I thick, heavy splats of rain hitting the windows. For a couple of seconds I didn’t remember what had happened last night, or realize that those two seconds were going to be the best part of my day.
The rain was murderously fierce, driving sideways against the glass, the dark, leaden London sky giving promise of a cold soaking and another postponed bombing run. Wordlessly, I joined Kaz in morning exercises, doing deep knee bends and stretches, trying to think of the next boneheaded move I could make. I’d told Kaz the whole story the night before, about how they’d sent Stanley out to stumble in front of the truck, as if he’d been mugged. Big Mike, being a public servant at heart, had gone to help, and ended up on the wrong end of a sawed-off. Then I showed up, we had the poetry reading, the Chapman gang drove off in our truck, and Big Mike and I hoofed it until we found a taxi, thankful that at least they hadn’t taken the coins from our pockets. During the cab ride, I got angry with my dad for never telling me how he had handled the gangsters who were threatening Nuno. A few tips on dealing with the underworld would have come in handy.
I got out of the way as Kaz used a jump rope. I had to admit, I was pretty impressed with how he’d built himself up. He’d always had stamina but it had been that of the soul. Now his body was ready to keep up with his spirit and his intellect. Unfortunately, as smart as he was, he hadn’t come up with an answer to my problems. I did knee curls with the weights, thinking through the list of my troubles with each slow repetition.
One, I was nowhere in terms of the Egorov case. I had no clue who killed him, or why. I had the word of honor from a guy who robbed me that he had nothing to do with it. Swell. Plus, the whole idea of a Russian officer working with the Chapman bunch didn’t add up. No one in the Soviet Union was allowed to get rich, so what was he going to do with his loot?
Two, I’d stirred up a hornet’s nest out at High Wycombe asking about Russians at the Eighth Air Force HQ. Something top secret was going on, based on those red strings from Bull’s map, the squad of MPs who had been after me, and Estelle’s sudden transfer after she talked with us. What it was, I had no idea, only a promise from Bull that he’d try to get in touch.
Three, there was no love lost between Kaz, his Polish buddies, and the Russians. I’d uncovered an informer, but that likely had nothing to do with the case. I still wasn’t totally sure Kaz was innocent, and as I thought through the little I’d come up with, I realized he looked good for it. In the absence of any solid leads, my dad always said, go with what you got, no matter how slim. It at least gave the illusion of forward movement, and more often than not there was some truth embedded in your suspicions. Was that true of Kaz? I knew he could be ruthless, far more ruthless than his studious appearance would suggest. But Nuno was a hard case, too, and Dad hadn’t given him up to the authorities or the Mob.
Four, I’d gotten myself in big trouble with the quartermaster corps, the military police, and, worst of all, Colonel Sam Harding. They’d be looking everywhere for that truck, and it wouldn’t take anyone at Norfolk House with an ounce of sense to figure out who the fast-talking lieutenant and the giant corporal were. If I’d solved the case at the cost of a truck and goods, Harding might’ve backed me up. But to come up empty all around, no way.
Five. I needed a five. I kept up the reps, switching from one arm to the other, generating perspiration but no inspiration.
“What will you do, Billy?” Kaz said, rubbing his head with a towel.
“I’m not sure. I’d like to get in touch with Bull, but that might only set the dogs on me again. I guess I’ll see if Inspector Scutt can help, then go fess up to Harding.”
“Good luck. No matter how stern his visage, Sam Harding was always fair.”
“Not so with your new boss, Major Horak?”
“No, sadly,” Kaz said. “While he is my superior, he leaves much in the hands of Captain Radecki, who is far too impatient. A good soldier, but not a diplomat. Perhaps because he lives with pain every day.”
“Is he still being hard on Tadeusz?”
“Yes, and I think it caused him to retreat into his mind forever. Radecki had threatened to turn him over to the Russians if he didn’t speak. He meant to force the issue, but he has little understanding of the human mind. Now Tadeusz shows no response at all. The doctor says he needs to be sent to a hospital, where he can receive full-time care. He no longer speaks, barely eats, and spends most of his time sleeping.”
“So the one surviving eyewitness to Katyn has everything locked up in his head, unable to get it out.”
“It would have been merciful if the Russians had shot him that day, I regret to say. We’ve changed the story we are feeding the Russians through Eddie Miller. Since Tadeusz will now be safely out of the way, we are saying we have a witness, using much of his story as he told it.”
“In hopes the Russians might do what?”
“We have no hopes for the Russians. It’s the Americans and the British we need to influence. Hearing we have a witness may help open some minds. And perhaps Tadeusz will come out of his trance once he’s had rest and quiet.”
“Kaz, is there any possibility in your mind that someone from the Polish Army could have shot Egorov? Maybe someone who’s heard Tadeusz tell his story? Hell, I know I’d be hard-pressed not to take some revenge if that happened to my own people.”
“I know you have to ask, Billy, but no, there isn’t. As for revenge, I have thought about it. I agree, it is difficult not to. But if I wished to take violent revenge against the Russians, why would I kill just one, way out in Shoreditch? It’s not much of a statement.”
“But there’s the twine, and the execution just like at Katyn.”
“True, but a bullet to the back of the head is not a purely Russian invention. And naturally the victim would be bound. It does make one think, but if I were to go to all that trouble, why kill him in the East End, where it could easily be mistaken for random violence? Why not dump his body in front of his own embassy, or at the palace, or on Fleet Street so the newspaper people would get the first look at it? It does not add up.”
“You’re right,” I said. There was a knock at the door, and Kaz opened it for room service, delivering our morning coffee and toast. An envelope addressed to Kaz and a note on Dorchester stationery sat on a silver tray.
“The note is from the chef, and says with his compliments,” Kaz said, a quizzical look on his face. I took the cover off one of the bowls on the cart.
“Peaches,” I said. “Sixty-three crates, and this is what I end up with.” I thought I wouldn’t be able to eat them, but taste won out over remorse. “What’s in the envelope?”
“I don’t believe it,” Kaz said. “A note from Captain Kiril Sidorov.”
“What?”
“An invitation to the Soviet Embassy, tonight,” Kaz said, as he handed me the elegantly lettered invitation on creamy card stock, topped with the emblem of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics in full color, the red star over the globe, stamped with a golden hammer and sickle, a design leaving little doubt. Kaz read the note. Dear Lieutenant Kazimierz:
Since relations between our two governments do not allow for an official invitation to be sent to you for tonight’s cultural event, I have taken it upon myself to forward this personal invitation. Your most interesting colleague, Lieutenant Boyle, is also being invited, along with several other officers from Norfolk House. I sincerely hope you will attend and demonstrate that, in spite of the differences between us, we are united not only in our struggle against Fascism, but in the appreciation of fine opera.
Yours, Kiril Sidorov, Captain, Red Army Air Force
“Opera?” I said, trying to keep what I knew was a childish whine out of my voice.
“Billy, I have been invited to the embassy of the government responsible for the deaths of tens of thousands of my countrymen, the regime that invaded Poland in collusion with the Nazis, and all you can think of is the ordeal of sitting through an opera?”
“Sorry, gut reaction. Why do you think Sidorov sent it, whatever it’s for?”
“You tell me, you’ve met him.”
“He’s not what you’d expect. Relaxed, not all up in arms about the workers of the world. He obviously does his job well, but he doesn’t present a serious front.”
“You sound like you like the man.”
“Actually, I was thinking that he reminds me of you in some ways. Educated, urbane, speaks English perfectly and, hey, he likes opera, too.”
“There are some educated Russians,” Kaz said, granting the possibility that Sidorov wasn’t a swine. “The invitation says it’s a new film of a Russian opera, not a live performance. Ivan Susanin. I’ve not heard of it.”
“Are you going?”
“Why not? It will be interesting to meet the man who is spying on me. And someone will have to keep you awake. You won’t be able to turn down an official invitation, you know.”
“I could get lucky and get arrested.”
“By Scotland Yard or the military police?”
“Funny,” I said, as I drank my coffee. I resisted telling Kaz that he was the one who should worry about Scotland Yard, but now that I had MPs from High Wycombe to London looking for me, I had enough trouble keeping myself from behind bars. Anyway, there wasn’t enough evidence to do more than question him, and he’d been through worse than that.
Something about how we were looking at it was off, and that’s why it wasn’t making sense to us.
I needed that number five. Number five would add up, I was sure.
I decided to head to the Met first, in case an unarmed bobby had captured the Chapman gang and rescued Uncle Sam’s peaches. I took a cab, avoiding the worst of the downpour and arriving just as Inspector Scutt was shaking the water off his raincoat.
“Miserable weather today,” he said. “DS Flack will be soaked to the bone, probably is already.” He gestured to the chair opposite his desk as he settled in, glancing at the paperwork and messages waiting for him.
“What’s he doing?”
“Out hunting Jerries,” he said. “There’s still a dozen unaccounted for from the raid the other night. Most give themselves up right away, glad to be alive and hoping not to get impaled by an angry farmer with a pitchfork.” He laughed, more to himself, as if remembering an unfortunate German who had met that fate. He lit his pipe, fussing with it the way pipe smokers did, tamping it down, filling the room with clouds of smoke until he was satisfied. “The Bromley station called for assistance, since the airfield at Biggin Hill is close by, and they’ve had reports of two or three Germans in the area. Flack is heading up the search down there.”
“This rain ought to drive them in,” I said. It was hard to imagine how the fliers could manage to evade capture this long, especially after the violence of being blown out of the sky, floating down in the dark, and landing in enemy territory, most likely alone.
“I’d guess it will, but the RAF wants them all caught, so they can stop worrying about some Fritz pinching an aircraft. That would be the only way off the island, and it would be an embarrassment for all, wouldn’t it? At least they don’t expect an old retread like me to tramp about the fields, that’s something. Now, what news do you have?”
I gave him the short version of the truck heist, trying not to sound like a rookie.
“Well, there’s some chance of finding the truck. Minus tires and engine. Peaches, you said? I couldn’t even guarantee you’d get them back if I found them myself,” Scutt said, winking to let me know he didn’t mean it. I think.
“Yeah, I know. Any part of the vehicle would be appreciated. But there’s more. Part of the deal, before it went sour, was for Topper to give me the inside story on the Russian. I think he kept that side of the bargain.”
“He’s an odd one, our Topper is,” Scutt said, raising more smoke from his pipe. “Smart, I’ll give him that. And protective of his father. I’ll make no excuses for Archie Chapman, but he’s not been right in the head since the war.”
“He says he served with Siegfried Sassoon.”
“True. I checked with the War Office the first time I heard Archie spout verse. They served together in the First Battalion, in Flanders. Did he recite for you?”
“Twice. Dead drunk first time, stone sober the second, as he robbed me.”
“You’re lucky to be alive. Archie Chapman could have slit your throat in front of a hundred East Enders, who’d all swear he was at their dinner table at the time. Some like him, most are afraid, and for good reason.”
“Topper is different?”
“Cold, I’d say. Archie enjoys what he does. Topper does what is necessary. Without regard for the law, which makes him as bad as his old man, but I don’t know if he has his heart in the family business. Don’t rightly know if he has much of a heart, at that.”
“Any idea why he’s not in the service? He looks fit.”
“Doctors can be bought, like anyone else. Maybe he has some sort of condition, maybe not. He did try to join up, at least.”
“You sure?” I asked, remembering Archie cutting me off as I asked Topper why he wasn’t serving.
“I remember it well. The army inquired about any criminal record, since he was known at the local recruiting office. We’ve never been able to charge him, so I had to say he was clean. I thought he was going off to war to follow in his father’s footsteps, but a few weeks later, there he is, at Archie’s side, conducting business as usual. Or better. He’s got a talent for it.”
“Evidently,” I said. “I wonder how he got out after enlisting.” My thoughts went back to my own army physical, and how Dad and Uncle Dan had hoped I would fail, to avoid the chance of serving altogether. After I’d passed, we’d hoisted a few pints at Kirby’s, toasting to my health with an odd mixture of pride and wistfulness. The next step would be to pull some strings in D.C., with Mom’s distant, somewhat obscure relative. Dad was certain he didn’t want me to end up like his older brother Frank, buried in a French cemetery for helping the English fight a war. But there was something in his eyes, along with the certainty that he could pull this thing off-a sadness, perhaps, or a sorrowful joy, that I would not share his visions of the trenches, an experience that had made him the man he was. That was a good thing, but a thing that would always divide us.
“I said, Boyle, tell me what Topper told you about the Russian.” Scutt spoke loudly, maybe for the second time, to bring me back from woolgathering.
“Topper said Egorov himself had no connection to them, and that they weren’t responsible for the killing.”
Scutt had the well-earned policeman’s distrust of a criminal’s protestation of innocence.
“But he did say the map had been for them. He as much as admitted they’d been behind the supply hijackings, and that there was a business arrangement with someone, probably at the Russian Embassy, although he never said so exactly.”
“All to be denied if asked again.”
“Yes, that was the deal. With everything else they did, without worrying about being caught, why would he lie about Egorov?”
“Murder means the rope, Lieutenant Boyle. Reason enough.”
“Could be. Maybe he’s trying to throw us off the track.”
“We haven’t much of a scent to pick up, much less be thrown off,” Scutt said with a weary sigh.
“Excuse me, Inspector,” a constable said, approaching Scutt and handing him a sheet of paper. “This just came in. A body was dug out of the rubble from the raid the other night, over on Tower Bridge Road. Looks suspicious, according to the report.”
“Very well, I’ll go take a look. Haven’t had one of these in a while.”
“One of what, Inspector?” I asked as he put on his raincoat.
“Murder, perhaps. Disguised as a bombing victim. Had quite a rash during the Blitz, as soon as people started getting the idea it would be a fine way to get rid of a body. Bash a fellow you don’t like on the head, bury him in a bit of rubble from a bombed-out building, and as soon as he starts to smell, he’s dug up and written off as done in by Herr Goring.”
“What makes it suspicious?”
“Well, you take this fellow. About thirty years of age. No identification papers, and no one in the area knew him. Likely killed by a blow to the head. Now most people go about with their papers, and if you’ve seen a body after a ton of bricks falls on it, you’d know there would be other injuries. There are usually massive physical injuries. But only a crushed skull, and a stranger to boot? Unlikely.”
“Good luck,” I said. “And let me know if anything comes up about Sidorov. Something’s not right there.”
“I still wonder about your Polish friend, you know,” Scutt said. His raised eyebrows invited a comment as we took the steps down to the main door.
“I talked with him,” I said, and shared Kaz’s thoughts about the placement of the body. “Not the best way to make a political statement.”
“Perhaps not. Perhaps it was more personal than political. Or both. Lieutenant Kazimierz could have had words with Egorov, at some diplomatic function. Who knows?”
Not me. Scutt promised to alert the area constables to watch for the truck, but he was only going through the motions, the same sort of thing I’d said many a time when an automobile was stolen or a purse snatched, knowing it would only be dumb luck or a dumber crook that would see it returned.
The rain had stopped, so I walked to Norfolk House, glad for the excuse to delay seeing Colonel Harding. Since he was regular U.S. Army, he was apt to look upon the truck and peaches as his personal property. Scutt could afford to chuckle about it, since I’d only gotten what I deserved. But Harding wasn’t interested in failure, and except for breakfast, I had nothing to show for my gamble.
“Go on in, Billy, they’re waiting for you,” Big Mike said as I entered the office. He nodded to the open conference-room door, and winked. I wanted to ask him what he was so happy about, but Harding appeared at the door and told me to get in, pronto. He sounded mildly angry and agitated, but that was SOP with him. I had expected a full-bore lecture, maybe a demotion, but nothing like that was in the air.
“You know Colonel Dawson, I take it,” Harding said, nodding toward Bull, who sat at the conference table, a large map spread out in front of him. “And Major Cosgrove.”
“Sure. I mean, yes, sir.”
“Boyle,” Cosgrove said, nodding slightly, his eyes briefly darting up to meet mine. I didn’t count Major Charles Cosgrove of MI5, the British Secret Service, among my friends. The feeling would have been mutual, except he was too much of a stiff upper lip to admit to the emotion necessary to say what he thought of me. There had been bad blood between us since he used me in one of his plots, back when I first arrived in London, and worse blood since the business in Northern Ireland a few weeks ago. He had a habit of manipulating people, and some of those people didn’t live long enough to return the favor. I had, and someday I intended to.
“Good to see you, Billy,” Colonel Bull Dawson said. Him I was glad to see. He looked spiffy in his Class A uniform, all decked out for a visit to HQ in London. His brass buttons gleamed, and the silver wings perched over his heart sparkled. His eyes, marked by crow’s-feet from constant squinting into the sun at twenty-five thousand feet, flickered between Cosgrove and me. I could tell he sensed trouble, the way he could probably pick up on a Me-109 coming out of a cloud formation.
“Same here, Colonel,” I said. “Unless there’s a pack of MPs in the next room.”
“That’s what we’re here to talk about, Boyle,” Harding said, taking his seat at the head of the table. I sat next to Bull, and Harding gave him the nod.
“Ever since you hightailed out of High Wycombe, I’ve been asking around about you, Billy,” Bull said. “You seemed like a stand-up guy in Northern Ireland, but I had to be sure. Everyone agrees, you get the job done. Some apparently wish you did it a bit more subtly, but I’m a guy who drops five thousand-pound bomb loads for a living, so subtle doesn’t carry much weight with me. I’ve asked for the highest-level clearance for you on this matter. I briefed Colonel Harding this morning, with Major Cosgrove’s permission.”
“Major Cosgrove can call the shots on that?” I said.
“Yes, I can, Lieutenant Boyle, and it won’t surprise you to know I do have concerns about your conduct. Still, it does make sense to bring you in on this, at least to minimize any damage you might inadvertently do. I already had to speak to Inspector Scutt and tell him to stop asking questions on your behalf. He asked me why the Russians had stopped going to High Wycombe, and over an open line! Lord knows what else you or he may blurt out.”
“You mean like the flights to Poltava and Mirgorod?” I said, putting together the sum total of my knowledge to see if it would get a reaction from Cosgrove.
“This proves my point, Harding! Lieutenant Boyle should be confined to quarters until this matter is completed. And not a suite at the Dorchester, either!” Cosgrove turned beet red, puffing out his cheeks as he tried to control his anger. He was a big guy, around the waist anyway, and I almost worried about him blowing a fuse.
“That’s Colonel Harding, Major” was the reply. The fact that Cosgrove worked for MI5 and could have shown up in an admiral’s getup didn’t matter. His cover was as a major, a rank low enough not to attract attention but high enough to get a decent table at a fancy restaurant. Harding outranked him and expected the military courtesies. “The fact that Lieutenant Boyle has figured out that much means we’re right to brief him now. Bull, proceed.”
“Billy,” he began, playing the peacemaker. “Major Cosgrove is in charge of security for the Soviet personnel. This includes worrying about any potential threats from emigre anti-Communist groups in London. It’s enough to make any sane man jumpy.”
“OK,” I said. “I understand. I only know about the two locations because I noticed they’d been marked on the map in your office. And of course I would’ve stumbled upon the Russian connection from the reaction when I asked about it. The transfer of Estelle Gordon was a tip-off that I was onto something.”
“That was a bit heavy-handed,” Bull said, working at not giving Cosgrove a look. “But we have to be sure word doesn’t leak out about this. London is full of rumors, gossip, and informers. You sure you haven’t heard anything else?”
“Nope. Well, except that the Royal Navy is in on it somehow.”
“Good lord, the man’s a menace,” Cosgrove said, mainly to himself and the ceiling.
“Operation Frantic Joe,” Bull said.
“Now simply called Operation Frantic,” Cosgrove put in, as if reminding a child of a forgotten lesson.
“Right,” Bull said. “The idea began as a response to Stalin’s demand for a second front against the Germans. The Soviets wanted us to do something to take the pressure off them on the Eastern Front. We will, but on our schedule, not theirs. For now, we do have long-range bomber forces, and can put them to work pretty damn quick.”
“Did Frantic Joe refer to Joe Stalin?” I asked.
“Yes, but it was thought to be more diplomatic to shorten it to Operation Frantic. We’re going to set up Eighth Air Force airfields in the Soviet Union, flying shuttle missions back and forth between there and our bases in England. That’s what they brought me back from Northern Ireland for, to plan optimal routes for our bombers.”
“So we’ll be hitting targets on the Eastern Front for the Russians?”
“Yes, plus our own strategic targets. You see, the plan has a dual purpose. It’ll play havoc with the German air defenses. They won’t know if we’ll be flying back to the base we started at, or straight through the Reich. Right now, their air defenses try to intercept us on the way to the target, or on the way home. Once we’re set up with the Russians, they’ll have to spread themselves thin, since we can fly to bases in Italy as well.”
“That’s what the Russians were doing at High Wycombe,” I said. “Planning for their end of Operation Frantic.”
“Exactly. No one was supposed to know. Then you show up asking questions, and everyone gets nervous. So here we are. We need you inside the tent, Billy. Just keep your mouth shut about it.”
“It is important that you solve the murder of Egorov,” Cosgrove said. “We must know if that was a security breach, a personal matter, or simply a random crime. If word about Operation Frantic gets out, there will be hell to pay.”
“I need to question the members of the delegation, to see if any of them know anything. I tried at the embassy and got the cold shoulder from Sidorov.”
“He’s NKVD, like Egorov was,” Bull said. “They sat back and watched, hardly ever participated.”
“Yeah. The question is, who’s watching them? Can I have Big Mike in on this, Colonel Harding? And Kaz.”
“Impossible,” Cosgrove sputtered.
“Why?” Harding said.
“Kaz speaks Russian, and I trust him.”
“He’s Polish,” Cosgrove said. “The Russians won’t stand for it.”
“How about he just listens? They ought to be used to that.”
“I’ll see if we can get him back from the Poles,” Harding said. “But he’ll have to remove the Poland shoulder patch. He’ll be attached to SHAEF headquarters, so they won’t have a basis for complaint.”
“Never stopped the bloody Bolsheviks before,” Cosgrove said. “Tomorrow the joint planning committee is moving operations down to Dover. Be prepared to join us, Boyle.”
“Dover? Not High Wycombe?”
“That’s where the Royal Navy comes in. Major Cosgrove decided that Red Air Force officers at Eighth Air Force HQ might lead people to put two and two together. So we’re moving everyone down to Dover Castle, on the coast. It’s a Royal Navy base, secure, with underground tunnels. Made to order.”
“In case there are any spies about,” Cosgrove explained, “we’ve put out word that we are giving the Russians a tour of the castle and of the defensive measures taken in the area, earlier in the war, when invasion was a real possibility. There will probably be a photograph in the newspapers of a Russian or two and some Home Guard chaps, that sort of thing.”
“Perfect. I can interview them while the public relations stuff is going on.”
“You’ll have to cut them out of the herd, Billy,” Bull said. “Those Russkies stick real close together. You can start tonight. We’ve been invited to the opera at their place.”
“Russian opera,” Cosgrove said. “Dreadful stuff.”
“Major Cosgrove,” I said, trying to sound respectful, “I’m investigating one of the London gangs that may have been involved with Egorov’s death. Archie Chapman is the head guy.”
“I’ve heard of him,” Cosgrove said. “He runs a well-organized operation for a fellow who’s off his rocker. Spreads a bit of the wealth around locally, which makes it difficult for the Met, I understand.”
“Right. I’m interested in his son, Topper Chapman. Can I get a look at his file?”
“He’s not in the army, so we wouldn’t have a file on him,” Cosgrove said.
“I mean the secret files you have access to. It may be important.”
“Very well. I’ll see what we have.”
The meeting broke up and I hung back in the outer office until everyone was in the hall. Big Mike sat at his desk, the office chair creaking under his weight as he went through a stack of files.
“What gives?” I asked him. “Didn’t you tell Harding about the truck?”
“Sure I did, Billy. I also told him about your idea to get it back. He liked it.”
“My idea?”
“Well, I didn’t want anything to mess up getting Estelle back here, so I figured we both had to come out looking good. I told him you wanted all the pubs and restaurants in Shoreditch placed off limits to U.S. personnel until the truck and shipment were returned.”
“That’s a stroke of genius, Big Mike. A lot of those joints must pay protection to Chapman. He’ll have to give it up to protect his income.”
“And his reputation. He can look like a hero on his home turf, getting us to lift the restriction. Plus he gets a few crates of peaches out of the deal. We only want fifty back.”
“You make me sound like I’m one crafty lieutenant.”
“That’s a noncom’s job, Billy,” Big Mike said as he returned to the files and forms on his desk.