Rag and Bone bbwwim-5

by James R Benn

  “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.

  I found Kaz in his room, sitting by the window, staring at the destroyed building across the street. Newspapers were strewn on the bed and all across the floor. The Times, the Daily Mail, the Daily Express. A bottle of vodka was at his elbow, one quarter empty, and no glass in sight. I didn’t think the war was over, so I knew it wasn’t a celebration.

  “German guilt,” Kaz said, in a harsh, snorting laugh.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Look at the headlines. The report of the Soviet Special Commission on the Katyn Forest Massacre. The press is swallowing their fabrications whole. Look, the Times itself, it does nothing but quote the Russian report! German guilt, indeed. The Germans are guilty of so much, why not this, too? It is only the facts that stand in the way of that argument, Billy. But those facts are too inconvenient to appear in print.” He took a swig from the bottle and slammed it down on the table.

  I picked up the paper and read. The article was headed “Report of Russian Commission,” with the words “German Guilt” quoted beneath it. Kaz was right-it was nothing but one long recitation of the Russian findings. It stated that the local populace confirmed that the Poles were shot by the Germans in 1941, after they were captured while working as POWs on construction projects. The fact that none of the local populace was available to be interviewed was not mentioned, nor the evidence that none of those Polish officers was alive after 1940. The emigre Poles in London were blamed for sowing discord among the Allies.

  “Emigres,” Kaz said. “It makes us sound like traitors who left Poland of our own accord. But they refer to the Poles in Russia as the Union of Polish Patriots in the USSR. Why are they, too, not called emigres in the Times?”

  I didn’t answer, but not because I didn’t know. The fix was in. Poland was taking another knife in the back. I flipped through the pages and found more bad news. The Russians were refusing to discuss the Polish border with their allies, the London Poles included. They pla
nned on taking eastern Poland for themselves, setting the new border at the Curzon Line, which was roughly the same border they’d established with the Nazis when they both invaded Poland.

  “You see that the Polish Government in Exile has asked for talks with the Soviets, with the Americans and British as intermediaries,” Kaz said. “The Soviets rejected the idea. The response from our Western allies is silence. Look through all these newspapers. All you will see is stories of the Russian offensives and General Eisenhower’s arrival in London. It’s all there; any fool can see it. Poland is too unimportant to come between these grand allies.”

  “You’re not unimportant,” I said to Kaz, sitting next to him. I took a swig from the bottle and let it burn down my throat.

  “But I am right,” he said.

  “Maybe we can talk to Ike?”

  “Billy, you are a good friend. But the general takes his orders from politicians. And you know how much he wishes to minimize casualties. Why would he alienate over six million Soviet troops fighting the Nazis right now? Eastern Poland will be taken over by the Soviet Union, and what land we have left will be ruled by Communist puppets. Ironic, isn’t it? The war will end as it started. Poland betrayed and overrun.”

  He took a long swallow, as if the bottle held spring water.

  “I am going out. They say from the cliffs, you can see the flashes of the big railway guns when the Germans fire them across the channel. That would be interesting,” Kaz said, wobbling a bit as he stood.

  “I’ll go with you,” I said.

  “No, I will not be very good company. I need fresh air. Air from occupied France, perhaps, blown across the water. Do you think it smells differently than free air?” He put on his coat, stuffed his revolver in his pocket, and adjusted his cap.