It was a maze from which she desperately needed guidance and Charlie was the obvious person to give it. But if she did seek his guidance, this early, she’d have to tell him why Viskov distrusted her and she didn’t want any reminders of Alexei Popov.
She’d grossly, stupidly overreacted the previous night to Irena being at the apartment, which had nothing at all to do with Charlie but everything to do with other fears-memories-she didn’t want to share with him, either. She was going to have to share a lot of other things, though. He’d hear today. Be told by London of the Yakutsk murders and realize she could have warned him. But hadn’t. Maybe, despite her aching loneliness and aching hope for her personal life at last to change, it would have been better if Charlie hadn’t come back to Moscow at all.
Natalia physically shook herself, as if sloughing off her personal reflections.
She had left Charlie in bed to get to the Interior Ministry before eight, determined to preempt Viskov or Travin-or both-from imposing a squad of their choosing and their loyalty upon the investigation. She worked, wearily resigned to the fact that she would be judged from whomever she assigned and that she couldn’t afford the slightest miscalculation. And to miscalculate the honesty and loyalty of the Moscow militia, in which neither existed, was the easiest possible mistake to make.
It was ironic-and she hoped to her advantage-that the investigation would be in Yakutsk and not here in Moscow, where virtually the entire militia would have been initially distracted by the automatic requirement for financial reward for doing-or not doing, depending upon the paymaster-a job they were paid supposedly to do anyway. The disadvantage was that, denied the usual bribery by both the obvious age of the crime and the inevitable hostility from the indigenous Yakutsk and the gulag descendants, finding anyone without an impossible-to-leave workload could be more difficult than solving three fifty-year-old murders themselves. For the militia homicide detective she went for comparative youth, seeking out the most recently promoted, someone, she hoped, only yet ankle-deep in thecorruption swamp and, she hoped, even more, still anxious to prove his ability.
It took Natalia five interviews to reach Colonel Vadim Leonidovich Lestov. She was immediately encouraged by the thirty-year-old man’s down-at-the-heel imitation leather shoes and lapel-curled dark gray suit, shiny at the seat and elbows, a clear indication that he had so far failed to establish a private tailoring allowance. He was blond, fresh-faced and when he became enthusiastic, as he did when Natalia outlined the assignment and mentioned Yakutskaya, stammered in his eagerness to get his words out.
“My grandfather is still alive: a Stalinist. He insists the Yakutskaya gulags never existed. That they were an invention of Stalin’s detractors.”
“There are several million people who’d argue against him if they were still alive,” remarked Natalia.
“I want to go!”
“Then you shall,” decided Natalia.
Olga Erzin was Natalia’s choice for the forensic pathologist. The woman had impeccable medical qualifications, five years’ experience of forensic medicine and a weight problem she appeared to be doing little to control. Natalia guessed the woman, whom she knew from personnel records to be the same age as Lestov and like the militia colonel unmarried, weighed close to two hundred pounds.
“It will be extremely uncomfortable,” warned Natalia.
“It’s the chance to become involved in an incredibly unique murder case.”
“Which will attract attention. To you, I mean. We can’t afford any errors.”
“I won’t make any if you don’t,” said the younger woman.
“I don’t understand.” Natalia frowned, surprised at the near impertinence.
“By choosing someone other than me,” said Olga.
After so long-and with so little information from which to judge-Natalia was unsure if any worthwhile forensic evidence would remain and decided initially only to send one scientist, to become team leader if his assessment was that a full scene-of-crime contingent was justified. Natalia was able to extend her age limitchoice, because scientific technicians did not have the access-nor therefore the opportunity-for contorted handshakes in dark alleys. Lev Fyodorovich Denebin was a lugubrious fifty-five years old whose pure white hair rose from his head as if in shock, which he’d never been, whatever the brutality of the crimes he’d investigated. Which, since the KGB control of Moscow had been virtually replaced by the mafia, had been a lot.
Denebin very obviously had that in mind when he said, after Natalia had outlined what she so far knew, “This could be fascinating. Very different.” His voice was blurred from a lifetime’s addiction to tobacco.
“And very difficult,” Natalia warned once more.
“The bastards want us to admit we haven’t got the facilities!” protested Valentin Polyakov.
“They’re going by the book,” suggested Yuri Ryabov, who’d been summoned immediately after the cabinet session that Polyakov had chaired. “Acknowledging the degree of independence we’ve so far achieved.”
“It’s important the British and Americans are coming,” decided Polyakov, his decision quite positive now.
“We can’t question Moscow’s ultimate authority, certainly as far as foreign policy,” said Ryabov.
“I don’t intend to,” assured Polyakov, feeling very satisfied. He was a huge, towering man, his size seemingly made greater by a never-trimmed spade beard, which, ironically for a man who despised everything Russian, was allowed to grow fully down to his chest in the Russian style of a man of deep religious orthodoxy, which he wasn’t. Polyakov looked intently at his police commissioner. “But they don’t have the power of life or death, like they had in the past; like they had over my father and your father and everyone else’s forefathers. Here, now, I’m in charge. And here’s what we’re going to do. We show every consideration and help to whoever London and Washington send in. I want everyone they come into contact with to understand that. I’ll actually receive them ….” He stopped, one idea following the other. “But we won’t include the Russians. You understand what I’m saying?”
“I think so,” said the militia commissioner, uncertainly.
“But don’t make it too obvious, for your part,” continued the chief minister. “I want you as part of whatever investigation team Moscow sends. At all times. It’s essential publicly to appear a joint investigation, not a Moscow take over. And that’s how I want our response to read: that we’re inviting their assistance.”
Ryabov shifted, his uncertainty growing. “Why, exactly?”
“Because I’m going to ensure we’re the focus of world attention,” announced Polyakov, who was given to cliche in his attempt to appear statesmanlike.
“Moscow has asked for details of what was recovered from the bodies. And photographs,” reminded Ryabov.
Polyakov smiled, pleased with the way he’d worked everything out. “Moscow comes to us, on our terms. They wait until they get here to see what there is.”
“All right,” accepted the police chief, uncomfortably.