anyone as a friend?”
Again Norrington took his time. “There were things in the letters, but not until after he went back for the last time that December. I never knew who they were.”
“I want to put some names to you,” said Charlie, taking from his pocket the list from the Berlin group photograph. “I know it was a long time ago, but one might trigger something.”
“I doubt it. But let’s try.”
“Wilson?”
“No.”
“Allison?”
“No.”
“Larisa Krotkov?”
“Russian?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t ever remember him talking of working with Russians.”
“What about using the language?”
“No.”
“Smith?”
“No.”
“Raisa Belous?”
“She’s the woman found in the grave! The Russian woman?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose he must have known her, mustn’t he?”
“You don’t remember his ever mentioning her?”
“No.”
“Bellamy?”
“No.”
“Timpson?”
“No.”
“Dunne?”
“No.”
“Jacobson?”
“No.”
Silence fell between them.
Norrington said, “Who are they?”
“People I believe Simon worked with.”
“Where’d you get the names?”
“America,” said Charlie, which was close enough to the truth. “Some of them
“He worked with the Russian women, as well?”
“There was a connection. I don’t know what, not yet.” Would he ever? Charlie asked himself.
“I’m sorry,” apologized Norrington. He gestured over his shoulder, toward the two repacked boxes. “I know everything there by heart. If there’d been a hint, I would have recognized it. I was waiting for an obvious Scots name, for ‘Scotty.’” The man paused. “I’ve already spoken to Sir Rupert: told him what I told you, about my time limit.”
“What did he say?”
“That he hoped you’d meet the deadline.”
“So do I,” said Charlie.
“The media release brought the American woman back but not the Englishman?” demanded Nikulin.
“Yes,” said Natalia. There were just the two of them in the chief of staffs office. He’d served tea and sweetmeats.
“And he hasn’t been in contact?”
“Not since the day he left.” It had been a bad mistake for Charlie not to have telephoned Lestov.
“There’s no doubt that the button found in the grave was British?”
“None,” said Natalia, uncomfortably.
“They must know who the second man was: have an identity they want to hide.”
“Possibly.”
“Everyone knows Stalin was a monster, that the regime then is not the government of today. Why don’t we turn the announcement of this new discovery into the finding of the evidence of a second mystery Briton? Put pressure upon them? We could even keep our understanding of cooperation: tell London what we’re going to do, before we do it. And we’d have to tell them direct if their man isn’t here, wouldn’t we?”
Exposing Charlie to every sort of criticism, Natalia thought. How could she manipulate a delay? “I don’t understand how the woman, Larisa Krotkov, can have disappeared so completely.”
“You think you’re being blocked?”
“Yes,” exaggerated Natalia, eagerly.
“Then let’s see if the obstruction extends to the president’s office,” accepted Nikulin.
“Perhaps we should wait until we establish that-and a reason, if it is the case-before moving on the British idea?”
“Not for much longer,” determined the man. “So far we’ve been ahead in virtually everything. That’s how I want us to stay.”
On the other side of Moscow, Fyodor Ivanovich Belous nervously opened the door of his apartment only sufficiently to see it was Vadim Lestov, backed by a three-man squad.
“Don’t be shy, Fyodor Ivanovich,” said the militia colonel. “We’ve come back for a second look.”
29
The telephone was lifted at the first ring. A man’s voice, toneless and nameless, said, “Yes?”
Charlie said, “I understand you’re interested in a Lieutenant Simon Norrington, who died a long time ago a very long way from home.”
“Who is this?”
It would be a dedicated line and number, equipped for instant trace. But there would be no one in place and Charlie had chosen a telephone on the platform of the Euston underground station and estimated it would take them as much as thirty minutes, maybe more, to get anywhere near him. And by then he would have gone, as far as they were concerned, in any of a dozen different directions. “Someone else who’s interested.”
“Are you sure you’ve got the right number?”
Trying to prolong the conversation, to get the trace. All the buttons would have been pressed, everyone mobilized, waiting for the location. Charlie felt a flicker of nostalgia. “You tell me.” Charlie was timing the call: forty-five seconds so far.
“Where did you get this number?”
“It’s been left with quite a few people, hasn’t it?”
“Who gave it to you?”
“Someone who was as interested in Lieutenant Norrington as we are.” The Burbage identity would have only been on the card given to Sir Matthew and then logged personally against the baronet, the contact pseudonym providing an instant trace to the source.
“I meant the name of the person.”
“I know you did.”
