“You sure about grenades? You’re not still bullshitting?”
Charlie began walking again. “No bullshit. Anything else?”
“You think there was?” fenced Miriam.
“Denebin picked up a shell casing. And I think the bullet that killed the woman.”
“You expect them to tell us that?”
“No.”
“Were you going to tell me?”
“Depends what you had to trade,” replied Charlie, honestly. And she did have a convenient plane.
“That magnifying glass and the tweezers are specialized, not the sort stocked by a 7-Eleven or whatever convenience stores were called that long ago: Woolworth’s I guess. Our laboratories in Washington might be able to narrow down the sort of thing they were used for. Give us a specialization.”
“He was very definitely a specialist,” agreed Charlie. It would be picked up by American forensic examination anyway and there wasn’t anything to be gained holding it back from her. “The one unbroken lens in his spectacles was particularly thick. Your labs will be able to establish the degree of impairment, but he’d never have passed an army medical with eyesight as bad as his. He was in uniform because there was a special need for whatever he did.”
“I missed that,” admitted Miriam, unoffended. “What about the uniform?”
“It didn’t tell me anything. Again, your forensic people might get something.”
“It wasn’t tailored to fit, not like your guy’s,” said the American. “I checked the measurements. I guess our officers didn’t go in for that sort of stuff.”
Charlie hadn’t seen her do that. It helped having a sounding board to bounce off and the echoes were coming back loud and clear. “I don’t suppose they did.”
“Would there have been a name on the label ripped out from your guy’s jacket?”
“Yes,” said Charlie, waiting for the challenge.
Nothing came. Instead Miriam said, “Shit. Think how easy it would have made things.”
“I already have,” assured Charlie.
“If my guy had special talents, it follows that yours would have had, too, doesn’t it?”
“I guess so,” agreed Charlie, cautiously.
“So they were killed because of their expertise?”
“What they were here to use it for,” qualified Charlie, glad theywere approaching the mortuary. “You didn’t say whether there was room on your plane.”
“I wouldn’t leave my worst enemy in a place like this longer than I had to.”
They were as surprised at all three Russians being in the cramped and inadequate mortuary laboratory, with Novikov closely attentive, as the Russians appeared to be at their arrival. Charlie at once remembered Denebin’s requested use of the facility and just as quickly accepted that the forensic examination, such as was possible, of the grave contents was the obvious place for all three to be. He and Miriam, too. The shock-haired scientist appeared to be clearing up when they walked in, a second specimen satchel in addition to the one he’d used at the scene already securely buckled.
“All over, then?” greeted Charlie. “Anything interesting?”
Denebin didn’t respond. Instead Lestov said, “What happened?” The attitude was hostile.
“We were totally conned,” admitted Miriam. Succinctly, missing nothing but not elaborating, either, she recounted Valentin Polyakov’s stage-managed performance, frequently quoting the chief minister verbatim, which Charlie noted. He listened and watched with one hip lodged on a laboratory bench to ease his feet, intent upon the Russians. Olga’s face was the most readable, instant anger, washed away just as quickly by dismayed awareness that the television coverage guaranteed Moscow seeing it. Even the normally enigmatic forensic scientist shifted beside his samples, his irritation needing movement, although his features remained unmoving. Only Lestov showed any objectivity.
“He didn’t mention us: give a reason for our not being there?”
“Charlie did,” said Miriam. Just as succinctly she paraphrased Charlie’s responses. Before she finished, Charlie was the sole object of attention.
“Where’s your evidence for all this special wartime prisoner conjecture?” Denebin demanded.
“Doesn’t what you recovered from the grave support that supposition?” Charlie came back, never the poker player to miss the chance to bluff.
“No,” denied the man.
Miriam was determinedly silent, recognizing the game. Vitali Novikov’s eyes were everywhere, seeking guidance and not getting it. Lestov and the other pathologist were equally lost but concealed it better.
“What contradicts it?” demanded Charlie. The other man was playing well.
“What supports it?” matched Denebin.
“It was a nine-millimeter bullet, wasn’t it?” tempted Charlie.
“No. It …” blurted Denebin, too intent, before realizing the admission.
“That certainly knocks my theory,” said Charlie, in apparent defeat. “What was the caliber?”
“The bullet was too badly distorted for me to be certain,” said the scientist. “A lot of it had splintered against a rock.”
Show-your-hand time, decided Charlie. “But the casing you recovered-what was it, from that fourth section of the grave you taped off? — that wasn’t damaged at all as far as I could see.”
Denebin stared directly at Charlie for several moments, red-faced, throat moving. There was no sound or movement from anyone else. Even the insect buzz seemed subdued. Finally the forensic scientist said, “It was.38.”
“Now, that really means I’ve misled everyone, doesn’t it? But gives us a lot more to think about. What conclusion have you reached about that?”
“I haven’t,” said the Russian, tightly, seemingly aware for the first time of their audience.
It should all be downhill from now on, Charlie thought. “What about the shrapnel? You must have a theory about that? So much of it?”
“A bomb of some sort.”
“Several small bombs? Grenades, for instance?”
“Possibly.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Charlie. It was always essential to get a positive confirmation. It wouldn’t have taken them long to realize that neither German nor Russian handguns of the Second World War fired.38 bullets, but without the significance of the torn-out trouser band label it would just be an additional mystery, mostprobably dismissed as having come from a captured Western weapon. And still would be because he didn’t intend telling them. He turned to Novikov, offering the release papers. “Could we call the American embassy from here, get the aircraft on its way?”
“You’ve finished?” The pathologist frowned.
“No,” said Charlie. “We’ve scarcely started.”
Miriam emerged from Novikov’s office and said, “Saul is already on his way here with the plane. All hell’s broken loose.”
The transportation coffins were remarkably well made, but Novikov, embarrassed, couldn’t find anything better than newspaper to wrap the uniform. To keep the recovered contents safe, Charlie put them back into tightly buttoned pockets and folded the clothing in upon itself. Miriam did the same. It was all completed quickly enough for the Russians to wait and accept Novikov’s offer to drive them all back to the Ontario.
The ambush-particularly the already-setup television cameras-was visible some way from the hotel.
Olga at once said, “No!”
Lestov turned to Charlie, ignoring her. “It happened just as you told us?”
“Exactly how Miriam said,” assured Charlie.
“Then yes!” insisted the homicide detective.
They were briefly engulfed as they got out of the car, and Charlie swallowed against laughing. There clearly hadn’t been sufficient graveside protection and everyone was gargoyle-faced from bites and stings, some more bubbled and bumped than Miriam had been at her worst. One very badly swollen TV reporter was making a point of his appearance in a live introduction: Charlie heard “hell on earth” and decided the country-proud Valentin Ivanovich Polyakov was going to be a very pissed off chief minister and that the bastard deserved it.