by James R Benn
“Detective Inspector Scutt left because we’ve been chasing those buggers for thirty-six hours straight. I can hardly keep up with the man myself, so I have no patience left, especially for an American spy.”
“General Eisenhower recently sent an American officer home because he called another officer on the staff a British son of a bitch. If he’d called him a plain SOB, he’d still be working for Ike. Instead, he’s on a slow boat home in disgrace.”
“All right, Lieutenant Boyle, I will rephrase. I don’t want any son of a bitch second-guessing or spying on us. Is that clear?”
“I’m not a spy. I don’t even think I’m a son of a bitch.” We stared at each other, the usual territorial cop’s pissing contest in full swing.
“Maybe not,” Flack said, leaning back in his chair, releasing some of the tension from his furrowed brow. “Why does General Eisenhower care about a dead Russian in London? Last the newspapers said, Eisenhower was still in Italy.”
“Who am I to argue with the press?” I raised an eyebrow, trying to signal knowledge that wasn’t yet public. Plenty of military types knew about Uncle Ike’s promotion, but the official announcement was being handled at levels even higher than his.
“Oh. For the big show? Really?” Flack pursed his lips, giving the idea a try.
“Really,” I said. “But you didn’t hear it from me.”
“All right then,” Flack said. “For the sake of Allied unity, here goes. First, meet Captain Gennady Egorov of the Soviet Air Force.” Flack tossed four photographs onto the desk. The first was a picture of a man lying facedown, his hands tied behind his back. It looked like the kind of string you use to wrap parcels, but lots of it. He was dressed in a military-style overcoat, and there was dark splotch on the back of his head. The second was a close-up of the head. The entrance wound from a bullet was clearly visible, a hole dead center at the back of his skull. The third picture had been taken from several steps away. It showed the body lying between two stacks of bricks, like the ones I’d seen at cleared bomb sites. The final photograph was of his face, contorted by the effect of the bullet, but not so much as to disguise his features. Blond hair, a faint mustache, thin lips, and prominent cheekbones. Maybe a good-looking guy, or maybe short of that. His eyes were open, dull with death.
“Where was he found?”
“In Shoreditch. Near Spitalfields Market. In a tunnel of bricks. Do you know London?”
“I was stationed here a while ago. That’s over by St. Paul’s?”
“Close by, but east of there. Directly north from the Tower, if you’ve time to play the tourist. Kids found him in the morning, when they came out of the Underground shelter.”
“You mean the subway—the Tube? People still sleep down there?”
“Not in the numbers they used to. Back in the Blitz, we had nearly two hundred thousand people sleeping in the Underground stations. Nowhere near that now, of course, but I’d say there’s two or three thousand every night.”
“Why? There hasn’t been a raid in months.”
“Well, you’ve got to have a permit to sleep in the shelters. Some are afraid if they stop going down, they’ll lose their permit. I guess they figure Adolf ’s not quite done with us, so they’re taking no chances. And a few are just plain afraid, can’t sleep aboveground, worrying about the Luftwaffe. Others are bombed out and still got no place to go. They all have their reasons. Liverpool Street Station, the one in Shoreditch, it’s one of the biggest.”
“You think he was killed during the night?”
“The doc says so. Between midnight and two o’clock. Most likely he was shot right there. Soil on his pants and overcoat matches the ground. You could see the bits of red brick on his knees, from when he knelt.”
“When was this exactly?”
“Five nights ago. Friday night, or Saturday morning, I should say.”
“Have you recovered the bullet?”
“Dr. Mullins barely got it out of his skull before a delegation from the Soviet Embassy showed up. Protested at our lack of respect for the dead comrade, and took him away. Anyway, the bullet looked like a .32 caliber. It was a mess, like a dumdum bullet, perhaps a homemade one.”
You could make your own dumdum slug by taking a hacksaw and cutting an X on the top of the bullet. That way it would fragment on impact and cause horrible internal injuries.
“The killer must have been close. Those slugs aren’t very accurate. No one saw or heard anything?”
“Not a soul. The idea of those stacks of bricks is to keep them close for the rebuilding. Problem is, no one’s rebuilt anything yet, and they’re a warren in which all sorts of mischief goes on. Prostitutes, gangs, drunks, they all end up using them. Found one with a tin-roof add-on overhead, all nice and snug.”
“So either he was forced in there or was meeting somebody where he didn’t want to be seen.”
“I don’t think he was forced. Neither his watch nor wallet had been taken. Close to ten quid on him.”
“That would rule out any prostitutes or gangs I know. A drunk would be more likely to bash his skull in with a brick. Who does that leave?”
“The first thing we looked at was political extremists. Fortunately, all the Fascist sympathizers have been put in custody or sent away. It doesn’t have the look of a political assassination. No note, nothing to give credit to an anti-Communist cause.”
“You said some kids found him?”
“Yes. Bunch of them, ten to twelve years old. They’d left the shelter ahead of their parents, and were playing in the cleared areas. Those bricks are a great attraction for the lads. One of them was running pell-mell when he tripped over a boot, which proved to be attached to Captain Egorov. The boys came out screaming to a constable, saying they’d found a dead Nazi. They didn’t recognize the uniform, and jumped to the most exciting conclusion.”
“Are there many Soviet officers in London?”
“Apparently there are. I’d never seen one myself, but there are a number at the Soviet Embassy, others working with British Lend-Lease, and some with temporary military missions. Egorov was part of a Red Air Force contingent conducting some sort of joint meetings with your Eighth Air Force. Beyond that fact, we were told in no uncertain terms it’s all top secret.” Lend-Lease was FDR’s brainchild, a swap of arms in exchange for military bases on British soil. Most of the weaponry went to England, some to the Soviet Union.
“Who did you ask?”
“We went through the proper channels. Up to the home secretary, requesting clearance to talk with Egorov’s counterparts in your air force. Basically, we were told to stuff it.”
“What about the Russians?”
“Have you ever dealt with the Russians, Lieutenant Boyle?”
“I know a good Russian bakery in Roxbury.”
“And I know a nice Russian lady who gives piano lessons. But our Soviet friends refuse to answer any questions. Refuse to even talk to us. Except to say that when English workers establish a Marxist state, all crime will vanish along with private property. But until that day, we should find the gangsters who killed Captain Egorov and avenge his death.”
“With no help from them.”
“Or from the Americans. Until now, that is.”
“I don’t know how much help I can be, Detective.”
“Well, I’d say an officer on General Eisenhower’s staff, who has Colonel Blimp from MI5 smoothing the way for him, might be able to open some doors.” Flack relaxed, leaning back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. Daring me to say no.
“Eighth Air Force doors, you mean.”
“What a grand idea, Lieutenant! Glad to have you with us.”
“I’ll try. It might have to wait a few days, until my boss gets here. A colonel will make more of an impression.”
“Captain Egorov is in no hurry. Anything else you need to know?”
“Yes. Did you search the boys who found him?”
“Search them? What for? I told you Egoro
v still had his valuables.”
“From the point of view of a thief. What about from the point of view of a young boy who thinks he found a dead Nazi?” Flack was quiet, and I could see his mind turning the idea over. I had a hunch that a killing like this, an execution, had to come with a message. I wasn’t certain, but if there had been one, it could be hidden in some kid’s sock drawer, if he’d thought it was a souvenir swiped from a dead Kraut.
“All right, Lieutenant Boyle. That’s not a bad idea. I’ll talk to the parents while you talk with your air force chaps. Anything else?”
“Yeah. A couple of things,” I said. Scutt and Flack had responded to me no differently than my dad would have to any outsider back at the Boston PD. They were suspicious, and I couldn’t blame them. So I thought it wouldn’t hurt to tell them what Harding had told me, to show them I had something more to offer than half-baked ideas. “It’s likely that Captain Gennady Egorov was not really an air force officer. My information is that he was NKVD. Secret police.”
“If that’s true, it answers something that’s been bothering me. The Russians don’t let their people go out alone; they’re always in groups. He must have been one of their watchers.”
“So who was he watching?”
“Someone who found the workers’ paradise lacking in some way?”
“That would be my bet,” I said. Flack nodded in agreement as he removed a pack of Gold Flake cigarettes from his pocket. He offered me one and I declined. As he lit up, I wondered why I didn’t tell him about Colonel Harding’s other suspicion, that this might have something to do with the Poles. And with the Katyn Forest. I didn’t even want to think about Kaz’s pistol, his .32-caliber pocket automatic.
CHAPTER FOUR
I TOOK BIRDCAGE Walk, the leafless trees lining the road, stark and bare against the sky. Big Ben tolled at my back, and ahead of me was Buckingham Palace, with its white facade gleaming even in the dull, gray light. These were grand sights, but all they did was reinforce what my gut was telling me—that an empire doesn’t back down from tough decisions. If the Poles threatened the coalition, that would threaten victory, and if I knew anything about the Brits, they didn’t like losing. Not that their American cousins liked it much either.
So maybe Kaz was right about General Sikorski, maybe it hadn’t been an accident. Maybe it was the Russians, or the British, or both working together to solve a common problem. But that was pure conjecture on his part. Me, I needed proof, and some link to the dead Russian. Otherwise, it wasn’t any of my business.
Or was it? Had Kaz gone off the deep end and started killing Russians? It was too fantastic to be true. First, he wouldn’t have known Egorov was NKVD. And even if he had, Kaz was too smart to carry around a pistol that matched a slug found in Egorov’s skull. No, it didn’t make sense. Best to forget about it, and not mention the coincidence to anyone. But I did need to talk to Kaz and tell him what I was up to. I was meeting him for lunch at the Rubens Hotel, and it would be the perfect time. I turned left at the palace as the wind gusted, swirling leaves around my feet, pushing me toward the hotel.
I signed in at a desk manned by a sergeant wearing Poland’s red shoulder patch on his British Army uniform. He made a call, then sent me up to the third floor. At the head of the stairs were a couple of guards, both with Sten guns hung from their shoulders. I gave them my name and they looked me over like bodyguards while I wondered what a couple of bursts from those Sten guns would do to the woodwork.
“Billy, come in,” Kaz said from an open set of double doors. “On jest z mna,” he said to the guards.
“Tak, pan,” one of the guards said as he patted me down before letting me proceed.
“Kaz, you’ve been watching too many gangster movies.”
“Standard precautions, Billy. No exceptions.”
He led me into a sitting room with a table for four laid out. It was a pretty fancy room—high ceilings, big fireplace, and a soft, deep carpet. Two guys in British Army dress uniforms. Severe creases in their tailored trousers. Red shoulder patches with Poland emblazoned across them. Big smiles. I looked at Kaz, but he avoided my gaze. Instead, he took my arm and guided me toward the two officers.
“Billy, allow me to introduce Major Stefan Horak. He is my superior. And his aide, Captain Valerian Radecki.”
“Welcome, Lieutenant Boyle,” Horak said, shaking my hand. Radecki made a little bow. “How is your uncle?”
“Fine, sir. How is yours?”
“I pray he is well, but I have no idea,” Horak said, his eyebrows knitted in confusion. He looked at Kaz, then back at me. “Your uncle is somewhat more famous, is he not?” Horak spoke near-perfect English, with only a slight accent, but I could tell he was unsure of the conversation, which suited me fine. I wasn’t sure I liked it either.
“Not really, not outside of Boston, anyway.” Horak and Radecki stared at each other, then at me, then at Kaz, doubt gaining over cordiality.
“Billy,” Kaz said, his voice hissing between clenched teeth. “Major Horak is not inquiring after your uncle Daniel. He means your other uncle.”
“Oh, him! Sure, he’s fine. Well, nice to meet you both,” I said, nodding to the two officers. “We won’t keep you from your lunch. Ready, Kaz?”
“Billy, don’t do this,” Kaz whispered.
“Lieutenant Boyle,” Captain Radecki said, limping between Kaz and me, grasping the edge of a table to steady himself. “Let me apologize. When the baron told us he was lunching with you today, we prevailed upon him to include us. The least we could do was to provide the meal.” He gestured to the table, which was set with polished silver, bone china, and cut crystal. His nails were manicured, his jet black hair slicked back, and he sported a neatly trimmed pencil mustache. He oozed self-confidence in spite of his limp, and I thought it might be bad for Kaz if I didn’t play along. Guys like that liked to get their way. I wasn’t feeling too charitable toward Kaz for setting me up, but I wasn’t quite ready to throw him to the wolves.
“Sure, Captain. I don’t mind.” Major Horak lost his worried look, and we all sat.
“General Eisenhower will be in London soon, we understand?” Horak said nonchalantly as he unfolded his cloth napkin. I did the same and thought it was big enough for a flag of surrender.
“I saw him a couple of days ago, in Naples,” I said, avoiding the question. “Who told you he’d be here?”
“One hears things,” Horak said, making a dismissive gesture with one hand as he made a point of not looking at Kaz. He had a broad, expressive face, unlike Radecki, who would have been a much better poker player. Horak was forty or so, his brown hair falling untidily over his forehead. He played with his knife, turning it over in his hand as he spoke. “London runs on gossip and spies. Not German spies, mind you, but we all spy on each other. The British, French, Poles, Russians, Belgians, everyone except you Americans, I think. You are too direct for spying and gossip, yes?”
“One hears things,” I answered. “And sometimes one does not, even from his friends.” It was my turn not to look at Kaz.
“Everyone is saying General Eisenhower is to command the invasion,” Radecki said, lighting a cigarette as he held his bad leg straight. “We thought it would be your General Marshall.”
“Was that the gossip?” I asked, watching Radecki do a French inhale, his eyelids flickering against the smoke. He ignored me.
“Almost a certainty, we were told,” Horak said. “But then again, some of our sources were English, and they thought it should be Montgomery. But it had to be an American, don’t you think? It has become an American war, with all the troops, ships, planes, and armor coming from America.”
“Polish troops are fighting in Italy,” I said. “Along with the British and French. Even the Italians are fighting with us now. It’s not a purely American war.”
“No matter,” Radecki said. “It will be an American general. No European general could see beyond his own borders, except to covet what lies beyond.” He
crushed his cigarette out, and no one else spoke. White-coated waiters entered, filling the silence with the clatter of serving dishes and wine bottles. We ate well. Grilled lamb, dumplings, mushrooms. Washed down with a chilled white wine, something French I couldn’t pronounce. Topped off with an ice-cold glass of Polish vodka. I drank it down, feeling the alcohol warm my gut and stab at my brain. Then I waited. I watched Horak lean back and nod, ever so slightly, to Radecki.
“We thought it important, Lieutenant Boyle—”
“Call me Billy, Captain. Everyone does.” I pushed my empty glass toward the bottle and Horak poured. Half a glass. I guess they needed me half sober.
“Very well—Billy—as I was saying, we thought it important to fully inform you of the situation concerning the Katyn Forest Massacre. The Americans, until now, have been silent on the matter, unlike the British. Or the Russians.”
“What do you mean, until now?”
“It is not yet public knowledge, but an American colonel, attached as a liaison to the Polish Army in the Mediterranean, drafted a report for General George Strong, your chief of U.S. Army Intelligence. He interviewed Poles who had been released by the Russians, reviewed evidence collected by the Red Cross, and submitted his report. It said all the evidence pointed to the Russians as the executioners of nearly twenty thousand Polish officers, at the Katyn Forest and other locations as well.”
“I didn’t know that,” I said. I drank some more.
“Lieutenant Colonel Henry Szymanski,” Horak said. “I met him in Egypt. A fine officer. But his career is over.”
“Why?” I asked, conscious of a slur creeping into my voice.
“Several days ago the War Department in Washington officially charged him with an anti-Soviet bias, and informed his superiors of such. They may as well publicly have called him a liar.”
“Poor bastard,” I said.
“It is unfortunate, yes,” Radecki said. “Which is why we wish to provide you with details, so at least some other American officers will be fully informed.”
“And you choose me because my uncle is General Eisenhower, and I’m on his staff?” My tongue felt thick, and I had to focus on getting Uncle Ike’s four-syllable last name out right.