Authors: Brian Freemantle
Dead Men Living (26 page)
“I don’t understand that question!” protested the man.
“Your mother worked in the palace of Catherine the Great: enjoyed things of rare beauty,” said Charlie, whose reading had extended to studying the illustrated masterpiece catalogue. “I would have expected her to try to decorate such a special apartment with things of special beauty.”
“You are suggesting my mother stole things!”
“Not at all,” lied Charlie. “Anything from the Catherine Palace would have been too well known, too well documented, for anyone to have kept them in Russia. Your mother would not have been
honored as she was if there had been the slightest doubt about her honesty.”
honored as she was if there had been the slightest doubt about her honesty.”
Belous regarded him doubtfully. “There were some pictures, I suppose. A few ornaments. Nothing I remember particularly.”
Back to the selective memory, Charlie recognized. “Do you still have any of them?”
“No,” said the man, too quickly.
“They were sold?” demanded Charlie, directly.
“I don’t know.”
“If they weren’t sold, you’d still have them, wouldn’t you?”
“I don’t remember. They just weren’t there, after my grandfather died.”
“Not even the medal, about which they were particularly proud?”
“No.”
Charlie leaned forward, picking up the citation, caught by a sudden thought, hoping but not expecting to find what he did. “Your mother got to Moscow with everything she saved from the palace in late 1941?”
“Yes,” said the son, swallowing.
“And was made a hero of the Soviet Union for doing it.”
“That’s what the citation says.”
“No, it doesn’t,” corrected Charlie. “It’s for ‘Special Services to the Soviet Union.’ And is dated December 1944. That would have been almost four years after she saved what she did from the palace, wouldn’t it?”
“If those are the dates,” conceded the man. “Things take a long time to get done in a bureaucracy. Particularly in wartime.”
There would have been treasures, Charlie knew. Maybe from the Catherine Palace or from what—and where—Raisa did for the remainder of the war, after 1941: maybe even small works of other people’s and other countries’ art. How much and how many would have been hoarded by Raisa Belous and gradually disposed of by this man over the years, for a few rubles—kopeks, maybe? Even a prized medal, which Charlie now doubted she’d gotten for what she’d done at Leningrad but for a far greater contribution afterward.
Belous was looking fixedly at him, apprehensively. The man hadn’t gone to an English-language newspaper to honor his mother.
He would have demanded to be paid. Probably had been. And by some of the foreign correspondents he’d spoken to, as well. There wasn’t anything to be gained, challenging the man. Charlie recognized he’d gotten all he wanted. It had, in fact, been a far more productive afternoon than he’d expected. He hoped Lestov had, as well. It was as much for the Russian’s benefit—and ultimately Natalia’s —as it was for him. His curiosity about Miriam could wait. Charlie said, “Thank you. It’s been very helpful.”
He would have demanded to be paid. Probably had been. And by some of the foreign correspondents he’d spoken to, as well. There wasn’t anything to be gained, challenging the man. Charlie recognized he’d gotten all he wanted. It had, in fact, been a far more productive afternoon than he’d expected. He hoped Lestov had, as well. It was as much for the Russian’s benefit—and ultimately Natalia’s —as it was for him. His curiosity about Miriam could wait. Charlie said, “Thank you. It’s been very helpful.”
Belous blinked, surprised. “You think you can find who killed my mother from what I’ve told you?”
Belous would have been prompted by the
Moscow News.
Charlie guessed; maybe by some of the Western correspondents, too. “Not by itself. But it’s added a lot to what we already know.”
Moscow News.
Charlie guessed; maybe by some of the Western correspondents, too. “Not by itself. But it’s added a lot to what we already know.”
“What was she doing at Yakutsk, with the officers?”
“That’s one of the things we don’t yet know,” said Charlie. But I’m getting closer by the day, he thought.
Natalia was for once already at Lesnaya when Charlie got home. Sasha was bathed and settled in bed and his Islay and glass were set out in readiness.
Natalia said, “We’ve got Gulag 98. As well as a lot of other obvious possibilities.”
Charlie sipped his whiskey, knowing she hadn’t finished, enjoying her excitement.
“Guess who was sent there, as well as the fifteen Germans?” she demanded.
“Who?” asked Charlie, dutifully.
“Larisa Yaklovich Krotkov. Who was on the curators’ staff at Tsarskoe Selo. The complete staff list still exists. I ran a comparison with the names at Gulag 98. And there she was!”
Charlie stopped drinking. “What was she jailed for?”
“Assisting the enemy.”
“Any details?” Coincidence, or another piece of the jigsaw?
“Not so far.”
“We can use it,” insisted Charlie.
“You
can use it.”
“You
can use it.”
“How?”
“You’ve sent the Gulag 98 file on to Travin?”
She nodded. “In this afternoon’s consignment. But how can Lestov
be shown to discover it when he’s not examining the camp material?”
be shown to discover it when he’s not examining the camp material?”
Until this moment it had been a problem Charlie hadn’t known how to overcome, but now he did. “Did Lestov pick up on the interview with Fyodor Belous?”
“You made it clear enough. He’s having Belous’s place raided tonight, to see if there’s anything the man hasn’t already sold. And Raisa was Trophy Brigade. So was her husband, from the very beginning.”
“One thing at a time,” said Charlie. “Have Lestov do what you’ve already done, run a check on all the curator staff at Tsarskoe Selo, which he could logically do after today’s interview. It’ll throw up Larisa Krotkov’s imprisonment. And where she served it.”
“Yes,” agreed Natalia, distantly. “That’ll do it, won’t it?”
“It’s them or you,” urged Charlie, knowing her difficulty. “Them or us.”
“I know.”
“Arrange a personal meeting with Nikulin, include Lestov, for him to get the credit,” advised Charlie. “But you make the direct accusation, against Viskov and Travin.”
“I know that, too,” said Natalia. “And I’m as frightened as hell.”
There wasn’t the hiss-voiced fury of Kenton Peters’s first telephone calls, a loss of control Boyce had never before known. Now the anger was in the frustrated determination to find out how Henry Packer had been exposed.
“Only you and I knew he was still in Moscow. And neither of us made the calls,” said Boyce. It was Cartright who’d discovered the anonymous contacts. “And there wasn’t any way Charlie Muffin could avoid recognizing him, after the amount of television coverage.”
“Still damned impudent of Dean to put what he did in the exchanges.”
“It would have been wrong for me to intervene.”
“I quite understand,” said Peters. “I don’t know or understand how, but the information must have come from a Russian source.”
“From which it follows that Moscow has more than we suspected or guessed about Raisa Belous and Yakutsk,” suggested Boyce.
“I’ll not give up,” insisted Peters. “I’ll go on until I do find out.”
“We both will. But shouldn’t we move on a little?”
“I don’t like Norrington being identified,” said Kenton Peters, taking the suggestion.
“I’m not letting it be made public,” assured Boyce.
“I’m surprised the Russians allowed the photograph to be published, to let Raisa Belous be identified,” continued Peters. “I’ve always said they’re the uncertainty, didn’t I? This and Packer confirm it.”
“You didn’t know your president was going to make his hero announcement until it was too late,” gently reminded Boyce.
“What the president did will never occur again,” said Peters. “He knows just how annoyed I am about that. I’ve told him enough to understand what the effect could be. He’s terrified.”
“I was merely pointing out that oversights can happen. And we can hardly remind Moscow, can we? We’re not supposed to know.”
Unable to move his mind for long from what came close to being the first embarrassment of his career, Kenton Peters said, “The Agency lost a good man in Packer. He’s useless now that he’s been so publicly identified.”
Boyce said, “We’ll have to put on hold any move against Muffin for the time being. Nothing too close.”
“I’ve asked for someone else to be selected,” disclosed Peters. “Muffin’s an uncertainty and you know I don’t like uncertainties.”
Again it was the absence of anything positive or worthwhile that confirmed for Charlie a suspicion he didn’t need proved any further. It wasn’t even the fault—or obstruction—of the other three with whom he’d yet again gathered in the military attaché’s office. They were as much puppets as he was intended—chosen—to be. The difference was they didn’t know how their strings were being pulled. Charlie did and was thoroughly pissed off at the realization. With
his feet, dancing was a dirty word anyway; it was equally forbidden when he was the puppet.
his feet, dancing was a dirty word anyway; it was equally forbidden when he was the puppet.
“My people can’t trace anything on a Lieutenant Simon Norrington, either by name or by the army serial number his family gave,” apologized Gallaway. “Nor any cross-reference to a Raisa Belous. Whatever existed must have been destroyed.”
“What about an art squad?” persisted Charlie, as a test, already knowing that one existed.
“I only filed that request yesterday,” said the attaché. “I’m still waiting.”
“So am I,” said Cartright. “So far I haven’t even had an acknowledgment. As far as I know, SIS didn’t have an interest.”
From that morning’s conversation with London, Charlie knew Sir Rupert Dean was also still waiting for a reply to his inquiry, made even earlier. The director-general hadn’t argued with Charlie’s open accusation that they were being played with by every other interested government ministry and department. Instead he’d told Charlie he wanted him back in London by the end of the week.
“It’s put a lot of extra pressure on me,” complained Raymond McDowell. “The biggest continuing diplomatic dispute between Germany and Russia is stolen or disputed wartime art, even after all these years. I’ve averaged four cables a day from London since Raisa Belous was identified. So’s the ambassador.”
“I thought everyone was supposed to be fighting a war after 1939,” said Gallaway.
The limited military attaché probably did, accepted Charlie. He decided to excuse himself as soon as possible from this aimless discussion. He wanted to be at the end of a telephone if Natalia called. There was even more to talk about after Dean’s week’s-end ultimatum.
McDowell said, “The Nazi treasure looting was more efficiently organized than the Final Solution. There was even a connection, of sorts. Hitler considered the people of Eastern Europe subhuman. He didn’t intend just to eradicate the Jewish race. Eastern Europeans were to go, too; become a vast slave resource while the Germans expanded eastwards to take over their countries. Anything of any cultural, artistic or historical significance was seized by Alfred Rosenberg’s E.R.R. organization: entire museums, libraries. And not
just by them. Goering, whose favorite was nudes, had Hitler’s permission to take whatever he wanted from occupied countries for an art gallery that was to be as big as Hitler’s, in Linz. Hitler had the plan and model of it with him when he committed suicide in the Berlin bunker; the speciality was to have been heroic Aryan portraits and sculptures. Himmler, Bormann, and von Ribbentrop each had their art squads; von Ribbentrop took every Renaissance painting he could lay his hands on in Italy. He had his own art-scavenging battalion, with three companies from it working exclusively for him in Russia alone … .”
just by them. Goering, whose favorite was nudes, had Hitler’s permission to take whatever he wanted from occupied countries for an art gallery that was to be as big as Hitler’s, in Linz. Hitler had the plan and model of it with him when he committed suicide in the Berlin bunker; the speciality was to have been heroic Aryan portraits and sculptures. Himmler, Bormann, and von Ribbentrop each had their art squads; von Ribbentrop took every Renaissance painting he could lay his hands on in Italy. He had his own art-scavenging battalion, with three companies from it working exclusively for him in Russia alone … .”
Charlie began to concentrate, looking at the lecturing head of chancellery with sudden interest. It obviously all came from London and the detail was surprising. Maybe even more surprising was that the Foreign Office clearly considered it necessary to provide such an intense briefing. Calling upon his own specific, self-imposed modern history lesson, hopefully to encourage the diplomat further, Charlie said, “And the Soviet Union had the sort of Trophy Brigades that Ivan and Raisa Belous belonged to, with every front line regiment. The Soviet Trophy Brigades virtually trawled the countries—Germany particularly—when the war turned against Hitler. The almost obscene irony is that the Nazis made it easy for them: they’d stolen and got a lot of it conveniently together, for the Russians simply to pick up. Germany has officially listed something like three hundred thousand heritage treasures Russia refuses to give back. Moscow claims they’re war reparation.”
Gallaway snorted a laugh. “How can anyone argue the legality of that?”
“London did. And Washington,” deflated McDowell. “America’s OSS formed a special Art Loss Looting Investigation Unit. President Truman personally signed the order to ship two hundred European paintings to America, to go on touring exhibition. The intention was to hold on to them until Germany made its financial reparation. The paintings were only returned after American and European academics and art historians pointed out that America could be accused of the same cultural rape as the Nazis …”
Not all take and no give, thought Charlie; not a wasted morning, either! He hadn’t known of the existence of an American unit. But the FBI would. From which it logically followed that Miriam Bell
would, too. It had been almost forty-eight hours since Raisa Belous had been named and her art connection established. Time enough to have had the photograph Miriam had recovered from the body—and more recent ones of the corpse itself—checked through OSS archives. It might, even, account for the woman’s seemingly casual questioning of Fyodor Belous the previous afternoon and why, for the first time, she hadn’t wanted to talk things through after leaving the Russian ministry. If she already knew who her victim was—what he had been doing, even—all she would have needed to do was sit and listen during the meeting with Belous to ensure nothing emerged to endanger Washington’s cover-up. In fact, thought Charlie, warming to his speculation, it all made perfect sense of that intended cover-up and what he’d guessed to be the runaround to which he was being subjected. Still encouraging, he said to McDowell, “You’re remarkably well informed.”
would, too. It had been almost forty-eight hours since Raisa Belous had been named and her art connection established. Time enough to have had the photograph Miriam had recovered from the body—and more recent ones of the corpse itself—checked through OSS archives. It might, even, account for the woman’s seemingly casual questioning of Fyodor Belous the previous afternoon and why, for the first time, she hadn’t wanted to talk things through after leaving the Russian ministry. If she already knew who her victim was—what he had been doing, even—all she would have needed to do was sit and listen during the meeting with Belous to ensure nothing emerged to endanger Washington’s cover-up. In fact, thought Charlie, warming to his speculation, it all made perfect sense of that intended cover-up and what he’d guessed to be the runaround to which he was being subjected. Still encouraging, he said to McDowell, “You’re remarkably well informed.”
“So are you,” challenged the man.
“Homework, here, after the
Moscow News
account,” said Charlie, more or less honestly. “I didn’t learn all you appear to have.”
Moscow News
account,” said Charlie, more or less honestly. “I didn’t learn all you appear to have.”
“I asked for as much guidance as possible,” admitted McDowell.
“The Foreign Office suddenly seems to have a lot of information available,” suggested Charlie.
McDowell made an uncertain gesture. “It’s a sensitive area, particularly after all that business with Switzerland and Holocaust gold and bank accounts of Jewish concentration camp victims.”
“That’s spreading the net a bit wide, isn’t it?” questioned Cartright. “I can hardly imagine there was art treasure or looted Nazi gold in the prison colonies of Yakutsk!”
Charlie suddenly realized from the previous night’s conversation with Natalia what could have been there and was irritated for not thinking of it sooner. Natalia had even shown the way! Maybe, at last, there were a few pieces becoming clearer for the center of the jigsaw. There was actually an immediate direction—and reason—for his taking up the investigation away from Moscow as soon as possible, although not immediately to London. He’d already considered Berlin the place to go: where, hopefully, something no matter how small might have been overlooked.
He said, “It occurred to any of you we’re being jerked around in one bloody great cover-up?”
“Ours is not to reason why,” irritatingly clichéd Gallaway. “We’ve got to obey orders.”
Charlie said, “I’d like to think that if I got shot in the back of the head, somebody, somewhere, someday, would try to find out why. Orders or no orders.”
Just the sort of cocky bloody-mindedness Gerald Williams had warned him to look out for, Cartright recognized. And by which his career could be badly affected—ruined—involved as he now was in this damned affair. And then there was that currency speculation business that the gorgeous and willing Irena had told him about. Definitely things he needed to talk about with Williams. Maybe even with his own department, too. Gallaway was right. If there was a cover-up there was a good reason, and it wasn’t their business here—certainly not Charlie Muffin’s—to question it.
The only sound in the White House suite of Dmitri Borisovich Nikulin was the faintest rustle as the president’s chief of staff turned the pages of what Natalia had placed before him thirty minutes earlier. Now she sat unmoving, outwardly in complete control, inwardly in turmoil. She knew—had known for months—that this moment was inevitable. But it had seemed so much easier—foolproof—talking it through with Charlie at Lesnaya than it did now, making the accusation to one of the most influential members of the Russian government about a deputy minister in that same government. The fact that the accusation was true—only this last, hopefully decisive device connived—wasn’t a reassurance. Nikulin had only moved Travin sideways. What if the presidential aide was a friend of Viktor Romanovich Viskov? Or Viskov had a protector even more influential and powerful than Nikulin?
Beside her, Colonel Vadim Lestov sat similarly statued, no longer awed or ill-at-ease in such baroque surroundings, although Natalia had no doubt he was as inwardly agitated by the sudden awareness of what she had directly involved him in.
Lestov had easily and professionally followed Natalia’s lead, not needing anything more than the initial prompt to make the same intriguing discovery about the Yakutsk jailing of a former Catherine Palace curator employee. But only Natalia’s insistence that there were
other, previous circumstances of which he was unaware stopped the man from positively arguing her determined conclusion. It had been an impromptu gesture to show Lestov her memorandum recommending his official appointment as her deputy. She hoped ambition—and of being in Nikulin’s presence, only a few meters from the president himself—would prevent the man from voicing any further doubt.
other, previous circumstances of which he was unaware stopped the man from positively arguing her determined conclusion. It had been an impromptu gesture to show Lestov her memorandum recommending his official appointment as her deputy. She hoped ambition—and of being in Nikulin’s presence, only a few meters from the president himself—would prevent the man from voicing any further doubt.
The chief of staff looked up at last, pushing the folder slightly away from him.
“You’ve no doubt it has been deliberately withheld?” demanded the harsh-featured, emotionless man.
“None whatsoever,” said Natalia, pleased with the strength of her own voice.
“There is no proof.”
“Of course not,” she accepted, at once. “I’m asking you to judge it with what you know to have happened since this began. It’s been a campaign of positive, personal obstruction. A permanent vendetta against me. The inquiry itself—the need to protect this government, which was your specific instruction—has been totally and consistently disregarded.” Natalia gestured sideways. “Everything positive we have suggested has been opposed, to erode my authority; the camp search, which from Colonel Lestov’s discovery is proved to have been essential, needed your order to be reintroduced, after its arbitrary cancellation … .” She hesitated, at a prepared accusation. “I actually wonder to which government or country the deputy minister and Petr Pavlovich, who still holds the title of my deputy, are giving their true allegiance.”
“That’s an astonishing allegation!” protested Nikulin, genuinely shocked.
“And one I do not make lightly,” said Natalia. She felt numb, striving to keep control. “I do not believe it’s possible to continue this investigation—to achieve everything it’s necessary to achieve—under these conditions. Which is why I am making this a formal, official complaint.”
Nikulin stared down at the closed folder on his desk for several moments before coming up to Lestov. “Do you feel yourself to have been positively obstructed?”
Natalia felt a fresh jump of apprehension.
“I do not know all the circumstances that have been referred to …” the homicide detective began to hedge.
“Have you had any contact from Petr Pavlovich about Gulag 98?” broke in Natalia.
“No,” said Lestov.
The presidential aide said, “What contact
has
there been between yourself and Petr Pavlovich?”
has
there been between yourself and Petr Pavlovich?”
“We speak daily,” confirmed Lestov.
“Who calls whom?” seized Natalia, knowing the answer.
“I call him.”
“He has never initiated an approach?” queried Nikulin.
“Not since the rearrangement of responsibility.”
Without explanation Nikulin picked up the telephone, dialing the number himself. It wasn’t until he began to speak that Natalia realized he’d called the deputy interior minister. Natalia’s emotions switchbacked. Momentarily her mind blanked, refusing any thought. Then she heard how Nikulin was speaking and gauged that he was favoring her against the man. Nikulin said nothing about her or her accusation, instead asking about the progress of the investigation and particularly the assembly and search of camp records. And from Nikulin’s next question accepted that, in his determination still to denigrate the idea, Viktor Viskov must have continued to belittle its purpose.
“It’s being carried out, though?” Nikulin was saying. Viskov must have assured him that it was because the chief of staff next said, “Completely up to date? That’s good.”
Nikulin redialed immediately. The conversation with Petr Pavlovich Travin was virtually a repetition of that with the deputy minister, except for Nikulin demanding a second time to be assured that there was no backlog in the prison file examination.
Nikulin replaced the telephone for the second time and Natalia waited, hopefully. With creaking formality the man said, “I’m sure you’re very busy, as I am. Thank you for bringing the matter to my attention.”
Natalia’s numbness wasn’t as bad, but it was still there.
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