Could he trick her into disclosing whatever she’d found out, if indeed she’d discovered anything? He could certainly try. She’d even been anxious for him to get back to Moscow. And given a warning he hadn’t really needed, about watching his back. He had Timpson’s name as well as that of Hank Dunne: more than sufficient to bargain with. It was certainly something to consider, at least until all the greater uncertainties about Vitali Novikov were resolved.
Letting the reflection run, Charlie acknowledged the very practical argument, beyond anything the Yakutsk doctor might or might not have, for his going back to Moscow immediately. According to Natalia that morning, Nikulin’s threat to go public about a second British officer had been prompted by Charlie’s unspecified London recall and continued absence. Which made it possible to delay any public announcement by going back. Charlie reckoned he certainly knew enough from Natalia to invent a plausibly fictitious reason for the London return; he could even infuse something in the negotiations with Miriam for her to pillow talk about to Vadim Lestov to keep all the balls juggling in the air. Perhaps not as difficult to orchestrate to his own personally composed tune as he’d initially thought.
What about, even, an entirely different concert? Convinced as hewas that he and his fighting-to-survive department were being buggered about by their own gods on high, Charlie abruptly wondered what or who might fall out of the woodwork if Russia did disclose the presence of a second British officer. His not being in Moscow at the time of any announcement would avoid any personal or departmental blame. All he had to do was not warn the director-general of his prior knowledge. At once the counterargument presented itself. If he didn’t give the easily explained warning, he could stand accused-almost inevitably by Gerald Williams, another unresolved problem-of not being properly on top of the Moscow end of the investigation, whether he was physically there or not. Not an alternative, then.
He definitely had to go back, Charlie accepted, as he began picking up the signs to East Dereham. But without the intended American detour on the way, quickly to get upon the rostrum, baton in hand. And now with the score set out more clearly in front of him than it had been at this journey’s beginning.
The estate of Sir Peter Mason, a former government mandarin of Her Britannic Majesty, was minuscule by comparison to that of Sir Matthew Norrington but still impressive to someone born in a terraced council house, which Charlie had been. The period of its construction, which favored a confusing mix of towers and castellated battlements, was indeterminate, but Charlie had the impression that it was far more recent than the Hampshire mansion, and the grounds didn’t have their grazing herds, but even to Charlie’s Philistine eye the paintings and artwork appeared comparable.
Sir Peter Mason was an intimidatingly large man, immaculate in the sort of waistcoated dark pinstripe, complete with fresh rose buttonhole, that Charlie imagined the man would have worn every day of his working life in Whitehall and couldn’t bear to abandon in retirement. The virgin white shirt was hard-collared, the tie Charlie guessed to be the Carlton Club, although he wasn’t sure. There was scarcely any gray in the long, polished black hair, the advantage of either remarkable genes or an equally remarkable, dye-adept barber. The face was so pink and smooth it could have been genes. The man only just managed to stop himself from checking Charlie’s arrival timekeeping. He remained seated behind the sort of desk Charliecould believe permanent secretaries had made from the plans of aircraft carrier flight decks. There was no offer of a handshake. As well as several oils, the study was festooned with photographs of Sir Peter Mason with every world political leader Charlie could remember and some he couldn’t. There didn’t appear to be any of Mason in military uniform, though. The man said, “I talked to Sir Matthew, after your call. This is a dreadful business.”
“You’ll understand, then, why I need your help,” said Charlie.
“Of course, although I’m not sure I did at first last night. Or what I’ll be able to give you today.” Mason was leaning intently forward on his desk, one hand cupped protectively over the other. “Looked out what might help, but I’d like to hear as much as there is from you first.”
A man accustomed always to power and obedience, Charlie recognized: velvet-covered condescension. Charlie said, “You remember Simon Norrington?”
“Of course. Wonderful man as well as being superb at his job. First-rate mind.” The voice was measured, carefully modulated. There was a nod in the direction of the oil paintings. “Would have appreciated his opinion of some of these.”
“And George Timpson?”
The former civil service supremo frowned, creasing an uncreased forehead. “Not so well. American, wasn’t he?”
“An art expert, like Norrington. Colonel Parnell described them as friends?”
“They were,” said the large man. He lounged back at his desk, hands deep in his pockets. “Timpson had very bad eyesight, as I remember, although it didn’t seem to affect his work. Had no idea they were the two referred to in the newspapers. With the Russian woman all the fuss has been about, weren’t they?”
Instead of answering, Charlie offered Novikov’s grainy, insect-blurred photographs of the bodies in the grave and then the better, more professionally taken ones after the recovery from Yakutsk. Mason physically shuddered and said, “Horrible! How much else have you been able to discover so far?”
Mason listened to Charlie’s now almost automatic recitation, gazing down at the photographs, occasionally shaking his head in apparentdisbelief. He looked up inquiringly at the end of Charlie’s account, ensuring it was over before saying, “Now tell me how I can help. Which I will, of course, in any way I can.”
“The month of May 1945,” identified Charlie. “Norrington went into the eastern sector of Berlin, with a squad, to check intelligence that Goering had an art cache somewhere in the Air Ministry?”
Mason frowned. “It was a very long time ago for a recollection as definite as that. I certainly remember the Goering information: it was thought to be very reliable. And exciting.”
“But not Simon being sent to check it?”
“He would have been the most obvious choice, with the expertise and the languages, but I don’t specifically recollect it, no. There was so much happening. Or not happening. You’ve no idea what Berlin-Germany-was like: no administration, no utilities. Total devastation.”
“So I keep being told,” said Charlie, covering the sigh. “Colonel Parnell was in Munich virtually all of May. And Norrington doesn’t seem to have come back from the Russian sector. He can’t remember about the squad, either. But he is sure there was a message: maybe a reason why Norrington stayed there. Perhaps, even, why he went on to Yakutsk.”
Mason slowly shook his head. “That doesn’t mean anything to me-nothing that I can recall. Except that it wouldn’t have been anything to do with Yakutsk. We were assigned to Germany. It would have needed Supreme Allied Command authorization to have gone into Russia ….” The man hesitated, shaking his head. “Not even sure that would have been sufficient.”
“Don’t tell me it was impossible for Norrington and Timpson to be where they were found!” pleaded Charlie.
“None of this makes sense!”
“I keep being told that, too. You said you’d looked something out, to help.”
Mason groped into an unseen drawer at his side of the desk, taking out a faded brown leather-covered pocketbook. “Kept my wartime diaries: a log, really. This is ’45.” He finished the sentence looking down as he fingered left-handedly through the pages, exclaimed, “Ah!” and went back to turn the pages more slowly. “May, you say?”