Authors: Brian Freemantle
Dead Men Living (6 page)
“Shall we try to speak English?”
“If you’d like,” said Charlie, pleased it was her suggestion, which was how he and Natalia always tried to make it.
“How long will Mummy be?”
She inverted the verb, but for a child of Sasha’s age it was conversationally very good. “She didn’t know. She’s going to phone to tell us.”
“Are you going to bathe me?”
Another first, by himself, accepted Charlie. “Yes.”
“All right,” said Sasha, gravely, as if giving permission, which Charlie supposed she was.
The downstairs buzzer sounded, making them both jump by its unexpectedness. Not Natalia, thought Charlie at once. She’d promised to phone, and in any case she had her own key. The grandiose apartment
had
been an effective part of his cover as a crooked entrepreneur and all the nuclear ringleaders had been either arrested or killed. But a lot of the minnow men, the gofers and the fetchers,
would have gotten through the net and there had always been at the back of Charlie’s mind the awareness that some might know this address. Might know, too, that he was the person who’d destroyed everything. But they wouldn’t come at him like this: not ring the bell. Easier—better—just to wait outside, hit him when he arrived or left.
had
been an effective part of his cover as a crooked entrepreneur and all the nuclear ringleaders had been either arrested or killed. But a lot of the minnow men, the gofers and the fetchers,
would have gotten through the net and there had always been at the back of Charlie’s mind the awareness that some might know this address. Might know, too, that he was the person who’d destroyed everything. But they wouldn’t come at him like this: not ring the bell. Easier—better—just to wait outside, hit him when he arrived or left.
“Mummy?” asked Sasha, when the bell went again.
“I don’t think so,” said Charlie. He could legally carry a gun in Moscow, but didn’t. He’d have liked the comfort of a weapon now, even though he wasn’t very good: never able to keep his eyes open at the moment of firing. Or keep the kick from hurting his wrist, even though he adopted the correct, hand-supporting shooting crouch. He hadn’t been the person to shoot Popov as Popov was preparing to shoot him.
“I’ll go,” said Sasha, brightly.
“No!” said Charlie, too sharply. “Stay and wipe your mouth. I’ll see who it is.” The downstairs door could be forced, even if he didn’t operate the admission button, but it was very thick and heavy and wouldn’t be easy. And there were two bolts and a crossbar as well as a chain, from the previous protection, on the apartment door which was practically as strong as that five floors below. He wasn’t reassured. It had been downright fucking stupid to have let himself be trapped like this—like this with Sasha, of all things!—without any means of protection or escape. The bell sounded a third time as he reached the microphone.
“Yes?”
“I was about to give up on you.” It was a woman’s voice.
“Who is this?”
“Irena, Natalia’s sister.”
“Hello,” he said to the woman who’d called immediately after Natalia, earlier. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“You said it would be all right to call ’round, so I decided to at once.”
Charlie pressed the release button and opened the apartment door in readiness. Sasha came to the door and, when he told her who was coming up the stairs, said, “I like Aunt Irena. She brings me presents.”
Irena was in Western clothes: loafers, Levi’s jeans and a designer
version of a fleecy-lined pilot’s jacket. She picked Sasha up, kissed her and carried her laughing into the apartment. Immediately inside, she gave Sasha a Donald Duck that climbed quacking up a cord by some mechanism triggered by it being pulled sharply downward. The child began to retreat, giggling delightedly, then stopped and said, “Thank you,” and kissed the woman again. She looked to Charlie for approval. Charlie nodded.
version of a fleecy-lined pilot’s jacket. She picked Sasha up, kissed her and carried her laughing into the apartment. Immediately inside, she gave Sasha a Donald Duck that climbed quacking up a cord by some mechanism triggered by it being pulled sharply downward. The child began to retreat, giggling delightedly, then stopped and said, “Thank you,” and kissed the woman again. She looked to Charlie for approval. Charlie nodded.
Irena turned at last to Charlie. “So you’re my sister’s new partner
!
”
!
”
Charlie accepted that he was, as far as Irena was concerned, but didn’t like the question: it inferred there’d been a lot. He didn’t know, in fact, whether there had been or not. It wasn’t something he and Natalia had felt the need to discuss. “Yes,” he said, simply.
“And English!” said Irena, in the same language, which she spoke well. “The embassy? Or business here?”
“Something in between,” avoided Charlie.
“Daddy was just going to bath me,” announced Sasha. “Now you can help.”
Daddy,
Charlie seized at once. Until that moment she hadn’t made any attempt at a name, not even a guess at
Charlie,
which they’d decided to allow if she’d tried.
Charlie seized at once. Until that moment she hadn’t made any attempt at a name, not even a guess at
Charlie,
which they’d decided to allow if she’d tried.
Irena seized it, too. “Daddy?”
“If I can be,” said Charlie. He wasn’t enjoying the encounter.
“Why don’t I bathe you myself—and read you a story—while Daddy gets me a drink?” suggested the woman.
Charlie decided he liked the way the title sounded. He was glad, too, that Irena had taken over bathtime duties: he was learning how to be a father at roughly the same pace as Sasha was mastering basic spoken English. “There’s most things,” he invited.
“Scotch. Water back.”
Very American vernacular, thought Charlie, amused. He took Islay scotch as well, pouring both straight, setting out her water glass separately and putting ice in a bucket for her to add herself, to avoid it melting to dilute the drink. For someone who until that moment had been a total stranger, Irena—Irena Seminova Modin, Charlie remembered, from the McDonald’s conversation—seemed very adept at appearing an old friend. It probably had something to do with being a stewardess. Long-haul, he recalled: Australia as well America.
There was a lot of splashing and laughing from the bathroom. Sasha was in her nightdress, warm and fresh-smelling, when she ran in to kiss him good night. She announced, “Aunt Irena is going to tell me a story. Girls only, but you can come in to say good night later,” and ran out again, giggling.
Irena emerged ten minutes later pulling her sweater down about her and said, “I got splashed.”
Charlie wondered what had happened to the flying jacket. Irena was far bigger-busted than her sister and seemed proud of it, from the tightness of the sweater. He said, “What’s this girls-only all about?”
Irena smiled, taking the large, enveloping chair beside the couch on which Charlie sat. “She said she wanted to have a secret, so I told her to make one up.”
Charlie indicated the drink, pouring a second for himself. Irena added just one ice cube, properly sipping the water separately, and Charlie decided there was nothing wrong with a pretension if it was carried out confidently enough. Irena was doing fairly well.
“How long have you and Natalia been together?”
“A while,” said Charlie, evasively.
The woman was looking around the apartment. “And isn’t she the lucky one. Sasha said princesses lived here once and I believe her. You must be either very important or very rich or both.”
“There’s a lot of opportunities in Moscow now.” Charlie decided that apart from an obvious facial resemblance Irena was different in every way from Natalia. He preferred Natalia’s natural darkness to Irena’s blond-highlighted hair and if he was making a direct comparison—which he was—he thought Natalia’s figure was better, too. Irena verged upon the voluptuous and seemed to want to, from the tightness of the second-skin jeans as well as the sweater.
“I know someone from the American embassy trade division,” Irena declared. “Saul Freeman. You know him?”
“
Of
him,” said Charlie, cautiously. Saul Freeman headed the FBI’s station at the U.S. embassy. It had been the Bureau’s success in getting a man based in Moscow—and the dominance and Western crime links of the Russian mafia—that had been instrumental in Charlie’s appointment. Freeman was a balding New York bachelor who shared with the British embassy’s matchingly single MI6 resident,
Richard Cartright, the apparent ambition to screw every woman in Moscow. Natalia wouldn’t be happy at Irena finding them together and most certainly not at Irena knowing someone with a Bureau function from another Western embassy. “How’d you meet Saul?”
Of
him,” said Charlie, cautiously. Saul Freeman headed the FBI’s station at the U.S. embassy. It had been the Bureau’s success in getting a man based in Moscow—and the dominance and Western crime links of the Russian mafia—that had been instrumental in Charlie’s appointment. Freeman was a balding New York bachelor who shared with the British embassy’s matchingly single MI6 resident,
Richard Cartright, the apparent ambition to screw every woman in Moscow. Natalia wouldn’t be happy at Irena finding them together and most certainly not at Irena knowing someone with a Bureau function from another Western embassy. “How’d you meet Saul?”
“He was on my flight, about six months ago.” She grinned. “Not by choice. It was the only plane available.” She looked around the apartment again. “But his place doesn’t come within a million miles of this.”
Cautiously Charlie said, “You seeing each other?”
Irena grimaced again, pulling down the corners of her mouth. “We went out to dinner once or twice.”
“But?”
“He didn’t make me laugh. And he counts.”
“Counts?”
“In a notebook. Writes down what he spends, when he spends it.”
“You’re joking!”
“I told you, there was nothing to laugh about. I think you’d make me laugh, though. What do you think?”
“I think I know someone who’d think he was terrific making a note of his expenditure,” said Charlie, refusing the flagrant invitation.
“She’d be disappointed. He makes love by number, too. Hup, one two three, hup, one two three … .”
Charlie laughed, because he was expected to, curious just the same. Genuine free spirit? Or something else? He shouldn’t kid himself it was anything else.
“It’s a man.”
“Maybe that’s his real interest. He tried to explore.”
Time to call a halt, Charlie decided. “I’ll check Sasha. Say good night.”
“She’s okay.”
“I’ll still check.” Sasha was asleep, the Donald Duck string around her wrist. Charlie gently disentangled it and put it on the bedside table. Sasha snuffled but didn’t wake up. When he returned to the smaller sitting room, Irena had moved from the chair to the couch upon which Charlie had earlier sat. He momentarily considered the chair but went back to his original seat, although wedging himself in the corner farthest from the woman and half turning toward her.
Irena swiveled toward him, one leg crooked onto the seat, smiling
over the separating gap. “I won’t bite. Not unless I’m asked.”
over the separating gap. “I won’t bite. Not unless I’m asked.”
“Good.” What the hell was this all about? Careful against misinterpretation, he warned himself.
“What’s Natalia told you about me?” demanded Irena.
“Very little.”
“She hasn’t told me anything about you, either. So why don’t you?”
“Ask Natalia.”
“Why so shy?”
“I don’t want to bore you, like Saul seems to have done.”
“I don’t think you would.”
He lifted the bottle. Irena nodded. Once, thought Charlie, this might even have been fun. “How do you know I don’t keep an account book?”
“I’m usually good at judging men. Saul was a mistake.”
So what was Irena? A prick teaser or a pubic scalp collector? One was potentially as dangerous as the other, quite apart from the embassy connection. That wasn’t a danger, now that it was over. And he wasn’t interested in—didn’t want to answer—either of the other questions. “Maybe this is a mistake.”
“What?” The smile was quite open now.
“I think you are a very exciting woman. Beautiful,” said Charlie, who believed, without conceit, that he’d perfected sincere-sounding dishonesty into an art form. “At any other time I would have liked to have played these word games—every other sort of game—for a very long time. But I’m with your sister, whom I love. As I love Sasha. We’re wrongly met: wrong time, wrong circumstances. Lost opportunities … .” Jesus! thought Charlie. There should have been violin music for that last bit. “So it’s got to be just friends. Okay?”
Before Irena could answer, the telephone jarred into the room and Charlie thought, saved by the bell, and was right. He replaced the receiver and said, “Natalia’s on her way home.”
“No,” said Irena.
“No what?” frowned Charlie, momentarily lost.
“No, it’s not okay.”
Fuck you, thought Charlie. At once he corrected himself. No, I won’t, despite the obvious offer.
There is an elite group of men who observe with what can best be described as tolerance the comings and goings of political parties in what are described as democratic elections in the countries of the West. Invariably the word
secretary
appears somewhere in their title, which conveys totally the wrong impression of their absolute power and unparalleled influence, a misconception they foster because these are men who, if it were possible, would choose physically to be as invisible as they metaphorically are. It is they who, irrespective of briefly passing governments and electorally promised policies, ensure the stable passage of their respective countries through life’s stormy seas. Each is known personally to and operates with the other in a structure without name or written rules or constitution. It is enough that they
know
, which they do instinctively, without the need to explain to one another. They discuss.
secretary
appears somewhere in their title, which conveys totally the wrong impression of their absolute power and unparalleled influence, a misconception they foster because these are men who, if it were possible, would choose physically to be as invisible as they metaphorically are. It is they who, irrespective of briefly passing governments and electorally promised policies, ensure the stable passage of their respective countries through life’s stormy seas. Each is known personally to and operates with the other in a structure without name or written rules or constitution. It is enough that they
know
, which they do instinctively, without the need to explain to one another. They discuss.
Such a man was Kenton Peters, an urbane, cultured American aristocrat of such independent means that his salary always went automatically to charity, a man who joined the American State Department during the Nixon administration, which he felt never would have ended as it did had he been in control, and who was the first person an incoming secretary of state asked to see, upon arrival at Foggy Bottom, unaware that Peters had approved his appointment before it had been offered.
Another was James Boyce, whose family was traceable to the restoration of the English monarchy, which one or other of its members had loyally served ever since. Boyce himself had entered the British Foreign Office, of which he was now permanent secretary, during the late premiership of Edward Heath. Of all this special elite, throughout Europe and North America, Kenton Peters was the one with whom James Boyce preferred to operate—
work
would have been quite the wrong word—when the occasion demanded. It was Boyce who decided the Yakutsk murders were such a demanding occasion and made contact with Peters within an hour of the Russian message arriving at the Foreign Office.
work
would have been quite the wrong word—when the occasion demanded. It was Boyce who decided the Yakutsk murders were such a demanding occasion and made contact with Peters within an hour of the Russian message arriving at the Foreign Office.
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