by James R Benn
“I don’t know. It’s a port battalion, but all it says is they’re posted to Camp Gifford, wherever that is.”
“Wait,” Kaz said, diving into his pile of papers. “I just saw something about Camp Gifford.” He came up with a folded map and laid it out on the floor. The heading read Persian Gulf Command—Camps, Posts, Stations.
It showed the primary road and rail routes in Iran. In the north, the routes connected to Tehran and locations marked Camp Stalingrad and Russian Check Station. Heading south through the cities of Qum and Hamadan, places named Road Camp #4 and Camp Schindler stood out. The rail line went all the way to the Persian Gulf, terminating in a place called Bandar Shapur. Right next to that port was Camp Gifford.
“Bandar Shapur,” Kaz said. “It is the perfect location.”
“Why?”
“There is no real town there. The rail line terminates at the wharves, and the area is frequently flooded. The port’s only purpose is the unloading of supplies from ships to trains,” Kaz said.
“And vice versa, in Maiya’s case,” I said, studying the map. It was much farther than Tabriz, which is why it was perfect.
“Yes. The trains arrive empty, so it would be a simple matter for a small party to arrive with cargo to go out on one of the neutral vessels. Then a short voyage via the Suez Canal, and they are in the Mediterranean.”
“With Marseilles just a hop skip away,” I said.
“Where Max has undoubtedly arranged for the sale,” Kaz said. “His criminal connections make him vital to Maiya. But will Sidorov survive the journey?”
“We’re not going to let them make that journey,” I said. “We’re getting to Bandar Shapur before them.”
We found Bull in his office, surrounded by officers giving damage reports for their squadrons. We stepped back to cool our heels in the hall. From what I could hear, it was bad.
“Had you suspected Drozdov?” Kaz asked in a low voice as he leaned against the wall.
“I wasn’t sure what we’d find when we got to the aircraft,” I said. “I didn’t buy Black as much more than a patsy. I wouldn’t have been surprised if it was Drozdov. He certainly could have had the NKVD connections to make things happen. But Aristov was a shock, especially when he showed up with that submachine gun.”
“Major Drozdov saved our lives,” Kaz said. “If he hadn’t gone for his weapon we might well have been dispatched in the next moment.”
“I bet that’s the first time a Pole owed his life to an NKVD man,” I said.
“And the last, I would wager. Sidorov owes him a debt as well. He would not be aboard that aircraft if Drozdov hadn’t wounded Aristov,” Kaz said. “I hope our erstwhile colleague will have the opportunity to thank the major directly before too long.”
“Sidorov’s got nine lives. But this time, there’s no one on his side. Maiya needs him as a front man, but once that’s over with, he doesn’t stand a chance,” I said.
“Kiril Sidorov is not stupid,” Kaz said. “He knows that. Perhaps he will eliminate Maiya first.”
“Hey, Max could be the last man standing, you never know.”
A half-dozen grim-looking airmen filed out of Bull’s office as he yelled for us to get in there.
“I can tell you’re up to something,” he said. “You got ten minutes, then I’m headed out to check on the men.”
“Bad as you thought?” I asked.
“Worse. Some of the B-17s I thought weren’t hit were riddled with shrapnel. Small holes, but lots of them. Hydraulics and who knows what else shot to hell. Now, what do you need?”
“We need to get to Bandar Shapur,” I said. “It’s a port on the Persian Gulf.”
“That’s where they’re headed?”
“Yes,” Kaz said. “We found evidence in Major Black’s office. We are working under the assumption that Maiya would not have let us live if they really were going to Tabriz. Either it was a change of plans, or it was a ruse all along. We know Khazar Brothers Shipping is a front for smugglers, so they may still be involved.”
“From Bandar Shapur they can board a ship and be anywhere in the Mediterranean,” I said. “Can you get us there, pronto?”
“That looks to be about two thousand miles,” Bull said, standing to check the large wall map behind him. “What’d they fly out of here in?”
“A Yak-6M,” Kaz said.
“They’ll have to make several refueling stops,” Bull said. “Think they’re flying all the way?”
“No. Maiya will want to rendezvous with Max and the drug shipment. She’s got to avoid Tehran since she knows we’ll be on the lookout for her there,” I said.
“There’s plenty of airfields,” Bull said. “They’re all along the route into the Soviet Union, set up for ferrying Lend-Lease aircraft north. She could land at a Russian base outside of Tabriz and get enough fuel to land near a railway stop and hop aboard the train. Especially if she’s got local smugglers working for her.”
“Okay, so we need to get going. How soon can we get out of here?”
“You’re in luck,” Bull said. “It was a little hard going through Belov’s backup interpreter, but I managed to explain that Moscow wouldn’t be happy with pictures in American newspapers showing they couldn’t protect their guests. I convinced the general that it would be in his interest to get the American journalists out of here before they saw the true extent of the damage.”
“Meaning before dawn,” Kaz said.
“Exactly,” Bull said, checking his watch. “The air transport squadron wasn’t hit too bad, since the Krauts really focused on the bombers. A C-47 will depart for Tehran in ninety minutes from runway one. Be there.”
“Thanks, Bull. You sure Belov will approve our names on the manifest?”
“He already has. I also suggested that letting you two go would help disguise the fact that the Soviet member of this investigation went over to the other side. The story will be that all three of you went in pursuit of the killer. Undoubtedly, that killer will be Preston Black, as far as the official Russian account will go.”
“But Black’s dead,” I said. “His body is out on runway three.”
“Hell, getting killed is the most useful thing he ever did,” Bull said. “The Army brass hates the OSS, so everyone’s happy that the blame gets pinned on that outfit, Russians included.”
“I know Black was worthless, but it doesn’t seem right,” I said.
“Billy, do not let facts get in the way of a satisfying story,” Kaz said. “We are obviously in pursuit of Black’s accomplices. The disorganizers of the rear, remember?”
“Sorry, I forgot where we were.”
“You’re not going to like Bandar Shapur much better. I wouldn’t recommend it for the climate,” Bull said. “It’s usually over one hundred degrees, and the humidity is unbelievable. It’s basically a low-lying mud flat covered with cranes, warehouses, wharves, and railroad cars. Nobody is happy to be there. Except the bugs.”
“I shall be delighted,” Kaz said, resting his hand on his holster.
Chapter Thirty-five
Bull had a GI drive us to our barracks and then out to the runway, headlights on to avoid lethal butterflies. Bull said he’d radio Big Mike and Gideon to expect us at Tehran, and that we’d be flying straight through to the airstrip at Camp Gifford. It almost seemed like a plan.
At the runway, trucks and jeeps were lined up with high beams illuminating the steel grating. All the hangar lights were blazing as well. We watched as a line of Russian soldiers crawled forward on their hands and knees, searching for more butterfly bombs. A few had flashlights or lanterns, but most inched forward in darkness until they came upon one of the deadly packages.
At a shout, we saw one had been discovered. The entire line crawled backwards, and one man with a long wooden pole advanced to the front. A low cart filled with stones was whe
eled up and he knelt behind it, pushing the pole out to the bomb. He gave a yell and everyone within the blast range flattened themselves.
He pushed the pole and the bomb exploded, a nasty, sharp crack that left acrid smoke hanging in the air. The line moved on and another pole was brought up.
“This looks almost civilized compared to what Lieutenant Nikolin went through,” I said.
“Almost civilized. I wonder when the world will return to fully civilized,” Kaz said. “It has been so long.”
“I’m not sure, but I think I’ll pay more attention to it next time around,” I said. “I’m pretty sure I took civilization for granted.”
As the runway was cleared, a C-47 was towed out of its hangar and a truck brought up the war correspondents for boarding. That was our cue. I glanced around at the smoldering landscape and said goodbye to the land of Night Witches, Stalin, vodka, and betrayal. Tatyana, Mayor Amosova, Kolesnikov, Teddy, and a few others had been good, decent people, fighting to free their country and avenge their fallen comrades. They did it with great courage, living in a police state but managing to maintain their dignity. There were a lot like them, I was sure, and I wished them well. I was just happy to be doing it from afar.
Once aboard, I checked in with the pilot. It would be about ten hours flying time to Camp Gifford via Tehran. I figured that gave us time to get to Bandar Shapur ahead of Maiya and her band of smugglers. Her Yak-6M was slower than our C-47, but she had a good head start. Our main advantage was that we’d get closer to the port by air than she would, depending on where and how she rendezvoused with the train.
Kaz and I grabbed the rearmost bench seats, putting some distance between us and reporters. There were four wounded airmen on board, and thankfully they received most of the correspondents’ attentions.
As soon as we were airborne, Kaz and I began to plan. We’d have Big Mike, bad ankle and all, Gideon from CID, and the Iranian police inspector. We’d need vehicles and drivers from Camp Gifford to get us to the port, and a few more GIs for security.
“A harbormaster,” Kaz said. “They must have one for the port. Someone who knows the ships and unloading schedules.”
“Good idea,” I said. “The kind of ship we’re looking for probably isn’t one of the Liberty ships. They’re all part of the Merchant Marine.”
“That doesn’t make their crews immune to greed,” Kaz said, speaking up to be heard over the drone of the engines. Luckily there were empty seats between us and the rest of the passengers.
“No, but I’m betting on Max having contacts with someone on a neutral vessel. Some ship that works these waters,” I said. “It’d be much easier to bribe the captain of some coastal rust bucket. Of course, all that goes out the window if Max has decided to go into business for himself. He could have double-crossed Maiya for all we know.”
“I doubt it,” Kaz said, pulling out his duffel and resting his legs on it. “The Khazars are smugglers, that is certain. But do they have the wherewithal to sell heroin to organized crime? That seems out of their league. But gold and weapons are another matter.”
“Damn, you’re right. All the loot from the warehouse, that must be their payment. It’s a damn sight easier to sell all that than trying to move heroin.”
“Exactly,” Kaz said. “Which is why the Khazars are not going to let Max out of their sight. They need to make the rendezvous with Maiya to obtain their payment. And smugglers have their reputation to consider. If word got out that they lost a client’s shipment, business would suffer.”
If you can’t trust your smuggler, who can you trust?
Knowing that Max and the drugs were in the safe, if mercenary, hands of the Khazar family, I stretched out and pulled the visor of my service cap down over my eyes. It was after midnight, and it was going to be a long flight. Not to mention a long day.
Seats in a C-47 aren’t built for comfort. I managed to sleep off and on and, of course, deep sleep overcame me only minutes before the aircraft touched down in Tehran. A couple of jolting bumps and we were taxiing slowly toward a hangar where a line of staff cars and jeeps stood ready.
The wounded were taken off and whisked away, followed by the correspondents. As we deplaned, I spotted Big Mike on his crutches, grinning at us.
“Welcome to Tehran,” he said, pumping our hands as he balanced on one crutch. “It’s good to see you guys.”
“Same here, Big Mike,” I said, eyeing the two men standing behind him. I figured the colonel was Gideon, so I shot him a salute. He was tall, tanned, and had a solid face with gray hair showing at the temples.
“Captain William Boyle, sir,” I said, and introduced Kaz.
“This is Colonel Gideon,” Big Mike said. “And that’s Inspector Javid Ghazi of the Iranian National Police.” I shook hands with Inspector Ghazi, a thin fellow with a dark mustache and thick black hair. He wore a dark brown khaki uniform and an expression of keen anticipation.
“Come inside,” Gideon said. “We have food and coffee laid on. We’ll take off as soon as they finish refueling.”
Gideon led us into a brick building next to the hangar, and I could hear Kaz speaking to the inspector in a language I didn’t recognize.
“Your Farsi is excellent, Lieutenant Kazimierz,” Inspector Ghazi said, and they began to chat up a storm as Gideon led the way.
“How’s the ankle?” I asked Big Mike.
“Better,” he grunted. “As in it better get better or I’ll go crazy.”
“I never heard anyone complain so much in my life,” Gideon said, holding the door open. I could tell another senior officer had come under the spell of the big sergeant.
“Why do you think we sent him here?” I said.
Inside, sandwiches and thermoses were set out, along with bowls of plums and apricots.
“What’s the latest, Colonel?” I asked as I poured myself a mug of joe.
“Max is aboard a southbound train, headed for Bandar Shapur,” he said. “The train left this morning, and we assume Max has the heroin on board.”
“We decided it was safer not to watch the train too closely,” Inspector Ghazi said, picking out an apricot and biting into it. “The Khazars are probably guarding it, and we wished to not show ourselves. I have men positioned along the route to watch for any unscheduled stops.”
Kaz went over his theory about the gold and other valuables being the Khazars’ payment.
“Yes, it is true the Khazar Brothers are skilled smugglers, with a very good reputation in certain circles. But moving a large quantity of heroin? No, that is beyond them. They would be cheated or killed. As you say, Lieutenant, gold and weapons, that is more their style,” Ghazi said. “An immediate payoff.”
“Bull’s message said Sidorov went over to them,” Big Mike said.
“There was a sudden need for a replacement,” Kaz said. “Sidorov decided, quite rightly, that his days in the USSR were numbered. Suffice it to say he has nothing to lose.”
“As long as they are in Iran, they will face the harshest of penalties for drug trafficking,” Ghazi said. “A fact I assume they are aware of. So, we may expect a fight. There is no reason for them to surrender.”
“We’ll need firepower,” I said.
“I’ve got Thompsons for all of us,” Gideon said. “And an M1 for Big Mike, since we’ll probably stash him somewhere with a good view of the area. He won’t be much use hopping around.”
“Do you know Bandar Shapur, Inspector?” Kaz asked.
“I do. It is an unpleasant place. Very hot. The air is thick and filled with insects. Before the war there was a single narrow-gauge rail line and one pier. Your engineers have laid more track and built two wharves. The boxcars are brought alongside the wharves and the cargo is off-loaded directly into them.”
“That’s when we make our move,” Gideon said. “I want the shippers, the smugglers, and th
e Russians. We’ll need men on each wharf.”
“Is there a harbormaster?” Kaz asked.
“Yes, an officer every shift who oversees the unloading,” Gideon said. “He’ll be with us, plus a few GIs.”
“What about native workers?” I asked Ghazi. “Can you get any of your men in there?”
“This is not your Wild West, Captain,” he said. “Yes, there are Iranians who are employed on the docks, but we must assume the Khazars have their spies. Any sudden new arrivals would be suspect.”
“Sorry, Inspector,” I said. “No offense meant.”
“Do not worry. We were once an empire ourselves, and no doubt carried our biases to the far corners of the known world,” Ghazi said, with a faint smile.
“Okay,” Gideon said. “My suggestion is that we split up. Each wharf will have one ship tied up at a time. When the train arrives, we should be in place. Billy and I will get on one vessel, the Inspector and Lieutenant Kazimierz on the other.”
“What about me, Colonel?” Big Mike asked.
“I want to find some high ground for you and that M1. We’ll figure that out once we’re there.”
“What about the lighters?” Ghazi asked.
“Lighters?” I said around a mouthful of a cheese sandwich.
“Barges that take loads from ships offshore,” Ghazi said. “The original pier has been strengthened and is now used for lighters. When the tide is low, many of your ships cannot enter the harbor. So, cargo is taken off and brought in by lighter.”
“Give me a driver and I can scout the lighters,” Big Mike said. “Does the train run straight to that pier?”
“The original rail line did, so we should assume it still does,” Ghazi explained. “I was last there a year ago, when we arrested a black-market ring.”
“The key is to spot them at the docks,” I said. “From there, they have no place to run.”
“Bandar Shapur is a maze of roads, railroad tracks, brick buildings, supply dumps, and construction equipment,” Ghazi said. “There are plenty of places to hide if they get spooked. There’s nowhere to go, true. But they can split up and lose themselves.”