Brian Freemantle - Dead Men Living

Kenton Peters’s weekend house was original old colonial, white, columned and with an encircling veranda overlooking the immediate, oak-treed grounds and the paddocks and stables beyond, where the Arabians were bred. There was a stallion and three mares in the nearest one. Peters and Boyce sat savoring the tranquillity and privilege in shared contentment and in matching, high-backed wicker chairs that crackled slightly when they moved, their highballs on the separating table between them. It was their second. They were still dressed for golf, which had ended an hour earlier. Boyce had intentionally taken five on a par four on the back nine, to let Peters win their $25 wager. Boyce knew the American would have done the same for him, if they’d been in England. Everything in their ordered lives had understood rules.

Peters said, “Had some trouble with the damned woman in Moscow, towards the end. Impudent. Had her fired.”

Boyce said, “Really! I had the impression from some of the message traffic I’ve seen that she was still on station.”

“She hadn’t better be,” said the American, indignantly. He made a mental note to check.

“Was there any resentment, from the Bureau or the CIA or your military people?”

“I simply told the Agency and the military to keep out of it. The military are getting their Arlington glory with the president, so they’re happy. Bureau director was a bit stiff at first. But he’s a political appointee and they do as they’re told in the end, particularly if they get to like the job, which most of them do. As I said when all this began, it was your difficulty I sympathized with.”

“Used the principle of divide and rule,” reminded Boyce, toying idly with the tee he found in his pocket. “Knew all the archives were clean, so I just told each of them a little about the need to avoid difficulties if they had any skeletons in their department cupboards and left them to stumble around and get in each other’s way to cause as much confusion as possible with Dean’s people, whom I had the Intelligence Committee supposedly give the full investigation. It was all a bit of a farce, really. None of them knew they were performing in one, of course.”

The butler came inquiringly on to the veranda and Peters nodded to more drinks. To Boyce he said, “Eight suit you for dinner?”

“Perfect,” accepted the Englishman.

Peters said, “I’ve officially told the Bureau the investigation is over.”

“Was it wise, to do so officially?” queried Boyce. “Being professionally curious is the job of most of these people.”

Peters coaxed a slim but long cheroot into life, expelling a perfect smoke ring toward the distant horses. “I told the director it was national security, that most convenient of panaceas, and for everyone below it was on a need-to-know basis and they had no need to know.”

“The number of people that I had to deal with has given me a problem there,” admitted Boyce. “I’m just going to let them thrash around until they themselves have to admit defeat. Might be necessary to initiate an internal inquiry, to apportion responsibility for failure. It’s the sort of thing that would be expected.”

They stopped talking while the drinks were served.

As the butler left, Peters said, “That mean you’re not entirely sure your archives are clean?”

Boyce smiled. “It means I don’t like losing control. And that everything is going to appear to have been done properly and fully.”

Now the American laughed. “Losing control is a sin we neither of us will ever be accused of.” He sipped the new drink and said, “You spoken to your man?”

“Day before I flew here.”

“And?”

“He’s fine. Quite remarkable, for his age.”

“No risk of his giving way?”

“Why should he? That’s the last thing he’d allow.”

“Of course,” accepted the American. “Media have been more of a nuisance than I expected. Still are, in fact. You thought what to do about that?”

“Not really,” conceded the other man. “Future role of Dean’s department is a bit uncertain, so they’re convenient if public scapegoats are necessary. Muffin’s the obvious choice. He was on television from Yakutsk, remember: he’s identifible. Useful, really, that we didn’t go ahead with the other idea.”

“Always good to get the maximum benefit,” agreed the American.

“When’s your Arlington ceremony?”

“Next Friday. It’ll stoke the media pressure, I guess, but it can’t be helped.”

“You won’t be there, of course?”

“Of course not!” said Peters, actually surprised at being asked if he’d ever appear at any public, media-recorded event.

“You know,” said Boyce. “While all this has been going on, I’ve thought several times how much I’d like to have met Clarence Mitchell, the man who set the whole thing up on our side.”

“Peabody did it from here,” supplied Peters. “Samuel H. Peabody. Hell of a brain, both of them, for devising it.”

“And keeping it going for so long,” said Boyce. “That was the true brilliance.”

“Genius,” agreed Peters.

“And it can’t be said we’ve failed them,” said Boyce, self-congratulatory. “It could have gone very badly wrong if we hadn’t acted as quickly and so effectively as we did.”

“True,” agreed Peters. “Very true indeed. I wouldn’t want it any other way, but sometimes I wish people knew what we did to keep them safe in their beds.”

Boyce gestured expansively, encompassing the house and grounds. “It has its rewards.”

“My own money, not a penny from the taxpayer,” reminded Peters. “We’re eating pheasant tonight. Shot them myself. Been hanging just long enough.”

“Wonderful,” said Boyce.

“Why?” demanded the presidential aide, as he already had several times. “There’s no logic; no rationale.”

He was pacing the room, sometimes driving his fist into the palm of his other hand. It was the first time Natalia had witnessed Nikulin display any sort of emotion and she wondered if she’d get any clue why the man had ended the inquiry. “It was obviously something she knew Vadim Leonidovich would report back. To which we would have to react.”

“Too clumsy,” argued Nikulin.

“I believe there’s a personal relationship.”

Nikulin stopped pacing. “Why did he-” he began, outraged.

“For benefits beyond sex, I’d guess,” said Natalia. It was something that had to be taken into their consideration, which was why she’d met Nikulin alone.

“Might not she be doing it for the same reason?”

“That’s why I mentioned it.” It wasn’t the primary reason. She wanted time, the opportunity to talk it through with Charlie before the release of the art recovery, staged though it was intended to be.

“I’m glad you did. It’s very confusing, though.”

“As it is my not knowing the reason for our decision,” said Natalia, openly.

“It was one of the greatest-and most secret-of coups,” confided Nikulin. “And it must always remain secret, even from someone like you.”

Natalia nodded, resigned. It wasn’t something she’d tell Charlie, she decided. “The American would have known he’d have to act upon it,” Natalia repeated.

“So it’s intentional, to confuse us?”

“Shouldn’t we consider delaying the announcement about what was recovered from Belous?”

“It has no significance,” dismissed the presidential aide.

“Can we be sure of that, not knowing what this is about?”

“Where is Belous?”

“In custody. I’ve ordered he stay there, until we decide otherwise.”

Nikulin finally sat down. “Whatever the Americans are up to has no affect whatsoever upon our decision. Which stands. We go ahead with the release.”