by James R Benn
“Colonel Aristov is a take-charge kind of guy,” I said, as Maiya fired up the jeep and backed out into the road just yards ahead of a truck carrying barrels of aviation fuel.
“State security services desire no other kind, I think,” she said, jamming it into first and burning rubber to get out of the truck’s path.
“We are not in an aircraft,” Kaz said from the passenger’s seat. “The jeep is a wonderful vehicle, but it does not fly.”
“Forgive me,” Maiya said, laughing as she looked at Kaz. “I am always thinking about flying. What do you think Captain Sidorov has found?”
“No idea,” I said. “Maybe a connection between Mishkin and a drug dealer.”
“It is sad Lieutenant Mishkin fell prey to drugs. He had so many opportunities. He came from a family with loyal Party members. It must have been a great disappointment to them,” she said, slowing to speak to the guards at the gate. Slowing, not stopping.
“Is that why Colonel Aristov came to check on Drozdov? Because of Mishkin’s family?” I said.
“I do not know what motivates Colonel Aristov,” Maiya said, downshifting as she overtook a truck filled with soldiers. “He is from the Directorate of Border and Internal Guards, GUPVO. It is natural for him to follow up when an officer has disgraced himself.”
“Has he been here before?” I asked. “I mean, after Mishkin died? It’s been a while.”
“I heard he was,” Maiya said. “But the affair was not discussed. Major Drozdov made it clear that he would not tolerate gossip.”
“Meaning he didn’t want to look bad in front of his boss,” I said, clapping my hand on my service cap as Maiya took a corner.
“We have no bosses in the Soviet Union,” Maiya said. “Only comrades.”
“And marvelous drivers,” Kaz said, gripping the side of his seat.
Maiya laughed and sped up.
Chapter Thirty
Sidorov was waiting for us on the steps of the Cosmos Hotel. He raised an eyebrow at our chauffer as she pulled in and slammed on the brakes.
“You got here quickly,” he said as we staggered out of our seats.
“Not much choice,” I said. “Maiya relayed your message while we were talking with Drozdov and Comrade Aristov.”
“Comrade Colonel Aristov,” Maiya said. “While we do not have bosses, we do have many colonels. You will all return together, and soon, yes?”
“Yes,” Sidorov said. “It will not take long. It is a short walk to the park.”
“For something useful, I hope,” Maiya said, already jamming the shift into reverse.
“I will let my colleagues decide,” Sidorov said. “Or should I say comrades?”
“Say whatever you wish, I only ask you because they will ask me,” she said. “There are times when comrades forget they are not bosses. Especially comrade colonels. Good luck to you.”
With that, she shot out backwards and barreled off.
“What have you found?” Kaz asked, brushing the dust of the road off his uniform.
“Come, let us take a walk and I will explain,” Sidorov said, taking off down the sidewalk.
“Where are we going?” I asked him.
“To the park, where the Poltava chess club is meeting.”
“Of course,” Kaz said. “The bishop did it, I am sure.”
“We are a godless country, Baron, but we do love chess,” Sidorov said with a sly grin. “Even those who sell drugs love it.”
“Did you break into the Jameson?” I asked. “You seem awfully chipper.”
“Yes. Delightful whiskey,” Sidorov said. “But it was only after Dmitri insisted that I join him in a toast. Or two.”
Three, maybe, judging by Sidorov’s grin. He had something juicy, and I could tell he was enjoying keeping us on tenterhooks. We followed him past ruined buildings down a side street which led to a ruined park. Flower beds were overrun with weeds, and tree trunks sat shattered by artillery or marked by saw cuts where they’d been taken for winter fuel. But the paths were clean, and a fountain at the center was being scrubbed down, offering the promise of a playful spray of water someday soon.
“Are you sure Dmitri will still be there?” I asked.
“I am. He is waiting for my last three packages of Lucky Strikes,” Sidorov said, patting his uniform pocket.
An array of tables and chairs was arranged under one remaining tree, its leaves lifting and falling as a slight breeze blew through the park. Men and a few women were gathered around chessboards, some playing, some watching.
“That is Dmitri,” Sidorov said, pointing to a tall, thin fellow with sparse hair the color of corn silk seated away from the others, legs crossed. He was wearing American boots.
“A chess player?” Kaz asked.
“One of the best the Poltava Chess Club has,” Sidorov said. “But we are more interested in his other hobbies.”
“The black market, by the looks of his footwear,” I said.
“Lend-Lease is a wonderful thing,” Sidorov said. “Baron, I will leave it to you to explain to Billy what we will discuss with Dmitri.”
Dmitri stood as we approached, displaying the instant awareness most successful criminals possessed. Successful meaning those who hadn’t yet been caught by the cops or killed by a competitor. He’d recognized Sidorov, but his eyes darted to Kaz and me, assessing our potential as a threat. I could see him relax, the tension draining from his body as he sat back down.
Sidorov tossed him one pack of Luckies and spoke with him, gesturing to us by way of introduction. He asked what sounded like a question, and Dmitri gave a whispered response.
“He says if we report him, he will denounce us as British spies,” Kaz said.
“Tell him I’m an American spy, and we don’t give a damn about reporting him to anybody,” I said. That got a laugh, and Dmitri began to talk. I watched Kaz, nodding slowly as he listened.
Then something got his attention. Behind his steel-rimmed spectacles I could see Kaz’s eyes widen as he held up a hand and interrupted Dmitri with a question. Dmitri responded with a firm nod. When Kaz finished, Sidorov tossed Dmitri the second pack of smokes.
“Interesting,” Kaz said. “I can see why you called us here.”
“What?” I said, watching Dmitri stow the cigarettes in a canvas bag which revealed the bottle of Jameson and a Tokarev automatic pistol. “Did he sell horse to Mishkin?”
“No,” Kaz said. “Lieutenant Mishkin spoke of selling heroin to him.”
“What?” I said, conscious of repeating myself. Something was off. “Dmitri’s a small-time dealer, isn’t he?”
“He claims to be nothing more. In Poltava, he is the king. Elsewhere, he is nothing, he tells me. But he cited the proverb that it takes cunning to pull even a small fish from a pond,” Kaz said.
“Meaning not to mess with Dmitri in Poltava,” I said.
“Yes. And that Dmitri knows not to anger those outside his realm,” Kaz said. “He turned Mishkin down.”
“How much heroin did he offer?”
“Two kilos,” Kaz said. “It was enough that Dmitri knew it must be stolen, so he refused.”
“When was this, exactly?”
“Two days before Mishkin was found dead,” Kaz said.
“Not surprising with all that heroin at hand,” I said. Sidorov quickly translated what I’d said, and Dmitri shook his head sadly as he responded.
“Dmitri says Mishkin did not overdose,” Kaz said, frowning as he took in what he was being told. “He no longer was an addict. He’d gone long enough without the drug to wean himself from the habit. He was a changed man. Dmitri swears he would not have gone back.”
“Do either of you think Dmitri has a reason to lie?” I asked. They shook their heads. I couldn’t think of one either. “Did Mishkin show the two kilos to Dmitri?”
> “Da,” Dmitri said.
That was all I needed to hear.
We decided that the best place to talk over this new development was at the Cosmos Hotel. If there was a lunch rush in Poltava, it hadn’t hit there yet, so we scored a table by the window. Outside, people carried on like so many in this war, with what dignity they could muster. It was worn and threadbare, like their coats and patched trousers, but they held onto it with the joy that only the recently liberated can know.
Sidorov ordered kasha with mushrooms and onions for all of us, saying it was a classic Russian dish and we had to have it before we left his country, along with a Crimean white wine which he was enthusiastic about but tasted sweet to me. Kaz made approving murmurs about it. With his nose I was surprised, but maybe he was being polite.
“Does Dmitri’s story tell us anything new?” Sidorov said after we’d tasted the wine.
“It suggests that heroin cannot be a large problem in Poltava. Two kilos are a lot, but I am surprised it was too much for a man such as Dmitri,” Kaz said.
“I am not,” Sidorov said. “Two kilos from an NKVD man means a security force connection to smuggling. That would be enough to frighten Dmitri. He struck me as a man who pays attention to risk.”
“How is heroin usually manufactured and transported here?” I asked. “Dmitri has to have a regular supply chain, although it is certainly disrupted with the war.”
“Poppy farmers in Kyrgyz manage to sell small batches of their harvest to the vor without the authorities noticing. Or sometimes they are bribed. The vor set up processing in an out-of-the-way location, and then smuggle the product into cities. Sometimes the smugglers are travelers with forged papers, or the heroin is shipped with farm products from the region. But you are correct, with the war, everything is more difficult. Men are called up for service, and travel passes are scrutinized much more carefully. Which is why demand for heroin has dropped off. Users have been weaned from the drug. Or are dead.”
“Which may be why Mishkin wasn’t buying anymore,” I said, taking another sip of wine. It was growing on me.
“Do you think he went back to his habit when he failed to sell to Dmitri?” Kaz asked. “I doubt he could have found another buyer.”
“No, I don’t,” I said. “I think he was the first victim.”
“Killed for stealing from his comrades?” Sidorov said. “That does fit with what Dmitri said about him.”
“What? Did I miss something?” I asked.
“No, it was from my first talk with him. He said that after he turned down the sale, Mishkin was very afraid. Afraid of returning the product.”
“Dmitri didn’t ask to who?” I said.
“Dmitri is too smart to ask such questions,” Sidorov said. “Which leaves the question to us. Who, besides Max, is involved in this? Who has put these wheels into motion?”
“Well, Drozdov didn’t seem to mind us coming into town,” I said. “But that could have been because of his boss being there.”
“He would be more likely to say no in the presence of a superior officer,” Sidorov said. “It would be the standard response. Any NKVD officer would know they cannot go wrong by denying any travel to foreigners. Did you ask about Tehran?”
“We did. Colonel Aristov said he’d think about it,” I said.
“We plan on approaching Belov when we return,” Kaz said. “We did strongly urge that you be allowed to accompany us.”
“Thank you,” Sidorov said as our kasha arrived. He raised his glass in a toast and we clinked. Kaz managed a decent gulp, and Sidorov dug into his meal as if it were his last.
Maybe he knew something.
We finished up and sauntered out with our stomachs full of kasha and our minds full of questions. A police car with flashing lights sped down the street, siren blaring. It turned down the side street we’d taken to the park.
“Militsiya,” Sidorov said. “The local police.”
“Going to arrest Dmitri?” Kaz said. “Perhaps we should investigate.”
We did. Sidorov pulled over near where the cops had parked and told us to wait in the jeep. Foreigners would only complicate things. I watched him talk with a cop standing by a crumpled corpse as two others circulated among the chess players. In a few minutes he returned, his expression grim.
“Dmitri. Shot twice in the head,” he said.
“Witnesses?” I asked.
“No one saw anything, of course,” Sidorov replied. “Especially after seeing me this morning, and then you two. With the NKVD, two Westerners, and a drug dealer, suddenly everyone grows blind or fixated on their chess game. The ment do not seem to care very much, since they knew of Dmitri’s activities.”
“Ment?” I asked.
“The same as cop in America or bobby in England,” Sidorov said. “The ment will not expend a lot of effort investigating.”
“Which is just what the killer was counting on,” I said.
As Sidorov started up the jeep, I saw the cops each pocket a pack of Luckies. I wondered who’d snatched the Jameson.
Why kill Dmitri was the topic of discussion on the way back to the base. Who’d done it? No idea. But the why was damn important. He’d already spoken to us. Was there something else he knew, something that he hadn’t told us? Or was it revenge, punishment for speaking to Sidorov in the first place?
“Dmitri was not a vor,” Sidorov said, hitting the accelerator. “It was not retribution for talking to the authorities.”
“A competitor for the drug trade?” Kaz suggested. “You mentioned drugs were available at the hotel.”
“They bought from Dmitri, that is how I got his name,” Sidorov said, slowing for the guards at the gate.
“Did you tell anyone you were meeting him?” I asked. “Did you mention it when you called the base?”
“No. The desk clerk at the hotel did tell me where I could find him,” Sidorov said. “And I was asking around about where drugs could be purchased. I tried the newsstand and the barbershop near the hotel, but no names were mentioned.”
“You did tell Maiya we were going to the park,” Kaz said, as the guards let us through with a wave. We were becoming regulars, which was kind of scary.
“It is a large park, and how would she know where to find a criminal drug dealer?”
“She could have mentioned something back at the base,” I suggested.
“And someone overheard her and had enough time to get out here, find Dmitri, and plug him? Don’t think so,” I said.
“It is unlikely, I must admit. Perhaps you didn’t need to mention names at all,” Kaz said to Sidorov. “If you were asking around about drugs, people trading in the black market would know his name. And the hotel clerk told you about him.”
“Yes, but why would they have their supplier killed?” Sidorov responded.
“They might not have known what was going to happen,” I said, as we parked in front of Operations. “They could have been paid, or threatened, into making a call.”
“How is not as important as why,” Kaz said, tilting his head to the sun, which had just emerged from behind thick clouds. “Why did Dmitri need to be silenced?”
“Punishment or prevention?” I said, tilting my service cap back. “Had he told us something vital, or was someone afraid he might?”
“A warning, perhaps, to others we might speak with,” Sidorov said. “Or retribution that has nothing to do with this case. Dmitri may have betrayed someone to the Germans.”
“That’s a long shot,” I said, getting out of the jeep. “Dmitri could have been denounced to the NKVD, and they’d have taken him away.”
“But then he could have revealed what he knew,” Kaz said. “Better to silence him now.”
“Listen,” I said to Sidorov. “While we put the Tehran travel plans to Belov, why don’t you head back to town? Now that t
he local cops have left, someone might be willing to talk.”
“Good. Last time I went with cigarettes and charm. This time I shall instill fear. Harsh words are often easier for Russians to understand. Kindness can be confusing after years of listening to Comrade Stalin,” Sidorov said, his voice a whisper as he glanced around to see who might have overheard him.
“If we’re not in Bull’s office, check the barracks when you get back,” I said. “We’ll try to get in to see Belov as soon as we can. You sure you don’t want a resupply of smokes?”
Sidorov declined, and as we took the steps into the Operations center, Maiya stepped out. We asked if General Belov was available, and she said he had just finished meeting with Colonel Aristov. She begged off taking us in right now as she wanted to wish Major Black luck, since the rumor was he and Drozdov would be leaving tonight. I didn’t want to dissuade her from a fond farewell, even if I thought Black was a bum. Whenever we managed to get out of here, I planned on letting Wild Bill Donovan know what his boy in Russia had been up to. I don’t know what his thoughts on drug smuggling were, but he’d hate his agents being used. Whether Black knew what was in those crates destined for the Khazar brothers or not, he’d been a pawn and a sap, hardly the poster boy for an OSS intelligence agent.
Chapter Thirty-one
A clerk in the main office told Kaz Belov would see us in thirty minutes. We went back outside, drawn by the warmth of the afternoon sun. It was early fall, but the chill in the Russian air was never far off. When would it snow? I hoped it was after we were long gone.
We exited the building in time to see Sidorov drive off with Maiya, heading in the direction of Black’s quarters.
“Interesting,” Kaz said. “Perhaps he wanted to ask Maiya to whom she might have mentioned our walk in the park.”
“Or he’s just giving a lady a lift,” I said. A rough wood bench was set against the front of the building, and we sat down, stretching out our legs as if we hadn’t a care in the world.
“There are no ladies in Russia,” Kaz said. “Only comrade ladies.”