The phrase that came to Charlie’s mind was phony war, although it didn’t fit because he wasn’t going to allow a war between himself and Natalia, phony or otherwise. They were moving around the apartment, overly attentive upon Sasha, overly polite toward each other, with long periods of silence, as if each were expecting the other to fire the first shot.
It was, however, Natalia who proposed the armistice. “Angry?”
“No.” Charlie was on his second Islay malt of the evening, Sasha already asleep.
“What, then?”
“Disappointed.”
“It had to be this way: from our Foreign Ministry to yours, in London.” She shook her head to the wine he held up.
“I know that. You might just have mentioned something.” Charlie was, in fact, very angry, although not at Natalia. He’d timed the telephone lecture from Sir Rupert Dean at forty minutes, immediately followed by the promised memorandum, and after that there had been the personal visit from Richard Cartright with the insistence that he was sure they were all going to work together perfectly. Towhich Charlie had thought bollocks and said he was just as sure.
“I’ve got so much to mention I doubt I’ll remember it all,” said Natalia, turning his expression.
Charlie looked at her curiously. “Go on.”
“I’m not sure I can do it,” blurted Natalia. “That we can do it: keep secret what we have to. I’ve almost gone mad!” And she still didn’t intend to tell him everything.
“It might have helped to talk.” He was glad he hadn’t told her of Irena’s apparently brief affair with Saul Freeman. Glad, too, that there’d been no personal contact from the woman after that one night, which she’d hinted at when he’d walked her to the street-level door.
“Perhaps. I just wanted to do it this way. Try some separation, so that we couldn’t be professionally accused of anything.”
Charlie smiled at her sadly. “I know I was a shit before. But I’ll make you a solemn promise. I will never, ever, cheat you or use you or expose you to any risk I can possibly avoid. Or put Sasha at any risk.”
Natalia stayed silent for several minutes, changing her mind and pouring her own wine. “I believe you, about us.”
She didn’t, Charlie decided. She wanted to-maybe would come to, in time-but at the moment there was too much to forget. He took Sir Rupert Dean’s fax from his pocket and slid it across the table toward her. “Now it’s official, I suppose we can talk about it.”
She smiled, relieved it had been this easy, reading it slowly, not looking up for several minutes. “Those are all the facts there are?”
“Seems like it.”
“How do you feel about working with the SIS?” she asked, anticipating the answer.
“I don’t like working in groups. Cartright won’t be the only person.”
“It’s an order, Charlie,” said Natalia, at once worried.
“They won’t know that, will they? They might even have their uses.” He sipped his whiskey. “Read up on what I could about Yakutskaya, from the embassy library. Seems a hell of a place. There was an embassy assessment from here, in Stalin’s time, just at the suggestion of the gulags that was marked doubtful because the descriptions weren’t considered humanly possible.”
“Even though Stalin’s been denounced and disgraced, public records stay sanitized,” said Natalia.
“I won’t take a paperback and sun oil.”
Natalia refused the anxious flippancy. “Be careful.”
Charlie waited. When Natalia didn’t continue he said, “Everyone and his dog out to screw me?”
“I won’t let you be exposed to any risk I can possibly anticipate and prevent,” said Natalia, matching his earlier promise.
At once, urgently, Charlie shook his head. “Don’t anticipate for me! Let me anticipate for myself.”
“So you don’t trust me!”
“We’re not talking us!” insisted Charlie, “We’re talking gutter survival. I’ve been there: lived my life there. You haven’t, not operationally. Leave me to watch my own back, until I ask for help. That way there’s no confusion.”
In his opinion she couldn’t do without his help, but he could do without hers, judged Natalia. “There isn’t a score to even, Charlie.”
“I’m not balancing scores,” persisted Charlie, unhappy at her response. “This hasn’t anything to do with your not talking to me before now ….” He waved the London fax still lying between them. “You think the Americans got the same?”
“Positive.”
“So,” Charlie said patiently, although still with some urgency. “We’ve got fifty-year-old unreported, totally unknown murders of apparent English and American officers. We’ve got a hostile, probably obstructive local authority. We’ve got a resented Moscow intrusion. Without doubt someone involved from America. And in effect, I’m working under monitor ….” He paused, trying to imagine anything he’d left out. Unable to, he went on, “Each and every one of whom-with the possible exception of whoever America sends-will be trying to discredit each and everyone else. There’s no way, from a distance of three thousand miles, you could or can anticipate what will be going on. Not in a way to help me ….” He gulped at his whiskey, needing the pause. Who the fuck was going to help him, then? It was the worst possible scenario, a bunch-a committee-of disorganized, fractious, warring people. And committees-working with them, for them, being part of them-ranked on Charlie’s hate list equal to tight shoes, ice in single malt and the need constantlyto justify his expenses. Maybe, even, a little higher than all three.
“I wasn’t thinking of three thousand miles away,” said Natalia, quietly. “I was thinking about back here, in Moscow.”
Charlie drank some more whiskey, matching her seriousness. “I’d be grateful. And need it.”
Maybe she needed it more than him, thought Natalia. “I’m frightened, Charlie. Nothing’s working out as it should.”
“It hasn’t started yet!”
“I’m worried how it’s going to finish.”
Charlie responded before Natalia when Sasha cried out. He was back within minutes from the child’s bedroom, after resettling her. “She had a bad dream.”
“I’m having them, too,” said Natalia. “And they don’t go away when I’m awake.”
It was Charlie’s idea for he and Natalia to test their intuition one against the other by refusing any prior opinion of the Russian group with whom he would be going to Yakutskaya, not even to be told their names. It meant his going to the Interior Ministry totally unprepared, because there hadn’t been the prior contact he’d half expected from the American embassy and Charlie hadn’t called Saul Freeman: there was no benefit-not yet at least-and he certainly didn’t intend conveying even an impression of a joint operation, despite Sir Rupert Dean’s assurance that London and Washington had agreed on complete cooperation.
Charlie’s initial surprise on entering Petr Travin’s office was that it was Miriam Bell, the FBI chief’s deputy, and not Saul Freeman himself who was already there. She had a yellow legal pad on a primly crossed leg, the skirt of her severe business suit covering her knee. The blond hair was in a tightly coiled chignon. She gave the barest response to Charlie’s greeting. So, too, did the Russian pathologist and the forensic scientist at Travin’s introduction, but Vadim Lestov stood, smiled and insisted in experimental English that he was delighted to meet Charlie. Seemingly reminded, Travin said there was an interpreter available if necessary. Miriam said it wasn’t, ahead of Charlie.
“That, at least, might make things easier,” commented Travin. “At the moment very little else does.”
“I’d appreciate knowing what else there is, beyond what was sent to my State Department,” said Miriam.
The Ice Maiden Meets the Ice Mummies, thought Charlie, sitting back contentedly. Except that was hardly Miriam Bell’s reputation. According to Freeman, who enjoyed not only kissing but telling, she swore like the devil and was more than willing to use the body of an angel to each and every advantage. Although she did have a figure made for underwear commercials, it was in other ways he needed to know a lot more about her, decided Charlie. He wondered, idly, if Miriam had been as disappointed in Freeman’s fuck-by-numbers technique as Irena.
To the side of the huge room there were two stenographers and an operator at a recording machine. International crime-fighting cooperation, like justice, had to be seen to be done, Charlie supposed. During Alexei Popov’s unsuspected tenure of an office very similar to this there’d been vodka as well as tea from a traditional samovar for such encounters. But then Popov had hidden deceit behind friendliness.
“There were some belongings on the bodies but nothing that could identify them,” offered Travin.
“What?” demanded Charlie, bluntly, for the benefit of the record. When it was necessary Charlie was capable of Oscar award performances.
“Personal items: we don’t know what,” admitted the Russian, tightly.
“They’re not here?” persisted Charlie.
“No,” conceded the man, tighter still.
The first publicly recorded indication of difficulties to come, judged Charlie. Making his own intentionally awkward contribution, Charlie looked between Travin and Lev Denebin and said, “So you’re quite confident of the forensic facilities in Yakutsk?”
Denebin actually looked toward the note-takers before saying, “I don’t think I can say that at all! I don’t know … I mean I need to see … what’s there ….”
Charlie was conscious of Travin looking very intently at him. Charlie said, “I would have thought your facilities were better here in Moscow?” Until Denebin’s startled reaction, the three chosen Russians had been sitting relaxed, too obviously observers. So there’dbeen a separate, earlier blame-apportioning session. They should have been better rehearsed to prevent the preparation being so obvious.
Travin said, “The Yakut authorities appear to think it’s better for what was recovered to remain there.”
“So you did ask for it?” pounced Charlie.
“The inquiry is at a very early stage,” floundered Travin, trapped. “The concentration has been upon assembling an investigation team … advising your respective governments ….”
It was sufficient, decided Charlie, allowing the pause which Miriam Bell hurriedly filled. “Have the files been checked here for any records of an American or a British officer being in that region, which I understand to have been a closed part of the old Soviet Union?”
“Yes,” said Travin, grateful to escape. “Both Foreign and Interior Ministries. There is nothing officially recorded.”
“What about photographs of the bodies?” said Miriam.
Travin shifted uncomfortably. “Yakutsk have said there are some, with the other material.”
Colonel Lestov should have been asking questions, thought Charlie. More bad rehearsal. “What about prison records? Virtually all of Yakutskaya was a prison colony, wasn’t it?”
Travin’s face began to color. “It was. But the records are very inadequate. What do exist are being examined, naturally. There can be no question of British and American nationals being sentenced to this or any other region ….” His face began to clear, in realization of escape. “And as our advice to both your governments made clear, these officers were dressed in their military uniforms and carried some personal items, which would not have been allowed had they been prisoners ….” Too forcefully in his eagerness, the man finished, “So a search of records would be pointless.”
“But you are still looking?” insisted Charlie. “That’s what you said …?”
“What I’m trying to make clear is my government’s total commitment to investigate these murders.”
That very definitely was rehearsed, recognized Charlie.
Just as rehearsed, Miriam said, “I’ve been authorized to offer every facility on behalf of my government.”
Might as well go for broke with those busy little pens and recordingtapes scratching away, decided Charlie. “I appreciate, as I’m sure my American colleague does, the cooperation you’re offering. I, for my part, want it to be understood that I see my role as an observer-although prepared at all times to contribute in any way that I am asked-to a Russian investigation ….” He allowed a long pause. Come on! Come on! he thought, although not looking at Miriam.
“Yes,” came in the American, as if on cue. “That’s certainly how I see it, too.”
Travin nodded, to disguise the heavy swallow. “I see you all acting together as a team,” he tried. “We respect your ability. Don’t expect you to hold back to be invited to give an opinion. This is, in fact, going to be a unique investigation.”
The precise words Alexei Popov had used in this very same room about a year earlier, remembered Charlie. Popov had been a far more adept bastard than his successor. Still wrong to be too confident, too soon. Looking obviously at the note-takers, Charlie said, “I am impressed by the obvious efficiency with which this has all begun. I will, of course, make available copies of all my reports to London, for your murder dossiers. And would like copies of yours-including that of this meeting-to create my full file ….” He smiled sideways at Miriam. “That’s the sort of arrangement to which you’d agree, wouldn’t you?”
She said, “Yes. That sounds fine.”
Miriam Bell offered the drink and suggested the conveniently close Intourist Hotel and Charlie accepted, although he preferred the bar of the Savoy. After they were served, she said, “You want to tell me what that was all about back there?”
“Doing my best to prevent the back of my head from being blown off, like some poor bastard’s was fifty years ago.” If he’d added any more water to his whiskey after the barman’s adulteration, there wouldn’t have been any taste at all.
“Not enough,” she protested.
The bolted-door reserve wasn’t the earlier suspected arrogance, Charlie decided. It was get-all-but-say-nothing.
“Things go wrong, they want scapegoats. We’re it.”
“What if things go right?”
“Same role.”
“I thought Lestov seemed a nice enough guy.”
“We’ll see.”
“What about you and I?”
“No reason for us to work in opposition.”
“What about together?”
“Doesn’t seem there’ll be an alternative.” He gestured for more drinks, changing his to vodka: there wasn’t the need to dilute the cheaper local drink so much to get a three hundred percent markup.
“But if there was, you’d prefer it?”
“Don’t want anyone else to suffer from my mistakes.”
“Or suffer those of others yourself?”
“That’s about it.”
“I suppose it’s also being honest.”
He grinned at her. “You get the identity of your American first, it’ll most likely lead me to my man, won’t it?”
“I think I’ve got the rules.” She sipped her drink. She’d chosen vodka from the beginning. “Surprised it’s me, not Saul?”
“Yes.”
“He’s expecting to be called back to Washington any minute. Didn’t want to be off base. So I get the big chance.”
Jesus, thought Charlie: sneaky bastard didn’t lie any better than Irena described the way he fucked. Emptily he said, “That’s what we all need, the big chance.”
“This isn’t my first overseas assignment,” she said, in unasked defense. “I’ve worked Manila. And Tokyo.”
“But nothing like this before?”
“Is it too obvious?”
Charlie recognized the little-girl-lost ploy. “Not at all. You all set to go?”
“I guess.”
“Pack a lot of chiffon scarves.”
“What?”
“Chiffon scarves. Pack as many as you’ve got.” The protection he’d decided upon after reading about Yakutskaya had arrived from Harrods that morning, in the embassy’s diplomatic shipment. He could hardly wait for Gerald Williams to get the bill.
Charlie assessed his score at ten out of ten. He judged Travin to be working to a separate agenda, to which Natalia limited her agreement, but she did admit there’d been a much longer, separate briefing between her deputy and the three Russians, which was why they’d made the mistake of not asking questions. And the Yakut ruling council had refused to send any evidence in advance of the investigation team’s arrival.
“Travin’s furious,” said Natalia, delighted with the recorded outcome of the man’s encounter with Charlie. It could hardly have been better if she had told him the threat she believed herself to be under.
“He’s not very good.” It was unthinkable that he would make any comparison with Popov.
“Don’t underestimate him.”
“I don’t underestimate anybody, not this early in a case.”
“What about the woman?”
“What about her?”
“Think you’ll have a problem working with her?”
That wasn’t at all what Natalia meant, Charlie knew sadly. “I don’t work with people, if I can help it. But there’s every reason-every advantage-in cooperating here, until it proves otherwise. So I will ….” He was about to make a joke of her real concern but abruptly stopped himself, remembering the hurt of her past. Instead he continued, seriously, “And I seem to remember promising that I would never, ever, cheat you. And I meant cheat in every way. So no, I’m not going to try to seduce Miriam Bell. Or anyone else, for that matter ….”
Natalia smiled, abashed. “I’m sorry.”
So was he, decided Charlie. One day, he supposed, the trust would be there. He wondered when.
Vitali Maksimovich Novikov straightened triumphantly from the attic box, gazing down at what he considered the treasure it contained. His father had been a meticulous man. There had to be something.
“Good to hear your voice,” greeted Kenton Peters.
“And yours,” said Boyce.
“Everything’s in place this end. The confusion is absolute.”
“That’s good.”
“And I’ve spoken to the man himself.”
“How is he?”
“As overconfident as always.”
“I’m glad the Yakutskaya authorities are being awkward.”
So am I. Like to know a little more of their thinking, though.”
“We can’t have everything, James! Who’s your disposable man?”
“Odd name. Muffin. An awkward bastard, according to his file. Actually caused a lot of trouble in your CIA a long time ago. Embarrassed your director as well as our director-general.”
“Deserves to be punished, then.”
“Quite. You briefed anyone?”
“Selected him. Haven’t briefed him yet. Too early. Better send me Muffin’s file. That CIA business would be ‘enemy of the state’ justification.”
“Will do,” agreed Boyce. “I think we’ve got everything under wraps, don’t you?”
“Can’t think of anything we’ve overlooked.”