Dead Men Living

developments. I gather from the Foreign Office you weren’t helpful.”

“I didn’t think I was supposed to be,” said Charlie, pleased with the character assessment. “What about the other one?”

“What other one?”

“There was someone else with Peters in Moscow. I didn’t get a name.”

“I don’t know anything about another man. And I’m glad you didn’t offer too much.

“The decision’s already been taken that their man is a hero, whatever he was doing or had done,” said Charlie. “They won’t want anything to spoil the story.”

“I know what they want,” said the other man, testily.

Charlie didn’t like the idea of manipulating Sir Rupert Dean, the first of a very long line of directors-general not to look upon him as if he’d crawled out of a primeval swamp. But it was for both their eventual benefits, although perhaps more for his than the director-general’s. Because Charlie was getting a very distinct impression that he was personally being very badly jerked around: His feet ached, which was always a sign. And a very important Charlie Muffin rule was always to be the manipulator, not the manipulated. As far as the director-general was concerned, it was more persuading the man to be receptive to alternative reasoning. “Seems pretty close to our thinking?” Not ours, yours, mentally adjusted Charlie, who hated prearranged plans or decisions that all too often in the past had rebounded dangerously close to his crotch. And this case had every hallmark of being the biggest ball-breaker ever.

“Which is why I’m being included in the Foreign Office discussions,” said Dean. “Coordinated intention.”

Everyone who might conceivably know something saying nothing about anything, one of those anonymous Whitehall gatherings playing verbal pass-the-parcel, guessed Charlie. He very definitely didn’t want-nor intend-to be the parcel. “So our position hasn’t changed?”

“At the moment our position is confused, not just by a gap of fifty years,” qualified Dean. “Sir Matthew has agreed not to make anypublic announcement. But naturally he wants to bury his brother properly: there’s a family vault. The Norringtons are a prominent dynasty: Sir Matthew got to be a permanent secretary to the Treasury in the sixties and early seventies. Left early for the city. On a Bank of England committee for a while before being seconded to the IMF in Washington. Came back to directorships of quite a few major companies. Stately home in Hampshire. Married three times with a penchant for actresses, which makes him a favorite with the media. He also gets a lot of coverage for opposing Britain’s entry into the European Monetary Union. The press will have a field day if it all gets out. And they’re already crucifying us.”

“How likely do you think it is that as well as being useful for his art knowledge Simon Norrington might have worked for military intelligence? Or SOE? Or MI6 …?”

“I’ve already made the list, Charlie. And the inquiries.”

“And then there’s the Ministry of Defense, who took over the War Office. None of which are acknowledging anything but all of which seem hugely interested in what we’re doing.”

“I know,” repeated Dean.

“There’s something you don’t yet know, from here,” said Charlie, preparing the director-general for the disclosure he couldn’t, at the moment, openly make because he wasn’t supposed to know it. “I’m pretty sure the Russians believe like I do that there was another Westerner at the murder.”

“Not based solely on a bullet caliber?” rejected Dean.

“There could be something else I didn’t see. Don’t know about.”

“What makes you think that?” demanded Dean.

“Their man, Lestov, is back from Yakutsk. We’ve already spoken on the telephone,” lied Charlie, easily. “He said he expected the breakthrough to come from England …”

“There has to be a reason for his saying that,” cut in Dean.

Charlie’s pause had been intentional, inviting the interruption. “Of course there has. That’s why I suspect there’s something I don’t know about. And won’t unless I offer something in exchange.”

“I’ve just told you there’s more reason than ever to keep everything under wraps.”

Charlie was disappointed, although Sir Rupert had sounded halfheartedabout it. If you don’t first succeed, try, try again, Charlie told himself. “Are the Americans going to be told who our victim was?”

“I’ll listen to what they have to say first.”

A sudden awareness of what Berlin could mean swept over Charlie, so encompassing that for a few moments he couldn’t totally absorb it. When he did, he decided at once it made as much logic-more, perhaps-as anything else so far. But it was completely unsubstantiated-nothing more than the wildest speculation-and most definitely nothing he could suggest to the already distracted director-general. From whom he still needed to extract far more than he had so far. He couldn’t afford to be sidetracked from the primary consideration of self-protection, which from now on always had to go beyond self to include Natalia and Sasha. Quickly Charlie went on, “Miriam Bell saw the waistband label, expects an identification from it. And their victim carried a photograph I didn’t see her find, either. Apparently it was taken with a girl against a background it might be possible to identify.” A big building, Charlie remembered-as likely to be a museum or an art gallery as a college. Whatever he did or knew, he was in uniform for a very special reason. Miriam’s words. There was the vague outline of a hidden picture beginning to form, thought Charlie, enjoying the pun. Still wrong to be sidetracked, although he was impatient now to think solely about his sudden theory.

“She seems to have been remarkably forthcoming?” queried Dean. “What did you tell her?”

Charlie frowned. “I’m trying to give some idea of what the Americans have-so you’ll know how honest they’re being when you meet. You already know I didn’t give anything back.”

“Point taken,” apologized Dean.

Getting there, Charlie thought, hopefully. “If Sir Matthew Norrington is a media figure, there’s the danger of this leaking. You reminded me about the media. And I’m sure the Russians have something I don’t.”

“Charlie!” stopped the director-general. “I hear what you’re saying. Understand it, too.”

“There’ll be no way to trace a leak!” protested Charlie.

“Don’t let it be traced to you, from anything you might say tothe Americans or the Russians,” insisted Dean. “Not a millimeter too far, Charlie. One slip, and to preserve this department I’ll push you the rest of the way. That clear?”

“Very,” accepted Charlie. He shouldn’t, he supposed, be offended at the bluntness. Indeed, he supposed he should appreciate it. At least this director-general was honest enough to tell him he was the first and prepared sacrifice. Others hadn’t. And he had the leeway he wanted.

“You have anything else to talk to me about?” asked Dean.

“Are there any details of how the Berlin body was identified as that of Simon Norrington?” pressed Charlie. It was a safe enough question, without giving any hint of how his mind was working.

“Not yet.”

“Have we asked for it?”

“We’ve asked for everything.”

Determined to leave the other man’s perception as he wanted it, Charlie said, “The body itself-particularly a recognizable face-would have suffered serious injury. So it could only have been from personal belongings. Which would have been returned to the family. Could we ask Sir Matthew what they were?”

“Maybe you should ask him yourself,” suggested the other man.

“What?” asked Charlie, sharply.

“I’m restricting the number of people who know all of what’s going on,” disclosed the other man. “You’re one of the few-certainly the only fully operational officer. I want you to handle it all from now on: here, Germany, America, wherever. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” accepted Charlie, keeping the reluctance from his voice. Very much the trussed and offered sacrifice, he thought. He couldn’t-wouldn’t-leave Natalia alone in Moscow at this stage of her ministry conflict. Nor- equally to protect her, to continue his life with her and Sasha-could he afford to let anyone else get ahead of him and risk his very future in Russia. Time to start using Charlie Muffin rules, which allowed eye-gouging and crotch- crunching. Allowed every dirty trick ever invented, in fact, providing he inflicted the damage first.