“Yakutsk,” supplied Charlie. “Yes, killed specially.” He straightened, refusing the maudlin drift. “There are some things that trouble me. Simon Norrington went into East Berlin on the first or second day of May? There’s a message you didn’t personally receive about his following up something there, and the next, at the end of the month, is that he’s been killed?”
“That’s as I remember it.”
“What about the squad that went into the east with him at the beginning of May?”
Parnell frowned. “I can’t properly remember, as I say. I wasn’t there. There was something about their coming back, but I can’t recall whether Simon was with them or not. Obviously he wasn’t.”
“Wasn’t there a need to keep in closer touch than that?”
“Apart from myself and one or two other officers, we were one of those gypsy units, chosen for a particular expertise-in this case a knowledge of art-and an investigatory ability. That’s why, officially, we came under the aegis of the Military Police and why there were so many civilian police officers seconded to us. It took me and other professional officers a long time to get used to it. In the end-certainly by the time we got to Berlin-there was an odd pride at being regarded as cowboys: it all went with the camaraderie of winning the war and of being part of a special unit.” He got to his feet, with difficulty, and went to a carefully arranged photographic display on a wall too far away for Charlie to have focused from where he sat. There was a startlingly clean square against the age- darkened wallpaper when Parnell took the photograph down to carry back to Charlie. “There we all are,” he said, proudly. “All thought we were pretty special then. Recovered a hell of a lot of stuff. Not enough, of course, but far more than we expected.”
The old man gazed nostalgically down at the photograph before handing it to Charlie. “There was a halfhearted attempt to keep in touch afterwards, but as I said, most of them were enlisted policemen, from all over the country, so it could never have really worked. It got down to exchanging Christmas cards and then gradually that stopped ….” There was another nostalgic pause. “As far as I know, Peter and I are the only two of the original team still alive.”
Parnell finally offered the print to Charlie. It was one of thosevaguely self-conscious group photographs, the officers in the foreground, the unit behind them. Parnell himself and Norrington were in the front, with two other officers flanking them. The five men whom Charlie recognized from the Berlin picture were lined behind. There were a further five whom he didn’t. Charlie said, “Which one’s Peter?”
The old man pointed to a saturnine, unsmiling man seated next to him in the picture.
“But he’s still alive?”
“He was three months ago. Saw him on television,
“What was he, in your unit?”
“Second-in-command, I suppose. Kind of self-appointed, actually, but he was a very able administrator. Incredibly hardworking.”
“Would he have been the person Norrington would have dealt with in May, when you were in Munich?”
“Possibly. Difficult to remember after all this time. I really think you’d stand more chance going back through the War Office records.”
“Of course,” avoided Charlie, again.
“What happened?” demanded the old man, abruptly. “To Simon, I mean. And the poor bugger who ended up in his grave. What was it all about?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
Parnell shook his head. “Murdered. Unbelievable.”
“You told me you knew Timpson?”
“Wonderful man. Not as personable as Simon, but they got on very well together. Timpson had the most terrible eyesight, but it didn’t seem to get in his way doing what he did. He and Simon were great friends. Always thought Simon had a great admiration for George: thought George was better at what he did than he was himself.”
“What about Dunne? Was he an art expert, too?”
Parnell shook his head. “Political adviser, like Peter. God knows why everyone thought it was so important to be politically correct: that was a phrase even then. He and Peter palled up, like Simon and George, as far as I remember. Can’t actually recall the going of them.”
Charlie said, “You’ve been very helpful.”
“Like to think it would help find whoever killed Simon,” said the former soldier. “How on earth could he and Timpson have been where they really were, in the middle of Russia?” Before Charlie could respond, Parnell said, in sudden awareness, “Whatever Simon said while I was in Munich would probably give you a clue, would it?”
“Yes,” agreed Charlie. “It probably would.”
Vadim Leonidovich Lestov was a clever man becoming cleverer with each passing day and had known from the moment of the first discovery how most quickly to break Fyodor Belous, a fervent Party zealot well aware-until now perhaps even an admirer-of how information could be extracted from an unwilling informer.
Lestov simply left the man in total, soundless isolation to feed off his own fear throughout the first night of his detention and most of the following day. Belous was also denied food or water or lavatory facilities, which made the interview distasteful because Belous had shit himself at least twice by the time he was led into the interview cell. Already laid out on the table between them were some prints, a small, single-framed icon, the oil portrait of a woman, what appeared to be a gold-framed religious triptych missing its third panel, a single gold-framed pastoral scene picked out in precious stones, two rings, both set with heavy red stones, and a ribbon-suspended medal. There were also four photographs. The first showed Raisa Belous at what was obviously an official ceremony, the medal on her chest. The second was of the woman alone, in front of the Catherine Palace. The third was of her with a blond woman featured in the first picture. And the last showed Raisa yet again with the woman and the American who had been found in the grave in Yakutsk. The American and the blond woman had their arms around each other, laughing, and Raisa appeared to be looking on approvingly.
The display was set out to face Belous when he sat down, whichhe did uncomfortably. Further to demean the man, Lestov exaggerated his disgust at the smell.
Belous said, “You can’t do this to me!” His voice was hoarse from dehydration.
“I am doing it,” Lestov pointed out, logically. “And I will go on, as long as it suits me.” He splayed his hand over what was set out on the table. “You’re obviously a thief. A burglar.”
“You know they’re my mother’s things.”
“Not if I want to jail you for ten, fifteen years I don’t. A thief, from a church or a museum.”
“They’re my mother’s!” repeated the man, whimpering.
“You recognize anyone in that first photograph, apart from her? I think I do. I think the man with the heavy mustache was most often known as Joseph Stalin. And the balding man next to him wearing glasses is Lavrenty Beria, who headed Stalin’s secret police, the NKVD. You recognize them, Fyodor Ivanovich?”
“It was when she was acknowledged as a hero of the Soviet Union.” He briefly touched the medal. “My grandparents told me.”
Lestov picked up the jeweled pictures. “Do you know where this was from?”
“The Catherine Palace. Part of the Amber Room.”
“Was there more?” persisted Lestov.
“I think there was. My grandparents sold things, to survive.”
“What have you sold?”
“Nothing!”
“Liar!”
The stinking man touched the two rings. “Just some jewelry, like this.”
“Do you know who the man is, in the picture with your mother and the other woman?”
“The American from the grave?”
Lestov nodded. “Why did you keep these things?”
