“What was Simon Norrington’s job after the War Office?”
“Tracing Nazi looted art,” announced Dean.
Mystery upon mystery, or the very slightest clarification? One step at a time, thought Charlie. “Needing a lieutenant’s rank, for the necessary authority?”
“Seems that way. One forty Provost Company was composed mostly of civilian police, with an occasional secondment of Foreign Office people. The police had the investigatory expertise, Norrington was the art expert.”
“How extensive is his War Office record?”
“There isn’t one.”
“What?”
“All this comes from the family.”
“This is bollocks.”
“I don’t like the word, but I agree the sentiment.”
“What I don’t like is that we seem to be all on our own.”
“Neither do I.”
Gulag 98 housed special prisoners, remembered Charlie. Artists and art historians would qualify as intellectuals. It was at least a fit, of sorts. It most definitely took that particular archive beyond guessed-at importance. Initially more so, perhaps, for Natalia than for himself. “Does the family have any idea what Norrington was supposed to be doing in Berlin? What he did anywhere, in fact, after 1943?”
“No,” said Dean. “It seems Norrington was fanatical about art recovery-was determined to restore everything he could to its rightful owners. But the family can’t offer much more than that. We’ve got a mystery twice as big as the one we already had, with even less chance of solving it.”
There wasn’t the frustration there should have been, Charlie determined. The secrecy intention, he guessed. “Have you met the American from Washington? Name’s Peters.”
“Kenton Peters,” filled out Dean. “I’m supposed to be seeing him either today or tomorrow, depending on developments. I gather from the Foreign Office you weren’t helpful.”
“I didn’t think I was supposed to be,” said Charlie, pleased with the character assessment. “What about the other one?”
“What other one?”
“There was someone else with Peters in Moscow. I didn’t get a name.”
“I don’t know anything about another man. And I’m glad you didn’t offer too much.
“The decision’s already been taken that their man is a hero, whatever he was doing or had done,” said Charlie. “They won’t want anything to spoil the story.”
“I know what they want,” said the other man, testily.
Charlie didn’t like the idea of manipulating Sir Rupert Dean, the first of a very long line of directors-general not to look upon him as if he’d crawled out of a primeval swamp. But it was for both their eventual benefits, although perhaps more for his than the director-general’s. Because Charlie was getting a very distinct impression that he was personally being very badly jerked around: His feet ached, which was always a sign. And a very important Charlie Muffin rule was always to be the manipulator, not the manipulated. As far as the director-general was concerned, it was more persuading the man to be receptive to alternative reasoning. “Seems pretty close to our thinking?” Not ours, yours, mentally adjusted Charlie, who hated prearranged plans or decisions that all too often in the past had rebounded dangerously close to his crotch. And this case had every hallmark of being the biggest ball-breaker ever.
“Which is why I’m being included in the Foreign Office discussions,” said Dean. “Coordinated intention.”
Everyone who might conceivably know something saying nothing about anything, one of those anonymous Whitehall gatherings playing verbal pass-the-parcel, guessed Charlie. He very definitely didn’t want-nor intend-to be the parcel. “So our position hasn’t changed?”
“At the moment our position is confused, not just by a gap of fifty years,” qualified Dean. “Sir Matthew has agreed not to make anypublic announcement. But naturally he wants to bury his brother properly: there’s a family vault. The Norringtons are a prominent dynasty: Sir Matthew got to be a permanent secretary to the Treasury in the sixties and early seventies. Left early for the city. On a Bank of England committee for a while before being seconded to the IMF in Washington. Came back to directorships of quite a few major companies. Stately home in Hampshire. Married three times with a penchant for actresses, which makes him a favorite with the media. He also gets a lot of coverage for opposing Britain’s entry into the European Monetary Union. The press will have a field day if it all gets out. And they’re already crucifying us.”
“How likely do you think it is that as well as being useful for his art knowledge Simon Norrington might have worked for military intelligence? Or SOE? Or MI6 …?”
“I’ve already made the list, Charlie. And the inquiries.”
“And then there’s the Ministry of Defense, who took over the War Office. None of which are acknowledging anything but all of which seem hugely interested in what we’re doing.”
“I know,” repeated Dean.
“There’s something you don’t yet know, from here,” said Charlie, preparing the director-general for the disclosure he couldn’t, at the moment, openly make because he wasn’t supposed to know it. “I’m pretty sure the Russians believe like I do that there was another Westerner at the murder.”
“Not based solely on a bullet caliber?” rejected Dean.
“There could be something else I didn’t see. Don’t know about.”
“What makes you think that?” demanded Dean.
“Their man, Lestov, is back from Yakutsk. We’ve already spoken on the telephone,” lied Charlie, easily. “He said he expected the breakthrough to come from England …”
“There has to be a reason for his saying that,” cut in Dean.
Charlie’s pause had been intentional, inviting the interruption. “Of course there has. That’s why I suspect there’s something I don’t know about. And won’t unless I offer something in exchange.”
“I’ve just told you there’s more reason than ever to keep everything under wraps.”
Charlie was disappointed, although Sir Rupert had sounded halfheartedabout it. If you don’t first succeed, try, try again, Charlie told himself. “Are the Americans going to be told who our victim was?”
“I’ll listen to what they have to say first.”
A sudden awareness of what Berlin could mean swept over Charlie, so encompassing that for a few moments he couldn’t totally absorb it. When he did, he decided at once it made as much logic-more, perhaps-as anything else so far. But it was completely unsubstantiated-nothing more than the wildest speculation-and most definitely nothing he could suggest to the already distracted director-general. From whom he still needed to extract far more than he had so far. He couldn’t afford to be sidetracked from the primary consideration of self-protection, which from now on always had to go beyond self to include Natalia and Sasha. Quickly Charlie went on, “Miriam Bell saw the waistband label, expects an identification from it. And their victim carried a photograph I didn’t see her find, either. Apparently it was taken with a girl against a background it might be possible to identify.” A big building, Charlie remembered-as likely to be a museum or an art gallery as a college. Whatever he did or knew, he was in uniform for a very special reason. Miriam’s words. There was the vague outline of a hidden picture beginning to form, thought Charlie, enjoying the pun. Still wrong to be sidetracked, although he was impatient now to think solely about his sudden theory.
“She seems to have been remarkably forthcoming?” queried Dean. “What did you tell her?”
Charlie frowned. “I’m trying to give some idea of what the Americans have-so you’ll know how honest they’re being when you meet. You already know I didn’t give anything back.”
“Point taken,” apologized Dean.
Getting there, Charlie thought, hopefully. “If Sir Matthew Norrington is a media figure, there’s the danger of this leaking. You reminded me about the media. And I’m sure the Russians have something I don’t.”