Brian Freemantle: Dead Men Living

Mason stopped again, as if to judge the reception. Charlie’s feet began to throb.

“There were a lot of Russians, but only Norrington could properly talk to them,” resumed the old man. “They were very friendly. A lot of drinking. Toasts to friendship. Lent us protective clothes for the flight and for when we got there. They said it was summer, but I’ve never known anywhere so cold ….”

He parted his cupped hands briefly to cover the ear that had been frostbitten, as if he could still feel pain. “Separated us, when we got there. Dunne and I were by ourselves: that’s the way it had to be, they said. Politics for us, art for them. Hitler’s bunker staff were all assembled. Dollmann. Buhle. Staubwasswe. Stoelin. The Russians said Norrington and Timpson were elsewhere, with the rest. We talked through Russian interpreters. The Germans were willing to tell us all they could to get away from the place: that was the first we-anyone-knew that Hitler’s last will and testament had survived. The proper discussion was planned to begin the following day. Dunne and I slept in a barrack in the prison camp. When we asked about the others, we were told they were in another part, with the Hitler staff who knew all about the Einsatzstab Reichsleiter Rosenberg fur die Besetzten Gebiete …. There was a van waiting to take us to what they said would be a conference room. It had been dark when we arrived-it was dark practically all the time-but there wasenough light in the morning for us to see prisoners in another section. The interpreters said they’d committed very serious offenses, mostly war crimes. It was light enough, too, to realize that we were being taken out of the camp …. Then we heard some explosions and saw smoke up ahead ….”

Mason trailed off, bringing a handkerchief up to his mouth, head bowed. His voice was cracked when he started to speak again. “I’ll never forget that scene. Can’t. There was still a lot of smoke around the crater. Debris still falling. And Russians. I don’t know how many, but at first too many to see that Norrington and Timpson were shackled and kneeling by the hole, with the woman. Larisa wasn’t shackled, but she was crying. Everyone around them had guns and the men in the van pulled guns on us, too. They made us get out and I thought we were going to be shot, as well. Norrington was talking in Russian, loudly, arguing. Raisa was crying. Timpson didn’t see us until we got very close, because of his eyes, but when he did, he shouted out: said he didn’t know why, but they were going to be killed … told us to make them stop.”

Mason abruptly sobbed, then coughed, and Boyce said, “Peter, you don’t have to …” but the old man waved the deformed hand and said, “I do. I won’t be wrongly accused …!” He looked up, swallowing, for the first time looking steadily at Charlie. “They took my revolver, put one of theirs literally to my head, the barrel touching me. Made me stand directly behind Raisa and said I had to kill her. Put my gun back in my hand and told me to press the trigger. I refused. Told them to kill me. There was a terrible explosion and then another and I thought they had, but someone had shot Timpson. I saw him thrown forward into the crater, and there was another flash but no sound and I saw there were photographers on the other side of the hole, taking pictures. Larisa was on the ground, screaming. They told me again to kill Raisa, but I wouldn’t. Norrington was yelling in Russian. The next shot killed him, knocking him into the grave on top of Timpson. I think they were still shouting for me to fire, but I couldn’t hear properly because the shots had been very close. Someone grabbed me from behind-put their hand over mine and pressed the trigger, and Raisa’s head seemed to split in half and there were more photographs and then I was let go ….”

There was a further, gulping break. “I stood there, waiting to beshot, but nothing happened. There was a lot of confusion. Dunne just stood there; I don’t know if he’d been made to fire or not. Everyone was concentrating upon burying the bodies. I got back to the truck. I remember being sick. Then running. I just ran, anywhere. I don’t know where. It had got very dark again. And cold. Dear God, it was so very cold. I couldn’t find any road. Kept falling over, and in the end I couldn’t get up anymore, so I lay there, knowing I was going to die. I didn’t hear men, only dogs that were brought from the camp. That’s what I remember next, being in the camp. Being wrapped in blankets and looked at, by a doctor ….” The hand went up to his ear again. “Being operated upon. We were flown out that night, back to Berlin.”

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 …?”