Charlie sighed at the familiarity of a mountain of questions and a molehill of answer, not knowing the base camp of either. He hoped they wouldn’t be too difficult to locate. “But the body at Yakutsk was Simon Norrington?”
“Definitely,” said the director-general. “Sir Matthew personally identified it at the mortuary, not from after-death photographs. Gave us wartime pictures of his brother in his uniform to satisfy ourselves.”
“So who’s in the Berlin grave?”
“We’ve no idea,” said Dean. “We want to exhume it, of course.We’ve got to get a court order, but the War Graves Commission says Sir Matthew is still legally the recorded next of kin and wants his legally granted authority prior to a court application. And the lawyers are arguing about applying for that in camera, which we’ve got to do to prevent any news leak. The media pressure is bad enough as it is. God knows what it would be like if this became public.”
“What was Simon Norrington’s job after the War Office?”
“Tracing Nazi looted art,” announced Dean.
Mystery upon mystery, or the very slightest clarification? One step at a time, thought Charlie. “Needing a lieutenant’s rank, for the necessary authority?”
“Seems that way. One forty Provost Company was composed mostly of civilian police, with an occasional secondment of Foreign Office people. The police had the investigatory expertise, Norrington was the art expert.”
“How extensive is his War Office record?”
“There isn’t one.”
“What?”
“All this comes from the family.”
“This is bollocks.”
“I don’t like the word, but I agree the sentiment.”
“What I don’t like is that we seem to be all on our own.”
“Neither do I.”
Gulag 98 housed special prisoners, remembered Charlie. Artists and art historians would qualify as intellectuals. It was at least a fit, of sorts. It most definitely took that particular archive beyond guessed-at importance. Initially more so, perhaps, for Natalia than for himself. “Does the family have any idea what Norrington was supposed to be doing in Berlin? What he did anywhere, in fact, after 1943?”
“No,” said Dean. “It seems Norrington was fanatical about art recovery-was determined to restore everything he could to its rightful owners. But the family can’t offer much more than that. We’ve got a mystery twice as big as the one we already had, with even less chance of solving it.”
There wasn’t the frustration there should have been, Charlie determined. The secrecy intention, he guessed. “Have you met the American from Washington? Name’s Peters.”
“Kenton Peters,” filled out Dean. “I’m supposed to be seeing him either today or tomorrow, depending on developments. I gather from the Foreign Office you weren’t helpful.”
“I didn’t think I was supposed to be,” said Charlie, pleased with the character assessment. “What about the other one?”
“What other one?”
“There was someone else with Peters in Moscow. I didn’t get a name.”
“I don’t know anything about another man. And I’m glad you didn’t offer too much.
“The decision’s already been taken that their man is a hero, whatever he was doing or had done,” said Charlie. “They won’t want anything to spoil the story.”
“I know what they want,” said the other man, testily.
Charlie didn’t like the idea of manipulating Sir Rupert Dean, the first of a very long line of directors-general not to look upon him as if he’d crawled out of a primeval swamp. But it was for both their eventual benefits, although perhaps more for his than the director-general’s. Because Charlie was getting a very distinct impression that he was personally being very badly jerked around: His feet ached, which was always a sign. And a very important Charlie Muffin rule was always to be the manipulator, not the manipulated. As far as the director-general was concerned, it was more persuading the man to be receptive to alternative reasoning. “Seems pretty close to our thinking?” Not ours, yours, mentally adjusted Charlie, who hated prearranged plans or decisions that all too often in the past had rebounded dangerously close to his crotch. And this case had every hallmark of being the biggest ball-breaker ever.
“Which is why I’m being included in the Foreign Office discussions,” said Dean. “Coordinated intention.”
Everyone who might conceivably know something saying nothing about anything, one of those anonymous Whitehall gatherings playing verbal pass-the-parcel, guessed Charlie. He very definitely didn’t want-nor intend-to be the parcel. “So our position hasn’t changed?”
“At the moment our position is confused, not just by a gap of fifty years,” qualified Dean. “Sir Matthew has agreed not to make anypublic announcement. But naturally he wants to bury his brother properly: there’s a family vault. The Norringtons are a prominent dynasty: Sir Matthew got to be a permanent secretary to the Treasury in the sixties and early seventies. Left early for the city. On a Bank of England committee for a while before being seconded to the IMF in Washington. Came back to directorships of quite a few major companies. Stately home in Hampshire. Married three times with a penchant for actresses, which makes him a favorite with the media. He also gets a lot of coverage for opposing Britain’s entry into the European Monetary Union. The press will have a field day if it all gets out. And they’re already crucifying us.”
“How likely do you think it is that as well as being useful for his art knowledge Simon Norrington might have worked for military intelligence? Or SOE? Or MI6 …?”
“I’ve already made the list, Charlie. And the inquiries.”
“And then there’s the Ministry of Defense, who took over the War Office. None of which are acknowledging anything but all of which seem hugely interested in what we’re doing.”
“I know,” repeated Dean.
“There’s something you don’t yet know, from here,” said Charlie, preparing the director-general for the disclosure he couldn’t, at the moment, openly make because he wasn’t supposed to know it. “I’m pretty sure the Russians believe like I do that there was another Westerner at the murder.”
“Not based solely on a bullet caliber?” rejected Dean.
“There could be something else I didn’t see. Don’t know about.”
“What makes you think that?” demanded Dean.
“Their man, Lestov, is back from Yakutsk. We’ve already spoken on the telephone,” lied Charlie, easily. “He said he expected the breakthrough to come from England …”
“There has to be a reason for his saying that,” cut in Dean.
Charlie’s pause had been intentional, inviting the interruption. “Of course there has. That’s why I suspect there’s something I don’t know about. And won’t unless I offer something in exchange.”
“I’ve just told you there’s more reason than ever to keep everything under wraps.”
Charlie was disappointed, although Sir Rupert had sounded halfheartedabout it. If you don’t first succeed, try, try again, Charlie told himself. “Are the Americans going to be told who our victim was?”
“I’ll listen to what they have to say first.”
A sudden awareness of what Berlin could mean swept over Charlie, so encompassing that for a few moments he couldn’t totally absorb it. When he did, he decided at once it made as much logic-more, perhaps-as anything else so far. But it was completely unsubstantiated-nothing more than the wildest speculation-and most definitely nothing he could suggest to the already distracted director-general. From whom he still needed to extract far more than he had so far. He couldn’t afford to be sidetracked from the primary consideration of self-protection, which from now on always had to go beyond self to include Natalia and Sasha. Quickly Charlie went on, “Miriam Bell saw the waistband label, expects an identification from it. And their victim carried a photograph I didn’t see her find, either. Apparently it was taken with a girl against a background it might be possible to identify.” A big building, Charlie remembered-as likely to be a museum or an art gallery as a college. Whatever he did or knew, he was in uniform for a very special reason. Miriam’s words. There was the vague outline of a hidden picture beginning to form, thought Charlie, enjoying the pun. Still wrong to be sidetracked, although he was impatient now to think solely about his sudden theory.
“She seems to have been remarkably forthcoming?” queried Dean. “What did you tell her?”
Charlie frowned. “I’m trying to give some idea of what the Americans have-so you’ll know how honest they’re being when you meet. You already know I didn’t give anything back.”
“Point taken,” apologized Dean.
Getting there, Charlie thought, hopefully. “If Sir Matthew Norrington is a media figure, there’s the danger of this leaking. You reminded me about the media. And I’m sure the Russians have something I don’t.”
“Charlie!” stopped the director-general. “I hear what you’re saying. Understand it, too.”
“There’ll be no way to trace a leak!” protested Charlie.
“Don’t let it be traced to you, from anything you might say tothe Americans or the Russians,” insisted Dean. “Not a millimeter too far, Charlie. One slip, and to preserve this department I’ll push you the rest of the way. That clear?”
“Very,” accepted Charlie. He shouldn’t, he supposed, be offended at the bluntness. Indeed, he supposed he should appreciate it. At least this director-general was honest enough to tell him he was the first and prepared sacrifice. Others hadn’t. And he had the leeway he wanted.
“You have anything else to talk to me about?” asked Dean.
“Are there any details of how the Berlin body was identified as that of Simon Norrington?” pressed Charlie. It was a safe enough question, without giving any hint of how his mind was working.
“Not yet.”
“Have we asked for it?”
“We’ve asked for everything.”
Determined to leave the other man’s perception as he wanted it, Charlie said, “The body itself-particularly a recognizable face-would have suffered serious injury. So it could only have been from personal belongings. Which would have been returned to the family. Could we ask Sir Matthew what they were?”
“Maybe you should ask him yourself,” suggested the other man.
“What?” asked Charlie, sharply.
“I’m restricting the number of people who know all of what’s going on,” disclosed the other man. “You’re one of the few-certainly the only fully operational officer. I want you to handle it all from now on: here, Germany, America, wherever. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” accepted Charlie, keeping the reluctance from his voice. Very much the trussed and offered sacrifice, he thought. He couldn’t-wouldn’t-leave Natalia alone in Moscow at this stage of her ministry conflict. Nor-equally to protect her, to continue his life with her and Sasha-could he afford to let anyone else get ahead of him and risk his very future in Russia. Time to start using Charlie Muffin rules, which allowed eye-gouging and crotch-crunching. Allowed every dirty trick ever invented, in fact, providing he inflicted the damage first.
The temptation to be sidetracked, now by the thought of following the investigation outside Russia, was greater than ever, but Charlieforced the concentration totally upon the idea that had so abruptly occurred to him.
And the more Charlie thought-putting up and then knocking down the counterarguments-the more he became convinced that what had been taken from the Yakutsk bodies had not been stolen to prevent identification.
It had been to provide it, on the wrong bodies.
Which created practically a mountain range of new questions, this time without even the suggestion of a molehill. Where were the answers to start building one?
If he was right, then there had to be one, possibly two bodies in Berlin cemeteries carrying the identification of the other two Yakutsk victims: they’d died together, so their substitutes would have at least to be buried close to each other, to account for their deaths. From which it followed that the Yakutsk murders were not panicked, spur-of-the-moment killings, but the complete reverse: assassinations so carefully planned they amounted to a very positive and until now successful conspiracy. Neither had it been quick expediency to make a grave almost two meters deep by using grenades. Whoever had done that were local, with local knowledge that the tundra never melted to a depth of two meters. Which it hadn’t, for more than fifty years, until the onset of El Nino.
The logic continued that the local killers had never expected-and certainly never intended-the three victims to be found. If they’d anticipated that possibility, every identification would have been removed, possibly even the uniforms.
The key had to be Gulag 98, Charlie determined. To open the door to what? Norrington’s function was to trace art looted by the Nazis, about which he was fanatical. Were the special tweezers and magnifying glass that the sight-impaired American carried sufficient to suggest he was an art specialist, too? They were, for the moment, as far as Charlie was concerned. What about the woman: a specialist or an official escort? An unanswerable question for the time being, along with so many others.
Charlie stretched back in his chair, unconsciously fashioning another delta-winged paper plane. From what-or where-would come the proof, an indication that his supposition was at least worth considering? The most obvious would be finding bodies buried in Berlinin the names of the still-unknown American and Russian. A cul-de-sac, Charlie recognized. If either identity was uncovered-and shared after that-it would be from Washington or Moscow, not from any source available to him. Or was there a source? Norrington most definitely should not have been in Yakutsk. But for the man supposed to have been Norrington to be buried in Berlin surely proved the man should, officially, have been in the German capital. So in early 1945 there would have been a proper, filed in triplicate (or however many copies army bureaucracy required) order stating why he was there but hopefully-and at the moment more importantly-who he might have been with. If Norrington had been able covertly to go at least three thousand miles, possibly more, from where he was supposed to be, someone in Berlin had approved and known about it. The American was German-based, too, Charlie accepted, remembering the war-script D-marks among the dead man’s belongings.
Awareness piling upon awareness, Charlie recognized where he had to look not just for the American identity-maybe even the Russian woman’s, too-but for the second British officer who’d been at the Yakutsk murder. But would anything still be in Berlin? He hoped he had an advantage in the amount of time he’d spent and worked in the city over the Cold War years when, sometimes, he’d started out with less than he had now.
Charlie stirred, positively, with things to do, becoming fully aware of the absentmindedly constructed airplane. He launched it as he stood. It spun immediately into an arc and fell flat on its back. Charlie hoped it wasn’t an augury.
The archives of the British embassy in Moscow are part of its basement, which have been tanked with two insulation-separated brick walls to prevent the incipient dampness of the Moskva river from mildewing the documents stored there ahead of their eventual transfer to London. In addition, humidifiers are kept constantly running. The artificial light, the only source, is harsh. Despite the brightness, the curator, a diminutive, quickly moving man with spectacles pushed up into disordered hair, blinked a lot, like a furtive animal accustomed to living permanently underground.
The man, whom Charlie had not met before, pedantically insisted upon telephoning personnel to check Charlie’s authorization, appearingdisappointed when it was confirmed. He recovered the moment Charlie asked for any records of a Lieutenant Simon Norrington having been at the embassy in early 1945.
“Don’t have to look,” said the man, cheerfully. “Already have, for Colonel Gallaway. We don’t have anything.”
“When?” asked Charlie.
“Yesterday,” said the archivist. “Told Mr. McDowell and Mr. Cartright this morning, when they inquired. This man Norrington must have done something pretty unusual?”
“He did,” said Charlie. “He died where he shouldn’t have and ended up in the wrong grave.”
Cartright was standing in the corridor outside Charlie’s office when Charlie returned because there wasn’t enough room with McDowell and Gallaway already inside. Both men were staring down at the paper plane.
Charlie said, “Pilot error.”
That day they used McDowell’s office, which was larger than the military attache’s. The head of chancellery accorded Charlie the padded leather chair, ordered coffee and dolefully said, “Seems like we’re all getting involved in this affair.”
“I thought we already were,” said Charlie, studying each of them in turn over the rim of his coffee cup. McDowell was an apprehensive, first-tour diplomat frightened of any mistake, up to and including breaking wind at the ambassador’s cocktail party. Foreign Office instructions would be holy writ, never to be queried and certainly never modified by any personal initiative. Charlie had already judged Gallaway a military dinosaur mistakenly laid to rest in Moscow, which the Defense Ministry was now probably regretting but which could very definitely be to his advantage. The only uncertainty was Cartright, about whom he knew practically nothing but about whom he was most personally curious because of whatever was happening with Irena. Professionally Charlie was sure he could suck up the younger man and blow him out in bubbles and wondered if he’d have to. As he was sure he could the other two. To begin with, the use of each would be to relay back to their individual departments whatever he wanted circulated to mislead and confuse. And to make them responsible for everything and anything he considered personallyor professionally dangerous. The day was beginning to pick up very well indeed. With luck it could even get better.
“I don’t want to repeat myself,” encouraged Charlie, easily. “So it’ll help if I know what, between you, you’ve already got from London.”
The other three men looked among themselves. McDowell said, “I was simply asked what the embassy here had on an army officer named Simon Norrington.”
The other two nodded in agreement.
“Without any reason?” questioned Charlie.
“Just that he was the man in the grave,” said Cartright.
“But that he’s supposed to be buried in Berlin,” added Gallaway.
Wrong! decided Charlie, in belated realization. Cartright was MI6, which was responsible to the Foreign Office. So why the duplication to the head of chancellery? McDowell was a professional diplomat. And professional diplomats were always separated from each and every sort of intelligence field activity to avoid embarrassment. The molehill was taking shape. Returning to an earlier, possibly more immediately relevant thought, Charlie said to the military attache, “Now we’ve got a name, your people should be able to find Norrington’s service record easily enough?
“I’m not sure that they can,” said Gallaway. “It was a long time ago.”
How far could he take this? wondered Charlie. As far as possible, he decided. “They going to let you have it, if it’s found? It could be useful.” For me more than any of you, he thought.
“Why?” demanded Gallaway, a soldier checking the barricades.
“The Russians are more convinced than me that there was another British officer there when Norrington was killed.” Within twenty-four hours that would become established as a positive fact within every necessary Whitehall department, its source lost in the retelling.
“Oh, my God!” said Gallaway.
“That’s appalling,” said McDowell.
Still not sufficient reason for McDowell and Cartright to double up, Charlie decided. Concentrating upon the attache he said, “You’re in the hot seat, John. I’ll do all I can to help, obviously. But I do need everything you might get from your end. And let me warn you, John. Whitehall never makes a mistake: it’s always down to us poorbastards on the ground. We’ve got to look after ourselves, every time ….” He looked to Cartright. “Wouldn’t you say that?”
“Absolutely,” said the intelligence officer, at once.
Extending his hands, palms up, to include all three men, Charlie said, “For each of us to look after the other, you’ll have to pass on all the guidance you get from London so I’m not caught out with the Russians. Everyone prepared to go along with that?”
“I certainly am,” said Gallaway, eagerly.
“Me, too,” accepted McDowell.
Cartwright said, “It’s strictly between us and these four walls, right?”
What had he done to please God so much this day? thought Charlie. “That’s most important. None of you must show me to be your source. I won’t tell you anything that I’m not a hundred percent sure about.”
“Thank you,” said Cartright.
You won’t if I decide you’re trying to find out things about Natalia and I that don’t concern you, thought Charlie.
Charlie went as far as to suggest a records check on the wartime prison camps at Yakutsk, which Vadim Lestov agreed was worth considering instead of disclosing it was already under way, and Charlie openly wondered how a Western-caliber bullet had come to be in the Yakutsk grave, to Lestov’s shrugged insistence he had no idea. Charlie spent most of the time urging Lestov to release the photograph of the dead Russian woman, which he’d discussed at length with Natalia as a possible way of confirming Lestov’s appointment as her deputy: even if it achieved nothing, the publicity was guaranteed to convey the impression that the Russian was making a positive contribution.
Charlie also provided his written impression of the Yakutsk inquiry with only the waistband label omitted. Miriam only left out her discovery of the photograph and the fact that the dead American’s eyesight would have normally failed him for military service. In apparent exchange, the Russian handed over copies of the second autopsy report, virtually identical to that of the first, and announced that a photograph of the so-long-dead woman was being issued to Moscow television and newspapers in the hope of an identification.
They hadn’t before met in the deputy director’s suite, on the same floor as Natalia’s, whose closed door Charlie had seen on arrival. Only slightly smaller than Viskov’s, the room was ornately baroque and at least five times the size of Charlie’s. The homicide colonel hadn’t yet adjusted to such surroundings, actually on more than one occasion gazing around as if surprised to find himself there, which Charlie supposed he was. When Charlie asked directly about Petr Pavlovich Travin, the Russian detective said the man was otherwise engaged, which Charlie acknowledged to be an absolutely honest reply.
Miriam again suggested a drink as they left the ministry building and this time Charlie insisted upon the Savoy. He still hadn’t resolved the uncertainty of how much to tell the American of what had nagged him throughout the meeting. Simon Norrington’s identity would be known by at least three different officials from three separate Whitehall departments at the Foreign Office meeting with Kenton Peters, he reminded himself. And Miriam was his only possible Moscow source for the dead American’s name. Those who gave received, he told himself.
Miriam said, “You think Travin’s working on something good?”
“Could be,” said Charlie.
“Jesus!”
“Maybe you’ll have to try your very personal way to find out from Lestov?”
“Already in hand,” said the woman, quite seriously and unembarrassed. “You were far more open with him than I expected you to be.”
“Not really,” said Charlie, finally deciding.
Miriam was gesturing for the second round. She turned sharply back to Charlie. “What?”
“Heard from Washington on the picture?”
Miriam shook her head, but didn’t speak.
“It’ll have been taken outside an art gallery or museum,” he said.
“Go on.”
Charlie did, telling her about Simon Norrington, leaving out only the reference to Berlin.
Miriam finished her second drink before speaking and by then any astonishment had gone. Solemnly, slowly, she said, “You think we’re ever going to understand it all?”
“I don’t know,” admitted Charlie.
“I’ll tell you what I do know,” said Miriam, positively. “Something as complicated as this, there’ll be a lot of people very anxious that we don’t.”
Which is why I’ve thrown the stone into your pool, to see how far the ripples spread, thought Charlie. Had Natalia’s visa check not shown that Kenton Peters’s companion, whose name was given as Henry Packer, was still in Moscow, staying at the National Hotel, Charlie conceded he might just have missed the man’s too-hurried, attention-attracting move from the table of the hotel’s pavement cafe, although he preferred to think he’d have still gotten it. As it was, he didn’t hurry helping Miriam into her car and then strolling along Ohotnyj Rjad to the metro.
Over almost too long experience Charlie knew just how much of a surveillance nightmare the lofty, pillared and marbled halls of the Moscow underground could be, but today they were to his advantage. Within seconds of pulling himself behind one of the pillars, Charlie saw the open-eyed Packer fluster down the steps, looking wildly around, and chance getting on the train already at the platform, which would, in fact, take him in the opposite direction in which Charlie would normally have gone. Charlie went back up the stairs and into the Savoy bar again, with things to think about.
“He told you that he speculated in currency?” demanded Cartright, in the darkness.
“Boasted about it,” said Irena. He’d been very good, the best for a long time. The apartment was a disappointment, though, compared to Lesnaya.
“What about Natalia?”
“Something to do with pensions,” dismissed the woman. She hesitated. “You’re not going to tell anyone about Charlie, are you? Not to get him into trouble, I mean.”
“Not something I want to get involved in,” avoided Cartright, which was an honest answer. He’d taken a big enough risk, agreeing in the first place to help Gerald Williams without fully understanding a reason. Now he was dependent upon Charlie’s guidance and wasn’t sure he could risk that, either. It was a mess.
Irena was sure Cartright would. Which would teach the blabbermouthedCharlie-and Natalia, with her warning telephone calls-not to treat her like shit. The most appropriate word, she decided, smiling at the memory of the episode with Sasha.
Charlie and Natalia were still up in their apartment on the far side of Moscow. Natalia said, “You will have to go everywhere else, won’t you? Leave us?”
“Not until I can’t any longer avoid it,” promised Charlie. “Dean said today’s meeting ended as confused as it began, no one telling anyone else what their part of the story was.”
“What are you going to do, Charlie?”
“What I’ve always done. Look after myself.”
“Look after yourself?” challenged Natalia.
“Us,” corrected Charlie. A man with staring blue eyes came immediately to mind. The most worrying thing about Henry Packer was the ineptness of the surveillance. To someone of Charlie’s professionalism it was further proof that it was not the man’s real job. Charlie no longer had any doubt what that was.
“If it all does go wrong-and you’re dumped because of it-it’ll all be over for us here, won’t it?”
“But it wouldn’t be the end of the World,” qualified Charlie.
“No,” agreed Natalia. “It would just seem like it.”
“It’s only been days!” protested Charlie, urgently. The telephone had been ringing as he’d entered his office that morning. Afternoon in Yakutsk, he calculated.
“I have something about Gulag 98,” said Novikov.
“I could arrange for you to come to Moscow by yourself.” Even that would be a risk, Charlie accepted.
“Only with Marina and the boys. And with the residency permits.”
“I’m doing everything I can,” said Charlie.
“Make it soon.”
“As soon as I can.”