Brian Freemantle: Dead Men Living

“You’re trying to convince yourself as much as me,” she accused.

“Don’t you think I have to go?”

“I think it’s madness. You don’t know anyone’s going to try to make you a scapegoat and even if they do you stand more chance of surviving than risking everything, which is what you’re doing. Risking us!”

“I don’t think so.”

“I love you, Charlie. I love you and Sasha loves you and I really do want us to spend the rest of our lives together. But I don’t know how much longer I can go on like this.”

“That’s why I have to go. To get the whole damned thing over. Make us safe.”

“I don’t think we’re ever going to be safe. That’s why it might be better to make a decision about us now. Stop putting it off.”

“No!” refused Charlie. “I’ll get it right and we’ll survive!”

That night they lay stiffly side by side, untouching, and Charlie knew every time he woke up, which he did often, that Natalia was awake, too. She remained stiff even when he tried to kiss her goodbye, only just responding. It meant he spent more time thinking about himself and Natalia on the flight to London than about what he had to do when he got there, but there was time during the drive.

Sir Peter Mason personally opened the door. The man said, “You didn’t ring for an appointment.”

Charlie said, “You might have refused to see me.”

“I still could.”

“But you won’t, will you?”

Despite the totally unexpected intrusion, Sir Peter Mason was as immaculate as he had been at Charlie’s first visit, even to the fresh rose buttonhole, although today’s pinstripe was blue, not gray. The hair was as neatly barbered and in place, too, which made the last detail for which Charlie was looking easy to find, although he would have missed it, as he’d missed it before, if he hadn’t specifically looked. And today’s walk to the library had provided all the confirmation he’d really needed. The man sat easily on the far side of the desk big enough, Charlie reckoned, for a real delta wing, not a paper reproduction, and in the chair in which he’d been placed opposite Charlie tried to appear as relaxed. The man said, “Well, now, how is it you think I can help you further?” There was just the faintest unctuousness.

Charlie curbed the tingling euphoria, knowing the confirmation was only significant to him and that to get the admission he wanted, the conversation to follow-with a man whose entire life had been listening and talking in nuances and doublespeak-had to be the cleverest he himself had ever conducted in a lifetime of nuance and double-speak. “You could give me your own version of what happened at Yakutsk, to compare with the one I have.”

The laugh was of disbelief, the one word stretched in astonishment. “What?”

“I know,” declared Charlie, hopefully.

The other man’s face was stiff now. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about. You’re clearly suffering some mental aberration and I think it best that you leave, before I call the police.” The tone was controlled, unemotional, just mildly irritated.

Could he risk it? wondered Charlie. “That might be an idea. They could take your statement officially.” He decided against completing the threat.

“I’ve asked you to leave.”

The moment to hit hard, judged Charlie. “It was your battle-dress button, wasn’t it? And the casing from your service revolver?”

“This is madness.”

He hadn’t reached for the telephone. Or threatened to call Sir Rupert Dean, to whom he’d referred intimidatingly several times at the previous meeting. “No, Sir Peter. It’s fact. Forensically proven, evidential fact.”

“Which you’ve communicated-discussed-to others?”

The first crack? “Of course,” said Charlie. It wasn’t an actual lie: only the inference that Sir Peter Mason had been connected with it wasn’t true.

“In writing?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’re guilty of libel.”

Not the first crack at all! “Which you’d need to take me into a court of law to prosecute,” said Charlie. “You sure you can afford to appear in court, Sir Peter?”

“More, I’m sure, than you, in every meaning of the word ‘afford.’”

Bullying-pompous-but that was all, assessed Charlie. Still far short. “You haven’t called the police.”

“I’m more interested now in the total extent of your aberration. And your libel.”

That was a crack, although again not sufficient. Cleverly outtalking him, in fact, Charlie conceded: the bastard was trying to learn how much he knew. “Was Larisa already dead when they found you and brought you back to the camp infirmary?”

“Larisa who?”

“Larisa Krotkov.”

“I’ve never heard of anyone named Larisa Krotkov. Nor do I know what camp you’re referring to.”

There was no euphoria or satisfaction left. Charlie was hot, perspiring, aware he was losing. “Gulag 98.”

“That means nothing to me.”

“What about Raisa?”

“I did not know Raisa Belous.”

The hardest hit he could think of, Charlie decided. “She’s the woman you killed: shot in the back of the head to go first into thegrave, before Simon Norrington and George Timpson were thrown on top.”

Mason actually jerked back in his chair, his face bloodred, eyes bulged, hands no longer cupped but splayed against the desktop to support himself. His mouth moved several times, but there were no immediate words, and when they finally came they were strained, wheezing from the man. “I will see to it that you are prosecuted! Put away! Your life … everything … is over. Finished.”

He’d been within a hairbreadth, Charlie recognized. He’d rocked the man, had him teetering on the edge, but at the last minute Mason had pulled back, turning the near-collapse into apparent outrage. He had to push again, Charlie acknowledged-push with everything else he had to topple the man on the second attempt. The uncertainty was not being sure just how much there really was left.

Charlie said, “I can’t imagine what it must have been like. No one can. Not surprising that you ran like you did: no one could blame you for wanting to get away. Remarkable that you managed to get so far, although not that they didn’t shoot. They had other, more long-term needs for you, of course. As they had for Harry Dunne. Didn’t stop them from shooting Larisa, though, but then she’d served her purpose, hadn’t she …?” Georgi, he suddenly remembered: how Larisa, in her dying delerium, would have referred by the Russian name to George Timpson, who’d carried the cut-off photograph of them both together. “And Larisa did try to stop George Timpson from getting shot, didn’t she?” he guessed. “Got hit herself doing it … couldn’t be saved …” He nodded to Mason’s hands and the deformed fingers, still splayed on the desk. “Not like your fingers were saved, despite the frostbite. He was a good doctor, wasn’t he? If I hadn’t known he’d had to amputate your earlobe-particularly looked when you opened the door to me today-I wouldn’t have known you’d lost it. I’m sure not many people have, all these years ….”

It didn’t work.

Sir Peter Mason retained his rigidly affronted stance, although his color went and his voice returned to near-normal. “I’ve heard enough-too much-of this absurdity! You’ll leave my house. Immediately. I intend contacting Sir Rupert, at once. To carry out the threats I’ve made, about every report you’ve filed ….” The controlwent, at the end. Color abruptly suffused the man’s face again and he roared, crack-voiced, “GET OUT!” and rose, actually pointing toward the door.