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“Ziegler, what the hell is going on here?” the man who did not have a camera asked.
“Mr. Cronley, this is CID Agent Walt ‘Hollywood’ Thomas, of the CID photo lab. Hollywood, this is Mr. Cronley of the DCI.”
“I heard you got transferred there. What the hell is the DCI?”
“I’m surprised Colonel Kellogg didn’t tell you not to ask questions,” Ziegler said.
“Yeah, he did,” Thomas said, and, turning to Cronley, added, “If I’m out of line, sir, I’m sorry. My orders from the provost marshal were to do whatever Ziegler asked. And not to ask questions.”
“We need pictures, still and movie, of digging up some bodies, of the bodies in the morgue of the 98th General Hospital, and then of them in caskets, and then of their reburial here—”
“Which will take place as soon as we get the caskets,” Ziegler interjected. “And the tombstones. Which hopefully will be tomorrow but will probably be the day after tomorrow.”
“Can I ask what this is all about?” Thomas asked.
“No,” Ziegler said. “Classification, Top Secret. You’ll develop the film, immediately, make prints of the stills, give everything to me, and then forget everything. Got it?”
“You get that, Lieutenant?” Cronley asked the engineer officer.
“Yes, sir.”
“Make sure your men get it.”
“Yes, sir, I will.”
“I need a quiet word with you, Mr. Ziegler,” Cronley said.
“Yes, sir,” Augie replied.
Cronley led him up the stairs and into the crematorium.
“Serov knows three of his guys were killed,” Cronley began. “Janice wrote that the fourth guy died in the hospital. He knows, I think, that the fourth guy is Lazarus, Ulyanov. And I don’t think he thinks Lazarus is dead. I think this whole reburial process is because it’s important to Serov to know that he’s dead. Why is he so important? I don’t have a fucking clue. But I want to play with that.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Ziegler replied.
“You’re the expert on this place. What do they do with the ashes of somebody who gets cremated?”
“For all I know, they use the
m for fertilizer. Maybe into a mass grave of ashes.”
“What if somebody rented a grave? Then what?”
“That I know. They put the ashes into what looks like a flower pot with a lid and the deceased’s name on it, on a little bronze strip, and then bury it.”
“They dig a six-foot hole for a flower pot?”
“They dig a hole maybe two feet deep.”
“You just made my day,” Cronley said. “Get one of these flower pots. And put on a bronze strip: MAJOR OF STATE SECURITY VENEDIKT ULYANOV. When we open the three graves and get pictures of the caskets and bodies, we will open, right next to it, a fourth grave, maybe two feet deep, from which we will exhume and take pictures of a flower pot with no name tag on it. Later, we put the name strip on it, take a picture of it, and then of it being reburied.”
“And you’re thinking that will convince Serov that Lazarus is dead?”
“I don’t know. What I want to see is his reaction. Is he pissed? Relieved? What?”
“How about ‘unbelieving’?”
“I have a gut feeling this should be done, so we’re going to do it.”
