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.”
