Dead Men Living

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, mostprobably 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.

McDowell said, “This is terrible!”

“No it’s not,” contradicted Charlie. Polyakov wouldn’t have canceled the monitor.

“London wants a full explanation at once.”

For the benefit of the listening public, Charlie said, “I’m sure they do. I think there should be an official note to the government here, asking for one.”

There was momentary silence. “What are you talking about?”

“Our calls are tapped!”

The silence this time was longer. “What’s happening?” asked McDowell, less stridently.

“I’m coming back tonight, on an American charter. With the body and what was found on it.”

“What shall I tell London?”

“That I’ll speak to them tomorrow. And to go on watching television.”

It took another $50 note to persuade the hotel receptionist to summon a taxi, which seemed to be collapsing as dramatically as most of the buildings they passed on their way to the airport. The two coffins were already there. The Aeroflot charter wasn’t. Its arrival was promised within thirty minutes.

Both Charlie and Miriam chose to remain in the luggage shed with the bodies rather than go into the hard- chaired, tobacco-fugged departure lounge. They didn’t find a lot to say. They were both alert to the entry into the shed of any vehicle or uniformed official, other than those handling the luggage of schedule flight passengers. Charlie thought his newspaper-wrapped uniform was better-packaged and — tied than a lot of the items that went