Walter signaled me from his post at the front desk when I returned to the Dorchester, and handed me a message from Kaz. It said he’d be working late at Polish headquarters and would stay the night at the Rubens Hotel. I tried to call him from the room, but I couldn’t get through. Lieutenant Kazimierz was unavailable, in conference, and would be all night. It sounded like something big was brewing. Maybe it had to do with the Russians and Katyn Forest, maybe not. There was plenty else going on in this war. Polish troops were fighting in Italy, and the whole Polish underground movement was coordinated from London, plus the Polish RAF squadrons were only an hour’s drive away. But all that paled in comparison to the atrocity at Katyn. Every Pole who fought on our side was a volunteer, risking his life for his country. Death was a tragedy among them, but not unexpected, not avoidable. The Poles at Katyn were prisoners of war, murdered by our own Allies. They’d been helpless, and their deaths were as unnecessary as they were cruel. It was murder, and I had come to hate murder all the more because of the war. There was enough killing to go around. The thousands shot in the head by the Russians and thrown into pits should not have died that way. It was wrong, so wrong that it made my gut ache. So wrong that I could understand the need for revenge, the absolute necessity of it.
I set down the receiver and stared at the telephone. Kaz was my friend, but it was time to start acting like a cop. At least a cop who knew how to dispose of incriminating evidence. He probably had the. 32 with him, but I had to look. I went through his desk, rifled his bureau drawers, then moved on to his clothes, patting down jacket pockets. Nothing. I pulled down boxes from the closet shelf, and one fell open. Letters spilled out. They were from Daphne. The postmarks went back to early 1940, when they’d first met, here in the dining room of the Dorchester, as bombs fell on Hyde Park. There were notes as well as letters, probably from when she’d moved in with him. Her handwriting flowed over the paper, a river of words that Kaz would never hear again, even if he read them a thousand times.
I felt like a lowlife. I put everything back, and wished I was still in Naples, hiking up a volcano with Diana. I couldn’t betray Kaz, but I wasn’t sure I could protect him either. It was the same with Diana. I’d learned I couldn’t talk her out of volunteering with the SOE, that she needed to do her bit, as she liked to say. She needed to risk her life, to prove to herself she deserved it. I couldn’t stop her, and I couldn’t protect her from the risk of death either. I cared for both Kaz and Diana, more than anyone this side of Southie, and fear curled up inside me as I thought of the worst of what might be in store for them.
I pulled the heavy curtains shut, pausing to watch the last of the afternoon light bathe the park in a soft glow. Vehicles crawled along Park Lane, tiny beams of light seeping onto the roadway through blackout slits. London had never felt so lonely. Everyone was going somewhere. Home, to dinner, back to the barracks, maybe down to the shelters. Those things that passed for a normal life these days. Friends and family, small talk, even if it was on a subway platform. Me, I was in a high-class hotel, rummaging through my best friend’s possessions, spilling letters from his dead lover onto the floor. Welcome to my war. I poured a drink from the bar Kaz kept stocked with Irish whiskey, just for me. Here’s to you, pal.
It went down smoothly, but I still felt a twinge of that morning’s hangover. I shouldn’t have drunk so much vodka the night before, and I shouldn’t have any more tonight, I told myself as I poured one more. But then I thought, hell, if I’m looking to steal Kaz’s pistol, I might as well drink all his whiskey, too.
Daphne’s letters made me realize how long it had been since I’d written one myself. I pulled some stationery from the writing desk-heavy, creamy paper with The Dorchester in elegant script across the top. I could sneak it into the airmail bag at headquarters, instead of using the Victory Mail forms. Mom would get a kick out of the hotel stationery. I switched on the desk lamp and set down my drink, the heavy crystal settling on the polished cherrywood with a satisfying clunk. It was a high-class sound, the kind of sound that said a lot of money had gone into the furniture, glassware, and booze. A rich man’s sound, the echo of privilege and place. But right then I’d have preferred the sound of a beer glass going down on a coaster at Kirby’s Tavern in South Boston. Soft and quiet. Comfortable.
I started off the letter with the obvious news that I was back in London. I asked about my kid brother, Danny, who had just started college under the Army Specialized Training Program. He’d turned eighteen and would have been drafted but for the ASTP, which was an army deal to insure a supply of well-educated officer candidates in case the war dragged on longer than they expected. It sort of satisfied Danny, who got to wear a uniform and march around campus. He was a smart kid-I mean a really smart kid-straight As and all that. It was a cinch for him to get in, and I hoped it would keep him safe until the shooting died down.
Then I had to write about what I was up to. I couldn’t tell them anything about Diana, on account of her being British, since I didn’t want a written lecture on the evils of associating with the English. Or about dead Poles in a Russian forest, a dead Russian in bombed-out London, Kaz and his possible murder weapon, getting drunk on vodka last night, being chased by MPs at High Wycombe, or drinking too much whiskey tonight. I almost wrote about young Alfred finding the body and thinking it was a German, but that was too depressing. It was a short letter, and I fell asleep on the couch, a spilled drink soaking the carpet and the vision of motherless Alfred leading his father by the hand worming its way into my dreams.
In the morning I called Kaz, who was still not available. Then I called room service, which mercifully was. I wolfed down toast and jam, and then washed that down with hot coffee until the cobwebs cleared. I told myself no booze today, but I knew that morning promises had a way of giving in to evening temptations. I wanted to talk to Kaz, but until I could, I needed to work this case some more. There were two visits I had to make. One was to the Russian who had come to claim Egorov’s body. Kiril Sidorov, captain in Stalin’s air force, or so he claimed. He was certainly NKVD, charged with cleaning up an embarrassing murder of a Soviet officer gone bad, tempted by the degenerate English criminal class. The other was to Archibald Chapman, one of those degenerate English criminals. Sidorov was first on the list, since degenerates generally slept in, while secret police never sleep.
It was a cold, clear day. I’d dressed in my heavy wool brown pants and the chocolate brown wool shirt I’d picked up in Naples before coming north. With my light khaki tie, it made me look like a gangster, which was why I had chosen it for today. The Russians probably thought all Americans were gangsters, so why not go along? I set my garrison cap at a smart angle, put on my mackinaw with the warm wool collar, and added a scarf and leather gloves. It felt like winter in Boston on a sunny day with the breeze howling up the Charles River. The Soviet Embassy was on the other side of Kensington Palace, where the lesser royals had to make do, and the wind gusted over the open park grounds. It was a swanky area, not the kind of place you’d find many Bolsheviks among the neighbors, but even a Red ambassador had to put on a good show.
Walking to Kensington Palace Gardens was a little like walking up Beacon Hill, except the English had more room to spread out than the Boston Brahmins had. I found the Soviet Embassy, which wasn’t hard, given the big bloodred flag snapping in the breeze, the yellow hammer and sickle vanishing and reappearing in the silken folds as the banner waved in the wind. The building was a two-story, ornate structure, beige brickwork bordered by gleaming white trim and elegantly carved cornices. Two sentries stood at the ironwork gate, dressed in Soviet Army greatcoats. I asked to see Captain Kiril Sidorov, and they opened the gate without asking a question or speaking a word. I wondered what you had to do in their army to get embassy duty in London. It must have seemed like springtime in paradise, compared to the Russian front.
Inside the main entrance was a small room. It was painted a stark white, with one door, a desk, and two chairs. A man in a baggy dark suit sat at a desk and, without looking up, started asking me a series of questions as a bigger guy in an even baggier suit searched me. Neither of them had spent their spare time shopping in London, that was for sure. Who was I, whom did I want to see, for what purpose, who was my superior officer, and finally, what was my civilian occupation.
I used Harding’s name, holding Uncle Ike in reserve in case things got dicey. I told them I wanted to speak to Captain Sidorov in connection with the murder of Captain Gennady Egorov.
“The assassination of Captain Egorov,” the smaller dark suit stated, waiting for the answer to the last question. It didn’t seem worth debating the difference. He had a thin face, with a thick mustache that looked out of place over pale, pursed lips. He spoke English carefully, considering each word as he strung them together in a series of harsh consonants.
“Why does it matter what I did in civilian life?” I asked. I wondered if his mustache was an imitation of Joe Stalin’s.
“It will assist us in determining if you are an enemy of the people. We do not want provocateurs causing trouble for our comrades.”
“Aren’t we all on the same side, comrade?”
“We must be vigilant in the class struggle, as well as in the struggle against Fascism, especially in this decadent city. Your civilian occupation, please?”
“Have you guys seen Ninotchka yet?”
“We have no one here by that name.” Busy writing in his notebook, he still hadn’t looked me in the eye. The big guy stood with his arms folded, a bored look on his broad, dull face. His neck was thick and his knuckles were decorated with scar tissue. I wondered what his civilian occupation had been.
“No, the film,” I said. “With Greta Garbo.”
“Western films are a frivolous waste of time. We have our own Russian motion pictures brought in for entertainment. Perhaps Captain Sidorov will invite you to see one. Your civilian occupation?”
“Police detective. Friend and protector of the people.”
“Hmm.” He wrote some more, and finally looked at me. I sensed he was weighing the obvious benefit of a detective working on the assassination of Comrade Egorov against my being a lackey of the ruling class. We had our fair share of Communist sympathizers in Boston, especially over in Cambridge, where the most ardent of them usually came from the richest families. I wasn’t exactly a fan of the moneyed crowd and politicians who ran things, but it seemed to me the Reds had as many bosses as any factory hand, and less of a chance of quitting than any textile worker in New England.
“Very well, Lieutenant Boyle. I will inform Captain Sidorov you wish to see him. Be seated.”
I sat. Big Suit stood and looked out the window as the thin guy picked up a telephone and spoke in Russian. He set down the receiver as Big Suit cracked his knuckles, then refolded his arms. It was a cozy little scene. Big Suit leaned over to get a better view out the window, and I could see the outline of an automatic pistol in his waistband. I bet the thin guy kept his in a desk drawer. The guards outside were window dressing; this was the real security, or at least the main line of defense.
After twenty minutes, a young woman in a Red Army uniform came to my rescue. She wore a brown high-collar shirt, yellow shoulder boards, a wide leather belt, and a row of medals lying at a pleasing angle on the curve of her breast. She smiled and crooked her finger at me. I followed, happily, leaving the white room and dark suits behind. She wordlessly led me up a flight of stairs and through a set of double doors, which she closed behind me.
A Russian Air Force officer came forward, hand outstretched. “Lieutenant William Boyle, I greet you in the name of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. Captain Kiril Sidorov, at your service.”
His steel blue uniform was well tailored, suiting his slim frame. The light blue collar tabs and piping matched his eyes perfectly, and his leather belt gleamed. He’d definitely paid a visit to Savile Row, just as many American officers had, to get a bespoke-tailored-uniform. I wondered what his comrades thought of it, but then I noticed one of his red ribbons held a medal with Lenin’s face on it, and the other a gold star. That probably gave him some leeway.
“Pleased to meet a hero of the Soviet Union, Captain. The Order of Lenin, too. You must have been in the thick of it.”
“Pay no attention to these baubles, Lieutenant Boyle. The real heroes are at the front, not in comfortable London rooms.” Sidorov pointed to a pair of chairs facing the fireplace, where embers glowed, giving off a welcome heat. He shoveled more coal from a bucket, rubbing his hands together over the fire. He wore his clothes well, remembering to lift his trousers at the knees as he took his seat. Sandy-colored hair fell over his forehead, and he brushed it back in what seemed to be a habitual gesture.
“You speak English perfectly,” I said, glancing around the room. At the far end, a balding, stout middle-aged man sat at a desk, working on a pile of papers and files. A cigarette protruded from the corner of his mouth as he sucked in smoke and exhaled, not breaking stride with the paperwork he was shuffling through.
“Thank you. I was taught by a former Oxford professor who came to the Soviet Union to be part of the glorious international struggle. He imparted his accent as well as his intellect,” Sidorov said as he caught my look at the other man in the room. “Do not mind Sergei. We do not meet alone with westerners. Sergei was available, although he speaks English poorly. Still, it allows us to follow the rules laid down by our security people.”
“To protect you against provocateurs,” I said.
“I see you have been lectured by our reception committee. They are sometimes overenthusiastic, but these precautions are necessary, believe me. The revolution has enemies beyond the Nazis. Czarists and other emigre groups are based here in London, and none of them wish us well. But never mind about our security procedures. Tell me how I can help you.”
“General Eisenhower asked me to look into the death of Captain Egorov,” I said, avoiding the distinction between murder and assassination. “He’s also concerned about security, and wanted to be certain there was no further trouble.”
“You work for General Eisenhower?”
“Yes, I’m on his staff.”
“Please excuse me, Lieutenant Boyle, if I fail to be impressed by a mere lieutenant detailed to this investigation. It does not signal true concern on the part of our American Allies.” Sidorov smiled, almost apologetically. He looked half serious and half amused at the lines he had to speak. He wasn’t what I had expected. He was stern, but not harsh. He spoke the jargon of Communism naturally, but lightly, as if we were all in on the joke. It occurred to me that the Soviets picked their personnel for foreign posts very carefully, and that his casual veneer of nonchalance was well practiced. Possibly dangerous.
“I was a police detective before the war,” I said, “and General Eisenhower is my uncle, which should indicate his personal interest in this case. He wishes this to be handled discreetly.”
“All within the family,” Sidorov said slyly, with an exaggerated lift of the eyebrow. He offered me a cigarette, and I declined. He lit up a Woodbine, flashing a lighter that sparkled silver before it vanished into the folds of his jacket. “Very well. What have you discovered in your investigation?”
“That Gennady Egorov was forced to his knees in the ruins of a bombed-out building near Spitalfields Market in Shoreditch, not far from the Liverpool Street Tube Station. That he got a bullet in the back of the head. That he may have been selling information to a criminal named Archibald Chapman, about deliveries of food to your embassy.”
“Really? All that in two days? Remarkable, Lieutenant Boyle. Although the first two items you would learn within five minutes of being briefed at Scotland Yard. The third item, though, that is more impressive.” He drew on his Woodbine and exhaled a plume of blue smoke toward the ceiling.
“That’s not all.”
“What? Have you apprehended this criminal? Chapman?”
“No. But I now know that you must be aware of why Egorov was in Shoreditch, a fair distance from here, late at night. Either that, or you’re complicit in his assassination.” I saw Sergei lift his head from his paperwork. His English probably wasn’t all that bad. “And I know that you were expecting me.”
“Yes, yes. I knew I made a mistake when I said two days. Stupid of me, of course. And you assume since we do not meet westerners alone that either I knew Gennady had gone out by himself, or someone from the embassy was with him, possibly his killer.”
“So you’ve been spying on me?” I said, not wanting to skip over that part so lightly.
“Don’t be melodramatic, Lieutenant Boyle,” Sidorov said, flicking his cigarette into the fire. “We simply stay informed of the comings and goings of those we are involved with. It is common practice in London. Everyone spies on everyone else, and then we all smile and go to meetings together, dine and drink, toast to victory over the common foe, and then collect information on each other from our informants. Quite possibly the same informants. So, yes, I knew you had arrived and your assignment. It seemed obvious that your next step would be to come here.”
“All right. Tell me what Egorov was doing in Shoreditch.”
“I cannot, because I do not know. Even the most dedicated Soviet officer may succumb to desire, Lieutenant Boyle. Perhaps it was a woman?”
“I see you have women here,” I said.
“True, but often the forbidden is more tempting. Who knows?”
“Don’t you keep track of people going out as well as coming in?”
“Yes,” Sidorov said, nodding his head. “But sometimes there are circumstances… the gathering of information is a delicate matter…” He waved his hand in a dismissive fashion, as if he couldn’t think of the words but that any simpleton should be able to figure it out.
“You mean NKVD officers masquerading as Soviet Air Force officers can come and go as they please.”
“Yes, exactly,” Sidorov said, slapping his hand on the arm of his chair. “That is the gist of it.” He grinned like a schoolboy. “It makes solving a murder that much more difficult. Who watches the watchers, yes?”
“It’s been my experience that someone is always watching. They may not understand what they’ve seen, but sooner or later you can find someone who had their eyes wide open when everyone else was asleep.”
“That, Lieutenant Boyle, is a great truth. A sad one, perhaps, but very true. Everything is seen; there are no secrets.” We sat quietly and watched the glow of the coal fire for a minute. Sidorov spoke to Sergei in Russian, and Sergei made a phone call. Within a couple of minutes, a tray with hot tea was brought in. The tea was poured into glasses set in brass holders, and Sidorov added sugar to both before handing me mine.
“Tea, prepared the Russian way, not the English style,” he said.
“What’s the difference?” I said after a hot sip.
“Well, we don’t ruin it with milk. And we prepare the tea in a concentrated form first, then boiling water is added. It enhances the flavor.”
“It’s good,” I said. It was, but I wasn’t about to debate tea. “We threw English tea into the harbor, during our revolution.”
“In Boston, yes?”
“Yes. That’s my home. What about you?”
“Vyazma. It is west of Moscow. I have not been home for a long time.”
“Your family is there?”
“No, my wife and daughter live in Moscow. She works for the Propaganda Ministry. Vyazma is on the approach to Moscow. It was occupied by the Germans for two years. We retook it last March. Vyazma once had a population of over sixty thousand. We found exactly 617 alive.”
“I’m sorry.”
“As am I. It makes all this attention to the death of one man almost ludicrous, does it not?”
“Another great truth, Captain Sidorov. Even in the midst of war, murder is unacceptable.”
“Yes,” Sidorov said slowly, almost reluctant to grant the point. “Tell me, what did you find that links Gennady to this criminal-what did you call him-Chapman?”
“Archibald Chapman. Seems to be the local crime boss, in Shoreditch, anyway. The kid who found Captain Egorov was going to pinch his cap as a souvenir. He found a map folded up inside and took that instead. It showed the route between your embassy and the farms up north you buy supplies from.”
“Scotland Yard didn’t mention any map,” Sidorov said, frowning.
“I thought it might be worth pressing the kid on it, so they brought him back in, with his father.”
“That was smart, Lieutenant Boyle.”
“Even a blind squirrel manages to find a few acorns now and then,”I said. Sergei laughed, and I decided his English was excellent. Sidorov smiled over his glass of tea.
“We did have a large truckload of supplies hijacked on the road to London last week,” he said. “Beef, lamb, and a large quantity of whiskey. We thought it due to the rampant criminal activity associated with a decadent imperialist society. Now it appears one of our own had a hand in it.”
“But what would Captain Egorov get out of it? If he was paid off, how would he get the money home? Wouldn’t a large quantity of English pounds raise suspicions when he returned to the Soviet Union?”
“Yes, but he was not a stupid man. He could convert them to jewels, perhaps, and sell them for rubles in Moscow, or trade them for what he desired.”
“Or maybe he didn’t plan on going back.”
“Comrade Egorov may have been tempted by the lure of easy money, Lieutenant, but he was not a traitor, not to the motherland, nor to his family.”
“There would be reprisals?” I asked.
“That is a ridiculous word,” Sidorov snapped. “We have laws in the Soviet Union. Article 58 of the criminal code makes any kind of counterrevolutionary activity punishable, including the nonreporting of crimes by others. The usual sentence is six months’ imprisonment in a labor camp.”
“Six months in Siberia seems like a very long time.”
“Well, what should we do? Send them to the Crimea for the sunshine? But this has nothing to do with the case. Tell me if I can assist you in any way with your pursuit of Captain Egorov’s killer.”
“Do you still have his body? His clothing?”
“No. His remains were cremated and are being returned to the motherland by convoy. We found nothing of interest on his person; apparently the child found the only relevant evidence. Do you have it?”
“No. Inspector Scutt at Scotland Yard does. Do you want to see it?”
“I don’t wish to cause unnecessary trouble for his family, so it does not need to figure in my report to the Foreign Ministry. But perhaps it will help the investigation. I shall call on the inspector this afternoon. Now, if there is nothing else…?”
“Just a few more questions,” I said. Sidorov seemed to have switched gears, from the charming, tea-sipping commissar to suddenly giving me the bum’s rush. “Have you gone through Egorov’s paperwork? I assume he submitted reports on his activities.”
“Of course, but that information is restricted, as I am sure you understand.”
“But did you find anything that might shed light on his murder?”
“Lieutenant Boyle, that is what Scotland Yard is supposedly for. And now the Americans have assigned you as well. I hope our Allies will treat Captain Egorov’s death with the same importance they would if he had been an English lord.”
“Can you tell me what the business at High Wycombe with the Eighth Air Force was all about?”
“No. If you have to ask that question, you already have been told by your own people that it is top secret. Now, what is your other question?”
“Did Captain Egorov’s duties bring him in contact with the Polish Government in Exile?”
“We no longer have relations with the so-called Polish government in London.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“It will have to do. This interview is concluded.” Sidorov rose and wordlessly escorted me out of the building, all trace of friendliness gone. On the steps, I turned to thank him, but all I saw was the door closing and, out of the corner of my eye, the scarlet Soviet banner snapping in the breeze, like a whip.