by James R Benn
“Billy, good to see you,” boomed the voice of Colonel Bull Dawson. “How do you like our little hideaway?”
“Not bad, sir,” I said as Bull pumped my hand in a crushing grip that came from long hours of holding onto the controls of a B-17 at thirty thousand feet. “Where do you have the Russians stashed?”
“Come on,” he said. “You’ll both want to see this.” Bull led us down a narrow stairway, the stone worn in the center by centuries of martial footsteps. He pushed opened two metal doors and ushered us into a large, square room with a catwalk, about five feet high, on one side. The other wall was filled with detailed maps, taped together, forming a mosaic of England, France, Germany, Italy, all the way to the Soviet Union. The tables between the two walls held plotting boards, maps with airfields, antiaircraft defenses, dotted with symbols for fighters and bombers along routes that stretched from England to the Ukraine, with connections to Italy and back to England. American and Russian officers huddled in small groups, pointing at maps, pushing aircraft markers across plotting boards. At the far end of the room was a communications center, filled with switchboards, radios, teletypes, and signal repeating gear, tall metal boxes that reached to the end of the corridor.
“This is where they fought the Battle of Britain from, can you believe that?” Bull said. “That was before either Russia or America was in the war. Now we’re planning Operation Frantic from the same rooms. Amazing.”
“Yeah,” I said, trying to sound enthused about the historical import of the whole thing, but my attention was on Captain Kiril Sidorov. He was up on the catwalk, walking back and forth, his hands clasped behind him, watching every Russian officer who talked with an American. His eyes danced over them all, looking for what, I wondered? Signs of disaffection? Desire for personal property? Preference for bourbon over vodka? By his side was Rak Vatutin, who had his eyes on me. Both of them wore sidearms, and I had the sense of being in a cell block, with those two as guards. Maybe the Russians were used to it, but I didn’t like it one bit. I was tempted to shout out Topper’s message to Vatutin, and see what his reaction would be. But I wasn’t here to have fun, so I waved to him, just to enjoy seeing him turn away.
“You wanted to talk to the Russians, right?” Bull said. “Captain Sidorov agreed, as long as he could sit in.”
“Who’ll sit in when I interrogate him?”
“Look, Billy, you tread lightly here, understand? This is a major operation, and I don’t need a loose cannon right now. Talk to these guys, fine, but don’t call it an interrogation and get their Russian noses bent out of shape. They’re easily offended. Like me. Got it?”
“Got it, Bull. When can I get started?”
“Right now. I’ll take you to an empty office. Forget you ever saw all these maps. Big Mike, you need some grub?”
“Thanks, sir, but I’ll stick with Billy,” Big Mike said, with a glance toward the Russian hawks on the catwalk. He must’ve been concerned to pass up a chow line. Sidorov took notice of us and came down the steps.
“I see you found us, Lieutenant Boyle,” Sidorov said. “I hope you do as well finding the killer of Comrade Egorov.”
“I will, unless they move all of you somewhere else.”
“I hope not. This was done quickly and with great secrecy, so I believe we are secure. We even have a good cover story, about being shown the local defenses against invasion. The Home Guard has given us tours, showing off their hidden bunkers and many devious devices. A true proletariat people’s army, the English Home Guard. We’ve gazed across the channel through binoculars, of course, and the British have allowed us to assist in firing some of their large artillery pieces at the Nazi beach defenses. It makes for good relations between Allies. Our officers go out to the pubs and local events to spread the cover story, along with our American and English hosts.”
“Always in pairs, right?”
“Of course, except for Captain Vatutin and myself. Our job is to attend functions where our officers are in attendance, to provide additional security, and to make sure the script is carefully followed. It is good for the populace to see Soviet uniforms as a matter of course, instead of as an exception.”
“Security is pretty tight, Billy,” Bull said. “So far the cover story is holding up with everyone who has come in contact with the Soviets. It was Captain Sidorov’s idea, to have them out in the open. Pretty good one, too. Keeps them from going stir-crazy in here.”
“As long as everyone sticks to the script,” I said.
“That is what we are here for,” Vatutin said, sidling up to us. “What is your purpose?”
“To talk to your men,” I said. “They may be able to help put together a better picture of Gennady Egorov’s activities before he was killed. To help find his murderer.” I could sense Bull relaxing at my diplomatic language. I almost added something about capitalist gangsters, but then decided that might be too close to the truth.
“That is acceptable,” Sidorov said. “Since Captain Vatutin is with us, why don’t you start with him?” Vatutin tried to smile to show that he didn’t mind, but it was hard for him, coming out more like a snarl. He smiled more readily when drunk, I recalled from our last meeting.
Bull walked us to a small room past the communications equipment, and shut the door with a clang. Big Mike stood against the door, as if daring either Russian to try and leave. I sat at a desk, empty except for a pad of paper and a pencil. Tools of the trade. Sidorov and Vatutin sat opposite me.
“How well did you know Gennady Egorov?” I said.
“Comrade Egorov was a fine man, an exemplary Communist,” Vatutin said, darting his chin forward.
“Come, Rak,” Sidorov said. “We don’t need funeral orations here. Simply tell the lieutenant the truth. You know, the thing that actually happens?”
“Yes, I know the truth,” Vatutin said. “But do these Americans deserve it?” Sidorov nodded, and Vatutin shrugged, as if the responsibility for uttering this precious commodity was no longer his. “Egorov was not well liked. Some might say he did his job too well.”
“What was his job?”
Vatutin struggled with this, but continued after an encouraging nod from Sidorov. Whatever the ranks they wore on their uniforms, it was evident that in the NKVD Sidorov was the boss. “The same as ours, to act as security for the embassy, to gather information, and to be sure none of our own were seduced by the West. But he had no sense of balance, no ability to let even the slightest infraction go unnoticed.”
“Do you let infractions go unnoticed?”
“Of course. People need to feel they are getting away with something once in a while. It helps them cope with being in a strange country. Letting off steam, you say, correct?”
“Yeah, we do. I have to say I’m surprised. I thought you Soviets were a tough bunch.”
“There is another reason,” Vatutin went on. “If you stop every infraction, then you can never tell who will go on to commit a more serious one. But Egorov didn’t care about that, he cared only about looking good to our superiors. So he denounced anyone he could.”
“What did that get him? Didn’t your superiors know the kind of guy he was?”
“Yes. One who would do whatever he was told, without the slightest thought of anyone else.”
“That was an advantage. Did he ever denounce you?”
“No. I gave him no cause,” Vatutin said.
“Did you know where he was going the night he was killed?”
“He told both of us he was meeting a contact. That’s all.”
“Who else besides the three of you have that much freedom of movement, to go out alone?”
“The ambassador, but he would never go alone. Along with our immediate superior, we are the designated security.”
“You mean NKVD?”
“That is unnecessary to go into,” Sidorov said. “The three of us—
Egorov, Vatutin, and I—were the operational security team.”
“OK, but no one
else, other than the three of you, could just stroll out alone?”
“According to the rules, that is correct. But in actual practice, it could be done,” Vatutin said.
“Who is your superior?”
“No one at the moment,” Vatutin said grudgingly. He looked at the wall, the floor, then at his hands.
“Osip Nikolaevich Blotski?” I asked. Vatutin’s eyes shot up to meet mine. Bingo. From me he looked to Sidorov, who looked as if he’d never heard the name, which was damned odd, since old Osip had been beaten within an inch of his life the night of the opera. Seeing no reaction from Sidorov, Vatutin decided it was up to him.
“Yes,” he said. “We worked under Comrade Nikolaevich.”
“And now?”
“Captain Sidorov is in charge, until a replacement is named,” Vatutin said.
“Congratulations,” I said to Sidorov. “Who planned this move? Who knew about it in advance?”
“Comrade Nikolaevich had approved the transfer of the planning staff to Dover the day before he was attacked. It had been presented to the ambassador by the British Foreign Office, since it involved the relocation of a number of Soviet citizens. A delicate matter.”
“So it was left to you to work out the details,” I said to Sidorov. “The logistics, the deception plan?” He nodded.
“Why would Comrade Nikolaevich go out alone, at night?” I asked.
“That surprised me, I must admit,” Vatutin said. “He did enjoy walking in the parks for exercise, but always during the day, with a companion.”
“Any idea why he went that night?” Both men shook their heads, clueless.
“Was Egorov in charge of scheduling the shipments of produce to the embassy?” I said, trying a different tack. Vatutin sat, silent. “Was that your responsibility then?”
“No,” he said.
“Whose was it? His?” I pointed at Sidorov. “Protecting your boss?”
“No.”
“The ambassador’s?”
Sidorov laughed, and nodded to Vatutin again.
“All right. It was Egorov’s. We were forced to investigate him. He found out and was quite angry,” Vatutin said.
“What did you find out?”
“Nothing. We followed him, but he never met with anyone suspicious.”
“But he must have met with his contacts,” I said.
“He told you, no one of a suspicious nature,” Sidorov said. “This line of questioning must cease. We have a responsibility to protect our countrymen on duty in Great Britain. Our meeting with contacts to insure the continued safety of Soviet citizens is not part of this investigation.”
“OK, I get it,” I said. “So someone was tipping off a London gang, and you’re sure it wasn’t Egorov.”
“No. As Comrade Vatutin said, we never saw him meet with anyone suspicious. The manner in which he was killed, and the map you found, both suggest he was involved. He was a careful man, so we would not expect to find evidence easily. It was his death that showed he was. And, remember, the hijackings stopped after his death.”
“Right,” I said. I wished Sidorov would leave so I could give Topper’s message to Vatutin and watch his reaction. Time and place. Time and place for what? It sounded like another hijacking, but I wasn’t sure. “Who took over that responsibility, after Egorov was killed?”
“I did,” Sidorov said. Strange, I thought. Did Vatutin have access to the same information? Was he rifling through the boss’s files, or did Sidorov delegate the details to him?
“Any valuable shipments coming up?” I asked. I kept my eyes on Vatutin, who betrayed nothing, shaking his head. I thought I saw Sidorov’s eyes widen for a split second, but by the time I gave him my attention, his face was a mask.
“No, just the normal supplies, or have I forgotten something, Rak?”
“No, not at all,” Vatutin said.
“OK, I can’t think of anything else. Thank you for your time.”
“You haven’t noted anything,” Sidorov said, tapping his finger on the blank paper.
“Yes, I have,” I said, tapping the side of my head. Big Mike opened the door, and we all got up. I asked Sidorov if he would bring in the next officer, and got between him and Vatutin as we exited the room. As soon as he was a few paces ahead, I took Vatutin by the arm and pulled him close.
“Topper wants to know time and place,” I whispered. He pushed me away with the kind of look you’d give a pervert. He hustled down the corridor, toward the safety of his comrades.
“What the hell did you say to him, Billy?”
“Just gave him a message, Big Mike. Do me a favor and follow him. Let me know whom he talks to.” Big Mike went after him, his long strides closing the gap in no time.
A few minutes later, Sidorov brought in a Red Army major, an engineer in charge of working with the Eighth Air Force on preparing runways. He knew a little about tractors, less about English, and nothing about Egorov. There was a marked difference in Sidorov with this fellow, and the next. None of the urbane chatter about telling the truth, or admissions of letting infractions slide. It was all business, his stern voice translating my questions into Russian. I had no idea if the engineer was telling the truth, but I was sure he was too scared to lie. Same for the next few. After a colonel broke into a sweat that beaded up on his lip and dripped onto his tunic, I gave up.
“They’re all frightened,” I said to Sidorov, once we were alone.
“You must understand, Billy,” he said, leaning back to light a cigarette. “To get a posting to Great Britain is no simple matter. It is an honor. It shows that the motherland trusts you to sample the delights of London, knowing you will return to her bosom. They are afraid that they will be recalled simply because they are associated with questionable activities.”
“If London in wartime, with the bombs and rationing, is delightful, I’d hate to spend a month in Moscow.”
“In the winter, I would agree. But in the spring, Moscow is beautiful. However, not every Russian is from Moscow. Many of these men are from the country, and their homes may still have dirt floors. Not the ones who came here through Party connections, but the ones who really earned it.”
“I thought the Communist Party ran everything in Russia.”
“Oh, it does. But people are people, and will manipulate the system. Egorov was one such man. He was posted here because his father is on the Central Committee. No other reason.”
“How about you? What did you do to get your posting? Didn’t you say you were brought up in an orphanage?”
“The state was my parent,” Sidorov said, smiling. His lips moved, but his teeth were clenched. “How much more influence could you ask for? Now, it is getting late. We have three men attending a meeting of the local rugby club, and a social gathering at the Lord Nelson Inn. Captain Vatutin and I must make the rounds.”
“We’re staying at the Lord Nelson,” I said, not mentioning Kaz. “Maybe I’ll join you for a drink later.”
“It would be my pleasure,” Sidorov said as he left.
I sat alone, thinking about what a strange guy he was. Mysterious. Likable. Hard. Maybe cruel. He was keeping something back, but that was his job. But was it a state secret or a Sidorov secret? Or were they one and the same? I closed my eyes and tried to bring his face into focus, to recall his reaction when I’d asked about a valuable shipment. It was only in my peripheral vision, but I had seen the whites of his eyes grow large for a second. He knew something he wasn’t telling, something that had caught him by surprise. It had wiped that smile off his face for a moment, the smile that wasn’t a smile, any more than the clenched teeth of a skull wore a friendly grin.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“GET BACK TO London,” I said to Big Mike as we walked out of the tunnels and into the fading late afternoon light. “Ask Harding to find out if there’s anything special being delivered to the Soviet Embassy. Not food or booze, something more valuable. Press Cosgrove on it if you can. I think he knows what’s
up.”
“Why don’t I call Sam? They got secure telephones here.”
“No. If there’s anything to this, no one’s going to talk about it on the phone. Sidorov’s eyes lit up when I asked about something valuable coming through. He denied it, but he reacted to something. Put that together with Egorov being murdered, Osip Nikolaevich Blotski almost making it to the workers’ paradise, and I’ll bet there’s something on its way to that embassy worth killing for.”
“OK. I’ll call you as soon as I get anything,” Big Mike said.
“Don’t call the castle. Leave a vague message for me at the inn and then get back down here. We’ve got MI5 and MI6 mixed up in all this, and they’re both probably listening in on the Russians, as well as each other.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Probably drink too much vodka.”
“Damn!” Big Mike said, taking a corner hard enough to almost give me a tumble. He didn’t like missing a fun evening, but I thought I was doing him a favor. He let me off in front of the Lord Nelson, threading his way around the rubble that had spilled out into the street. Crews of workmen were raising clouds of dust cleaning and stacking bricks, while others piled charred timbers and shattered furniture onto a flatbed truck. Some were putting away their tools and cleaning up at the end of their shifts. Only one fellow was idle, leaning against a doorway that had lost its door. He wore a gray raincoat and a muffler wrapped around his neck, not exactly the duds for cleaning collapsed brickwork. He took a last drag on his cigarette and flicked it in my direction, then pushed off without a look back. Scotland Yard? MI5? Local oddball? I thought about following him, but if it was either of the first two, he’d lose me in no time, and if it was the third, there was no percentage. Instead, I tramped up the three flights of narrow stairs, hoping the Germans across the channel wouldn’t shell the town while we were up here.