“I haven’t got a clue,” admitted Anne. “But what are you looking for?”
“Tattoos.”
“I wouldn’t have believed that if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. I’d have dismissed it as kids’ stuff,” conceded Anne.
Charlie shook his head. “Remember how George reacted at belonging to an elite? Elite groups-societies-have often used tattooes as a sign of elitism. The praetorian guard of the Roman emperors marked themselves out like that. So did the Nazi SS. It’s the sort of shit George would have gone for.”
“And so did Vladimir Petrovich Sakov,” picked up Anne. “You think there’s a chance in hell of making him tell you about it …?” She waved towards the VCR. “You’ve got evidence there of his being part of the conspiracy! He’s not going to incriminate himself by admitting anything else.”
“I’m working on it.” Which wasn’t true. Charlie thought there was a way to turn Sakov but it could also be the way to expose Natalia if she’d become part of an intelligence service cover-up. He was already officially on hold. Why push it any further?
Anne topped up her glass and leaned back in her encompassing chair, tucking her bare feet beneath her. “We could have done this in the office.”
“I know.” He’d forgotten the directness.
“How did your daughter like her doll?”
“She already had one just like it.”
“London was good. A lot of fun.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not looking for commitment, Charlie. Or to pick up other people’s pieces.”
“I wasn’t going to ask you to.”
“You sure about microwave magic?”
“Yes. But thanks.”
“Another time. When it’s right.”
“Yes, when it’s right.”
Natalia had eaten but was still up when Charlie got back to Lesnaya, watching the only story being covered on the late night news.
Charlie said, “I thought you’d already be in bed.”
“I stayed up to watch this again. Do you want anything?”
“No.” He nodded to the newscast. “How’s that change things?”
“I’m not sure. We’re recalling Karelin, obviously. What about you?”
“I’m waiting for London’s instructions. Until then I’m not to do anything.”
“It took until now to be told that?”
Charlie frowned. “What?”
“I’m surprised it took until now to be told that. It all happened this morning.”
“And I had to go back and forth to London and go through God knows how many conferences and discussions at the embassy, so of course it took until now!”
Natalia froze the transmission at the exodus from the court. “And there you are, on TV!”
“Looking as if I’d shit myself. I almost did a little later, when I saw the militia officer had his gun on me.”
Natalia didn’t smile. “And there’s the British lawyer.”
Charlie frowned again. “Yes.”
“The one you went back to London with?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t tell me she was a woman.”
“I didn’t think it was relevant.”
“She’s attractive.”
“I don’t think that’s relevant, either.” Where the fuck was this intuition coming from!
“Was she at tonight’s meetings?”
“She was at today’s meetings. With a lot of other people. What is this!”
“I’m just surprised you didn’t tell me your lawyer was a woman, that’s all.”
“Natalia, you spend every minute of your day working more with men than with women. Does it ever occur to you to tell me about them?”
“It probably would, if I went on an overseas trip with them.”
“Well it didn’t with me. And if you’re reading something into it, which I wish you wouldn’t because there’s nothing to be read in, then I’m sorry. Sorry things are breaking down between us as badly as they seem to be doing.”
“Yes,” agreed Natalia, solemnly. “I’m sorry about that, too.”
24
When Charlie answered Anne Abbott’s internal voice mail message she at once announced, “I know where Bendall’s body is! And how you might get to see it!”
“Where? How?”
“Back at Burdenko. They’ve called, expecting us to handle the funeral arrangements, by which they really mean the cost. Brooking’s apoplectic.”
“He usually is. Are we going to?”
“Bendall was still officially a British subject: legally there’s a liability. But we need a declared death certificate. Brooking doesn’twant to sully his hands by asking for it and says we know the people there. You volunteering?”
The hospital vestibule seemed oddly empty without its challenging guard detail but the receptionist recognized Charlie and located Nicholai Badim on her second attempt. She said, “You’re lucky he doesn’t have a theater list.”
After the preceding twelve hours his luck deserved to change, Charlie decided. He had a lot of bridges to rebuild and leaving Lesnaya without bothering with breakfast was scarcely the way to begin the reconstruction. He wasn’t sure he yet knew where or how to start but running out of the house wasn’t the way: if anything it was an unspoken admission of what Natalia suspected him of having done in London. Even Sasha had detected the frigid atmosphere, asking why they weren’t talking and why he was leaving so early. The previous night they’d laid-almost theatrically-stiffly apart, Natalia jerking away when she’d relaxed into a half sleep and accidentally touched his leg with hers.
The balding, quickly blinking surgeon-administrator came curiously into the foyer, frowning at Charlie’s reason for being there. “We could have arranged that by telephone.”
The man was anxious to reestablish the authority that had been too often overridden during the questioning of Bendall, Charlie decided. “I’ve also got to satisfy myself that it is Bendall’s body. Formal identification.”
The frown-and irritation-deepened. “See it! There’s hardly anything left of the face to identify!”
“It’s a necessary formality. You must surely know what bureaucracy is like.”
The other man shrugged, gesturing for Charlie to follow as he thrust off deeper into the hospital. “If it will hurry things up. We need the mortuary space. I’ve told the militia I want to get rid of the other one.”
“Davidov’s body is here as well!” His luck was definitely changing.
“We’re the nearest mortuary to the court. It’s inconvenient, an imposition.”
The corridor along which they were walking was littered with dirty laundry, predominantly sheets, some abandoned on the floor and some piled up on a row of empty, metal-framed beds. A lot were bloodstained. There were also equipment cartons and boxes, mostly empty but a few were still sealed and unpacked. There was even a stack, sealed, in the lift in which they descended into the basement. Badim seemed oblivious to it all.
All the mortuary drawers appeared to have name designations on them. Boris Davidov’s was next to Bendall’s. There was only one attendant in the room, who half straightened at Badim’s entry but then decided not to bother with the respect. The surgeon ignored him, too, hauling Bendall’s drawer out himself and flicking the covering sheet back from the near headless body. It was made bloodlessly white by the refrigeration.
“OK?” the Russian demanded, impatiently.
The sheet still covered most of the dead man’s torso. Charlie quickly lifted it, uncovering the left side. The upper part of the injured arm was still bandaged almost down to the elbow but the wrist was bare. On it was the parallel line tattoo separated by the arrow fulcrum.
“What are you looking for?” said Badim, at Charlie’s shoulder.
Charlie lowered the sheet. “I’d like to see Davidov’s body, too.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure how much information London will want in my report. They might have a query about Davidov and I don’t want to have to bother you a second time.”
The adjoining drawer was withdrawn even more impatiently. Badim said, “I don’t want to be bothered again either.”