The gaze, totally upon Charlie, was defiant. “They had the photographs of us by the graveside but not of Russians. They’d been painted out …. They planned to blackmail us, as killers of our fellow officers.”
“Enough!” stopped Boyce, at last. “There’ll be no more! Sir Peter is not on trial, has nothing whatsoever to answer for. All that’s necessary for each of you to know further is that Sir Peter has performed for this country-his country-one of the bravest and most successful services in its postwar history. At any time in history. For a full twenty years, until his retirement, Sir Peter-with Harry Dunne, who provided what appeared to be confirmation from the State Department in Washington-fed Moscow with whatever we wanted them to believe. While all the time they understood they were receiving information from a priceless source, for fifteen of those years from the permanent secretary to the Foreign Office himself! In effect, for twenty years, we and the Americans ran Russia’s foreign policy, as and how we wished. Not just in espionage terms but politically as well, we conducted the coup of this or any other century. Because the discovery of the bodies was made publicly known, an investigation had to be publicly staged. As of this moment it is officially closed, as I can tell you it has been by America ….”
He looked at Charlie. “Except for you. You learned far too much. I want your sources.”
“And I want a total and complete apology,” demanded Sir Peter Mason. He looked pointedly across the room to Sir Rupert Dean. “And other assurances to go with it.”
“One at a time,” said Charlie, to the director-general’s undisguised wince. “The source first. There is nothing that cannot be bought or bribed in Moscow, for the right price. Apart from what I deduced for myself, in Yakutsk and what little-far too little to matter-was shared by the FBI, everything came from Russian intelligence archives. Sir Peter was not named, but there were details of his frostbite injuries to his ears and hand, which I recognized when we met.”
“Did you understand from the archives you read that the Russians still believe everything they were told was genuine?” demanded the permanent secretary.
“Yes,” said Charlie.
“How much of it do the Americans know?”
“The cooperation wasn’t good. I’m not sure.”
“It doesn’t matter. Everything has concluded very satisfactorily,” declared Boyce.
“Except for an apology,” reminded Mason.
“There’s just one or two things that aren’t clear,” said Charlie, ignoring the demand. “There are photographs, of the bodies as they were found in the grave. Which show that Raisa Belous was shot first. Was at the very bottom, not the top. In fact, when the grave was first uncovered the local investigators only thought there were two bodies, not three. That confuse you like it confuses me, Sir Peter?”
“It happened as I’ve said it did,” insisted the man.
“Something else,” pressed Charlie. “You sure there wasn’t a third British officer at Yakutsk? As far as I can see there would have had to be, from what you’ve told us. According to you they immediately started filling in the grave after shooting Raisa. Who do you think told them where to find the duplicate tailor’s label in the trouser waistband that enabled me to trace Simon Norrington? And stripped the body to provide the identification in Berlin …?”
“You will stop this!” said Boyce.
“I’m confused about the start,” Charlie bulldozed on. “You-and Harry Dunne-reported what had happened to military intelligence the moment you got back to the western sector of Berlin in late May?”
“Of course!” said Mason, flushed again. “It was before I left Berlinthat the planning began to deceive the Russians, which we did for so long.”
Easily recalling the dates from his Who’s Who reading, Charlie said, “Planning that wasn’t put into operation until five-or was it ten? — years later, not until you became part of the Foreign Office secretariat?”
“I won’t be subjected to interrogation!” said Mason.
“And I’ve told you to stop!” shouted Boyce.
“This is important, now that we know everything has to remain the secret it’s always been,” ignored Charlie, again. “We know, because he’s just told us, that Sir Peter didn’t know Raisa Belous before meeting her in May in the Russian-controlled eastern section of Berlin. But you’ve seen the Russian photographs released a couple of days ago, of some art objects that Raisa Belous saved from Catherine the Great’s palace. One of the prints was a Durer which is the next in sequence to the one I saw this morning-and on my first visit, although I didn’t connect it then-in Sir Peter’s house in East Dereham. And there’s a small pastoral scene-I think it’s a Watteau-just at the beginning of the hallway corridor which makes a pair with the one also in the photograph ….” Charlie felt the chill begin to settle in the room again. “And it might not be a good idea to offer for sale on the open market the small canvas of Sophia of Anhalt-Zerbst hanging just inside your study door, Sir Peter. That was Catherine the Great’s maiden title before her marriage and is listed in the palace catalogue as one of the masterpieces still missing.”
“This meeting is ended,” announced Boyce.
Not until you supercilious bastards know just how firmly I’ve got you by the balls, Charlie decided. To Boyce he said, “I take it you’ll explain everything to Sir Matthew Norrington? I wouldn’t want to tell him anything he shouldn’t know.”
“You’ve gained us a lot of enemies, yourself more than anyone,” said Sir Rupert Dean.
Before Charlie could respond, Patrick Pacey said, “But guaranteed the continuance of the department, in my opinion.”
“Don’t you ever again as much as think of going AWOL as you did,” threatened the director-general. “I’ll accept no excuse, no apology.It wouldn’t be politically acceptable for me to fire you after today. If I could, I would. And still might find a reason for doing so. Don’t think of your survival as anything other than a temporary postponement.”
He never had, thought Charlie. They’d walked back from the Foreign Office and his feet were on fire. “I understand. At no time did I intend any disrespect to you personally. Or to the department.”
“I said I didn’t want to hear any of that. You’re not going back to Moscow. There’s another problem to deal with first.”
First, seized Charlie. So his return was only a postponement, too. “Can I ask what?”
“Richard Cartright was arrested by the Russians: some nonsense about currency-dealing. Diplomatic immunity was invoked to get the bloody fool out, but he’s implicating one of us.”
“Who?” asked Charlie, just for the pleasure of hearing the name.
“Gerald Williams,” said the political officer.
“Incidently,” said Dean, “how much did you pay to get to the intelligence archives?”
“It wasn’t a lump-sum payment,” said Charlie, anticipating what was to come. “I’m keeping the man on a permanent retainer. It’s expensive but proved invaluable in this instance alone.”
On the telephone Natalia sounded as subdued, as desultory, even, as she had that morning. She accepted his remaining in London without asking why and told him not to bother when he asked what she thought he should bring back for Sasha. Natalia added that she didn’t want anything for herself, either. When he said everything had turned out perfectly and that he loved her, she said good but didn’t say she loved him in return.