Dead Men Living

involvement from Natalia.

“Who?” queried Irena.

“Cartright. Richard Cartright. I’m a friend of Saul Freeman’s. Just arrived in Moscow and trying to make some friends here.”

“You at the American embassy?”

“No. The British.”

Irena smiled to herself. “What have you got in mind?”

“A drink? Dinner, maybe?”

“Sounds fun.”

10

The mortuary and the militia headquarters were part of the same gradually sinking administration complex: some of the corridors along which they silently followed the heavy-footed military commissioner noticeably inclined and even more steeply declined like the decks of a wallowing ship. The crepe-soled grip of the Hush Puppies helped and briefly Charlie’s hammer-toed feet were at peace.

Charlie was more than content with the day so far. No one else seemed to be. Charlie was happy about that, too. The most dissatisfied was Olga Erzin and the Russian forensic scientist, the woman because she’d been unable substantially to improve on the first autopsy findings, Lev Denebin because in the woman’s determination to find something the postmortems had occupied the entire day. Now it was almost six in the evening, too late to go out to the grave, which Denebin had pressed for since midday, to the visible annoyance of Yuri Ryabov, who’d refused to alter his prearranged schedule.

There was no clue to its normal use in the sag-windowed roominto which Ryabov led them. It was starkly bare except for a communal table against which the precise number of chairs were already arranged, with a separate table and chair for the solemnly waiting secretary. Charlie dismissed his predictable committee claustrophobia, for once, rarely, benefiting by being part of a group. During the protracted time it had taken Olga Erzin to complete her examinations, Charlie had openly studied the clothing and the pocket contents of both Russian and American victims, maneuvering the opportunity by inviting the others to do the same with the belongings of the Englishman, confident they’d miss a lot of what was significant to him. It was important now to discover precisely what they had learned. Even more important was finding out if there was something he’d missed.

So for the moment Ryabov’s tight orchestration was not to his disadvantage; in fact, it was even more to his advantage than anyone else’s, Charlie hoped. He didn’t have the slightest doubt that he had enough. But that wasn’t sufficient. It never was. Charlie wanted it all, each and every time.

“I hope we’ve learned from our first day’s work-made progress …” opened the police chief, from the very positively chosen head of the table. He looked challengingly at Lev Denebin, who sat, totally withdrawn, doodling on a pad, refusing to take any part in the meeting. Ryabov shifted his attention, going encouragingly toward the Russian pathologist. “And that work has been largely yours, I think?”

Quickly Charlie said, “I was very impressed by the detail of the original examinations, by Dr. Novikov. I’d certainly like to hear what additionally Dr. Erzin discovered.”

The Russian medical examiner fixed him with the cast-in-stone look that Charlie expected and didn’t care about. With what Charlie judged to be attempted-and doomed-to-failure-avoidance, the woman said, “I have to subject all the organs to appropriate scientific examination, which hasn’t yet been properly done …”

Charlie snatched an opportunity he hadn’t anticipated. “Which you will, over the coming days?”

Imagining an escape, the woman said, “It will be necessary to take everything back to Moscow for total analysis.” She smiled triumphantly.

“What about your preliminary findings?” pressed Charlie, smiling not at the woman but at the tightly attentive Vitali Novikov.

The woman’s triumph faltered. “Comparatively straightforward,” she conceded. “I believe, however, that there were burn markings to the skull fragments I extracted: that the gun was placed directly against the backs of their heads.”

Which I could have told you, thought Charlie. He said, “The preservation of the bodies is remarkable, though, isn’t it?” No one was opposing his taking over the meeting and Charlie was glad, needing to be the ringmaster. They probably expected him to disclose something in his apparent eagerness. Hope in vain, he thought.

“Yes?” agreed the woman, although questioningly.

“So you were able to secure fingerprints, despite the fact that they died so long ago?”

“Yes,” said the woman, again. The reluctance was obvious.

“And you also took photographs of the faces not distorted by rigor?” Charlie had much earlier realized that the fogging of some of Novikov’s earlier scene-of-crime pictures was caused by insects blocking the camera lens, not bad development. It was all going remarkably well, he decided. He could have written the script himself. In fact, he realized, at that moment that was virtually what he was doing.

“You saw me do it,” said the woman, impatiently.

“So we have made progress!” declared Charlie, using the police chief’s expression. “You will be able to let my American colleague and I have fingerprints and photographs-as they were when they died-of people we have to identify. That’s wonderful.”

Olga Erzin didn’t immediately reply, aware not just of what she’d been trapped into conceding but that she now had no way to avoid surrendering both. Tight-lipped, she said, “Yes.”

Charlie continued to smile, apparently grateful, in reality anticipating the coup de grace. “As notes are being taken of this meeting-which I know are going to be made as available as the fingerprints and the photographs-I think it should also be made clear that the previous examination by Dr. Novikov was totally thorough and complete, wouldn’t you say that, Dr. Erzin?”

“That is so,” conceded the verbally straitjacketed doctor.

Charlie said, “I’d like my appreciation to be recorded as being expressed on behalf of the British government.”

Novikov beamed and Charlie relaxed, satisfied. As asshole-crawling went, this had gone on long enough. He hoped he’d encouraged the local doctor beyond what the man had so far been willing to talk about.

“I think what primarily has to be established is whether, in your opinion, the male bodies are those of British and American nationals,” said Kurshin.

“I’m sure they are,” said Charlie.

“So am I,” agreed Miriam.

“Is there sufficient to identify them?” demanded Lestov, at once.

“It’s far too early to give any opinion on that,” refused Charlie.

“There’s more personally identifying material on the Englishman,” insisted Miriam.

Not bad, acknowledged Charlie; not enough to put him under any pressure, though. He said, “We’ve certainly got the initials of a name, from the inscription on the cigarette case. But that just gives us one very small needle in a huge haystack. There has been an obvious attempt to remove any identification, ripping out names from the uniforms and taking all the dog tags.” He waited for the challenge, although he hadn’t seen anyone examine the English victim’s inside trousers band.

“Why, I wonder, were any belongings left at all?” asked Ryabov.

If you genuinely do wonder, you shouldn’t be chief of police, thought Charlie. Instead of spelling out the significance-that their being left proved a motive other than personal robbery, an element of premeditation, and that the killings had nothing whatsoever to do with the Yakatskaya gulags, to whose prisoners the articles would have represented a fortune-Charlie said, “Panic, perhaps. They took the obvious identification, snapped neckties and hurriedly redressed the bodies, anxious to get away from the scene …” He was conscious of Miriam Bell looking curiously at him. “What do you think?”