Comes the War

by Ed Ruggero

  “Miss Batcheller was doing an analysis,” Novikov said. “An ambitious project. Did you know she was an economist?”

  “Yes.”

  “My father was an economist, too,” Novikov said. “Miss Batcheller and I met at an embassy function at the end of last year. I asked what kind of work she did before the war, and about her schooling. She spoke quite a bit about California. Spoke quite lovingly of her home there. It sounded beautiful. Have you ever been?”

  Harkins had spent the longest seven weeks of his life in the Mojave, training for North Africa’s desert conditions. Both places had been miserable, fly-infested, dusty, and hot as hell. The only good thing about the California desert, compared to North Africa, is that there had been no one shooting at him.

  “Yes, I have been to California. Sounds like Batcheller had a different experience,” Harkins said. “What was she analyzing?”

  Novikov smiled at him again. The colonel looked completely relaxed, as if he held clandestine meetings with Americans from OSS all the time. Harkins, who was decidedly not relaxed, wiped his sweaty palms on the legs of his trousers.

  “Production numbers for German factories. Specifically, factories that produced military vehicles. Tanks, armored cars, trucks.”

  “Why was she doing that?” Harkins asked.

  “Now it is my turn to ask a question, yes?”

  Harkins nodded. “Okay.”

  “Did you find a copy of a report on her, or in her flat?” Novikov asked. “It would have had a list of German cities. Some columns of numbers.”

  “I did.”

  “Where is it?”

  “That’s two questions, Colonel.”

  Novikov chuckled, then gestured with his open palm. “Go ahead.”

  “Batcheller was with a man, a pilot named Cushing, on the night she was killed. I have detained Cushing. He was found with some papers. Sounds like it might be the report you’re talking about. He implied that Batcheller’s source for information was a Russian. That’s the only reason I agreed to this meeting. Was that you?”

  Novikov reached into a pocket inside his jacket and produced a silver cigarette case. He flipped it open and offered it to Harkins.

  “No, thanks.”

  Novikov extracted a cigarette, put the case back, then pulled out an American lighter and, using his one hand, flipped the cover and struck a flame. When the cigarette was lit, he closed the lighter and put it back in his pocket. He took a leisurely pull on the smoke.

  “That is an interesting question,” Novikov said. “I could only be authorized to cooperate with Miss Batcheller—who worked for your American spy agency—by my ambassador.”

  “And he hasn’t authorized you?”

  “The ambassador is still learning his way around.”

  So that’s a no, Harkins thought.

  “Are you trying to cover up a connection with Batcheller?” Harkins asked.

  “That is an indirect way of asking me if I killed her,” Novikov said. “Or had her killed. The answer is no. In fact, I needed her.”

  “Needed her for what?”

  “For the very thing that has everyone preoccupied these days,” Novikov said.

  “The opening of the second front.”

  “Precisely. It is difficult for Americans to understand—no, that is not the right word. It is impossible for Americans to understand how important this is, to really appreciate how the Soviet Union has suffered.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Harkins said.

  “In 1942, we battled the Germans across a front that stretched eighteen hundred kilometers from the Baltic to the Black Sea. An invasion of that scale in America would mean holding a line from Maine to Miami, in a battle space that went from the eastern seaboard to your state of Missouri.”

  “Jay-sus,” Harkins said.

  “We may never know how many of our citizens, or even our soldiers, have died. But certainly, it is in the millions.”

  Harkins thought about Kerr and his claim that the Soviets were bearing the brunt of the fight.

  “So you need—we need—the second front to relieve some of the pressure in the east, right?” Harkins said.

  “Exactly,” Novikov said.

  “Well, it’s pretty clear that something is about to happen. This island is crawling with GIs, and more keep arriving every day. The big jump has to be soon.”

  “It would seem so,” Novikov said. “If only because you and your fellow Americans are wearing out your welcome here.”

  Novikov balanced his cigarette on the edge of the ashtray and unbuttoned his coat. He wore an unadorned gray tunic underneath, plain brass buttons.

  “Do you think this Major Cushing killed Miss Batcheller?”

  “No, I don’t,” Harkins said, surprised at his candor with this stranger. “Or, at least I haven’t found any reason he might want to. I am getting the feeling that someone is trying to railroad him.”

  “Railroad?” Novikov asked.

  “Set him up to take the fall. Frame him. Get him convicted of a crime he did not commit.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Eighth Air Force was very quick to file charges against him. They’ve already scheduled his court-martial for early May. It’s like they want to get it over with as quickly as possible.”

  “And you want to conduct a responsible investigation?” Novikov said.

  Harkins opened his mouth to speak but was cut off by an air raid siren.

  “Shit,” he said.

  Novikov looked up at the ceiling, as if he could see the sky. “Our friends from the continent are back. This is becoming annoying.”

  “Might be a false alarm,” Harkins said. “The other night I jumped into a shelter and there was no raid.”

  Then he heard the crump, crump, crump of distant exploding bombs.

  “No false alarm this time,” Novikov said.

  Harkins stood, put his hands on the back of the chair and waited for Novikov to move. The colonel took another slow pull on his cigarette, then ground it in the ashtray on the table.

  “Perhaps we should find a shelter,” Novikov said. He stood slowly, buttoning his coat with one hand. Harkins wondered if it would be impolite to offer help. Outside, the sirens wailed, and Harkins could hear the distant hammering of antiaircraft fire.

  “Doesn’t sound like it’s too close,” Harkins said.

  “Still, it pays to be careful, no?”

  Harkins followed the colonel outside. There were several antiaircraft batteries scattered throughout Kensington Gardens, and the sky lit with bright wands of searchlights and curving streams of outgoing tracers. All around them, people were hurrying, presumably to shelters.

  They crossed the road into the garden, following voices. Just beside an ornamental fountain they saw a knot of people backlit by the firing; a shelter had been cut into a low berm. When Harkins and Novikov reached the entrance, three men came out and trotted off, back toward the buildings south of the park.

  “All full, gents,” one of the men called.

  “Let us see for ourselves,” Novikov said. He had to raise his voice to be heard above the sirens, but he did not seem especially excited.

  Harkins pulled open the steel door to the bunker. A man and a woman were crowded just inside; Harkins could see two small children behind them.

  “It’s quite full,” the mother said. “I’m sorry. We cannot take the children elsewhere.”

  “Of course,” Novikov said. He nodded, and Harkins pushed the door shut until it clanged into place.

  “We will wait here,” Novikov said.

  More bombs farther away. Harkins could see the outline of St. Peter’s dome as searchlights played around it.

  “So,” Novikov said. He spoke loudly, but his tone was friendly. “Have you served at the front? In a combat unit?”

  “I was an MP,” Harkins said.

  I guess we’re going to chat while the bombs fall, he thought.

  “Military Police. In N
orth Africa, then Sicily.”

  “So you are a detective?” Novikov said.

  “I’m investigating this murder,” Harkins said.

  A string of five or six bombs crunched just on the other side of the river. Novikov looked up, calm as a birdwatcher.

  “I think the German bombers just scatter about the city,” he said. “They don’t seem to be aiming at anything in particular.”

  Harkins took a deep breath. Novikov was testing him. He could hear something landing in the street just a few yards away, shrapnel coming back to earth. He shoved his hands in his pockets to keep them from shaking, wondered if Wickman and Lowell had found shelter.

  Novikov shook out another cigarette, lit it with the same one-handed grace.

  A warden hurrying by shouted, “You’re not supposed to have a light out here, mate.”

  “I believe the enemy has already located London, your lordship,” Novikov called. Then, just to Harkins, “I don’t think my cigarette is giving us away. Do you?”

  Another string of bombs fell in Hyde Park, somewhere north of where they stood. There were five big explosions, then a series of smaller ones, with tracers flying in every direction. Harkins squatted down quickly, pulling his shoulders up to his ears in a natural but probably futile gesture. When he saw that Novikov remained standing, Harkins got to his feet.

  “It sounds like they hit one of the antiaircraft batteries,” Novikov said. “Those are secondary explosions. The ammunition, I imagine.”

  Finally, the ack-ack slowed and a few minutes later the all-clear sounded, so that the city was left with just the clamor of fire engines racing to answer alarms. The shelter door opened and the young parents came out, each holding a crying child.

  “You just stood outside the door?” the father asked Harkins. “You must be mad!”

  Novikov and Harkins walked toward Royal Albert Hall, stopping at a bench.

  “You were very calm back there, Lieutenant,” Novikov said. He actually sounded sincere.

  “Yeah, well, I may have crapped my pants.”

  Novikov settled on the bench, patted the seat next to him.

  “London will be a dull place once the invasion takes place,” Novikov said.

  Harkins sat, thought about the desperate feel to last night’s party, everyone wanting to get in a last good time.

  “Have you ever thought about what would happen if the invasion failed?” Novikov asked.

  “I have,” Harkins said. “I visited some of the channel ports the other day and a naval officer who works in supply counted off all the things that can go wrong. Not a very cheerful conversation, to tell you the truth.”

  Harkins had spent part of the ride back to London thinking about how long the war might drag on. It might be years before he saw home again, if at all. And the Allies still had to push Japan out of the Pacific.

  “Stalin knows the invasion will take place,” Novikov said. “It is the only reason this giant American army is here.”

  He turned in his seat, put his arm on the back of the bench so he could face Harkins. “What frightens us is the possibility of failure. If the invasion force is thrown off the beach, if the push inland fails, especially if there are heavy casualties, Stalin is afraid Roosevelt and Churchill will not have the stomach or the political will to start a buildup all over again.”

  “What would happen?” Harkins asked.

  “A separate peace.”

  “You mean negotiate with Hitler?”

  “If Hitler defeats the Allied invasion,” Novikov said, “he will propose a separate peace with the Americans and British so that he can finish the war against us, against the Bolsheviks.”

  “Holy shit,” Harkins said.

  “So you see why I want to do everything I can to make sure the Allied invasion succeeds.”

  “What does that have to do with Batcheller?”

  Novikov ground his cigarette on the bottom of his shoe, scattered the tobacco, and rolled the paper into a ball, which he stuck in his pocket.

  “Cushing was a bomber pilot, correct?”

  “Yes,” Harkins said.

  “So, since you are a thorough investigator, I’m sure you spoke to some other fliers who knew him.”

  “I did.”

  “And what did they tell you about the effectiveness of the Allied strategic bombing campaign?”

  “Well,” Harkins said. “One pilot told me that if they actually hit any targets, it’s only because they smother Germany with so many bombs.”

  “And yet the air force generals claim that they are winning the war through air power alone.”

  “I haven’t heard it expressed that way,” Harkins said. “But I do know the pilots think the stuff put out by Eighth Air Force is just public relations bullshit.”

  “But there has been no one to contradict them,” Novikov said. “No hard proof.”

  “Okay.”

  “Since their claim that they are winning the war on their own is undisputed, they are using that to justify keeping all the air assets tied up in deep bombing raids.”

  Harkins thought about the scores of airfields he’d seen in East Anglia, the hundreds of airplanes, the thousand-plane raids, the tens of thousands of air force soldiers. He’d left there with the impression that the resources were endless, but now that he thought about it, that wasn’t possible. There was always a limit.

  And just like that he saw it clearly.

  “So, air force assets used over Germany can’t simultaneously support the invasion,” he said. “Can’t keep German reinforcements from attacking the beachheads. Too little air support over France and the invasion might fail. That’s what’s keeping Stalin up at night.”

  “Comrade Stalin and me,” Novikov said. “And this brings us to Batcheller. I supplied Batcheller with the serial numbers of German war equipment—tanks and artillery, trucks, staff cars, ambulances—destroyed, abandoned, or captured on the Eastern Front. I sent teams around recording the information. And because the Germans are so famously organized and efficient, there was a pattern to the serial numbers; the equipment could be traced back to individual factories. Miss Batcheller’s analysis showed that, in spite of two years of strategic bombing, German war production has actually increased in some categories.”

  “Which gives the lie to the air force and RAF claims,” Harkins began.

  “That they can win the war with bombing alone,” Novikov finished.

  “Cushing said something about getting this report to Ike’s headquarters. To his planning staff.”

  “Yes,” Novikov said. “Eisenhower wants command of all Allied assets, including the air forces, so that he can use those aircraft to isolate the beachhead, cut off German reinforcements. This invasion is the most important thing going on in any theater.”

  “Let me guess,” Harkins said. “The air force generals don’t want to give up the airplanes.”

  “Precisely,” Novikov said. “Either because they believe their own propaganda, or they don’t want to share credit, or they don’t want to be subordinate to a commander of ground troops.”

  Novikov removed his cap and ran his fingers through his hair. He pulled out his cigarette case, then thought better of it and shoved it back in his coat pocket.

  “There is a battle going on at the highest levels of Allied command right now,” Novikov said. “Eisenhower wants to control the air assets, the bomber men want to keep flying over Germany. Eisenhower has, I understand, threatened to step down if he does not command everyone and everything, with no interference from the generals at Eighth Air Force.”

  “And Batcheller’s report would help Eisenhower and his staff with their argument,” Harkins said. “That Ike should command the air forces, as well as the ground forces.”

  Novikov nodded.

  “Holy shit.”

  “You use that expression a great deal,” Novikov said.

  “Well, Colonel, when I came out here tonight I thought that, if I was lucky, I’d get some
information to help me solve this murder. Instead I have a ringside seat to a fight at the four-star general level.”

  “Oh, it’s bigger than that, my friend,” Novikov said. “A failed invasion might mean a failed war against the Nazis.”

  “Well,” Harkins said. “Thanks for pointing that out. Because I wasn’t anxious enough.”

  “Holy shit, right?” Novikov said. He stood. “You have friends who will be in this invasion?”

  “My brother is a paratrooper,” Harkins said. “He’ll be one of the first men in.”

  “And no way back out if the invasion fails.” Novikov let the remark hang there, a sobering observation.

  “Let us walk some more. Do you see your people anywhere? Or are you supposed to meet them?”

  Harkins looked at his watch. It was nearly half past ten.

  “I hope they got out of that park before the raid. I’ll meet them later.”

  “So,” Novikov said. “All of this brings me to your role.”

  “You’re going to ask me where the report is,” Harkins said. “My boss took it. Is there another copy?”

  Novikov thought for a moment before answering.

  “Perhaps. I will find out. The important thing is that I need your help in getting the original or a copy to Eisenhower’s headquarters. To his planning staff. As soon as possible.”

  “Why can’t you do it?”

  “I would be suspect, and all Soviet officers here are watched over by our own NKVD. But if you brought it in, presented it as the legitimate work of an OSS analyst, you would be believed. You could claim ignorance of her sources.”

  “Couldn’t I just explain to Major Sinnott what the report is about and have him turn it over?”

  “Can we be sure that he will do that?” Novikov asked. “Why did he take it from you in the first place?”

  “He said it was classified.”

  Novikov smiled. “But it was not classified, because no one knew of its existence except me, Miss Batcheller, and your Major Cushing.”

  Harkins recalled his conversation with Beverly about classification. It was possible that Sinnott marked the report as classified after Harkins gave it to him.

  “Why would Sinnott say it was classified?” Harkins asked.