“I thought we already were,” said Charlie, studying each of them in turn over the rim of his coffee cup. McDowell was an apprehensive, first-tour diplomat frightened of any mistake, up to and including breaking wind at the ambassador’s cocktail party. Foreign Office instructions would be holy writ, never to be queried and certainly never modified by any personal initiative. Charlie had already judged Gallaway a military dinosaur mistakenly laid to rest in Moscow, which the Defense Ministry was now probably regretting but which could very definitely be to his advantage. The only uncertainty was Cartright, about whom he knew practically nothing but about whom he was most personally curious because of whatever was happening with Irena. Professionally Charlie was sure he could suck up the younger man and blow him out in bubbles and wondered if he’d have to. As he was sure he could the other two. To begin with, the use of each would be to relay back to their individual departments whatever he wanted circulated to mislead and confuse. And to make them responsible for everything and anything he considered personallyor professionally dangerous. The day was beginning to pick up very well indeed. With luck it could even get better.
“I don’t want to repeat myself,” encouraged Charlie, easily. “So it’ll help if I know what, between you, you’ve already got from London.”
The other three men looked among themselves. McDowell said, “I was simply asked what the embassy here had on an army officer named Simon Norrington.”
The other two nodded in agreement.
“Without any reason?” questioned Charlie.
“Just that he was the man in the grave,” said Cartright.
“But that he’s supposed to be buried in Berlin,” added Gallaway.
Wrong! decided Charlie, in belated realization. Cartright was MI6, which was responsible to the Foreign Office. So why the duplication to the head of chancellery? McDowell was a professional diplomat. And professional diplomats were always separated from each and every sort of intelligence field activity to avoid embarrassment. The molehill was taking shape. Returning to an earlier, possibly more immediately relevant thought, Charlie said to the military attache, “Now we’ve got a name, your people should be able to find Norrington’s service record easily enough?
“I’m not sure that they can,” said Gallaway. “It was a long time ago.”
How far could he take this? wondered Charlie. As far as possible, he decided. “They going to let you have it, if it’s found? It could be useful.” For me more than any of you, he thought.
“Why?” demanded Gallaway, a soldier checking the barricades.
“The Russians are more convinced than me that there was another British officer there when Norrington was killed.” Within twenty-four hours that would become established as a positive fact within every necessary Whitehall department, its source lost in the retelling.
“Oh, my God!” said Gallaway.
“That’s appalling,” said McDowell.
Still not sufficient reason for McDowell and Cartright to double up, Charlie decided. Concentrating upon the attache he said, “You’re in the hot seat, John. I’ll do all I can to help, obviously. But I do need everything you might get from your end. And let me warn you, John. Whitehall never makes a mistake: it’s always down to us poorbastards on the ground. We’ve got to look after ourselves, every time ….” He looked to Cartright. “Wouldn’t you say that?”
“Absolutely,” said the intelligence officer, at once.
Extending his hands, palms up, to include all three men, Charlie said, “For each of us to look after the other, you’ll have to pass on all the guidance you get from London so I’m not caught out with the Russians. Everyone prepared to go along with that?”
“I certainly am,” said Gallaway, eagerly.
“Me, too,” accepted McDowell.
Cartwright said, “It’s strictly between us and these four walls, right?”
What had he done to please God so much this day? thought Charlie. “That’s most important. None of you must show me to be your source. I won’t tell you anything that I’m not a hundred percent sure about.”
“Thank you,” said Cartright.
You won’t if I decide you’re trying to find out things about Natalia and I that don’t concern you, thought Charlie.
Charlie went as far as to suggest a records check on the wartime prison camps at Yakutsk, which Vadim Lestov agreed was worth considering instead of disclosing it was already under way, and Charlie openly wondered how a Western-caliber bullet had come to be in the Yakutsk grave, to Lestov’s shrugged insistence he had no idea. Charlie spent most of the time urging Lestov to release the photograph of the dead Russian woman, which he’d discussed at length with Natalia as a possible way of confirming Lestov’s appointment as her deputy: even if it achieved nothing, the publicity was guaranteed to convey the impression that the Russian was making a positive contribution.
Charlie also provided his written impression of the Yakutsk inquiry with only the waistband label omitted. Miriam only left out her discovery of the photograph and the fact that the dead American’s eyesight would have normally failed him for military service. In apparent exchange, the Russian handed over copies of the second autopsy report, virtually identical to that of the first, and announced that a photograph of the so-long-dead woman was being issued to Moscow television and newspapers in the hope of an identification.
They hadn’t before met in the deputy director’s suite, on the same floor as Natalia’s, whose closed door Charlie had seen on arrival. Only slightly smaller than Viskov’s, the room was ornately baroque and at least five times the size of Charlie’s. The homicide colonel hadn’t yet adjusted to such surroundings, actually on more than one occasion gazing around as if surprised to find himself there, which Charlie supposed he was. When Charlie asked directly about Petr Pavlovich Travin, the Russian detective said the man was otherwise engaged, which Charlie acknowledged to be an absolutely honest reply.
Miriam again suggested a drink as they left the ministry building and this time Charlie insisted upon the Savoy. He still hadn’t resolved the uncertainty of how much to tell the American of what had nagged him throughout the meeting. Simon Norrington’s identity would be known by at least three different officials from three separate Whitehall departments at the Foreign Office meeting with Kenton Peters, he reminded himself. And Miriam was his only possible Moscow source for the dead American’s name. Those who gave received, he told himself.
Miriam said, “You think Travin’s working on something good?”
“Could be,” said Charlie.
“Jesus!”
“Maybe you’ll have to try your very personal way to find out from Lestov?”
“Already in hand,” said the woman, quite seriously and unembarrassed. “You were far more open with him than I expected you to be.”
“Not really,” said Charlie, finally deciding.
Miriam was gesturing for the second round. She turned sharply back to Charlie. “What?”
“Heard from Washington on the picture?”
Miriam shook her head, but didn’t speak.
“It’ll have been taken outside an art gallery or museum,” he said.
“Go on.”
Charlie did, telling her about Simon Norrington, leaving out only the reference to Berlin.
Miriam finished her second drink before speaking and by then any astonishment had gone. Solemnly, slowly, she said, “You think we’re ever going to understand it all?”
“I don’t know,” admitted Charlie.
“I’ll tell you what I do know,” said Miriam, positively. “Something as complicated as this, there’ll be a lot of people very anxious that we don’t.”
Which is why I’ve thrown the stone into your pool, to see how far the ripples spread, thought Charlie. Had Natalia’s visa check not shown that Kenton Peters’s companion, whose name was given as Henry Packer, was still in Moscow, staying at the National Hotel, Charlie conceded he might just have missed the man’s too-hurried, attention-attracting move from the table of the hotel’s pavement cafe, although he preferred to think he’d have still gotten it. As it was, he didn’t hurry helping Miriam into her car and then strolling along Ohotnyj Rjad to the metro.