department, its source lost in the retelling.
“Oh, my God!” said Gallaway.
“That’s appalling,” said McDowell.
Still not sufficient reason for McDowell and Cartright to double up, Charlie decided. Concentrating upon the attache he said, “You’re in the hot seat, John. I’ll do all I can to help, obviously. But I do need
“Absolutely,” said the intelligence officer, at once.
Extending his hands, palms up, to include all three men, Charlie said, “For each of us to look after the other, you’ll have to pass on all the guidance you get from London so I’m not caught out with the Russians. Everyone prepared to go along with that?”
“I certainly am,” said Gallaway, eagerly.
“Me, too,” accepted McDowell.
Cartwright said, “It’s strictly between us and these four walls, right?”
What had he done to please God so much this day? thought Charlie. “That’s most important. None of you must show me to be your source. I won’t tell you anything that I’m not a hundred percent sure about.”
“Thank you,” said Cartright.
You won’t if I decide you’re trying to find out things about Natalia and I that don’t concern you, thought Charlie.
Charlie went as far as to suggest a records check on the wartime prison camps at Yakutsk, which Vadim Lestov agreed was worth considering instead of disclosing it was already under way, and Charlie openly wondered how a Western-caliber bullet had come to be in the Yakutsk grave, to Lestov’s shrugged insistence he had no idea. Charlie spent most of the time urging Lestov to release the photograph of the dead Russian woman, which he’d discussed at length with Natalia as a possible way of confirming Lestov’s appointment as her deputy: even if it achieved nothing, the publicity was guaranteed to convey the impression that the Russian was making a positive contribution.
Charlie also provided his written impression of the Yakutsk inquiry with only the waistband label omitted. Miriam only left out her discovery of the photograph and the fact that the dead American’s eyesight would have normally failed him for military service. In apparent exchange, the Russian handed over copies of the second autopsy report, virtually identical to that of the first, and announced that a photograph of the so-long-dead woman was being issued to Moscow television and newspapers in the hope of an identification.
They hadn’t before met in the deputy director’s suite, on the same floor as Natalia’s, whose closed door Charlie had seen on arrival. Only slightly smaller than Viskov’s, the room was ornately baroque and at least five times the size of Charlie’s. The homicide colonel hadn’t yet adjusted to such surroundings, actually on more than one occasion gazing around as if surprised to find himself there, which Charlie supposed he was. When Charlie asked directly about Petr Pavlovich Travin, the Russian detective said the man was otherwise engaged, which Charlie acknowledged to be an absolutely honest reply.
Miriam again suggested a drink as they left the ministry building and this time Charlie insisted upon the Savoy. He still hadn’t resolved the uncertainty of how much to tell the American of what had nagged him throughout the meeting. Simon Norrington’s identity would be known by at least three different officials from three separate Whitehall departments at the Foreign Office meeting with Kenton Peters, he reminded himself. And Miriam was his only possible Moscow source for the dead American’s name. Those who gave received, he told himself.
Miriam said, “You think Travin’s working on something good?”
“Could be,” said Charlie.
“Jesus!”
“Maybe you’ll have to try your very personal way to find out from Lestov?”
“Already in hand,” said the woman, quite seriously and unembarrassed. “You were far more open with him than I expected you to be.”
“Not really,” said Charlie, finally deciding.
Miriam was gesturing for the second round. She turned sharply back to Charlie. “What?”
“Heard from Washington on the picture?”
Miriam shook her head, but didn’t speak.
“It’ll have been taken outside an art gallery or museum,” he said.
“Go on.”
Charlie did, telling her about Simon Norrington, leaving out only the reference to Berlin.
Miriam finished her second drink before speaking and by then any astonishment had gone. Solemnly, slowly, she said, “You think we’re ever going to understand it all?”
“I don’t know,” admitted Charlie.
“I’ll tell you what I do know,” said Miriam, positively. “Something as complicated as this, there’ll be a lot of people very anxious that we don’t.”
Which is why I’ve thrown the stone into your pool, to see how far the ripples spread, thought Charlie. Had Natalia’s visa check not shown that Kenton Peters’s companion, whose name was given as Henry Packer, was still in Moscow, staying at the National Hotel, Charlie conceded he might just have missed the man’s too-hurried, attention-attracting move from the table of the hotel’s pavement cafe, although he preferred to think he’d have still gotten it. As it was, he didn’t hurry helping Miriam into her car and then strolling along Ohotnyj Rjad to the metro.
Over almost too long experience Charlie knew just how much of a surveillance nightmare the lofty, pillared and marbled halls of the Moscow underground could be, but today they were to his advantage. Within seconds of pulling himself behind one of the pillars, Charlie saw the open-eyed Packer fluster down the steps, looking wildly around, and chance getting on the train already at the platform, which would, in fact, take him in the opposite direction in which Charlie would normally have gone. Charlie went back up the stairs and into the Savoy bar again, with things to think about.
“He
“Boasted about it,” said Irena. He’d been very good, the best for a long time. The apartment was a disappointment, though, compared to Lesnaya.
“What about Natalia?”
“Something to do with pensions,” dismissed the woman. She hesitated. “You’re not going to tell anyone about Charlie, are you? Not to get him into trouble, I mean.”
“Not something I want to get involved in,” avoided Cartright, which was an honest answer. He’d taken a big enough risk, agreeing in the first place to help Gerald Williams without fully understanding a reason. Now he was dependent upon Charlie’s guidance and wasn’t sure he could risk that, either. It was a mess.
Irena was sure Cartright would. Which would teach the blabbermouthedCharlie-and Natalia, with her warning telephone calls-not to treat her like shit. The most appropriate word, she decided, smiling at the memory of the episode with Sasha.
Charlie and Natalia were still up in their apartment on the far side of Moscow. Natalia said, “You will have to go everywhere else, won’t you? Leave us?”
“Not until I can’t any longer avoid it,” promised Charlie. “Dean said today’s meeting ended as confused as it began, no one telling anyone else what their part of the story was.”
“What are you going to do, Charlie?”
“What I’ve always done. Look after myself.”
“Look after yourself?” challenged Natalia.
“Us,” corrected Charlie. A man with staring blue eyes came immediately to mind. The most worrying thing about Henry Packer was the ineptness of the surveillance. To someone of Charlie’s professionalism it was further proof that it was not the man’s real job. Charlie no longer had any doubt what that was.
