“ Now let’s get this straight,” Detective Sergeant Roy Flack said for the hundredth time. I took a drink of tea, wishing it was coffee. It had been hours since I found Kaz, and we’d spent every one of them in this room. Brick walls and arched ceiling, every brick painted a glossy pale yellow, the kind of paint job you get when you have plenty of free labor, officers with not much else to do, and an endless supply of government-issue paint.
“You became angry after reading the newspaper accounts of the Russian investigation of the Katyn affair,” Flack said, reading from his notebook.
“Yes. And then quite inebriated,” Kaz said. He looked pale, but that could have been the lighting. It was harsh, a row of light fixtures above the table where we sat, Kaz and I on one side, DS Flack on the other, and a constable at the door. There was a British soldier standing guard on the other side of that door. I hadn’t tried to leave, because I didn’t want to desert Kaz and because I wasn’t sure if they’d let me.
“Inebriated, as you say,” Flack noted. “You left your room as it was getting dark, about 5:00 p.m. Lieutenant Boyle observed this, right?”
“Right,” I said. “Inebriated is too strong a term. Tipsy, maybe.”
“Angry and tipsy,” Flack said, raising his eyebrows. “Sounds like a vaudeville act. Were you going to meet someone, Lieutenant Kazimierz? Or look for someone?” It had been the same question, over and over again, since Flack arrived. The sentries had summoned their commanding officer, who sent for Sidorov and the local constable. Sidorov was nowhere to be found. The commanding officer and the constable both sensed more trouble from more quarters than either wanted any part of, and made a call to Scotland Yard. Flack had been the closest inspector, still coordinating the hunt for downed Germans south of London. He’d been awakened in the middle of the night and forced to drive over country lanes in the blackout to get to Dover. By the time he arrived, rain clouds had moved in, and he’d gotten soaked dashing in from his car. He wasn’t much happier about being here than we were.
“No,” Kaz said, shaking his head, as if willing the cobwebs to be cleared from Flack’s single-track mind. “I left rather than make more of an ass of myself. I knew I’d had too much to drink, and that I was verging on self-pity. I thought the cold night air would do me good, and I’d heard that from a good height, you could see the muzzle flashes from the German railway guns, when they bring them out to shell Dover.”
“You were determined to get yourself killed?” Flack suggested.
“Not at all. It may not have been my most splendid idea, but it was something I thought interesting. Better than drinking more vodka. So I climbed the path up the cliff and sat on a bench at the top. I watched the bombers fly over. It was really magnificent, if one could separate spectacle from reality. When the antiaircraft gun behind me opened up, I almost fell into the sea. I watched the two planes go down, and sat for a while longer.”
“How long?” Flack said.
“I have no idea. I was lost in my own thoughts after the firing died down.”
“What were you thinking about, Lieutenant?”
“My homeland. The likelihood that I will never see it again. What to do with my life. To whom I owe my loyalty. The woman I loved and lost. How beautiful the water looked under the starlight. The things one thinks about late at night, in wartime, under the stars, after death has flown overhead.”
“And you say you saw no one until Lieutenant Boyle came along?”
“No, I did not say that, DS Flack. I said I saw the sentries at the gate, when the guns fired. They were far away, though, and I’m sure they didn’t see me. And I saw the body, before I saw Billy.”
“Ah, yes,” Flack said, making a show of consulting his notebook. “You had no idea that the murdered body of Rak Vatutin lay just a few yards from where you sat? You didn’t see it when you looked toward the sentries?”
“No, it was pitch black, except for when the antiaircraft gun fired, and there was a bright explosive light, which lit the area around the gun. The sentries were only shadows.”
“With all that shooting, and everyone looking up, it would have been a simple matter to bash a man’s brains in,” Flack said, his voice mild but his eyes unblinking, riveted on Kaz. “It must have been tempting to come upon a Russian in the dark.”
“If Joseph Stalin had walked by, I would have given it some thought. But he was nowhere to be seen.” The constable at the door laughed, but lost the smile as Flack turned to stare him down.
“Explain the blood on your hands then,” Flack said.
“When I saw the body, I knelt down to get a closer look, to see if he was alive. I rested one hand on the ground and felt for a pulse with the other. I didn’t even notice I’d put my hand on a stone, until Billy pointed it out. Inspector, if I wished to kill anyone, Russian or otherwise, I wouldn’t do it within plain sight of sentries and a gun crew.”
“But you said yourself, they didn’t see you, that it was too dark.”
“I mean, I wouldn’t have taken that chance.”
“Very well,” DS Flack said. “Now, Lieutenant Boyle. We know what time you left the inn, based on witnesses there. Approximately fifteen minutes elapsed between then and when you found Lieutenant Kazimierz leaning over the body.”
“Yes,” I said. Never give an interrogator more words than you need to. Words are his weapon against you.
“You saw no other people in the area?”
“Not in the immediate area. I saw Archie and Topper Chapman at the inn. They were looking for someone.”
“Who?”
“Vatutin. They’d asked me to deliver a message to him.”
“Why would they do that?” Flack said, underlining something in his notebook.
“They’d lost contact with him after the Soviet group moved down here.”
“What was the message?”
“They wanted to know the time and place. Of what, I don’t know. Maybe it had to do with the hijackings. Maybe they killed him.”
“It would be unlike the Chapmans to eliminate a useful conduit for information. And I doubt Vatutin would have been a threat. One word from Archie and his own people would have sent him to Siberia. Still, it may put an end to the hijacking investigation. One less thing to worry about.”
“You don’t think Archie capable of murdering Vatutin?”
“Capable?” Flack said. “Certainly. But I know how he works. He wouldn’t show up outside of his own turf and commit murder. Too obvious, too visible. He’d hire it out. Easy enough to pay someone to watch for Vatutin and do away with him. But not while Archie is within spitting distance.”
“That makes sense,” I had to admit.
“Yes. Now tell me, did you ever witness an argument between Lieutenant Kazimierz and Captain Vatutin?”
“No.”
“Nothing unpleasant at all?”
“No. We met him at the embassy. He gave us food and drink and was a cordial host.”
“On the night of the opera, when Lieutenant Kazimierz threatened Captain Sidorov? Called him a butcher, and said he’d pay for what he’d done?”
“Is that what Inspector Scutt told you?” I knew I should have kept my answer to one word.
“He told me he’d be happy to never see another Russian opera. Now please answer my question.”
“It was a deliberate provocation. Scutt must’ve told you about the opera.”
“So it did happen, as I said?”
“Exactly as you said,” Kaz said, seeing I was reluctant to admit the truth.
“And were you drunk-sorry, tipsy-that night as well?”
“No. Quite sober,” Kaz said. “I did my drinking later.”
“After the film, a Soviet diplomat was beaten within an inch of his life as he walked in the park. Can you tell me anything about that?”
“No. I went back to the Dorchester and stayed there.”
“I can vouch for that,” I said.
“You can say with certainty that he never left? Would you have heard him leave? I understand the rooms you occupy are quite spacious.” Flack sat with his pencil poised over a blank page.
“I didn’t stay up all night watching him,” I said. “What, do you think he went out in the middle of the night on the chance he’d find a Russian taking a midnight stroll?”
“What I think, Lieutenant Boyle, is that all this started with one murdered Russian. Murdered in such a way as to suggest Polish involvement. Then threats against Captain Sidorov, followed by the savage beating of another Russian, and a second murder right here. Eddie Miller, found stabbed outside the Rubens, after you, Lieutenant Boyle, discover he is working for the Russians and tell Lieutenant Kazimierz. To top it all off, Captain Sidorov has now completely disappeared; he’s not in his quarters or any of the pubs. Three, maybe four people come to harm, and Lieutenant Kazimierz has been involved, to one degree or another, with each one. Inspector Scutt tells me the Soviet ambassador is throwing a fit, and so are the Foreign Office, and the home secretary. All that turmoil rolls right downhill to me, courtesy of Inspector Scutt. So rather than take a chance on this continuing any further, I hereby place you under arrest, Lieutenant Kazimierz, on suspicion of murder.”
“You can’t do that,” I said, standing up.
“Sit down,” Flack said, and I did, knowing he had to win this one. “I can and could do much more, being here at the invitation of the War Office. For now, it’s suspicion. Be thankful for that much.”
“Thankful?” Kaz said. “I’m under arrest for a crime I did not commit, and I should be thankful?”
“Yes. Since this crime took place in a secure military area, the Official Secrets Act applies. I could put you away for two years without trial if I didn’t like an answer you gave me. So yes, be thankful.”
“Billy,” Kaz said. “You must find Sidorov. If they think I killed him too…” He put his head in his hands and was quiet. Flack nodded to the constable, who led Kaz out of the room.
“I had to do it,” Flack said, after the door closed.
“Do you think he did it? Any of it?”
“He could have. Any one of them. The desire for revenge can be powerful.”
“In the heat of the moment, yes. But four, or even three?”
“Not for me to say. All I know is that those in exalted positions are demanding the case be solved. An arrest is progress, and he’s our only suspect.”
“Yeah, the Poles make great sacrificial lambs. Can I go now?”
Flack sighed. “Of course,” he said, nodding to the constable, who opened the door. His face held the weariness of cops everywhere who have heard it all. The protestations of innocence, the certainty that a friend, brother, lover could not possibly have done it. I felt the impossibility of communicating that to another human being who had not shared the terror, heartbreak, and friendship Kaz and I had. Flack had his job to do, and to him, Kaz was a legitimate suspect, and I could appreciate the logic in putting him on ice for a while. Still, I didn’t feel like cutting him any slack.
“You done with the crime scene?” I asked.
“Yes. I’m waiting for the preliminary medical report now. Take a look, not that there is much to see. That path is well trodden, and between the rains, the sentry, the two of you, the constable, and the victim, there’s not much in the way of discernible footprints.”
Flack was right. The path was hard-packed dirt, soaked from last night’s rain. The grass around it had been heavily trampled. A deep rust-colored stain showed where the head had lain. The stone was gone, but there were plenty like it strewn about. A five-foot stone wall, one of many encircling the castle and the outer buildings, had been hit by a bomb or a shell. Shattered stones were scattered about, and it would have been a simple thing for someone behind Vatutin to reach down, scoop one up, and smash him in the head. He might never have heard it coming.
“Billy,” Bull Dawson called out as he strode toward me. “I just heard. What the hell is going on?”
“Rak Vatutin was murdered last night. Right here,” I said, pointing to the matted grass and bloodstain. “Scotland Yard thinks Kaz did it.”
“Your Polish buddy? Did he?”
“No. I found him here, kneeling beside the corpse. He’d found him a minute before me. But the British government is getting nervous about Russians being found dead or beaten on their turf, so they grabbed the best suspect they had.”
“Jesus, Billy, it’s not just the British. I’ve got a passel of Soviets here who want to call Operation Frantic off. They all think they’re next, and I can’t blame them. With Vatutin dead and Sidorov vanished, they have no secret police to watch them, and I think it makes them more nervous than being watched.”
“Have you contacted their embassy?”
“Had to go through the chain of command. Right up to Ike. It’s in all the papers, he just got back from the States this morning. Some poor bastard’s probably briefing him on the situation right now. It’ll be up to him to decide what to do next. I hope he can salvage this; we’ve put a lot into it.”
“Jesus Christ on the mountain,” I said.
“Pardon?”
“Ike’s favorite curse,” I said. I’d bet dollars to doughnuts that Colonel Harding was hearing it right now. I wondered what Big Mike had found out in London. “Did any of the Russians have an idea where Sidorov is?”
“Dead, they all figure. Like Vatutin. And Egorov. What do you think?”
“I think I need to get some sleep,” I said. “I’ve been up all night, I’m tired and hungry, and can’t think beyond a cup of coffee. I’ll be at the Lord Nelson Inn. Let me know if Sidorov turns up, OK? Maybe he made a lady friend last night.”
“He should be so lucky,” Bull said.
I walked to the inn, knowing I had a lot of work in front of me, and although it felt like I was letting Kaz down, I knew I had to get some food and at least a few hours’ shut-eye, otherwise I’d fall asleep at the wheel. Of course, that assumed I knew where to drive and what to do next. It also assumed I had a vehicle, I realized. I needed to get hold of Big Mike fast.
I walked along the promenade, where the night before I had searched for Kaz. The sun was at my back and the wind in my face as I passed a couple arm in arm, as if they were on holiday and not in a town under shell fire from occupied France. Both in civilian clothes, they were all smiles, the war a mere distraction. Could civilians under bombardment and artillery fire block out the war, and find time for themselves? In uniform, the war and the service were all consuming. The army dictated where I went, what I did, how I dressed, and whom I spent time with. I had almost gotten used to it, and forgotten what it must be like to take a break, enjoy an interlude from the day-to-day grind.
How long before Diana and I would enjoy a day like that, in civvies or khaki? Weeks? Months? Never?
Get a grip, I told myself, as I left the couple behind, arm in arm, gazing out over the channel. It was their time to be moony, not mine. Kaz was under arrest, and I needed a plan. I breathed in the crisp air, trying to force oxygen into my lungs and eventually my brain. I needed to think clearly, and the all-night session with Flack had worn me down. My eyes felt gritty and my legs heavy and clumsy as I opened the door to the inn.
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.