by James R Benn
Breakfast was being served and I made that my first priority. I sat at the same table I had last night and thought about the circles of condensation from my glass. Some connected, some separate. Vatutin’s murder was another circle. If Kaz hadn’t killed him, who had, and why? How did it all fit together? Or rather, which circles fit and which stood alone?
Tadeusz Tucholski, Sheila Carlson, Gennady Egorov, Rak Vatutin, Osip Nikolaevich Blotski, Archie Chapman, Valerian Radecki, Kiril Sidorov, and now Kaz. Mr. Brown, Cosgrove, Kim Philby, and all the invisible intelligence agents circling around the Russians and Poles as they fought their diplomatic war within a war.
I visualized another circle, one for the mysterious shipment that Archie was after, but I couldn’t keep all the circles straight, my eyelids heavy with weariness as I finished breakfast. Ideas swirled through my mind as I took the stairs to my room, disjointed images from the past few days. The bomber belly-landing in the field; Archie with his bayonet and poetry; the pebbles on the nightstand in Shepherdswell; Topper in the bordello with Dalenka; the look of incomprehension on Vatutin’s face as I gave him the message. I was missing something, something that I’d thought of, or had to do, I wasn’t sure. I barely got my jacket, shoulder holster, and shoes off before I fell into bed, fatigue driving my head into the pillow.
I couldn’t tell if I was awake and thinking, or asleep and dreaming. The same images floated through my mind. Topper gave me a message, but it wasn’t Dalenka playing the piano, it was Diana. Vatutin was in the room, too, looking confused. Topper got angry, with me, I think, and then they were all gone, except for Dalenka, who had taken Diana’s place at the piano. Why was Topper mad? Where was Diana?
Then I was on the road to Canterbury, but I was walking, and I was with Kiril Sidorov. We were escaping the Merciless Parliament, although I didn’t know if they were after him or me or both of us. Sidorov was telling me about Joey Adamo, the Detroit hood in Big Mike’s story, the guy who was adopted and ran out on his old man, only to end up in a steamer trunk. He thought it was funny, and I asked him why he was laughing. He said, Did you ever think it might not have been Joey in the trunk?
The next moment I was walking on a long, circular path in a garden. There was a fountain in the middle, with flowers and hedges all around. Other paths emptied into the garden, but at an angle so you couldn’t see them until you had walked past. Suddenly, it all made perfect sense. There was only one circle, and all the other paths flowed into it. The circle wasn’t only about this investigation, it was about everything: life, love, war, birth, and death. You kept walking, and sooner or later everything would come to you. Everything was in the circle, and it never ended. Every path led into it, and if you waited long enough, you would see everyone you’d ever known. People were coming down the other paths, but I couldn’t recognize them. Shouldn’t I see someone I knew? I looked for Diana, I looked for my parents, running, darting in between the strangers who were filling the circle, but I couldn’t find anyone I knew. Part of me knew I was dreaming, but most of me was afraid this was heaven, or maybe hell.
Then I was on the promenade, watching the couple I’d seen earlier, except I knew the guy had to be Joey Adamo. He was walking with a beautiful woman on his arm. She wore jewels, and winked at me.
I thought I saw Diana, finally, ahead of me. I pushed through the growing crowd and grabbed her by the arm. But her hair had turned black, and it wasn’t Diana at all. It was Dalenka again, wearing a plain beige coat with a blue scarf. She looked perplexed, but stopped and took my hand in hers. We stood silently for a while, as people brushed by us, scurrying around the great circle, before she spoke. “What are you holding?”
I opened the palm of my hand, and saw two small pebbles.
“Stones,” I said.
“Why are they in your hand, Billy?” Dalenka asked me, then turned and melted into the crowd. I looked at my hand again, and it was empty.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The pounding on my door was real, not a dream. It was either a battering ram or Big Mike back from London. I groaned, remembering that I had meant to call him or check for messages last night. I rolled out of bed and opened the door.
“Billy where have you been? Jeez, you look like hell. I left messages last night, and called the castle this morning before I left.”
“What time is it?”
“Quarter to eleven. Why are you sleeping in?”
“Because I spent all night with Kaz while Inspector Flack interrogated him,” I said, rubbing the grit from my eyes. “Rak Vatutin was found with his head bashed in, and Kaz leaning over him.”
“Did he do it?” Big Mike asked matter-of-factly.
“No, but Flack still arrested him. They need someone to feed to the dogs, or at least keep them at bay. The Russians and the British government are demanding the Egorov case be wrapped up, and more bodies don’t help. I got in after dawn and plain forgot to check at the desk. What did you find out?”
“It’s gold,” Big Mike said, his voice excited and his eyes wide as he delivered the big news.
“What is?”
“The shipment. It’s gold. Russian gold. Payment for arms and vehicles we sold them.”
“That’s Lend-Lease. The Russians don’t have to pay for it.”
“Right. Lend-Lease took effect in October 1941. But we’d been selling them trucks and planes since June ’41. According to Sam, anyway.”
“And they had to cough up real dough for those first four months?”
“Yep, gold bullion, no less. This shipment is the last installment. It came on a destroyer from Murmansk, escorting a convoy home to Scapa Flow. Comes to half a million dollars’ worth.”
“Russian gold,” I said to myself. “Time and place.”
“Sam said the Russians insisted on making the pickup from the dock in Scotland. Then they’ll drive it to their embassy and in a couple of days make a big show of handing it over to the American ambassador.”
“When,” I said, nearly frantic as I washed up. “When is all this happening?”
“Now,” Big Mike said, looking at his wristwatch. “They were scheduled to unload the cargo at 0900 this morning. The Russians should be on the road by now.”
“With an escort, I hope?”
“Not much of one. One car and one truck, with a few guards inside. Sam said they insisted on running the operation themselves, and wanted to keep a low profile.”
“How did Harding know all this? Is he in on it?”
“No. Cosgrove made the calls and came up with the answers. He got us in to see a Russian lieutenant, Andrei Belov, who was in charge while his boss was away. Cosgrove must’ve pulled some strings; the kid didn’t hold out on us.”
“Who’s his boss? Vatutin?”
“No. Our pal Kiril Sidorov. Andrei said he’s been trying to contact him by telephone all morning.”
“Something tells me Sidorov isn’t going to return the call.” I threw cold water on my face, rinsing away shaving cream and a little blood from where I’d nicked myself. Slow down, I told myself. You’re forgetting something. What is it? The dream. I’d had a bunch of crazy dreams, and I struggled to remember, as they seemed to evaporate in the face of daylight. I stared at my reflection, then closed my eyes. The dream had explained everything, or so it had seemed at the time.
“Circles,” I said out loud.
“What?” Big Mike said from the next room.
“Circles. There’s only one circle, and everything connects to it.”
“Are you OK, Billy?” Big Mike leaned on the bathroom door, studying me, his eyebrows knitted in worry.
“Yeah, it was just a dream. I’d been trying to figure out how things were connected in this investigation, and in my dream, everything was connected in one big circle. Kind of hard to explain, but it all made sense, like I’d solved the case.”
“Yeah, well if dreams were horses, beggars would ride. Or is that wishes?”
“Wishes, I think,” I said
as I knotted my field scarf. Diana had been in my dream, but sometimes it had been Dalenka. One of them had told me something.
“Where to now?” Big Mike said.
“The castle,” I said, trying one last time to remember the dream before it was gone for good. “See if Sidorov turned up.” Sidorov. He’d been in the dream, too, on the road to Canterbury. “Big Mike, did they ever positively identify Joey Adamo?”
“The guy in the trunk?”
“Yeah.”
“Jeez, Billy, I don’t know. He was chopped up in pieces, from what I heard. They didn’t call Homicide, that’s for sure. Zerilli let Angelo Adamo have the body back, so I guess he was satisfied.”
My dad was a big believer in the subconscious. He always said the answers to most questions were lying around in plain sight, like the jumbled pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. According to him, the hardest job was to see all the pieces, to understand them, without worrying about how they fit, especially the ones that didn’t make sense. If things don’t fit a pattern, most people ignore them. But a good cop notices everything, then lets his subconscious work it out.
I’m pretty sure that sometimes, sitting in his armchair and staring out the window, Dad was taking it easy. Or when his eyes closed and his head went back, he might have been taking a nap. But once in a while, late in the evening, or after Sunday dinner, he’d jump up, pace a few times around the living room, tapping his index finger against his lips. He might shake his head no once or twice and stop the pacing, but then there would come the snap of the fingers, as if all the pieces had fallen into place.
I was close, but I was stuck at the head-shaking stage. I knew I had to look at this as one case in which all the parties were connected. I didn’t know how, but I trusted my subconscious wouldn’t steer me in the wrong direction. I hoped I could listen to it as well as Dad listened to his.
“Let’s go,” I said, grabbing my trench coat.
Big Mike took the steep hairpin turns up to the castle like a race-car driver. He had to brake at the last turn for a column of soldiers and a couple of constables. I recognized one of them from last night, the fellow who’d organized the Home Guard search for Germans. I told Big Mike to stop.
“Constable,” I said. “Any luck?”
“Don’t know if I’d call it luck, sir. We found one Jerry, straightaway. Gave himself up peaceably enough. But then that Russian fellow got himself lost, and we spent the whole night and most of the morning searching for him.”
“What Russian?” I asked.
“Captain Sidorov,” he said. “He asked if he could join us as we were forming up. I saw no harm in it.” There was a defensive tone in his voice, as if he expected me to blame him for something.
“Where is he now? Didn’t you find him?”
“Well, he got himself killed, sir. You were with him last night, weren’t you? Were you a friend of his? I’m very sorry.”
I didn’t know what to say. I stared at the constable as the weary Home Guard men stood around our idling jeep, obviously wanting to get home. They were wet and mud soaked, having gone out without rain gear, not knowing that they’d be gone long enough to get caught in a channel squall.
“I knew him” was the best I could say. I remembered I’d seen a pack of unopened Luckies in the glove box, so I got them out and passed them around, which brightened spirits considerably. “Tell me what happened.”
“The captain got lost, after we sent two of the lads back with the prisoner. We kept on with the search, figuring we had a good chance of finding him as well as the rest of the Jerries.”
“How did you know there’d be more?”
“It was a Heinkel 111 that was shot down. Crew of four, and they all bailed out. Searchlight crew saw ’em, had ’em in their beam all the way down. It promised to be an easy night, if they all came in like that first lad.”
“Sidorov?” I said, trying to get him back on track.
“Right you are. Then the rain started up, and we figured he must’ve looked for shelter.”
“Showed him the place meself, just the other day,” one of the Home Guard said. He wore corporal’s stripes and looked about fifty years old, thin and wiry, strong in spite of his gray whiskers. “I was with his group on the tour we gave, showing them Russians around our invasion defenses and all.”
“Showed him what?”
“The bunker. He must’ve gone in to get out of the rain. It’s supposed to be locked, but maybe we left it open by accident after the tour. Or if he had a knife, he could have pried it open.” Nods greeted his assertion, the sad sort of nod that gives off a silent tsk tsk.
“What the hell happened?”
“The bunker was stocked with about one hundred No. 76 Special Incendiary Grenades,” the corporal said. “Sounds impressive, but they’re nothing more than pint glass bottles, filled with phosphorus and benzene. The mixture ignites when it comes into contact with the air.”
“Don’t tell me one broke,” I said.
“He must’ve tripped in the dark and knocked a case down. The bottles are stored in wooden crates, half filled with sawdust. If just one went, it would have set them all off,” the corporal said. “Horrible, it was. The sky lit up with the flames, and we all took off at a run, but it was already too late. A concrete bunker with one small door and three firing slits, well, that makes for one intense fire when a hundred of them incendiaries go up.”
“You found his body inside?”
“What there was left of it, we did. He must’ve tried to get out, since we found him half out the door. If it wasn’t for his cap, in that bright blue color, we wouldn’t have known. It must have blown off his head from the force of the explosion. A small mercy, but quick at least. There were bits and pieces of his uniform left, a few you could see were that same color. And his pistol.”
“What condition was that in?” I asked, thinking about how small a mercy indeed.
“Take a look yourself,” the constable said, handing me a blackened piece of metal that had a resemblance to a revolver at least. The wooden grip was gone, and the cylinder was misshapen from the rounds exploding within it. The stamp of the Soviet star was still visible on one side. I handed it back to the constable and wiped the black from my hands, trying to put things together, listening to that small voice at the back of my head that was warning me about something, something about the dream I’d had.
“What kind of ammunition does that take?” I asked, aware of the eyes on me. The men were almost finished with their cigarettes and were losing interest in my question. “Anyone know?”
“That’s a Nagant M1895, Lieutenant,” the corporal said. “Fires a 7.62mm round. There were some on his belt as well, but they all cooked off.”
“I bet,” I said. “Is that pretty much the same size as a. 32-caliber bullet?”
“A little larger, but close. Why do you ask, sir?”
“Just curious,” I said. “Did you recover any of the slugs?”
“No reason to look for them, was there?” The constable was looking at me a bit strangely now. “In any case, the heat was so intense in that enclosed space, they probably melted past recognizing. What’s your point, if you don’t mind me asking, Lieutenant?”
“I was a police detective, before the war. Makes me suspicious of everything,” I said, thinking of Dad sitting in his armchair, waiting for the answers to come. “So, you ran to the fire, found there was nothing you could do, and went on with your search, right?”
“I posted two of the lads at the bunker, and then we continued, yes.” I tried to imagine the scene and work backward. Sidorov blindly stumbling into a bunker he knew to be filled with unstable incendiary grenades did not fit well into my vision of the events. Then it came to me, and I had to resist the temptation to snap my fingers.
“And you found only two of the three remaining German fliers, right?”
“Why, yes, how did you know?”
“It came to me in a dream.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-
EIGHT
I found a Russian officer wearing a Nagant revolver, and asked for one of his bullets. He evidently didn’t believe in reverse Lend-Lease, since it cost me a five-pound note. I’d sent Big Mike to make a call to Harding and then find Bull and see if Inspector Flack was still around. I waited in the same room where Flack had interrogated Kaz and me, playing with the 7.62mm bullet, rolling it around my fingers.
Big Mike had pestered me to tell him what I was cooking up, but I told him to wait a few minutes so I could think it through and explain it to everyone together. I had most of the pieces put together, and could guess at the rest. Proving them would be harder, but right now what I wanted was to throw as much doubt on Kaz as Vatutin’s killer as I could. I knew that was going to be an uphill fight as soon as Flack came into the room.
“This had better be good, Boyle,” Flack said, standing across from me, arms akimbo. “I’ve been on the telephone explaining to the Foreign Office how come two Soviet officers have been killed within hours of each other. And that was after explaining it to the commissioner, ten minutes after I explained it to Detective Inspector Scutt. So I am in no mood to waste time with you.”
Bull and Big Mike sat. I gestured to the remaining chair and tapped the table with my Russian bullet, waiting for Flack to sit. He had a right to complain. I didn’t envy his role as messenger when the news was all bad and he was the messenger delivering it up the chain of command. Finally, he sat.
“I want to start at the beginning, as much as I can. This began with Gennady Egorov found bound and shot in a manner suggestive of the Polish bodies found at Katyn. A map showing the route of a Russian supply truck was discovered on him, hinting at his involvement with recent hijackings. Plus, he was found on Archie Chapman’s turf.”