Novikov said, “Certain trades, professions, could get people out of the gulags. A lot of people lied, of course. When they were found out, they were shot: publicly, in front of the original camp from which they’d tried to escape, as a warning to others. Being shot was another way of escaping.”
“Who was it who was exiled here?” asked Charlie, picking up the lead.
“My father.”
“Was he a builder?”
“A doctor. That was even better.”
“And why you became one, too?”
“Yes,” confirmed Novikov, at once. “There aren’t many safe professions,even now. Everything is the mines. Which is slave labor, as it’s always been.”
“How close are they to the town?”
The pathologist shrugged beside him in the car. “The nearest is maybe five or six kilometers.”
“What about prison camps?”
“Much farther away.”
“But prisoners still work the mines?”
“Until they die. Which they still do, very quickly.”
Novikov’s house was immaculate, the wooden lining clearly insulated against the outer wall. Novikov’s family was waiting in the main room, in which a fire flickered from habit rather than need. Marina was plump and rosy-cheeked. Charlie guessed she was about forty, although her hair was completely white. The boys were fair, like their father. They were dressed in what was clearly their best and newest clothes, the woman in a thick blue wool dress, the boys in matching gray trousers and sweaters. Novikov had been sure he would accept the invitation before it was offered, Charlie acknowledged.
Everyone embarrassingly remained standing until Charlie sat, the boys waiting after that for their father’s permission. Charlie estimated Georgi to be about fourteen, Arseni maybe two years younger. Novikov served vodka for himself and Charlie, a purple-colored juice for his family.
Charlie’s interrogation training and techniques had been honed by his new diplomatic environment and he used it all and improvised on top of that. He coaxed the boys into talking about their schooling and their intention to be doctors like their father, and flattered that he’d guessed before being told by Marina that her father had been the qualified architect who built the house.
Charlie described where he lived in Moscow as an ordinary apartment and showed the woman the photographs of herself and Sasha that Natalia had smuggled into his suitcase. During the meal-reindeer steak again-Charlie elaborated stories of police investigations he’d read about or occasionally seen in movies and insisted against Novikov’s protest that he didn’t mind Arseni’s question but that he’d never shot anyone dead. Both boys appeared disappointed. Charliemade a point of repeating several times that it had not really been necessary for Moscow to send a pathologist, so complete had Novikov’s examination and conclusions been. “If we solve this case, it will be largely due to your father.”
On their way back to the Ontario Hotel, Charlie said, “You’ve got a fine family.”
“You were very gracious,” said the doctor. “And flattering.”
“Isn’t it going to be largely due to you if I’ve any chance of finding out what this is all about?” asked Charlie, heavily, turning sideways in the car toward the man.
“Probably,” returned Novikov, enigmatically.
“Your father was sentenced to Gulag 98, wasn’t he?”
“Yes. But being a doctor, he was allowed to move into the town almost immediately. He was still responsible for Gulag 98, though. And two more on the other side of Yakutsk.”
“Was Gulag 98 a special prison?” pressed Charlie, discarding that morning’s decision to let things come at Novikov’s pace.
“It was for intellectuals.”
“Were the people in the grave connected with someone who might have been in the camp?”
“It’s possible. But there aren’t any records anymore. Officially the genocide of Yakutskaya never occurred.”
The twinge in Charlie’s feet told him he was missing something, maybe a key to unlock more doors. “Would you take me to surviving camps?”
“It wouldn’t help.”
“It would give us a chance to talk more, at least.”
“I am staying with the woman tomorrow, while she carries out her tests. Maybe after you’ve been to the grave.”
Everyone-even the two local militia officers-was waiting for him in the bar when Charlie entered the hotel. No one accepted his offered drink. Miriam said, “We kept dinner waiting.”
“Decided to eat out,” said Charlie. “Should have told you.”
“Yes,” said Ryabov. “You should.”
Fuck you, thought Charlie. Being an enforced member of a committee wasn’t as much of a problem as he’d feared it might be.
11
The ice grave was a crater in an earthly moonscape and the protective headgear and face masks that everyone wore, in various designs, made them look appropriately like astronauts. The insects rose in a solidly attacking mass. Charlie’s beekeeper’s hat was perfect but he wished he’d taken Novikov’s advice about gloves.
The annoyance at his disappearance the previous night remained, so much so that Charlie suspected they would have left without him if he hadn’t made a point to be first downstairs waiting, and bustled in to take Olga’s place the moment Kurshin arrived. On the way to the burial spot Lestov and Kurshin had talked-the Moscow detective hoping the crime scene produced more than the autopsies appeared to have-ignoring Charlie in the back. He trailed behind, the last in line, as they straggled toward the actual spot, and no one paid any attention to him when he edged away from the huddled-together, mosquito-swatting gathering that assembled to watch Lev Denebin carry out his forensic examination. Charlie positioned himself with the scientist in his immediate line of sight and the others beyond, able to see everything and everyone.
Denebin was better protected against the insects than any of them, helmeted, gauzed, gloved and with his scene-of-crime overalls tightly held at wrists and ankles. Charlie, who admired professionalism, was at once impressed by the Russian. Before getting into the grave, Denebin exposed an entire role of film in advance of pegging its immediate surround, using the markers to secure his tape for detailed exterior measurements ahead of stretching between them a crisscross of tape to section the depression into six designated search areas.
From Novikov’s earlier photographs it was obvious the ongoing thaw had deepened the grave still further from the depth at which the bodies had lain. Although he trod minimally and carefully, Denebin very quickly created an ankle-sucking sludge in places at the bottom of the depression. The forensic expert was painstakingly thorough,gently digging with a small trowel, particular always to sieve the earth back on to the place from which he’d collected it, not allowing any encroachment onto an unsearched, taped-off section.
It was only after watching the Russian probe and sift with total concentration for thirty minutes that Charlie appreciated the complete extent of his dismissal. Denebin appeared unaware and certainly uncaring of Charlie but stood always with his back to the others, for his body to obscure anything he didn’t want them properly to see.
Denebin had his specimen bags in a satchel slung around his neck, returning to a separate compartment whatever he felt it necessary to collect. He retrieved a lot of what looked to Charlie like metal shards and a few pieces of blackened wood. On the third cordoned-off section Charlie was immediately aware of the man’s body tightening and of Denebin more obviously putting his back to the watching group when he straightened with something small enough to hold between his thumb and forefinger. Until then he’d used one bag for several pieces of metal, but this new find got a specimen container of its own.