Free Dead Men Living by Brian Freemantle Page B

“I’m frightened, Charlie. Nothing’s working out as it should.”
    “It hasn’t started yet!”
    “I’m worried how it’s going to finish.”
    Charlie responded before Natalia when Sasha cried out. He was back within minutes from the child’s bedroom, after resettling her. “She had a bad dream.”
    “I’m having them, too,” said Natalia. “And they don’t go away when I’m awake.”
     
    It was Charlie’s idea for he and Natalia to test their intuition one against the other by refusing any prior opinion of the Russian group with whom he would be going to Yakutskaya, not even to be told their names. It meant his going to the Interior Ministry totally unprepared, because there hadn’t been the prior contact he’d half expected from the American embassy and Charlie hadn’t called Saul Freeman: there was no benefit—not yet at least—and he certainly didn’t intend conveying even an impression of a joint operation, despite Sir Rupert Dean’s assurance that London and Washington had agreed on complete cooperation.
    Charlie’s initial surprise on entering Petr Travin’s office was that it was Miriam Bell, the FBI chief’s deputy, and not Saul Freeman himself who was already there. She had a yellow legal pad on a primly crossed leg, the skirt of her severe business suit covering her knee. The blond hair was in a tightly coiled chignon. She gave the barest response to Charlie’s greeting. So, too, did the Russian pathologist and the forensic scientist at Travin’s introduction, but Vadim Lestov stood, smiled and insisted in experimental English that he was delighted to meet Charlie. Seemingly reminded, Travin said there was an interpreter available if necessary. Miriam said it wasn’t, ahead of Charlie.
    “That, at least, might make things easier,” commented Travin. “At the moment very little else does.”

    “I’d appreciate knowing what else there is, beyond what was sent to my State Department,” said Miriam.
    The Ice Maiden Meets the Ice Mummies, thought Charlie, sitting back contentedly. Except that was hardly Miriam Bell’s reputation. According to Freeman, who enjoyed not only kissing but telling, she swore like the devil and was more than willing to use the body of an angel to each and every advantage. Although she did have a figure made for underwear commercials, it was in other ways he needed to know a lot more about her, decided Charlie. He wondered, idly, if Miriam had been as disappointed in Freeman’s fuck-by-numbers technique as Irena.
    To the side of the huge room there were two stenographers and an operator at a recording machine. International crime-fighting cooperation, like justice, had to be seen to be done, Charlie supposed. During Alexei Popov’s unsuspected tenure of an office very similar to this there’d been vodka as well as tea from a traditional samovar for such encounters. But then Popov had hidden deceit behind friendliness.
    “There were some belongings on the bodies but nothing that could identify them,” offered Travin.
    “What?” demanded Charlie, bluntly, for the benefit of the record. When it was necessary Charlie was capable of Oscar award performances.
    “Personal items: we don’t know what,” admitted the Russian, tightly.
    “They’re not here?” persisted Charlie.
    “No,” conceded the man, tighter still.
    The first publicly recorded indication of difficulties to come, judged Charlie. Making his own intentionally awkward contribution, Charlie looked between Travin and Lev Denebin and said, “So you’re quite confident of the forensic facilities in Yakutsk?”
    Denebin actually looked toward the note-takers before saying, “I don’t think I can say that at all! I don’t know … I mean I need to see … what’s there … .”
    Charlie was conscious of Travin looking very intently at him. Charlie said, “I would have thought your facilities were better here in Moscow?” Until Denebin’s startled reaction, the three chosen Russians