Dead Men Living

24

Charlie gazed through the window as the plane banked for landing, feeling the usual surge of nostalgia for a city in which he’d worked so often that Berlin had once seemed more like home than London. He couldn’t pick out the odd memorial scraps of the Wall, but didn’t anyway need markers for where, like a bloated aorta along which so much real blood had run, it had gone through the heart of the city. He didn’t see the Commonwealth war cemetery, either. He didn’t bother trying to locate from the air the other building he was anxious to get to, knowing very well where it was.

What embarrassment-what need-could there be after all these years for not one but two countries to be so determined to cover it up, as America and England appeared to be? Something both had combined upon, clearly. Big, then. Mammoth, even. All securely hidden for fifty-four years, never ever intended to be revealed, as the bodies had never been intended to be discovered. A shared secret of one agency? Or several, each in some way involved in some small part? Would the telephone calls he’d made and the ambiguous conversations he’d initiated in the last few days, spreading the inquiry too wide, he hoped, for anyone to see a direction, be sufficient? Or would whoever the puppet masters were have been too clever, getting there ahead of him-years ahead of him? He was pinning a lot of hope on bureaucracy getting in its own way, which in his experience it nearly always did. And on the fact that he’d worked in Berlin so often and knew so well just how many institutions had been created there in the immediate post and Cold War years. He hoped most of all that his memory and knowledge were better than any Whitehallor Washington chair-bound keeper of secrets. And Kenton Peters had another secret now, not one to keep but to discover. Charlie’s whereabouts. Persuading Sir Rupert Dean not to disclose his movements was as personally self-protective as it was to guard the department. More so. The American mistake-Peters’s arrogance-had been letting him know what Henry Packer looked like, not knowing how well tuned Charlie’s antenna was. It was going to be much harder to recognize Packer’s replacement if one was sent.

Charlie had made his reservation at the Bristol Kempinski, the hotel in which he always stayed, without asking the current prices, not thinking until he was checking in of the distress it would cause Gerald Williams to authorize these expenses as well as maintaining the rent on the Lesnaya apartment. Letting the thought drift, Charlie acknowledged it had been several weeks since any expenditure inquisition from the zealously attentive financial controller. He’d almost been disappointed that the cost of his beekeeper’s hat hadn’t been queried. Perhaps, mulled Charlie, the man had given up. Then again, perhaps he hadn’t.

Natalia had insisted on packing for him, everything laid out in his case in meticulous comparison to his customary haphazard effort, and when he lifted out the spare jacket Charlie knew why. There were two notes, with another framed photograph of Natalia and Sasha. Natalia’s note said simply, Hurry Home. Sasha’s was much longer, the laboriously printed English attempt interspersed with cyrillic letters, each line dipping dramatically at its end, literally falling away. It said, I love you and miss you and I am sorry about that silly word. Charlie liked best that it was addressed to Daddy.

He was at the room bureau, writing an immediate reply on a hotel postcard, when the telephone jarred, startling him by its nearness. With a befitting, machine-gun delivery, the voice said, “Jackson here. Thought we should meet, as you suggested. Downstairs when you’re ready.”

Lieutenant Colonel Rupert Jackson’s age-at least half that of Gallaway, Charlie guessed-marked him at once as the complete antithesis of the ineffectual Moscow attache, a fast-track career professional for whom the promotional escalator would never rise fast enough. He came up from the barstool like a spring, the flick of fair hair that would give him problems on parade days falling over hisleft eye. He managed to push it back and shake hands at the same time. The handshake was firm but not arm wrestling. Orange juice, Charlie noted, automatically ordering Islay malt, knowing the hotel stocked it, which was another reason for staying there.

“A table’s probably better,” Charlie suggested, moving away from the bar at which there were only two other people anyway, and they at its far end.

“Of course, sir.”

“You want me to call you lieutenant colonel?”

The man frowned, confused. “No.”

“Then it’s Charlie.”

The frown became a grin. “Not sure what the form is with you chaps ….” He looked down at himself. “Thought mufti was best.” The trouser crease of Jackson’s muted checked suit would have been dangerous to the touch and the man risked severing an artery moving his head too quickly against the stiff collar. The burnished brogues reflected sufficient light to send SOS signals.

“Fine,” said Charlie, aware for the first time that Natalia must have pressed his trousers, too. It still amounted to a before-and-after comparison. “Sorry to barge in like this at the last moment.”

“Glad to have you aboard. Saw the television from Siberia. Can’t have been much fun.”

There’d been a reference from the attache to seeing him on television when they’d spoken from Moscow. Charlie hoped that had been sufficient official identification, without the man feeling it necessary to check with the Defense Ministry in London. If he had-and there’d been objections-Jackson would hardly have kept the suggested meeting or been so amenable. Charlie said, “It was pretty rough.”

“Any idea yet what happened to the poor bastards?”

Open sesame! thought Charlie. “Not a complete picture. What guidance have you got from London?”

“None,” said the other man, apologetically. “Just told to attend, as official military observer.”

Bugger it, thought Charlie. “What’s the setup?”

“Haven’t arranged anything. Waited for you. Got a car outside. Thought you might like to look around.”

“What about the exhumation?”

“There’s a security blackout on it, of course. Ministry insistence. Fortunately the Commonwealth cemetery at Charlottenburg is under military jurisdiction. Makes it easy. The section we want has already been sealed off. The grave itself has been screened. The workmen haven’t been told whose grave it is they’re opening. Apart from them, there’ll just be us, the embassy padre, a medical examiner and someone from the Berlin coroner’s office. There might be someone from the War Graves Commission; they’re not sure yet what to do about the grave marker, now they know it’s not Simon Norrington ….” He paused. “You know what you’re looking for?”

“Not yet,” said Charlie. Hopefully he added, “Anything else London had you do? Don’t want any confusion between the briefings.”

“Little risk of that,” assured Jackson, still apologetic. He’d been told the Gieves and Hawkes customer archive had provided the address of the family seat in Hampshire and Sir Matthew Norrington had produced the War Office’s 1945 notification of his brother’s death and burial in Berlin; having visited it, Sir Matthew had even known the plot number. He had, it seemed, considered it fitting his brother remain in a soldier’s grave rather than be reinterred in the family vault in England.

“Located the grave myself from the plot number,” said Jackson. “Usual inscription: rank, name, unit, date of death.”

“Everything based on what the family supplied?” queried Charlie, disappointed. “What about from the ministry itself?”

“Family told the ministry, the ministry told me,” said the attache.

“Nothing more than that?”

“Afraid not.”

“Was the Provost Company properly established here when Norrington was supposed to have died?” asked Charlie.

“I doubt it, that early. From what I gather no one knew where anybody was in Berlin in April 1945: whole regiments split up, platoons and squadrons fighting on their own. And the Russians were here first, of course.”

“What about wartime archives here?”

“Military police headquarters are at Rheindahlen. You might try there.”

“What about records of stolen art?”

“There’s an art recovery center at the university here. Others atthe universities of Bremen and Dresden, too.” He stopped, thinking. “The grave of the American wouldn’t be here in Berlin. There aren’t any military cemeteries here.”

Charlie felt a sink of further disappointment. “Where are the American dead buried?”

“There are a lot of cemeteries throughout Europe. I wouldn’t even like to guess. Do you have a name?”

“No.”

“A unit?”

“No,” lied Charlie, not wanting any destroying or concealing visits ahead of his own.

“But you do have a photograph of the American body found in Yakutsk? Know what he looks like?”

“Yes,” said Charlie.

“That’s something, perhaps.”

“But not enough,” said Charlie, deciding upon the need for another lie. “Anyway, it’s Norrington I’m interested in, not the American.”

Charlie was surprised, momentarily bewildered, at his feeling of deja vu upon entering the military cemetery, until the comparison came to him between the regimented pattern of so many headstones and crosses and the stunted, number-only wooden markers by the Yakutsk gold mine.

The control office was in the middle of the cemetery, the grave areas radiating out like spokes in a wheel. There were manicured trees bordering the paths. Initially he and Jackson ignored the building, going instead to the grave, Jackson confidently leading the way. Some of the trees would anyway have partially concealed it, but screens more than two meters high completely encircled it. The cross naming Simon Norrington was still in place, but there had been some digging at its base to lift it. About a third of a meter of topsoil had already been dug out. At least, thought Charlie, there weren’t any man-eating mosquitoes.

Jackson said, “What was the Yakutsk grave like?”

“A bomb crater. They used grenades.”

“Whoever this was had a proper burial.”

“But was probably killed to order.”

Jackson regarded him quizzically. “You sure about that?”

“No,” admitted Charlie. “I’m still not sure about anything.”

The duty registration clerk in the control office was a rigidly coiffed, rigid-faced woman who just as tightly demanded the military attache’s identification, despite their having met earlier when she had been informed of the exhumation, and who regarded Charlie with disdain and his Moscow embassy accreditation with suspicion. She insisted on telephoning some unidentified official in another cemetery office before accepting Charlie’s right to examine records, and stood at each man’s shoulder to ensure they fully completed the perforated, hole-punched entry slips with their names and details of their official identity documents.

Considering the outside appearance of hundreds of graves, the archive vaults were surprisingly small, two linked rooms about fifty meters long and half as wide, totally bare except for central tables and row upon row of filing cabinets against every available wall space. On both tables, In Memoriam books were set out in symmetry matching that of the grave markers, in alphabetical order to replace the current page-a-day book displayed in its glass case in the entrance to the British lodge house.

Charlie supposed there was an index system linking name and burial place, but they didn’t need to consult it, already knowing the plot number, which enabled the clerk to lead them at once to a cabinet halfway along the first room. She insisted upon retrieving and finding the Norrington entry herself, not trusting them to handle the paper-aged ledger, and laid it open on the central table, clearly unhappy at disturbing the neat arrangement of the waiting commemorative books.

She said, “The paper’s fragile. I’d appreciate your not touching it.”

The entries were listed in numerical order, by plot allocation. Norrington’s — Plot 442-was a third of the way down a right-hand page, the details occupying just one line, each fact fit into a designated box. There was his army officer’s six-digit serial number-987491-rank, full name-Simon St. John Norrington-unit and finally a date, 294-45. Under the box headed CAUSE was KIA. The number three was written in a final, far-right-hand column. There were various numbers against other names above and below in that column.

Charlie said, “KIA? Killed in action?”

“Yes,” sighed the clerk, confirming the obvious.

“What’s the three refer to?”

“Visitors asking to examine the register. The man’s entry has been read three times since his interment.”

“London told me Sir Matthew said he’d been here,” reminded Jackson.

Charlie’s feet twinged, a physical response to the feeling of expectation that had been all too rare on this operation. Gesturing back toward the outer office, he said, “Is it regulations that everyone who wants to see the registration has to complete an entry slip?”

“Of course,” said the woman, impatiently. “There is a responsibility to the dead as well as to the living.”

“Which I’m sure you fulfill admirably,” flattered Charlie. “What happens to the slips?”

The clerk frowned at him, making vague movements toward the still-open drawer. “Each is quite properly transferred to the cabinet log. As it should be, of course.”

“I’d like to see the log. And the slips,” said Charlie.

“I’m not sure I can permit that,” said the woman.

“And I’m sure you can,” said Jackson, at once. “You need authority, make another phone call.”

The clerk hesitated, face burning, before taking a separate, thicker book from the bottom of the cabinet. Again she carefully turned the crackling pages, appearing to find her place but then turning one sheet back and forth several times. She finally looked up, frowning more genuinely this time. “I don’t understand that.”

“No slips?” anticipated Charlie.

“You knew?” she challenged.

“Guessed,” said Charlie.

“This is against all regulations! I’ll have to report it!”

“Yes,” agreed Charlie. “You should. No one can get access without accredited authority, can they?”

“No! You saw the procedure.”

“What about another nationality?”

“I don’t understand the question,” she protested.

“Immediately after the war, when Berlin was occupied by the Four Powers? And later, when it was divided?” coaxed Charlie. “Could,say, an American or a Russian have examined the entry? Needed to complete a slip like we did?”

The woman digested the question. “I suppose so,” she said, although doubtfully. “I’ve been here fifteen years and it’s never happened while I’ve been on duty. This is very irregular. There’ll be an inquiry! It won’t stop here!”

“It probably will,” predicted Charlie.

As they got back into Jackson’s car, the attache said, “Bureaucratic cock-ups happen every day.”

“But this isn’t one of them,” said Charlie, who was hoping fervently for others.

“What, then?”

“A second, much deeper burial that this time won’t be affected by freak weather.”

“The bastard!” exclaimed Miriam. “No reason at all!”

“Just that he’d been recalled immediately, he didn’t know why or for how long. And that he’d either call from London or be in touch as soon as he got back.” The Savoy barman ignored Lestov’s ruble-waving effort to attract attention, concentrating upon the dollar-tipping Americans at the other end of the bar.

“That’s bullshit! Of course he knows why!”

“I already worked that out,” said Lestov, pained.

In her fury Miriam missed the sarcasm. It had to be something very dramatic indeed for Charlie to have been called back like this. So she wasn’t ahead of everyone after all. The opposite. Way behind. But why hadn’t the son-of-a-bitch called? Making a point, obviously. Bastard! And why was Washington closing her out, insisting they couldn’t locate the relevant OSS files? Or trace any of the German names she’d asked to be identified, which she didn’t think Lestov had believed when she’d told him? Who the fuck’s side were they on? She grew angrier at her impotence. Petulantly she said, “So much for share and share alike! All right by me. I’ll play his rules from now on. Cut him out.”

Well aware by now of Miriam’s stop-at-nothing ambition, Lestov was not surprised at her peevishness but thought she sounded vaguely ridiculous. “Don’t you think we should wait to see if we can afford to?”

The Russian was right, Miriam accepted. “Let’s take a rain check on tonight, darling. I need to get back to the embassy and tell Washington straightaway.” She couldn’t think of a way to avoid admitting Charlie had gone off without telling her and knew she was going to appear pretty damned stupid.

Lestov wasn’t surprised at that announcement, either. His own possible benefit already worked out, he said, “One thing this should prove to us is the importance of you and I exchanging absolutely everything: no holding back, whatever we might be officially told to do.”

“I thought that was our understanding already,” said Miriam. She probably would have to do so if she stood any chance of catching up and saving her ass.

“It’s certainly mine,” said Lestov. He wasn’t particularly upset at Miriam canceling the evening. On his way to the hotel he’d become excited by an idea he had no intention whatsoever of discussing with her, as well as an oversight that needed correcting. Now he could go back to the ministry and start working at once. The barman finally condescended to move toward them. It gave Lestov a lot of satisfaction to walk away before the man reached them. He didn’t leave a tip for the previous drinks, either.

At the Lesnaya apartment Sasha handed the telephone back for Natalia to finish the conversation with Charlie and afterward said, “He is going to stay my daddy, isn’t he? He is coming back?”

“Yes,” said Natalia. “He’s going to stay your daddy forever.”

“Good,” said the child, positively. “I don’t want anybody else.”

“Neither do I,” said Natalia.

“The Foreign Office has been told by the State Department Charlie Muffin is here in England,” protested Patrick Pacey, the political officer. “According to the Ministry of Defense he’s turned up in Berlin. Both want explanations why they weren’t informed!”

“Charlie must have detoured,” said Dean, easily. “And have a reason. And we’re not required to advise departments either in advance or after initiating an inquiry in an investigation that we’re officially in charge of. The Ministry of Defense and Washington can go to hell.”

“He should have advised us,” said Hamilton. “He just can’t go wandering off.”

“I warned you,” said Gerald Williams. “Warned everyone. The man does what he likes and we’ll all suffer because of it.”

Charlie had been right about the reaction from the rest of Whitehall, thought Dean, reflectively. And why was it so important to America?

“Berlin is quite safe,” insisted Boyce. “We tidied it up when it all began.”

“Where, exactly, is the damned man? England or Germany?”

“Dean thinks he’s moving somewhere between the two.”

“Thinks! Why doesn’t he know? I don’t like this man doing what he likes, when he likes. We’re not properly in control,” objected Peters. “I’ve got a replacement for Packer. I don’t think we should wait any longer.”

“It wouldn’t look right, so soon. Don’t forget what Dean put on record. He’s too independent: he’d make a fuss. I’m still seeing everything that’s coming in. Muffin’s still way off course. We’ll let him continue going around in circles. It’s actually causing more confusion than we’d hoped to create.”

“I’m going to close down my end,” decided Peters. “I think you should do the same.”

“Not yet, Kenton,” said the other man, who disliked the American’s need always to be in complete charge. “We’ll let my end run on for the moment.”