Charlie couldn’t believe that until that moment he’d never known Moscow and London used pensions for the same cover! So many learning curves. He said, “See? Nothing can happen to us.”
“I’m fed up with this conversation,” stopped Natalia. “Let’s eat.”
A completely sober Charlie continued playing the genially tipsy host but dropped the bombast, refusing to talk any further about imaginary illegal currency transactions or what his supposed job entailed, switching the conversation instead on to Irena. She responded with air stewardess anecdotes, some genuinely amusing, leading easily into Charlie’s demand about Irena’s love life, to Natalia’s stiff-faced concentration on her food and to Irena’s insistence that she wasn’t involved with anyone in particular. “Still looking for someone who lives in a palace.”
Charlie walked Irena to the street-level door, which she ignored when he opened it.
“I don’t give up when I’ve set my mind to something.”
“You’re going to have to this time.”
“We’ll see. Do I get kissed good night?”
“No.”
Natalia hadn’t moved from the table by the time Charlie returned. Looking steadily at him, she said, “Well!”
“She’s got a situation with Richard Cartright,” said Charlie. “You would have thought she’d have mentioned it, wouldn’t you?”
“I would have expected you to mention to me what the fuck you were doing.”
“Another silly word,” he tried, hopefully.
“Stop it, Charlie!” she refused. “Not telling me was stupid-ridiculous!”
“I didn’t want to rehearse you: make it look too obvious. But I should have said something, I know. Irena arrived before I expected her.”
“She’s not a nice person, Charlie.” She hesitated, looking directly at him. “She’s bound to talk to Cartright about us, isn’t she?”
“So what?” said Charlie, forcing the glibness.
“What if he tells London?”
“Why on earth should he? And what would there be to tell? That I’m living with someone who works for the Russian pension authority?”
“I thought this had been a good day,” said Natalia. “Now I don’t, not any longer.”
“I didn’t do very well with Sasha, did I?”
“It was a point in the relationship waiting to happen.”
“I hope it doesn’t again.”
“So do I,” said Natalia, although not referring to Sasha and Charlie. She’d call Irena, she decided: call her and warn the bitch that there wasn’t going to be a repetition of what had happened with Konstantin. Which wasn’t Natalia doubting Charlie. It was her awareness of her sister’s determination.
“There’s something important I want you to do,” said Charlie.
Natalia listened, her face furrowed into a deep frown. “You want me to check if he officially saw anyone at our Foreign Ministry?”
“No. Just use the name Peters to trace that of the other man. The visa should give us a hotel, shouldn’t it?”
“Miriam said he’d gone.”
“I just want to make sure he has.”
“What could he be here for?”
“I don’t know,” lied Charlie.
When he arrived at Morisa Toreza at eight the following morning, there were already two demands from Sir Rupert Dean on Charlie’s voice mail.
The director-general said, “The name of your man is Simon Norrington. He was the elder son, thirty-one when he died, of Sir William Norrington. The younger brother, Matthew, automatically inherited the title upon the death of his father. And is still alive-”
“What was-” tried Charlie, but Dean talked over him.
“According to the family, Simon Norrington graduated with a Double First in fine art from Oxford University in 1932. He was attached to the War Office from 1940 as liaison with de Gaulle’s Free French forces. He was seconded in 1943 to 140 Provost Company, a specialized unit officially part of the military police, with the rank of lieutenant, to provide the necessary authority for what he had to do-”
“Which was?” tried Charlie again.
“
20
Charlie sighed at the familiarity of a mountain of questions and a molehill of answer, not knowing the base camp of either. He hoped they wouldn’t be too difficult to locate. “But the body at Yakutsk
“Definitely,” said the director-general. “Sir Matthew personally identified it at the mortuary, not from after- death photographs. Gave us wartime pictures of his brother in his uniform to satisfy ourselves.”
“So who’s in the Berlin grave?”
“We’ve no idea,” said Dean. “We want to exhume it, of course.We’ve got to get a court order, but the War Graves Commission says Sir Matthew is still legally the recorded next of kin and wants his legally granted authority prior to a court application. And the lawyers are arguing about applying for that in camera, which we’ve got to do to prevent any news leak. The media pressure is bad enough as it is. God knows what it would be like if this became public.”
“What was Simon Norrington’s job after the War Office?”
“Tracing Nazi looted art,” announced Dean.
Mystery upon mystery, or the very slightest clarification? One step at a time, thought Charlie. “Needing a lieutenant’s rank, for the necessary authority?”
“Seems that way. One forty Provost Company was composed mostly of civilian police, with an occasional secondment of Foreign Office people. The police had the investigatory expertise, Norrington was the art expert.”
“How extensive is his War Office record?”
“There isn’t one.”
“What?”
“All this comes from the family.”
“This is bollocks.”
“I don’t like the word, but I agree the sentiment.”
“What I don’t like is that we seem to be all on our own.”
“Neither do I.”
Gulag 98 housed special prisoners, remembered Charlie. Artists and art historians would qualify as intellectuals. It was at least a fit, of sorts. It most definitely took that particular archive beyond guessed-at importance. Initially more so, perhaps, for Natalia than for himself. “Does the family have any idea what Norrington was supposed to be doing in Berlin? What he did anywhere, in fact, after 1943?”
“No,” said Dean. “It seems Norrington was fanatical about art recovery-was determined to restore everything he could to its rightful owners. But the family can’t offer much more than that. We’ve got a mystery twice as big as the one we already had, with even less chance of solving it.”
There wasn’t the frustration there should have been, Charlie determined. The secrecy intention, he guessed. “Have you met the American from Washington? Name’s Peters.”
“Kenton Peters,” filled out Dean. “I’m supposed to be seeing him either today or tomorrow, depending on
