“So everyone who ever came here was known: recorded somewhere?”The town was falling away in the semidarkness, more moonscape stretching out in front of them.
Novikov nodded, recognizing the reason for the question. “In theory. Somewhere in Moscow, I suppose.”
“What about here? Were there registers?”
“Again, in theory. Aleksandr Andreevich asked the chief minister after the bodies were found. Polyakov said there weren’t any archives, not any longer. That they’d been destroyed when we got our limited autonomy. And don’t forget millions were sent here. Died here. It would have needed a warehouse as big as Yakutsk itself.”
After the previous day there was no love lost between this man and Olga Erzin. No need, then, to circumvent. “Anything from today’s examination?”
The pathologist shook his head. “She tried to get me to agree that some grazes on the woman’s hands and on the American’s right forearm were defense injuries, where they tried to fight off whoever killed them. But I wouldn’t. It doesn’t fit, with the close range at which they were shot in the back, not the front, of the head. I believe they’re scratches from pitching forward into the grave. Frozen as it was, it would have been like hitting concrete.”
Charlie thought so, too. It led perfectly to one of the questions he believed he’d virtually resolved. “The restraint bruising, to the wrists and ankles? It’s very even, isn’t it? And totally encircling, without any interruption. Normal handcuffs wouldn’t leave a band like that, would they? There’d have been gaps.”
Novikov regarded him curiously. “I suppose so,” he allowed, doubtfully. “There could have been some sideways lividity, joining up the gaps. What’s the significance?”
“In the museum photographs the wrists are completely enclosed by a U-shaped band that goes under the wrists. The encirclement is completed by the straight bar that slots in at the top to be ratcheted down tightly to grip every part of the wrist.”
“I still don’t understand the importance.”
“It would be the sort of prison equipment available at Gulag 98, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes,” Novikov agreed at once. “Of course it would.” Just as quickly he said, “I understand things were found at the grave?”
“What?” demanded Charlie, questioning instead of answering.
“I don’t know,” said the other man. “When he came to collect the woman on their way back, Lestov said Lev Fyodorovich wanted to use what laboratory facilities I have. I had to warn them I didn’t have much.” He hesitated. “I thought you might know what it is he wants to examine or test.”
“Denebin wouldn’t say,” said Charlie, moving easily on to his other query. “Have you managed to establish the weight of the bullets?”
Novikov smiled. “There’s a slight variation between them. The one that killed the Englishman was ten grams, the one I recovered from the American-which was more damage-was just over nine. Does that tell you anything?”
“It might, if there was the third bullet for comparison,” said Charlie. And he was sure there was. The uncertainty was whether Denebin would admit to finding it.
“There!” said Novikov, abruptly pointing through the gloom.
The gulag emerged like a mirage, at first a skeletal outline. It seemed a long time before they were able to distinguish buildings on the left of the approach road from the mine on the right. That was brightly lit, with two descent shaft derricks.
“Gold,” identified Novikov. “There’s three, quite close together. We won’t be able to stop. As it is, my registration will be logged. There are diamond and gold mines about thirty kilometers farther on.”
As they slowed, a straggled line of men emerged from the camp of single-story wooden shacks elevated from the ground. Some had their hands on the shoulders of the man in front. All walked head down, scuffling in jangling ankle manacles, crossing to the mine. They all wore uniforms padded against a cold that didn’t exist. All the guards were armed. One began waving Novikov’s car on urgently.
“Convicts?” queried Charlie.
Novikov nodded. “It will be the afternoon shift. The mines are worked twenty-four hours.”
Charlie was concentrating on the camp. The huts were in regimented lines, five to a line. Charlie counted thirty. There were two control towers like those he’d seen in the photographs in the museum. Charlie frowned, knowing he should be aware of something but unable to decide what. Then he said, “Wire! There’s no wire.”
“There rarely is. Look where we are: what this place is. Where isthere to run? People tried, of course. Still do. They’re never chased. It isn’t worth the effort. The locals find them frozen to death when the snow melts. That’s why run aways are called ‘snow drop.’”
The cemetery was on the far side of the camp, what appeared to be hundreds of lines of uniformed crosses. They were close enough for Charlie to see there were no names, just numbers.
“So this is what it was like?”
“No,” said Novikov. “This is civilized-humane-by comparison.”
Charlie had just finishing spraying the room with insecticide, after another meaningless conversation with the Moscow embassy, when Miriam’s knock came at his door. Charlie thought he kept any reaction from showing when she entered the room, but he wasn’t sure. His own hands and arms were swollen from bites, but the woman’s face was ballooned, hamster-cheeked and bumped and very red, despite whatever cream she’d smeared upon it. There were still isolated globules she hadn’t properly rubbed in.
“Meet the bride of Frankenstein.” Her skin was so stretched it was difficult for her to speak. “You don’t need me to tell you I’m not coming down for dinner tonight.”
“No,” accepted Charlie.
“You’ve been playing quite a game,” she accused. “The consensus is you’re a no-hoper.”
“Everyone’s entitled to an opinion.”
“It’s not mine,” she said. “Saul filled me in before I left Moscow: it’s been fascinating watching you. That’s why I haven’t interfered.”
As fascinating as it’s been watching you, reflected Charlie. “Don’t read too much into it.”
“I’ve come to warn you.”
For a reason, guessed Charlie. “What?”
“Our calls to Moscow are being monitored.”
There’s a clever girl, thought Charlie. “Who told you?”
“Ryabov, trying to get into my pants. They know you’re not getting anywhere.”
It had to be getting pretty crowded inside Miriam’s pants, thought Charlie: there wouldn’t have been room for him even if he’d beeninterested. “How about you? You got anything that gives any sort of lead?”
Miriam started to shake her head but abruptly stopped, wincing at the discomfort. “Lestov says there was something in the grave: that he’ll tell me when he finds out. And I’ll tell you, obviously. The locals haven’t got a clue. They just want to get rid of us. According to Ryabov, the Russians aren’t going to be included in tomorrow’s meeting and he thinks Polyakov is planning what he regards as a coup, but Ryabov doesn’t know what it is.”
She was wrapping up her eagerness very well, Charlie decided. For his own amusement he said, “Not sure I like being used.”
“You haven’t said what you’ve picked up,” prompted the woman.
“A lot of isolated bits, nothing making any sort of sense, any picture,” avoided Charlie. “I need to get back, start putting the picture of the man to work. There are a lot of checks that have got to be made with that. And I don’t just want to get the body and its organs back to London, for our own pathologist. There’s the uniform, too, for forensic tests.”
“I thought you had more,” said the woman, disbelievingly.
“Nothing crystallized yet.”
“We are working together on this, aren’t we, Charlie?” pressed Miriam. “I mean, Washington and London have agreed?”