Dead Men Living

Kurshin, a fat, rumpled man who had little conviction about anything apart from the anaesthesia of vodka, said, “They look like wartime uniforms.” He couldn’t possibly be expected to solve something that had happened such a long time ago.

“This whole area was closed then, like Yakutsk,” reminded Novikov. His father, like Kurshin’s, had been exiled there during the Stalin era on trumped-up charges of political conspiracy. It had left both with an inferiority complex-an apprehension of authority-that both tried hard to conceal. Too often when he was drunk Kurshin wept for no apparent reason.

“It doesn’t make sense,” agreed the policeman, uncomfortably.

“This is too important for us,” judged Novikov, as anxious as his friend to avoid any accountability. He was a thin, nervous man whose blinking increased in proportion to his apprehension. It was very rapid at that moment. This would, he knew, attract the attention-maybe even the involvement-of faraway Moscow. Could there in some way be the salvation he almost maniacally dreamed of? Or the disaster that had overwhelmed his father?

“I know that, too. We’ve got to get everything right,” agreed Kurshin. He’d solved each of his eight previous murders because they had all been barroom brawls or mining camp disputes where the killers had either been standing over their victims or pointed out to him when he’d gotten to the scene. He’d had to shoot dead one man crazed from vodka, not mosquito bites. The first two shots had missed. The third had only hit because the man had lunged toward him.

“I intend to,” said Novikov. He checked to ensure his camera was loaded, even though he had put in the new film himself before leaving the mortuary. There weren’t any proper forensic facilities in Yakutsk. The two men were expected to provide their own.

The Kiriyestyakh group, as well as the two Yakut mortuary attendantswho’d come with Novikov, backed away from the grave roughly by the same distance that the medical examiner advanced toward it: a disturbed dense mass rose up toward him and before every exposure he had to shake the camera to dislodge the persistent cloud. Every print would be speckled. It couldn’t be avoided. He worked his way around the entire grave, taking a picture at each sideways step.

Behind him Kurshin made a rough sketch against which to put his measurements. It was a vaguely round, banked hole, the still partially earth-covered bodies at its lowest point. Several times the measuring tape came free of the stones with which he tried to tether it, so he had to repeat the process. It would have been pointless asking any of the withdrawn group to come closer to hold it in place. Reminded, he said, “I suppose I’ll have to touch the bodies as well as you to get the Eye before your people will take them out?”

“Of course,” said Novikov, surprised at the question.

“I’m being stung to death. It’ll be worse in there.”

“You shouldn’t have forgotten your hat and mask.”

“It doesn’t help to be told.”

There was a murmur from the watching Yakuts as Novikov stepped as delicately as possible into the grave, medical bag hanging from its strap over his shoulder. Flying things engulfed him, encroaching beneath his jacket and trouser cuffs. Bites began to burn their way up his arms and legs. Kurshin was right about it being worse inside the grave, even though it was far colder than he’d expected.

Kurshin, also under attack, said, “Let’s hurry.”

Novikov said, “We can’t afford to.”

The bodies were still frozen too solidly to intrude a thermometer into any part of either body from which Novikov would have normally attempted a reading. He laid the thermometer against the outside of each grimaced face. Flies and bugs were crawling in and out of the stretched-apart mouths and their faces were swollen and bumped from stings inflicted at their moment of death, unknown years before. Novikov took close-up photographs of the obvious wounds. The backs of both heads were totally gone, exposing brain pulp. In the center of each was a trajectory hole he hoped still contained the fatal bullet. He wrote E for English and A for Americanin his notebook and against the E recorded the twist of the man’s foot. It would, he guessed, be a green-bone ankle fracture, from the fall into the pit. Strangely the American’s spectacles were still perfectly in place, although the left lens was shattered. Novikov himself had taken the chance and worn his contact lenses, in which he preferred to work, although he had glasses in his medical bag. Normally at this time of year it was so cold that contact lenses froze in the eye, making them impossible to wear. He was the only person in Yakutsk who bothered with what was considered a pointless ophthalmic invention. He said, “It won’t be easy getting the Englishman into the van, with his arm thrust out like that.”

“How would that have happened?”

“Muscle spasm when he was struck by the bullet,” guessed Novikov. He tried but couldn’t open the Englishman’s tunic pockets. “I would have expected the clothing to have thawed by now.”

“You think they were prisoners of war?”

Novikov shook his head, deciding against telling even his best friend what he thought he knew and what he was thinking. Kurshin would have laughed at him, as he’d laughed before about the things he’d tried to do for Marina and the boys. “They’re too smart. Look! You can see the creases in their trousers. You want to get in here and touch the bodies, so we can get my people to move them?”

Waving his arms against a fresh insect upsurge, Kurshin stepped into the grave and tapped both corpses. Each was ice-cold and rock-hard. Looking back at the village headman, Kurshin said, “Moscow will have to be told.”

“Naturally.”

“Shouldn’t we leave the bodies here for Ryabov to see-be photographed looking at, perhaps?” Yuri Vyacheslav Ryabov was Yakutsk’s publicity-conscious, eager-to-pose militia commissioner.

“Fuck him,” said Novikov.

“You don’t have to rely on him like I do,” complained Kurshin.

“I don’t want animals eating at the bodies, even though it’s still going to be some time before they thaw,” said Novikov. He shouted to the two mortuary attendants, who reluctantly approached with stretchers.

Kurshin remained in the grave for the two Yakuts to see that hehad touched the bodies and attracted the bad spirits, before climbing out. He was halfway toward the road, pacing out its distance from the grave, when the shout came. He turned in time to see the two attendants scrambling out; one actually fled toward the Kiriyestyakh group. Kurshin ran back himself, unable at first to hear what Novikov was yelling from the hole.

“What?” Kurshin shouted, still some distance away.

“There’s a third body,” said Novikov. “It was covered by the other two. It’s a woman.”

Taking Sasha to the state circus, all part of Charlie learning fatherhood, had been wonderful, as it always was, but they’d had to stand in line for half an hour to get into McDonald’s, which was a long time for Charlie to stand comfortably. Neither Charlie nor Natalia had ordered food and now Charlie wished he’d chosen the cola instead of the coffee, which was awful. He pushed it aside. Trying to be philosophical, Charlie supposed a thirty- minute wait was practically moving at the speed of light for a Russian restaurant. And Sasha, her face greased by her cheeseburger, was enjoying it.

“I checked again,” announced Natalia. “There’s nothing on you apart from your appointment details.” Long before Charlie’s Moscow posting, Natalia had used her colonel’s rank within the then-existing KGB to expunge all Charlie’s records from the organization’s files, as Charlie had double-checked the embassy’s security archives against those in London to establish there was no file on Natalia.

Charlie looked sadly at her. “You already knew that.”

“Just wanted to be sure.”

“So now you are.” He’d badly misjudged how difficult it was going to be. Even Sasha seemed aware of her mother’s uncertainty.

Searching for a new topic, he said, “I didn’t know you had a sister.”

“We’re not close.” The letter from Irena had been among the mail she had collected from the apartment she still maintained in Leninskaya.

“What does she want?”

“Says she hasn’t been able to contact me. She flies for Aeroflot and brings things from abroad for Sasha.”

“What have you told her about Sasha?”