The apartment was on the eighth floor of one of the Brezhnev-era blocks that ring Moscow-this one in the Lyublino suburb-like decaying teeth in need of treatment. Vegetable-growing allotment spaces came automatically with each flat, but Charlie decided against telling the doctor. There was nothing to be gained by alienating theconcierge by challenging his private enterprise. Novikov and his family had to learn for themselves how to live in the big city. He handed the Macallan whiskey to Novikov and offered the chocolates to the woman. “Housewarming presents,” he said.
The man said, “Thank you.” His wife accepted the box and said, “It’s all we ever seem to do, to thank you. There’s so much.” Her voice faltered. She swallowed heavily and said, “I’ll make some tea.”
“I feel numb,” said Novikov. “We all do.”
The man was blinking more rapidly than Charlie remembered. He said, “I kept my promise.”
“We both have,” said Charlie.
“Let’s talk in the kitchen,” invited the doctor, leading the way. It was cramped with the three of them in it until the two men sat facing each other across the table. Marina put their tea in front of them and left. At once, defensively, Novikov said, “I only ever told you I might be able to help.”
“I remember everything you told me,” said Charlie. “What is it you have?” At last, he thought. What would it be, all or nothing?
“My father was originally sentenced to Gulag 98.”
“You told me that, too.”
“Even after he was allowed to transfer to the town, he remained the camp doctor-”
“In 1945?” interrupted Charlie, impatiently.
“Yes.”
Charlie felt the stir of anticipation. “What did he tell you?”
“He didn’t tell me anything. He was a doctor. He kept medical notes. There are conditions particularly prevalent to the region, frostbite the most obvious. A lot of crush injuries, from the mines. In my father’s day he often had to improvise treatment. He kept records to help me.”
Charlie sipped his milkless tea, letting the man talk. How many missing pieces would Novikov have? Charlie said, “You read them all?”
“I’ve got them all,” declared Novikov, simply. “I’d not read every single entry. Never intended to, until the bodies were found. Then I did, for any reference to a camp near Yakutsk in 1944 and 1945. I knew Camp 98 existed, knew my father had been sentenced to serve there, but I never knew its exact location.”
“Got them?” echoed Charlie. “You mean you brought them with you, here to Moscow?”
Instead of answering, Novikov leaned beneath the kitchen table to a briefcase Charlie hadn’t been aware of until then. There was a marker in the scuffed hardback ledger the man lifted on to the table, rotating it for Charlie’s convenience. Novikov said, “The first date you need is May fourth, 1945. Read on from there.”
The brittle, easily split paper would have been the cheapest and the ink would probably have been watered to make it go further. It was already beginning to fade, in places quite badly, but the handwriting was legible, missing letters and words easily filled in where they had become unreadable.
May 4. Camp 98. 8 p.m. Infirmary emptied. Ordered by Moscow officials. Unidentified woman. Early 30s. Blond, well nourished. Severe abdominal trauma. Extensive venous hemorrhage, blood in wound and mouth. Very pale. Obvious hypotensive. No exit wound. No AB transfusion available. Plasma. Pulse erratic. Pressure ninety over fifty. Sedation. Exploration impossible until stabilized.
10 p.m. Male Caucasian. America. Officer. No physical trauma. Deep shock. Unresponsive visual or pain stimulation. Involuntary temporary spasms. Hallucinations. Mutterings of an execution. Sedation.
11:30. Search for second Caucasian. Fierce arguments about his disappearance. Warn of frostbite. Ignored. Request for heating for transferred patients to administrative building refused. Gangrene concern for crush victim Osadochy. Communication with Moscow opened by officials. Clearly security. Drugs and plasma requests refused.
Charlie felt out unseeing for the now-cold tea, needing the respite. Not the victims in the grave. Raisa had been brunette: shot in the head. Timpson, too. Larisa Krotkov? Hank Dunne? Who was the missing Caucasian? The Englishman? Why had they been allowed to live, the others killed?
May 5. 1:30 a.m. Woman deteriorating. Persistent severe hemorrhage. Continuing hemorrhage. Violent hallucination. Name repetition-Georgi. Assassination. More Moscow officials. Deep concern.
2:15 a.m. Oppose adrenaline resuscitation of American. Risk of psychological damage counteracting chlordiazepoxide. Accepted after Moscow contact. Permanent line established. No-one allowed in the infirmary except myself Patient spasmic. Killing fixation.
Charlie lifted and replaced the cup, without drinking, conscious of Novikov still sitting before him, motionless. There wasn’t any sound from the other room, either. It had to be Larisa Krotkov and Hank Dunne. Some intentionally put to death, some intentionally allowed to live. Nothing about Hitler’s bunker staff in the same camp. Wouldn’t be, Charlie acknowledged, irritated at the intrusion. This was a doctor’s log, nothing more. He had to work out the rest. Closer but still not close enough.
3:30 a.m. Woman died, without regaining consciousness. Calls for Georgi. And a priest. Progressive exsanguination and hypotension. Body claimed by Moscow officials. No reference in camp infirmary log. Commandant instructed.
6:45 a.m. Arrival of British officer. Severely traumatized. Hypothermic. Frostbite to extremities. Hot baths. Massage. Repeated assassination fixation. Hand washing obsessively. Speech refusal.
10 a.m. Able to save most extremities, although possible damage ulnal two digits. No obvious functional impairment. Left ear lobe gangrenous and amputated.
3:30 p.m. Refusal to allow evacuation to Moscow overruled. Deep sedation necessary, to subdue psychologically driven violent spasm. Evacuation by stretcher to military aircraft. American comprehending but still in shock. Sedated. After departure amputated left arm of crush victim. Gangrene.
Beneath that final entry for May 5 was a list of drugs and the amounts that had been administered, each listed against a time. Also noted were temperatures and blood pressure counts, ironically marked under the believed nationalities as the man’s son had itemized his findings against the bodies of the Yakutsk grave more than fifty years later.
“It was the same incident, wasn’t it?” demanded Novikov, anxiously.
“Yes.”
“So there were witnesses? Others involved?”
Which he’d already known, thought Charlie. There was nothing new; nothing that took him one step-one millimeter-further forward. And yet …? His mind remained blank. Trying too hard; hoping too hard. Nowhere else to go. Nowhere else to look. “There’s nothing more?”
Novikov’s face was ashen. “This is not enough?”
“I’d hoped for more.” Charlie heard the faintest of noises from the entrance hall behind him and guessed Marina had eased herself to within hearing. “It won’t affect your being here.”
The man opposite him visibly sagged with relief. “I’m sorry. I thought it was valuable, would help.”
Instead of immediately replying, Charlie went back to the notes, reading everything for a fortnight prior to May 4 and for a full month after May 5. Camp 98 was not mentioned again. It became a repetitive catalogue of mine injuries often resulting in amputation and of illness and disabilities caused by the climate. There were a lot of deaths recorded and frequent complaints of Moscow’s refusal or inability to provide drugs. At last Charlie said, “I’d like to take this ledger, for the May entries.”