Dead Men Living

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.”

13

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 theywere 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