For that reason Charlie waited for Polyakov to speak, but unexpectedly it was Miriam who broke the angry silence. “That was monstrous!
I am going to make a full report to my embassy in Moscow. Ask that protests are made from my State Department in Washington.”
Wrong, thought Charlie. There was no threat in that: Polyakov, who’d caused the offense, was the same man who’d sit in judgment upon any diplomatic complaint about it. Don’t get sore, get even, remembered Charlie, calling upon another dictum. What other advantages were there? The eavesdropping was a definite advantage there: a signpost to follow, in fact. He’d told McDowell and Gallaway he was getting nowhere—probably never would—and the listening Polyakov had believed him. The bastard would never have chanced a trick like the one he’d just pulled if he’d known Charlie’s bullshit was going to be spread thicker than his. The benefits were stacking up. What else? He had the official release of the body and possessions snug in his inside pocket. Important to ensure those possessions, including the uniform, weren’t picked over by anyone else. There were the lists, of course, carefully prepared by Vitali Novikov. But the local medical examiner had not been able to read the English lettering of the cigarette case inscription, so the danger was minimized there.
Insufficient for a total recovery, assessed Charlie objectively. Publicly—in Moscow and London and Washington—it would still probably be regarded as an unmitigated debacle requiring his head on a pole. If he stood any chance at all of keeping it instead on his shoulders, he had to solve all the mysteries, not make up any more. But not here, at this precise moment. At this precise moment he had verbally to manacle Valentin bloody Polyakov as effectively as the victims they were trying to identify. And Charlie thought he could do it. Calmly, conversationally—no longer, in fact, furious—he said, “You should have told us: prepared us for what you were going to do back there.”
“I achieved all I wanted.”
Charlie discerned the faint doubt. Shaking his head, he said, “Maybe if you’d been more forthcoming we could have helped you make it better.” He refused to answer Miriam’s abrupt look, willing her not to say anything, make any interruption, until she understood what he was doing.
“What do you mean?” demanded Polyakov.
“I mean that both of us have been aware from the beginning that all our contacts with Moscow have been monitored,” said Charlie, easily. “Which is why we’ve said nothing to indicate our thinking or what we’ve already been able to decide. But most importantly there’s been no discussion, either, of what was discovered in London or Washington before we came here. Or what’s been shared by Moscow.”
The other man’s uncertainty was obvious now. “I want to know everything about this Nazi business!”
“After what happened this morning, I don’t feel at liberty to tell you,” said Charlie. “As far as I’m concerned, that’s something you’ll have officially to approach London about.”
“And Washington, as far as I am concerned,” came in Miriam, once more following in Charlie’s footsteps.
“Your being allowed here was on the understanding of complete cooperation,” threatened Polyakov, inadequately.
“That was our understanding, too.” Charlie nodded in the direction of the just-left room. “There wasn’t much evidence of complete cooperation in there. And I expect London to be outraged that what were official discussions between myself and my embassy were monitored.”
“Washington, too,” endorsed Miriam again. “I think the whole episode was extremely unfortunate. You would probably have been able to avoid a great deal of embarrassment by first discussing the claims and accusations you made today.”
Careful, thought Charlie worriedly.
Polyakov said, “I demand to know everything that’s been discovered elsewhere!”
“I have to refer you to London,” said Charlie. “Or my embassy in Moscow.”
“You are both here with my permission: under my sufferance,” further threatened the bearded chief minister. “It’s I who have to authorize the release of the bodies and their effects.”
Charlie thought Polyakov and Stalin would have gotten on well together. He said, “You told us earlier you’d already been in contact with London and Washington, agreeing that. We were photographed being given the official release papers.”
Polyakov’s face began to burn.
Sure of herself—of Charlie’s script—Miriam said, “This really could get most unpleasant. My embassy has an aircraft on standby to recover our national. I think everything is out of our hands now. Any decision to hold the bodies will be taken on a diplomatic level.”
The man was close to being out of his depth, Charlie guessed. His mind still on limitation, Charlie said, “I agree. I regret—and I feel sure my government will very much regret—what occurred today. At my level—the level of the investigation—I think it would be most unwise if the media for whose invitation you are responsible were allowed any more information or facilities than they already have been given. That’s as far as I feel able to go, guiding you about what’s known elsewhere about this case.”
“I can’t add to that,” said the woman.
The television teams had, of course, brought satellite communication equipment and the conference was instantly syndicated by their respective stations to be seen worldwide during the course of the day.
In London Sir Rupert Dean turned to his assembled committee and said, “Charlie Muffin will need a damned good explanation for this!” For Gerald Williams it was a superhuman effort not to speak or keep the satisfaction from his face.
In Moscow, McDowell, Gallaway and Cartright looked between each other in matching incredulity. Gallaway said, “Oh, my God!”
McDowell said, “I’ve got to speak to the bloody man,” but at once corrected himself. “No. I need to speak to London.”
And in the Lesnaya apartment Sasha said, “That’s Daddy. What’s he talking about?”
“I don’t know,” said Natalia. Their situation had never stood a chance of succeeding, not from the very beginning.
“Inconceivable!” protested James Boyce.
“Definitely a need for some close control: find out what the dangers are,” said Kenton Peters. “Sounded awfully like your man knew something he shouldn’t.”
“And your woman, too,” said Boyce. “Yakutsk itself was always our greatest weakness: a problem if the bodies were discovered, not knowing ourselves precisely where the grave was. Never in a million years expected it would melt like that.”
“Do you think Muffin is getting too close?”
“I’ve absolutely no way of knowing, not until he gets back to Moscow. I’ll get a full account then,” said Boyce.
“I think I should go personally,” said Peters. “Best you stay clear: more to lose in some ways with your man still living. And I’ve got a presidential problem because the damned idiot acted without consulting me, which is unforgivable.”
“You stopping by on your way?” asked Boyce.
“Think it’s best if I go to Moscow first. Assess the degree of danger on the ground.”
“Probably the better idea,” agreed Boyce. Heavily he said, “You going alone?”
“Muffin has to be identified,” reminded Peters. “It’ll be the ideal opportunity.”
“Try to make it on your way back,” urged Boyce. “Putting the boat in the water at the weekend.”
“That sounds nice.”
It was Miriam who suggested, “What was on the bodies and the clothes?” and Charlie said, “Yes” and they went directly from the encounter with Valentin Polyakov to the mortuary. It was several minutes before either realized that with the local militia officers acting as tour guides to the visiting media, they were alone and unchaperoned.
“I
am
going to look like Frankenstein’s bride on film,” complained the woman.
“I’d probably pass as Frankenstein’s creation as well, two dummies together.”
“I’m sure Ryabov would have warned me if he’d known.”
“Too late now.”
Miriam said, “How much of what you told the media was kosher, how much bullshit?”
“Bullshit that fit,” said Charlie.
“You think Polyakov bought the line afterwards?”
“Most of it. It helped, you picking up as you did.”
She shrugged. “We’re in a hell of a mess, aren’t we? You see a way out?”
“Solving everything, with no embarrassments to anyone, would be a start.”
“So would a cure for cancer,” she said.
“You really got a plane on standby?”
“Small cargo freighter, chartered from Aeroflot. This thing’s getting a lot of play back home. Secret Grave of the Unknown Soldier, that sort of thing. Good bandwagon for a president with falling poll ratings to get on board.”
“Any chance of sharing?” Charlie was panting, climbing up and down tilting corridors. He wished she wouldn’t walk so fast.
“That’s what I keep asking you, remember?” avoided Miriam, making a point.
“What did you get out of Ryabov and Lestov?” Charlie countered.
“Nothing out of Ryabov, apart from the eavesdropping, which I’d guessed anyway. All he wanted was to get into my pants. That was Lestov’s main aim, too. But he was prepared to trade, to get there. Olga didn’t get anything extra from the autopsies and is pissed about it. Denebin got a lot of metal out of the grave, apparently.”
“Grenades,” identified Charlie, simply.
Miriam stopped, turning to look at him. “Grenades!”
“That’s how the grave was made, the quickest way, throwing two or three grenades one after the other at the same place,” said Charlie, grateful for the chance to rest his feet. “And they were either German or Russian. The grenades both used, during the war, had wooden handles: they could be thrown farther than the British and American pineapple type. I saw Denebin pick up quite a lot of burned wood fragments.”
“You sure about grenades? You’re not still bullshitting?”
Charlie began walking again. “No bullshit. Anything else?”
“You think there was?” fenced Miriam.
“Denebin picked up a shell casing. And I think the bullet that killed the woman.”
“You expect them to tell us that?”
“No.”
“Were you going to tell me?”
“Depends what you had to trade,” replied Charlie, honestly. And she did have a convenient plane.
“That magnifying glass and the tweezers are specialized, not the sort stocked by a 7-Eleven or whatever convenience stores were called that long ago: Woolworth’s I guess. Our laboratories in Washington might be able to narrow down the sort of thing they were used for. Give us a specialization.”
“He was very definitely a specialist,” agreed Charlie. It would be picked up by American forensic examination anyway and there wasn’t anything to be gained holding it back from her. “The one unbroken lens in his spectacles was particularly thick. Your labs will be able to establish the degree of impairment, but he’d never have passed an army medical with eyesight as bad as his. He was in uniform because there was a special need for whatever he did.”
“I missed that,” admitted Miriam, unoffended. “What about the uniform?”
“It didn’t tell me anything. Again, your forensic people might get something.”
“It wasn’t tailored to fit, not like your guy’s,” said the American. “I checked the measurements. I guess our officers didn’t go in for that sort of stuff.”
Charlie hadn’t seen her do that. It helped having a sounding board to bounce off and the echoes were coming back loud and clear. “I don’t suppose they did.”
“Would there have been a name on the label ripped out from your guy’s jacket?”
“Yes,” said Charlie, waiting for the challenge.
Nothing came. Instead Miriam said, “Shit. Think how easy it would have made things.”
“I already have,” assured Charlie.
“If my guy had special talents, it follows that yours would have had, too, doesn’t it?”
“I guess so,” agreed Charlie, cautiously.
“So they were killed
because
of their expertise?”
“What they were here to use it for,” qualified Charlie, glad they
were approaching the mortuary. “You didn’t say whether there was room on your plane.”
“I wouldn’t leave my worst enemy in a place like this longer than I had to.”
They were as surprised at all three Russians being in the cramped and inadequate mortuary laboratory, with Novikov closely attentive, as the Russians appeared to be at their arrival. Charlie at once remembered Denebin’s requested use of the facility and just as quickly accepted that the forensic examination, such as was possible, of the grave contents was the obvious place
for
all three to be. He and Miriam, too. The shock-haired scientist appeared to be clearing up when they walked in, a second specimen satchel in addition to the one he’d used at the scene already securely buckled.
“All over, then?” greeted Charlie. “Anything interesting?”
Denebin didn’t respond. Instead Lestov said, “What happened?” The attitude was hostile.
“We were totally conned,” admitted Miriam. Succinctly, missing nothing but not elaborating, either, she recounted Valentin Polyakov’s stage-managed performance, frequently quoting the chief minister verbatim, which Charlie noted. He listened and watched with one hip lodged on a laboratory bench to ease his feet, intent upon the Russians. Olga’s face was the most readable, instant anger, washed away just as quickly by dismayed awareness that the television coverage guaranteed Moscow seeing it. Even the normally enigmatic forensic scientist shifted beside his samples, his irritation needing movement, although his features remained unmoving. Only Lestov showed any objectivity.
“He didn’t mention us: give a reason for our not being there?”
“Charlie did,” said Miriam. Just as succinctly she paraphrased Charlie’s responses. Before she finished, Charlie was the sole object of attention.
“Where’s your evidence for all this special wartime prisoner conjecture?” Denebin demanded.
“Doesn’t what you recovered from the grave support that supposition?” Charlie came back, never the poker player to miss the chance to bluff.
“No,” denied the man.
Miriam was determinedly silent, recognizing the game. Vitali Novikov’s eyes were everywhere, seeking guidance and not getting it. Lestov and the other pathologist were equally lost but concealed it better.
“What contradicts it?” demanded Charlie. The other man was playing well.
“What supports it?” matched Denebin.
“It was a nine-millimeter bullet, wasn’t it?” tempted Charlie.
“No. It …” blurted Denebin, too intent, before realizing the admission.
“That certainly knocks my theory,” said Charlie, in apparent defeat. “What
was
the caliber?”
“The bullet was too badly distorted for me to be certain,” said the scientist. “A lot of it had splintered against a rock.”
Show-your-hand time, decided Charlie. “But the casing you recovered—what was it, from that fourth section of the grave you taped off?—that wasn’t damaged at all as far as I could see.”
Denebin stared directly at Charlie for several moments, red-faced, throat moving. There was no sound or movement from anyone else. Even the insect buzz seemed subdued. Finally the forensic scientist said, “It was .38.”
“Now, that
really
means I’ve misled everyone, doesn’t it? But gives us a lot more to think about. What conclusion have you reached about that?”
“I haven’t,” said the Russian, tightly, seemingly aware for the first time of their audience.
It should all be downhill from now on, Charlie thought. “What about the shrapnel? You must have a theory about that? So much of it?”
“A bomb of some sort.”
“Several small bombs? Grenades, for instance?”
“Possibly.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Charlie. It was always essential to get a positive confirmation. It wouldn’t have taken them long to realize that neither German nor Russian handguns of the Second World War fired .38 bullets, but without the significance of the torn-out trouser band label it would just be an additional mystery, most
probably dismissed as having come from a captured Western weapon. And still would be because he didn’t intend telling them. He turned to Novikov, offering the release papers. “Could we call the American embassy from here, get the aircraft on its way?”
“You’ve finished?” The pathologist frowned.
“No,” said Charlie. “We’ve scarcely started.”
Miriam emerged from Novikov’s office and said, “Saul is already on his way here with the plane. All hell’s broken loose.”
The transportation coffins were remarkably well made, but Novikov, embarrassed, couldn’t find anything better than newspaper to wrap the uniform. To keep the recovered contents safe, Charlie put them back into tightly buttoned pockets and folded the clothing in upon itself. Miriam did the same. It was all completed quickly enough for the Russians to wait and accept Novikov’s offer to drive them all back to the Ontario.
The ambush—particularly the already-setup television cameras—was visible some way from the hotel.
Olga at once said, “No!”
Lestov turned to Charlie, ignoring her. “It happened just as you told us?”
“Exactly how Miriam said,” assured Charlie.
“Then yes!” insisted the homicide detective.
They were briefly engulfed as they got out of the car, and Charlie swallowed against laughing. There clearly hadn’t been sufficient graveside protection and everyone was gargoyle-faced from bites and stings, some more bubbled and bumped than Miriam had been at her worst. One very badly swollen TV reporter was making a point of his appearance in a live introduction: Charlie heard “hell on earth” and decided the country-proud Valentin Ivanovich Polyakov was going to be a very pissed off chief minister and that the bastard deserved it.
It got worse the moment Lestov began talking, but the melee helped cover Lestov’s initial stammering, which quickly went. He was glad, said the militia colonel, that the Russian participation had been made clear at the earlier meeting. He could not understand why they had been excluded from that meeting. He could only assume a misunderstanding, which was unfortunate, or intentional obstruction,
which would be curious and which he understood even less. He expected Moscow to ask the Yakutsk authorities for an explanation, Russian help having been very specifically asked for because of local investigative limitations. It was fortunate the working relationship with the two Western investigators had, by comparison, been so good. It was only when Lestov suggested that the Yakutsk militia commissioner might be able to explain the problem that Charlie became aware of Ryabov and Kurshin at the edge of the press pack. The attention and the cameras immediately switched to the word-blocked local police chief.
Vitali Novikov hadn’t moved from beside his car. Neither had Charlie. The pathologist said, “You’re going back immediately?”
Charlie said, “Yes.”
“I wanted more time!”
“There isn’t any.”
The pathologist swallowed, not immediately finding the words. Then, in a rush, he said, “Get us out: me and Marina and the boys. Please!”
“What have you got?”
“Get us out first.”
“Do you know the whole story?”
“Most of it.”
“You don’t, do you?” challenged Charlie.
“More than anyone else. I told you about the camp.”
Quickly Charlie passed the man his official card with his direct embassy number. “I will do everything I can.” It would surely be easy: Natalia worked in the very ministry necessary to grant permission.
“Get us out and I’ll give you everything.”
“You’d have to.”
There were two waiting demands from Raymond McDowell for his calls to be immediately returned when Charlie finally entered the hotel, warding off, as he walked, repeated demands for individual interviews and photo opportunities. His telephone was ringing as he entered his room.