“But the Russians did it?” said Cartright.
“They returned a body,” lured Charlie. “I’m not sure they can be blamed for the murder.”
“Who else could have done it?” demanded McDowell.
“There wasn’t any law, order or anything else in Berlin at the time,” said Charlie. “It was a perfect place for a perfect murder. Don’t forget the second officer at Yakutsk. I’m keeping an open mind.”
“Did you tell London that?” asked Cartright.
Charlie shrugged. “No reason to fill their heads with theories I couldn’t substantiate.”
The three other men looked uncomfortably between themselves.
Cartright said, “You’re telling us. Why didn’t you tell them?”
“Because they’ve got to act upon what I tell them, so they need facts, not impressions. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t tell working colleagues something about which they’re not going to act, is there? I’ve got quite a few others I’m keeping to myself, too.”
“Like what?” pressed Cartright.
“It doesn’t matter,” refused Charlie. He only wanted to see how far one red herring would swim.
“What’s the general feeling in London?” asked McDowell.
“I don’t know about a general feeling. I don’t think my own department imagine I’ve got a clue which is why I’m going to surprisethem.” No reason why one red herring shouldn’t be channeled in the right direction.
Vitali Maksimovich Novikov stood slightly apart from his family, as if wishing to disassociate himself from them, his eyes moving toward anyone in uniform. His wife fidgeted tightly with their two sons, string-tied packs of belongings between them. The larger cases had already been loaded. No one talked. The elder boy, Georgi, looked constantly and unblinkingly at the arthritic indicator board. Everyone jumped at the sharp, metallic departure announcement.
Novikov joined his family at last. “Ready?”
Marina nodded, saying nothing. The boys began collecting the packages. Novikov had not put down a bulging briefcase since their arrival at the airport.
As they walked toward the departure ramp, Marina said, “We’re never coming back, are we?”
“Never,” promised Novikov.
“You haven’t forgotten anything?” the woman said, looking at the briefcase.
“Nothing.”
Natalia stared at Charlie, letting the shock show. “Why?” she demanded.
“All I want is a name. They’ll all be on file, won’t they?
“Why?” repeated Natalia, insistently.
“I am not going to trade currency,” said Charlie, equally insistent. “I just want the name of one of the biggest dealers, that’s all. Might be necessary to mislead someone who’s taking an irritating interest in me.”
33
Vitali Maksimovich Novikov kept the door on its security chain, easing it open just sufficiently to see it was Charlie. The man hesitated before opening it. As Charlie entered, the doctor said, “You are very quick.”
“So was your residency permission.”
“I meant we’re glad to see you,” said Novikov, instantly apologetic. “We never-”
“I know,” stopped Charlie. “But it
It was a wide but short entrance hall, leading directly into the one living room. Cases and tied bundles were piled in its center. Marina and the boys were grouped around their belongings, as if awaiting permission to unpack, still wearing the quilted outer coats that were normal for Yakutsk. It was another Napoleon day outside.
Charlie said, “Welcome to Moscow.”
“We didn’t expect it to be so big,” said Marina. Hurriedly, correcting an oversight, she said, “Thank you. We all want to thank you.” The boys on either side of her nodded.
A tiny kitchen was to the left, already furnished with a cooker and cupboards and a table, although only with two chairs. There was also a glass-fronted cabinet and a fabric-faded, wooden-armed settee in the living room. There was a door to the right that Charlie assumed to be to the one bedroom and wondered where the boys would sleep. The entrance hall was big enough, he supposed.
Aware of Charlie’s examination, Novikov said, “It’s a wonderful apartment. I’ve already met the concierge. He wants to sell me some allotment space in the garden at the back.”
The apartment was on the eighth floor of one of the Brezhnev-era blocks that ring Moscow-this one in the Lyublino suburb-like decaying teeth in need of treatment. Vegetable-growing allotment spaces came automatically with each flat, but Charlie decided against telling the doctor. There was nothing to be gained by alienating theconcierge by challenging his private enterprise. Novikov and his family had to learn for themselves how to live in the big city. He handed the Macallan whiskey to Novikov and offered the chocolates to the woman. “Housewarming presents,” he said.
The man said, “Thank you.” His wife accepted the box and said, “It’s all we ever seem to do, to thank you. There’s so much.” Her voice faltered. She swallowed heavily and said, “I’ll make some tea.”
“I feel numb,” said Novikov. “We all do.”
The man was blinking more rapidly than Charlie remembered. He said, “I kept my promise.”
“We both have,” said Charlie.
“Let’s talk in the kitchen,” invited the doctor, leading the way. It was cramped with the three of them in it until the two men sat facing each other across the table. Marina put their tea in front of them and left. At once, defensively, Novikov said, “I only ever told you I might be able to help.”
“I remember everything you told me,” said Charlie. “What is it you have?” At last, he thought. What would it be, all or nothing?
“My father was originally sentenced to Gulag 98.”
“You told me that, too.”
“Even after he was allowed to transfer to the town, he remained the camp doctor-”
“In 1945?” interrupted Charlie, impatiently.
“Yes.”
Charlie felt the stir of anticipation. “What did he tell you?”
“He didn’t
Charlie sipped his milkless tea, letting the man talk. How many missing pieces would Novikov have? Charlie said, “You read them all?”
“I’ve got them all,” declared Novikov, simply. “I’d not read every single entry. Never intended to, until the bodies were found. Then I did, for any reference to a camp near Yakutsk in 1944 and 1945. I knew Camp 98 existed, knew my father had been sentenced to serve there, but I never knew its exact location.”
“Got them?” echoed Charlie. “You mean you brought them with you, here to Moscow?”
Instead of answering, Novikov leaned beneath the kitchen table to a briefcase Charlie hadn’t been aware of until then. There was a marker in the scuffed hardback ledger the man lifted on to the table, rotating it for Charlie’s convenience. Novikov said, “The first date you need is May fourth, 1945. Read on from there.”
The brittle, easily split paper would have been the cheapest and the ink would probably have been watered to make it go further. It was already beginning to fade, in places quite badly, but the handwriting was legible, missing letters and words easily filled in where they had become unreadable.
