There were no road maps to be had, but there was a wall map of greater London posted in a back room where drivers and staff could get a hot cup of coffee. Uxbridge, Denham, Beaconsfield, High Wycombe. About thirty miles west of London. I guessed there would still be no road signs, but you could pretty much follow the main roads from one village to the next.
A staff car would have been nice, but all a lieutenant could hope for was a jeep with a canvas top. We took Kensington Road to Uxbridge Road, which naturally enough got us to Uxbridge. On the western outskirts of London, the bomb damage was not as extensive, but it hadn’t been cleaned up as well. We passed a row of damaged houses, some collapsed and others with open rooms, their bathtubs, chairs, dressers, and tables on display like a giant’s dollhouse. Some pictures still hung perfectly level, and I saw one easy chair at the edge of the floor, where the front of the building had been torn away, the lamp next to it a sentinel of normalcy in a catastrophically altered world. Past Uxbridge the city turned to country, and military traffic dominated the road. No civilian vehicles, only British and American trucks, jeeps, staff cars, all snarled in traffic jams at every village center, then thinning out on the narrow country roads.
The sky had cleared, leaving only scattered clouds to drift over the landscape. A faint, distant drone turned into a steadily growing, ground-shaking thrum of high-powered engines. We pulled over and got out, gawkers on a country lane as Flying Fortresses climbed and circled, forming up into a mass of bombers, hundreds of them, the highest trailing white contrails as they headed for their target. The deafening roar turned again to a dull, faraway noise, finally leaving us in silence, except for the scurry of tires on pavement.
“Jesus Christ, I ain’t never seen so many airplanes,” Big Mike said. “Not all at once, anyway.”
“Me either,” I said, but I didn’t feel much like talking. The procession of B-17s had left me feeling odd. Out of step. Hundreds of men and machines were off on a mission, and what was I doing? Talking to people, asking questions about other people who were already dead. It seemed a waste of time, when so many others were going to be killed in a few hours. I used to think that every death mattered, especially those who could’ve made it through the war alive. Now, I wasn’t so sure. Captain Gennady Egorov was dead and gone, and nothing I could do would bring him back. Those boys in the B-17s, they were alive now, but plenty weren’t going to make it home, never mind whoever was at the receiving end of their bomb loads. Feeling the vibration of the passing bombers, hearing the thunder of engines, seeing their gleaming white contrails, I felt the enormity of this war. The willingness to accept loss of life and limb, to witness planes burst into flame and fall to the earth. In the wake of such mass, intentional killing, it seemed disconcerting to place so much emphasis on a single bullet that had pierced a single skull. Here I stood by the side of the road, on my way to ask questions about one dead Russian. There they went, off to deal death and maybe draw a dead man’s hand themselves.
Maybe I thought too much about this stuff. Maybe it was better to follow orders and do the job, whatever it was.
“Let’s go, Billy,” Big Mike said, his glance lingering on my face. I wondered what he saw.
“Sure,” I said, climbing into the jeep. The army seemed to be making a soldier of me, regardless of my attempts to prevent it. Or maybe it was the hangover. Whichever, it was the first time the thought of following orders had ever seemed comforting, and that bothered me.
“What exactly are we looking for?” Big Mike asked after we had a few more miles under our wheels.
“Russians,” I said, and filled him in on my assignment and what I’d learned from Scotland Yard. I showed him the photo of Gennady Egorov. Kaz and his pistol I kept to myself.
The road to High Wycombe paralleled the River Wye, which was more of a stream, as it meandered by fields, wooded groves, and low rolling hills. Luckily, the U.S. Army Air Force didn’t stint on road signs, and as soon as we entered High Wycombe we followed posted signs up a short hill, and took a long gravel drive to an imposing gray granite three-story building sprawled across tree-lined grounds. Twin turrets rose from the corners, making the place look more like a medieval fortress than the headquarters of a modern air force. A church, stuck onto the end of the building, looked like an afterthought.
Big Mike came in with me and peeled off to find a mess hall, saying he was hungry. That was pretty much a normal state for him, except for about a half hour after each meal. But he was also going to gather information, scuttlebutt from other noncoms. I went to the duty desk and asked where the XO’s office was. In any unit, the executive officer was the guy who had to know everything. No sense asking for the commanding officer, he probably wouldn’t bother with a lieutenant from outside his command. The XO would be different; he’d want to know why I was here asking questions.
I signed in and was sent up to the top floor, my feet fitting the worn grooves in the stone stairs, as thousands of others had done. Officers, clerks, WACs, and occasional RAF personnel swept around me in purposeful motion. Looking for the XO’s office, I passed an open doorway, the sign above it marked OPERATIONS. A private was affixing another sign below that, freshly painted letters spelling out that this was home to Colonel Dawson. The name was familiar, and I figured it was worth a shot.
“Is that Bull Dawson, by any chance?” I asked the private.
“No idea, Lieutenant. I just paint ’em. They come and go and I change the names. Ask inside.”
In the outer office, a sergeant sat at a desk typing with two fingers. The door to the inner office was open, but I couldn’t see inside. The sergeant didn’t look up. With so much brass around, my silver bars didn’t carry much weight.
“Help you, Lieutenant?” He didn’t stop typing.
“Colonel Dawson,” I said, crooking my thumb in the direction of the inner office. “Bull Dawson, by any chance? Fresh from Northern Ireland?”
“Who the hell wants to know?” A voice boomed out.
“That answer your question, Lieutenant?” Click clack. His lack of interest was formidable, so an answer wasn’t needed.
“How’s the shoulder, Bull?” I said, entering his office. It was large, with two map tables and one large wall map, pieces of string marking the distance from airfields in England to targets in France, Germany, and beyond. Bull was standing at the wall map, removing pins, letting strands of red string drop to the floor.
“Billy Boyle! Goddamn, I thought you were back in Algiers. The shoulder still hurts when it rains, which is most of the time.” Bull shook my hand, enveloping mine in his big, beefy grasp. We’d met in Northern Ireland, and there had been gunfire involved. Bull had taken one in the shoulder, but it hadn’t kept him from getting me off the island on the q.t.
“They still got you flying a desk, Colonel?” Bull Dawson wasn’t much for protocol, and wouldn’t mind my calling him Bull. But I’d never met an officer who didn’t like being given his rank.
“Yeah, they found something more useful for me to do than scheduling transport planes in and out of Northern Ireland. Got my orders three days ago, just getting settled in. No missions yet, but that’ll come. What brings you here, Billy?”
“I came in a few days ago myself, ahead of General Eisenhower. I’m investigating the death of a Soviet Air Force officer, Captain Gennady Egorov. Got himself shot in London.”
“Someone here involved?” Bull said, gesturing for me to sit down in one of the two armchairs in front of his desk. He took the other.
“Not as far as I know. I heard that he’d been involved in some sort of liaison role with the Eighth. Thought I’d check it out, see if anyone knew him.”
“We don’t have any Russians here, Billy,” Bull said, lighting a cigarette with a Zippo. “English, a few Canadians; the rest are all American. What would a Russian be doing here anyway?”
“Good question. What about Poles? Any of them stationed here?”
“No, but I did meet a few of them from the RAF 303 Squadron. The Kosciuszko Squadron, they call themselves. Highest kill rate in the Battle of Britain, a real wild bunch of fliers. They’re stationed over in Ruislip, ten or twelve miles from here. But that was a social occasion. Invite to the new American brass to dine in their mess, that sort of thing. Why?”
“No reason, Bull. Occupational hazard of a detective. Once you start asking questions, you can’t stop. Is there anyone who’s been here a while, who might know about any Soviet personnel visiting?”
“Let me ask our G-2. Intelligence ought to know about people showing up in funny uniforms, right?”
“Sounds good, if you’re not too busy,” I said.
“Billy, you and I have been through the real thing. I’m never too busy for former aircrew, even a ground pounder like you. Now you wait here. This will go a lot faster if I don’t bring a stranger, you understand?”
“Sure, Bull.” He slapped me on the knee as he left. I got up and stretched my legs, tired after the jeep ride and perhaps last night’s drinking. I looked out the window in time to see four fighter planes arcing across the sky, but they were too high for me to make them out. I looked at the maps on the table, one of France, the other Germany. Papers and files covered each of them, and I didn’t want to be shot as a spy in case the G-2 officer came back with Bull, so I left them alone.
The wall map ranged from Northern Ireland and Scotland in the north to Sicily in the south, and all the way to Moscow in the east. Red string from Italy went up past Rome, with others going into Romania and Poland. Strands from England crisscrossed each other, some headed deep into Germany, others along the coast of France. Not hard to guess what they were up to.
I picked up the strings that Bull had let drop to the floor. Three of them, all longer than any of the others. What had they pointed to? An ashtray on a table held colored pins, and it was easy to see former targets on the continent by the pinholes they had left. But where had the long pieces of string led? I let my fingers run across the map at about the right distance from England. Beyond Poland and Romania, the paper was unscarred. Until my fingertips found two tiny pinholes, deep into Russia, about midway between Moscow and the Black Sea. Right next to Mirgorod and Poltava, in the Ukraine. I held up a piece of string, and it reached perfectly from a number of bases north of London. What the hell was going on? Those weren’t targets; the bases were well behind the Russian lines.
I heard Bull’s voice in the outer office and stuffed the string into my pocket as I stepped away from the map.
“Billy, there’s a problem. Come with me, right now.”
“What…”
“Never mind, Lieutenant. Now!” He turned and checked the hallway in each direction as his sergeant continued with his typing, oblivious to the cloak-and-dagger drama. The phone rang and Bull nodded to him.
He picked it up and told whoever was on the other end that Bull had me in his office, safe behind closed doors. He hung up and winked at me before he went back to his typing. Bull grabbed my arm and I followed him to a rear staircase.
“What’s going on?” I asked as we descended the narrow metal steps.
“I thought I’d be able to help you, Billy, I really did. But you sure stepped into it this time. As soon as I mentioned you were looking for Russians, that goddamn major was on the phone to the, MPs.”
“You said there weren’t any Russians here,” I said as we stopped at a second-floor doorway.
“There aren’t. I wasn’t lying to you. But there is something brewing, all top secret, and I thought they might let you in on it, given your connections. But they didn’t give me a chance to explain, so I thought it would be best to get you out of Dodge. Again. You’re a lot of fun to have around, you know that?”
“I’m my own barrel of monkeys. What about your sergeant?”
“He’s been with me for a year. He’s solid, don’t worry about him. You come here alone?”
“No, I had a driver. He went to find the mess hall.”
“Christ. Tell you what, I’ll get him and tell him to hustle out to the main gate. You go out the back door, right down those stairs, and take off before they notice we’re not in my office. Hank will keep them talking a while longer. Drive back on the main road in ten minutes and pick up your driver. How will I know him?”
“He’s a corporal, and guaranteed he’s the biggest guy in the room.”
“OK, get going. I’ll look you up in London, at Norfolk House, right?”
“Yeah, and I’m quartered at the Dorchester. Bull, you said you didn’t lie to me. So there are no Russians here?”
“I haven’t seen any. Can’t say anything else. Now get the hell out of here.”
I did. I walked around the back of the building like I owned the place. Started up the jeep as a couple of snowdrops double-timed across the lawn. The MPs in their bobbing white helmets, looking just like the little flowers. I had to admire Bull for trying, but it would’ve been better all around if I’d just stayed in bed today.
Ten minutes later I picked up Big Mike and gunned the jeep, putting distance between us and trouble. I had a feeling it was going to catch up.
“Looks like the air force doesn’t much like you, Billy.”
“Pretty much par for the course. Bull found you all right?”
“Yeah. Decent guy for an officer. No offense intended.”
“None taken. You get any coffee?”
“Yeah, along with a couple of baloney sandwiches. Not much for a growing boy. But I did have a nice chat with a corporal who apparently hadn’t gotten the order to imprison anyone asking about Russians.”
“What did this corporal say?”
“That they don’t come here no more. On account of security.”
“But they’ve been here? Was he sure they were Russians?” I asked, checking the rearview mirror. No one in pursuit. Yet.
“Yeah, five or six of them. And she was a WAC corporal. She said she knew a little Russian from her grandmother and spoke to one of them. She recognized the uniforms, too. You know those shoulder boards they wear? Plus a couple of them had a big red star above their pocket, some kinda medal.”
“Would she recognize any of them if she saw them again?”
“I thought you might want to know that, so I asked her. She said yes, she’d recognize two of them. The guy she talked to and the guy who told her to get lost.”
“In English?”
“Yep, she said he spoke good English. Took the other officer by the arm and herded him back into the group. She said the one she talked to spoke perfect English, no trace of an accent.”
“Sounds like they had a NKVD minder.”
“That’s their secret police, right?”
“Yeah. Like the one who ended up dead a few nights ago,” I said as I slowed.
“Billy, what the hell are you doing?” Big Mike said, gripping the dashboard as I took the jeep into a hard turn.
“Going to pay your WAC corporal a visit. What’s her name?”
“ Estelle. Estelle Gordon. But why are you going back there? They’ll be on the lookout for you.”
“No, they won’t. I got away. The last thing they’d expect is for me to turn up again.”
“They got pretty solid thinking on their side, Billy.”
“Yeah, but they’re not looking for you. I know where the back door is. Stay in front of me and I’m all set.”
“Sure, that’ll be a breeze. You going to show Estelle that photo?”
“That’s the idea.”
“Great,” Big Mike said. “I show up with a lieutenant on the lam showing off a picture of a guy minus the back of his head. I’m sure Estelle will want to see me again.”
“You didn’t waste any time in there, did you?”
“Hell, no. I had to talk to somebody, didn’t I? I picked the noncom who looked the smartest and had the best legs. Just happened to be all in one package.”
Corporal Estelle Gordon worked in the logistics office. We got in easily. People always tended to look at Big Mike, which meant that any normal person around him was invisible. I sat across from her, shielded from the rest of the G-4 staff by a row of filing cabinets. She did look intelligent, her quick eyes darting between Big Mike and me as he introduced us. Her eyes were large and brown, the kind of eyes a guy could get lost in. But she was all business with me, straight backed, her hands folded on the desk in front of her.
“Lieutenant Boyle, I’m not sure I shouldn’t call the MPs. Aren’t they looking for you?” She smiled, but it was the kind of smile reserved for naughty children and mischievous lieutenants.
“It’s all a misunderstanding, Corporal. I only need a minute of your time. I want to know what you can tell me about the Russian officer who broke up your conversation with the other Russian. Would you recognize him if I showed you a picture?”
“Why, Lieutenant?” Her hands were still folded, but one finger tapped against her knuckles. She was interested.
“Because a Russian officer was murdered, in London. I need to know if he was one of your Russians.”
“How many Russians are there in England, Lieutenant Boyle? I wouldn’t think they’d be so hard to keep track of.”
“Listen, Corporal Gordon, this is a murder investigation. I’d appreciate an answer.”
“If it was murder, why aren’t the MPs asking?”
“Because they’re busy looking for me. Do you know how to actually answer a question?”
“Yes, I do. See?”
“Estelle,” I said, leaning closer to her. “Are you under orders not to talk about the Russians?”
“If such an order had come down since you gave the MPs the slip, I wouldn’t be able to answer that question, would I, Lieutenant Boyle?”
“See, I told you she was smart,” Big Mike said. He was leaning against the filing cabinets, keeping watch and threatening to crush them. Estelle rewarded him with a smile. A nice one.
“OK,” I said. “I’m not going to ask you anything. But I am going to show you a photograph. I’m sorry, but it’s not pretty.”
“The dead… individual?” Estelle asked.
“Yes.”
“And you’d like to know if I recognize this person, regardless of nationality?”
“Exactly,” I said, glad to have finally figured out how to play this game. I placed the picture of Gennady Egorov’s face on her desk.
“That’s the bastard who told me to get lost,” she said. “He wasn’t very nice about it either.”
“Somebody wasn’t nice to him either.”
“Hey, it wasn’t me,” Estelle said, raising her arms in mock surrender. “I haven’t had a pass to London in weeks. Although I am due one in a couple of days.” This was followed by a wink in Big Mike’s direction.
“When was this, exactly?”
“Oh, I’d say about two weeks ago,” Estelle said, checking her calendar. “Just short of that, actually. It was the same day we had a big meeting with Fighter Command, so I remember. Twelve days ago. When was he killed?”
“Six days ago. Last Friday night,” I said. “Did you see him again?”
“Yes, one more time, but I kept my distance. It was two days later, when they all came here again, along with three officers from the Royal Navy.”
“The Royal Navy? Why?”
“No idea, Lieutenant. And I’m not asking. I want to get to London, not Leavenworth.”