Dead Men Living

The temptation to be sidetracked, now by the thought of following the investigation outside Russia, was greater than ever, but Charlieforced the concentration totally upon the idea that had so abruptly occurred to him.

And the more Charlie thought-putting up and then knocking down the counterarguments-the more he became convinced that what had been taken from the Yakutsk bodies had not been stolen to prevent identification.

It had been to provide it, on the wrong bodies.

Which created practically a mountain range of new questions, this time without even the suggestion of a molehill. Where were the answers to start building one?

If he was right, then there had to be one, possibly two bodies in Berlin cemeteries carrying the identification of the other two Yakutsk victims: they’d died together, so their substitutes would have at least to be buried close to each other, to account for their deaths. From which it followed that the Yakutsk murders were not panicked, spur- of-the-moment killings, but the complete reverse: assassinations so carefully planned they amounted to a very positive and until now successful conspiracy. Neither had it been quick expediency to make a grave almost two meters deep by using grenades. Whoever had done that were local, with local knowledge that the tundra never melted to a depth of two meters. Which it hadn’t, for more than fifty years, until the onset of El Nino.

The logic continued that the local killers had never expected-and certainly never intended-the three victims to be found. If they’d anticipated that possibility, every identification would have been removed, possibly even the uniforms.

The key had to be Gulag 98, Charlie determined. To open the door to what? Norrington’s function was to trace art looted by the Nazis, about which he was fanatical. Were the special tweezers and magnifying glass that the sight-impaired American carried sufficient to suggest he was an art specialist, too? They were, for the moment, as far as Charlie was concerned. What about the woman: a specialist or an official escort? An unanswerable question for the time being, along with so many others.

Charlie stretched back in his chair, unconsciously fashioning another delta-winged paper plane. From what-or where-would come the proof, an indication that his supposition was at least worth considering? The most obvious would be finding bodies buried in Berlinin the names of the still-unknown American and Russian. A cul-de-sac, Charlie recognized. If either identity was uncovered-and shared after that-it would be from Washington or Moscow, not from any source available to him. Or was there a source? Norrington most definitely should not have been in Yakutsk. But for the man supposed to have been Norrington to be buried in Berlin surely proved the man should, officially, have been in the German capital. So in early 1945 there would have been a proper, filed in triplicate (or however many copies army bureaucracy required) order stating why he was there but hopefully-and at the moment more importantly-who he might have been with. If Norrington had been able covertly to go at least three thousand miles, possibly more, from where he was supposed to be, someone in Berlin had approved and known about it. The American was German-based, too, Charlie accepted, remembering the war-script D-marks among the dead man’s belongings.

Awareness piling upon awareness, Charlie recognized where he had to look not just for the American identity-maybe even the Russian woman’s, too-but for the second British officer who’d been at the Yakutsk murder. But would anything still be in Berlin? He hoped he had an advantage in the amount of time he’d spent and worked in the city over the Cold War years when, sometimes, he’d started out with less than he had now.

Charlie stirred, positively, with things to do, becoming fully aware of the absentmindedly constructed airplane. He launched it as he stood. It spun immediately into an arc and fell flat on its back. Charlie hoped it wasn’t an augury.

The archives of the British embassy in Moscow are part of its basement, which have been tanked with two insulation-separated brick walls to prevent the incipient dampness of the Moskva river from mildewing the documents stored there ahead of their eventual transfer to London. In addition, humidifiers are kept constantly running. The artificial light, the only source, is harsh. Despite the brightness, the curator, a diminutive, quickly moving man with spectacles pushed up into disordered hair, blinked a lot, like a furtive animal accustomed to living permanently underground.

The man, whom Charlie had not met before, pedantically insisted upon telephoning personnel to check Charlie’s authorization, appearingdisappointed when it was confirmed. He recovered the moment Charlie asked for any records of a Lieutenant Simon Norrington having been at the embassy in early 1945.

“Don’t have to look,” said the man, cheerfully. “Already have, for Colonel Gallaway. We don’t have anything.”

“When?” asked Charlie.

“Yesterday,” said the archivist. “Told Mr. McDowell and Mr. Cartright this morning, when they inquired. This man Norrington must have done something pretty unusual?”

“He did,” said Charlie. “He died where he shouldn’t have and ended up in the wrong grave.”

Cartright was standing in the corridor outside Charlie’s office when Charlie returned because there wasn’t enough room with McDowell and Gallaway already inside. Both men were staring down at the paper plane.

Charlie said, “Pilot error.”

That day they used McDowell’s office, which was larger than the military attache’s. The head of chancellery accorded Charlie the padded leather chair, ordered coffee and dolefully said, “Seems like we’re all getting involved in this affair.”

“I thought we already were,” said Charlie, studying each of them in turn over the rim of his coffee cup. McDowell was an apprehensive, first-tour diplomat frightened of any mistake, up to and including breaking wind at the ambassador’s cocktail party. Foreign Office instructions would be holy writ, never to be queried and certainly never modified by any personal initiative. Charlie had already judged Gallaway a military dinosaur mistakenly laid to rest in Moscow, which the Defense Ministry was now probably regretting but which could very definitely be to his advantage. The only uncertainty was Cartright, about whom he knew practically nothing but about whom he was most personally curious because of whatever was happening with Irena. Professionally Charlie was sure he could suck up the younger man and blow him out in bubbles and wondered if he’d have to. As he was sure he could the other two. To begin with, the use of each would be to relay back to their individual departments whatever he wanted circulated to mislead and confuse. And to make them responsible for everything and anything he considered personallyor professionally dangerous. The day was beginning to pick up very well indeed. With luck it could even get better.

“I don’t want to repeat myself,” encouraged Charlie, easily. “So it’ll help if I know what, between you, you’ve already got from London.”

The other three men looked among themselves. McDowell said, “I was simply asked what the embassy here had on an army officer named Simon Norrington.”

The other two nodded in agreement.

“Without any reason?” questioned Charlie.

“Just that he was the man in the grave,” said Cartright.

“But that he’s supposed to be buried in Berlin,” added Gallaway.

Wrong! decided Charlie, in belated realization. Cartright was MI6, which was responsible to the Foreign Office. So why the duplication to the head of chancellery? McDowell was a professional diplomat. And professional diplomats were always separated from each and every sort of intelligence field activity to avoid embarrassment. The molehill was taking shape. Returning to an earlier, possibly more immediately relevant thought, Charlie said to the military attache, “Now we’ve got a name, your people should be able to find Norrington’s service record easily enough?

“I’m not sure that they can,” said Gallaway. “It was a long time ago.”

How far could he take this? wondered Charlie. As far as possible, he decided. “They going to let you have it, if it’s found? It could be useful.” For me more than any of you, he thought.

“Why?” demanded Gallaway, a soldier checking the barricades.

“The Russians are more convinced than me that there was another British officer there when Norrington was killed.” Within twenty-four hours that would become established as a positive fact within every necessary Whitehall