It got worse the moment Lestov began talking, but the melee helped cover Lestov’s initial stammering, which quickly went. He was glad, said the militia colonel, that the Russian participation had been made clear at the earlier meeting. He could not understand why they had been excluded from that meeting. He could only assume a misunderstanding, which was unfortunate, or intentional obstruction,which would be curious and which he understood even less. He expected Moscow to ask the Yakutsk authorities for an explanation, Russian help having been very specifically asked for because of local investigative limitations. It was fortunate the working relationship with the two Western investigators had, by comparison, been so good. It was only when Lestov suggested that the Yakutsk militia commissioner might be able to explain the problem that Charlie became aware of Ryabov and Kurshin at the edge of the press pack. The attention and the cameras immediately switched to the word-blocked local police chief.
Vitali Novikov hadn’t moved from beside his car. Neither had Charlie. The pathologist said, “You’re going back immediately?”
Charlie said, “Yes.”
“I wanted more time!”
“There isn’t any.”
The pathologist swallowed, not immediately finding the words. Then, in a rush, he said, “Get us out: me and Marina and the boys. Please!”
“What have you got?”
“Get us out first.”
“Do you know the whole story?”
“Most of it.”
“You don’t, do you?” challenged Charlie.
“More than anyone else. I told you about the camp.”
Quickly Charlie passed the man his official card with his direct embassy number. “I will do everything I can.” It would surely be easy: Natalia worked in the very ministry necessary to grant permission.
“Get us out and I’ll give you everything.”
“You’d have to.”
There were two waiting demands from Raymond McDowell for his calls to be immediately returned when Charlie finally entered the hotel, warding off, as he walked, repeated demands for individual interviews and photo opportunities. His telephone was ringing as he entered his room.
McDowell said, “This is terrible!”
“No it’s not,” contradicted Charlie. Polyakov wouldn’t have canceled the monitor.
“London wants a full explanation at once.”
For the benefit of the listening public, Charlie said, “I’m sure they do. I think there should be an official note to the government here, asking for one.”
There was momentary silence. “What are you talking about?”
“Our calls are tapped!”
The silence this time was longer. “What’s happening?” asked McDowell, less stridently.
“I’m coming back tonight, on an American charter. With the body and what was found on it.”
“What shall I tell London?”
“That I’ll speak to them tomorrow. And to go on watching television.”
It took another $50 note to persuade the hotel receptionist to summon a taxi, which seemed to be collapsing as dramatically as most of the buildings they passed on their way to the airport. The two coffins were already there. The Aeroflot charter wasn’t. Its arrival was promised within thirty minutes.
Both Charlie and Miriam chose to remain in the luggage shed with the bodies rather than go into the hard-chaired, tobacco-fugged departure lounge. They didn’t find a lot to say. They were both alert to the entry into the shed of any vehicle or uniformed official, other than those handling the luggage of schedule flight passengers. Charlie thought his newspaper-wrapped uniform was better-packaged and — tied than a lot of the items that went by on the arthritic conveyor belt. Miriam hadn’t surrendered hers since bundling it up in the mortuary, either.
The charter was an hour late. Saul Freeman flurried officiously into the shed, immediately set off balance by Charlie’s presence beside a second coffin.
At once the FBI chief said, “There’s no agreement about this! We’ve got enough-”
“Saul!” stopped the woman. “Shut the fuck up. We’re getting out together. No discussion. Okay?”
Freeman looked hesitantly between Miriam and Charlie. “You’vegot to understand-” he tried, but again she cut him off.
“Saul! You’re not listening! Let’s get the coffins on the plane and the plane off the ground, while we’re still able. I’m sure you’ve got a great speech prepared and I can’t wait to hear it later. But later!”
There were some luggage handlers, none Asian-featured superstitious Yakuts, hovering and Charlie waved more $10 notes like flags at a parade. At once the coffins were loaded onto trolleys. Automatically Miriam and Charlie walked beside that for which they were responsible, each with a protective hand resting on the lid. There was only a very small passenger area beyond the hold, but neither Charlie nor Miriam looked for it until after the coffins were not just roped securely into their carrying space but the loading bay ramp was raised. Both finally sagged with the click of its lock.
“I want to know what went on-is going on!” demanded Freeman, when they finally pushed aside the curtain separating the cargo bay and slumped into canvas bucket seats.
“It’s a very long story that can wait,” said Miriam. “Charlie and I have a lot to talk about ourselves first, before we can make any sense of anything. So please, let’s wait until we can get our heads straight.”
“We’ve got people flying in from Washington, for Christ’s sake!” said Freeman, awed.
“Good,” said Miriam. “You brought anything to drink?”
“A little Jack Daniel’s,” admitted the Bureau chief, blinking.
Miriam held out her hand, unspeaking. From the briefcase beside his seat Freeman produced a bottle three-quarters full and when she remained with her hand outstretched followed with polystyrene cups.
Miriam drank deeply and, looking out of the window at the moment of takeoff, said, “It’s like being in one of those great escape movies.” She lifted her cup in a toast. “We made it!”
“I wasn’t sure we would,” admitted Charlie.
“For God’s sake, will someone tell me what’s going on?” implored Freeman.
“We got set up,” conceded Miriam, simply. “But out of ten I’d score our recovery at six.”
“That’s about right,” agreed Charlie.
“And we got our Unknown Soldier back. Both of them.” Miriamstretched out, pushing herself as far back in the stiff canvas as she could. “Now I’m pretty exhausted.”
“You’re happy for this to be your thing, is that right?” demanded Freeman, hopefully.
“I guess that’s it,” sighed Miriam.
“Your choice,” said the man. “It’s your ass.”
“I just made it,” said Miriam. “And the ass is intact.”
They all settled as best they could, trying to sleep, but Charlie was always subconsciously aware of being aboard a droning aircraft and gave up after about an hour. As he thrust himself up in his seat he became aware of Miriam sitting up, too. Freeman snored on.
They didn’t speak for a long time, their refilled cups in their laps. Finally Miriam said, “You know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think if some gal had something you needed badly enough to know and if to screw her was the way to get it, you’d screw her.”
Charlie said, “There a point to this conversation?”
“Don’t want you sitting in judgment on me, like you’ve got the moral high ground, Okay?”
“Okay,” said Charlie. There was a lot he liked about Miriam Bell.
“I thought he did something dull … something to do with trade!” said Irena. “Now I learn he’s …” she waved her hands across the dinner table, seeking a metaphor. Remembering a Russian-dubbed English series that had just ended on Moscow television, she finished, “A Sherlock Holmes!”