaxing further. So what had made him tense?
“She had an important job, they said.”
“Doing what?” demanded Lestov.
“They never told me.”
“You don’t have any photographs of your mother in any sort of uniform?” Belous was lying, Charlie knew. To have told her bereaved son what his mother had done would have been the first thing proud grandparents would have done.
“No.”
“What about your father? Any photographs of him in his army uniform?”
Belous hesitated. “It looked like a uniform in the pictures in Tsarskoe Selo. I’m not sure.”
He was, Charlie decided. “Weren’t you ever told what army group or unit he was in?”
Belous shrugged. “He was killed at a battlefront. He must have been a soldier, mustn’t he?”
No, thought Charlie, who from his previous days’ study and the emerging attitude of Fyodor Belous believed he had a good idea of the wartime employment of both the man’s parents. The outside bits of the jigsaw were beginning to fit, but the center of the picture remained blank. He was curious if Miriam and Lestov thought the same. “You were seventeen when your grandparents died, within a month of each other?” said Charlie, picking up on what had been established in Lestov’s earlier questioning.
“Yes,” said the man.
“And you lived all that time in an apartment at Ulitza Kirova?”
“Yes.”
“They’re impressive apartments. Big,” said Charlie, who’d specifically gone there on his way to the ministry. “Your grandfather must have been an influential man: a Party worker like yourself, perhaps?”
Belous stared back warily, unspeaking for several moments. “It was allocated to my mother as a reward for what she did in Leningrad. They were allowed to keep it, after she died and was honored. Why is this important?”
“We’re trying to discover how and why your mother was murdered,” reminded Charlie. “Everything’s important. Tell us about things you remember in the apartment. Were there pictures, prints, on the walls. Ornaments around the place?”
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