Authors: Brian Freemantle
Dead Men Living (39 page)
“He’s still in custody.”
“Have you told him what will happen to him if he says anything about his mother being NKVD?”
Lestov nodded. “And he believes me.”
“Keep him in custody for the next few days, just the same.”
“Are you going to tell Dmitri Borisovich about America?” pressed Lestov. He was where he was now—liked being where he was now—because of some earlier internal intrigue he still didn’t properly understand. As the bearer of the message, he didn’t himself want to become a victim by its not being passed on to everyone who should know. Searching for the persuasion, he said, “It might affect his making the release.”
“I know,” said Natalia, coming back to her desk to pick up the telephone.
Openly boasting to colleagues in the embassy of deceiving his own department, thought Gerald Williams, triumphantly. Colleagues who could be called as witnesses, if an internal tribunal could be convened. There’d be no way Rupert Dean or Jeremy Simpson could go on protecting their precious pet monkey once that was brought out. It all came very nicely on the back of Muffin’s appearance before them earlier in the week. Even Dean and the legal adviser had been hard-pressed to support the man then and the deputy director-general
had certainly been receptive to the suggestion afterward that the investigation was going to fizzle out inconclusively, exposing the department to criticism if not open ridicule.
had certainly been receptive to the suggestion afterward that the investigation was going to fizzle out inconclusively, exposing the department to criticism if not open ridicule.
In fact,
everything
was coming together very nicely indeed.
everything
was coming together very nicely indeed.
Kenton Peters’s weekend house was original old colonial, white, columned and with an encircling veranda overlooking the immediate, oak-treed grounds and the paddocks and stables beyond, where the Arabians were bred. There was a stallion and three mares in the nearest one. Peters and Boyce sat savoring the tranquillity and privilege in shared contentment and in matching, high-backed wicker chairs that crackled slightly when they moved, their highballs on the separating table between them. It was their second. They were still dressed for golf, which had ended an hour earlier. Boyce had intentionally taken five on a par four on the back nine, to let Peters win their $25 wager. Boyce knew the American would have done the same for him, if they’d been in England. Everything in their ordered lives had understood rules.
Peters said, “Had some trouble with the damned woman in Moscow, towards the end. Impudent. Had her fired.”
Boyce said, “Really! I had the impression from some of the message traffic I’ve seen that she was still on station.”
“She hadn’t better be,” said the American, indignantly. He made a mental note to check.
“Was there any resentment, from the Bureau or the CIA or your military people?”
“I simply told the Agency and the military to keep out of it. The military are getting their Arlington glory with the president, so they’re happy. Bureau director was a bit stiff at first. But he’s a political appointee and they do as they’re told in the end, particularly if they get to like the job, which most of them do. As I said when all this began, it was your difficulty I sympathized with.”
“Used the principle of divide and rule,” reminded Boyce, toying idly with the tee he found in his pocket. “Knew all the archives were clean, so I just told each of them a little about the need to avoid difficulties if they had any skeletons in their department cupboards and left them to stumble around and get in each other’s way to cause as much confusion as possible with Dean’s people, whom I had the Intelligence Committee supposedly give the full investigation. It was all a bit of a farce, really. None of them knew they were performing in one, of course.”
The butler came inquiringly on to the veranda and Peters nodded to more drinks. To Boyce he said, “Eight suit you for dinner?”
“Perfect,” accepted the Englishman.
Peters said, “I’ve officially told the Bureau the investigation is over.”
“Was it wise, to do so officially?” queried Boyce. “Being professionally curious is the job of most of these people.”
Peters coaxed a slim but long cheroot into life, expelling a perfect smoke ring toward the distant horses. “I told the director it was national security, that most convenient of panaceas, and for everyone below it was on a need-to-know basis and they had no need to know.”
“The number of people that I had to deal with has given me a problem there,” admitted Boyce. “I’m just going to let them thrash around until they themselves have to admit defeat. Might be necessary to initiate an internal inquiry, to apportion responsibility for failure. It’s the sort of thing that would be expected.”
They stopped talking while the drinks were served.
As the butler left, Peters said, “That mean you’re not entirely sure your archives
are
clean?”
are
clean?”
Boyce smiled. “It means I don’t like losing control. And that everything is going to appear to have been done properly and fully.”
Now the American laughed. “Losing control is a sin we neither of us will ever be accused of.” He sipped the new drink and said, “You spoken to your man?”
“Day before I flew here.”
“And?”
“He’s fine. Quite remarkable, for his age.”
“No risk of his giving way?”
“Why should he? That’s the last thing he’d allow.”
“Of course,” accepted the American. “Media have been more of a nuisance than I expected. Still are, in fact. You thought what to do about that?”
“Not really,” conceded the other man. “Future role of Dean’s department is a bit uncertain, so they’re convenient if public scapegoats are necessary. Muffin’s the obvious choice. He was on television from Yakutsk, remember: he’s identifible. Useful, really, that we didn’t go ahead with the other idea.”
“Always good to get the maximum benefit,” agreed the American.
“When’s your Arlington ceremony?”
“Next Friday. It’ll stoke the media pressure, I guess, but it can’t be helped.”
“You won’t be there, of course?”
“Of course not!” said Peters, actually surprised at being asked if he’d ever appear at any public, media-recorded event.
“You know,” said Boyce. “While all this has been going on, I’ve thought several times how much I’d like to have met Clarence Mitchell, the man who set the whole thing up on our side.”
“Peabody did it from here,” supplied Peters. “Samuel H. Peabody. Hell of a brain, both of them, for devising it.”
“And keeping it going for so long,” said Boyce. “That was the true brilliance.”
“Genius,” agreed Peters.
“And it can’t be said we’ve failed them,” said Boyce, self-congratulatory. “It could have gone very badly wrong if we hadn’t acted as quickly and so effectively as we did.”
“True,” agreed Peters. “Very true indeed. I wouldn’t want it any other way, but sometimes I wish people knew what we did to keep them safe in their beds.”
Boyce gestured expansively, encompassing the house and grounds. “It has its rewards.”
“My own money, not a penny from the taxpayer,” reminded Peters. “We’re eating pheasant tonight. Shot them myself. Been hanging just long enough.”
“Wonderful,” said Boyce.
“Why?” demanded the presidential aide, as he already had several times. “There’s no logic; no rationale.”
He was pacing the room, sometimes driving his fist into the palm of his other hand. It was the first time Natalia had witnessed Nikulin display any sort of emotion and she wondered if she’d get any clue why the man had ended the inquiry. “It was obviously something she knew Vadim Leonidovich would report back. To which we would have to react.”
“Too clumsy,” argued Nikulin.
“I believe there’s a personal relationship.”
Nikulin stopped pacing. “Why did he—” he began, outraged.
“For benefits beyond sex, I’d guess,” said Natalia. It was something that had to be taken into their consideration, which was why she’d met Nikulin alone.
“Might not she be doing it for the same reason?”
“That’s why I mentioned it.” It wasn’t the primary reason. She wanted time, the opportunity to talk it through with Charlie before the release of the art recovery, staged though it was intended to be.
“I’m glad you did. It’s very confusing, though.”
“As it is my not knowing the reason for our decision,” said Natalia, openly.
“It was one of the greatest—and most secret—of coups,” confided Nikulin. “And it must always remain secret, even from someone like you.”
Natalia nodded, resigned. It wasn’t something she’d tell Charlie, she decided. “The American would have known he’d have to act upon it,” Natalia repeated.
“So it’s intentional,
to
confuse us?”
to
confuse us?”
“Shouldn’t we consider delaying the announcement about what was recovered from Belous?”
“It has no significance,” dismissed the presidential aide.
“Can we be sure of that, not knowing what this is about?”
“Where is Belous?”
“In custody. I’ve ordered he stay there, until we decide otherwise.”
Nikulin finally sat down. “Whatever the Americans are up to has no affect whatsoever upon our decision. Which stands. We go ahead with the release.”
Gerald Williams realized how totally he was committing himself and he was nervous about doing so. He wished he belonged to the sort
of club to which Jocelyn Hamilton had taken him, which seemed the proper venue for such discussions, instead of a public restaurant, even one close enough to Westminster to be the favorite of MPs and cabinet minsters. Williams had spotted three and a minister within minutes of his arrival. He filled the time waiting for the deputy director-general’s arrival studying the menu, horrified at the prices. Hamilton was greeted as a regular by the restaurant manager who had initially regarded Williams as an unwelcomed intruder, and on his way to the table Hamilton stopped to talk to the cabinet minister and after that to an MP frequently quoted in newspapers as an espionage expert.
of club to which Jocelyn Hamilton had taken him, which seemed the proper venue for such discussions, instead of a public restaurant, even one close enough to Westminster to be the favorite of MPs and cabinet minsters. Williams had spotted three and a minister within minutes of his arrival. He filled the time waiting for the deputy director-general’s arrival studying the menu, horrified at the prices. Hamilton was greeted as a regular by the restaurant manager who had initially regarded Williams as an unwelcomed intruder, and on his way to the table Hamilton stopped to talk to the cabinet minister and after that to an MP frequently quoted in newspapers as an espionage expert.
Hamilton finally arrived with flurried apologies for being late and as he was seated told the manager to ensure there’d be that day’s special available. From his study of the menu Williams knew that was lamb chops and ordered the same. He chose Margaux, too, remembering it was what Hamilton had selected entertaining him at the Reform Club.
“What’s all the mystery about?” demanded the department deputy, the moment they were alone.
“Not mystery,” said Williams. “Concern.”
Although Williams had spent a long time sanitizing his account, Hamilton said the moment he’d finished, “You’ve been talking like this to the people across the river!”
“I spoke to my counterpart, Horlick, once: to assure him the expenditure was coming off our budget, not his. Which I consider it should because we’re heading the investigation. With his agreement I talked direct to Cartright in Moscow: didn’t want anyone imagining unlimited expenses. And have done a few times since, to make sure costs remain under control. What I’ve told you has come up in general conversation.”
“It doesn’t sound like general conversation to me,” refused Hamilton. “To me it sounds pretty specific—improper, in fact.”
“I’m prepared to make allowance for that,” said Williams. “I’m far more worried at the greater danger which we’ve talked about too many times to need repeating. This man is openly talking in Moscow of treating us like fools. You saw for yourself what it was like, just days ago. Something’s got to be done!”
“Why are you telling me, like this? Why not officially, to Sir Rupert?”
“Because it is only gossip. And, all right, improper gossip at that. Any case against Muffin has got to be backed by a proper inquiry, supported by fact. Witnesses.”
“So?” persisted the other man.
“I’ve become involved in this by accident. I’m the financial director. I’ve done my bit auditing accounts that virtually prove the money dealing, which amounts to a criminal act. You’re operational. I’m suggesting for the sake of the department—for us all—you ask Cartright’s people to authorize his providing an official account. Factually checking what the hell Muffin’s up to.”
Hamilton sat with the lamb halfway to his mouth, regarding Williams across the table in disbelief. “Are you serious?”
“Deadly serious.”
“I don’t like it.”
“I like less the thought of what will happen if we don’t move.”
“I need to think about it very seriously indeed,” said Hamilton.
“The time for thinking is over,” insisted Williams. “Now we’ve got to do something positive.”
Charlie was kept at the embassy cabling the full text of the Russian release to London and afterward answering the queries that came back, which distilled down into contributing nothing new, and Natalia was at Lesnaya when he got home, Sasha already asleep.
There was still the reservation of the previous night—the uncertainty there’d been at the beginning—although not quite so awkward. Charlie told her about the encounter with Vitali Novikov and then showed her the log. While she read it, he made drinks.
When he returned to the main room she said, “This isn’t anything. Just confirmation of what we already believed.”
“I know. I’ve read it a hundred times, trying to find something.” He decided against telling her the nagging feeling that kept pricking at him. There were enough mysteries without the need to invent more.
Natalia said, “What did you tell Novikov?”
“That it won’t affect their residency.”
Natalia looked at her watch. “Let’s see the result of the Russian contribution.”
The Russian announcement was the lead item on all the English-language satellite news programs through which Charlie flicked. Photographs of the recovered art had been issued with the release claiming them as further proof of Raisa Belous’s heroic wartime work keeping Russia’s heritage—particularly actual treasure from the Amber Room—out of Nazi hands. Fyodor Belous was included in the eulogy for returning the safeguarded articles the moment he’d discovered the truth about his mother. CNN and the BBC also carried footage outside Belous’s empty apartment, with reporters quoting official sources suggesting the man was helping the authorities search further for things still hidden. Inevitably every program carried library pictures of the treasures of the Catherine Palace and the other royal residences at Tsarskoe Selo, as well as film of the devastation after the Nazi occupation of the park. Just as inevitably there was speculation that the further lost art that Belous was helping locate was the missing Amber Room itself.
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