I hoofed it to the Notting Hill Gate, trying to figure out what Sidorov’s angle was. Had he pumped me for information, then given me the bum’s rush when he was done? Or did he have an appointment with his boss, or maybe his tailor? Or someone involved in murder and theft?
I turned before I got to the gate and walked slowly back toward the embassy. As soon as I got within sight of the two front sentries, I stopped and leaned against the trunk of a tree, staying out of their line of vision while watching for anyone leaving the building. I tried to look harmless, just a guy waiting for his date, but this wasn’t the kind of neighborhood where you hung out on a street corner. Nearly every mansion had a shiny brass plaque declaring it some nation’s sovereign ground. I waited for a bobby or a guy in a dark suit to roust me, but before anybody got the chance, I saw what I was looking for. Captain Kiril Sidorov, thankfully walking in the opposite direction, his overcoat as bright as a blue jay’s among the brown, khaki, and dark blue that flowed along the sidewalk.
I followed, keeping the bobbing steel blue service cap in sight. He turned off the road and into Kensington Gardens, walking briskly past the palace with its black iron gates decorated in gold leaf. I wondered if he thought about the czar and his family, all those children gunned down in the name of the people. Probably as much as the czar ever thought about children starving in Russian villages.
He took the bridge over the Serpentine and stopped to admire the view. I had to remind myself that Sidorov was NKVD, and that surveillance was second nature to him. He had picked this route because it gave him a clear field of vision to spot a tail. I kept my head down and tried to blend in with the crowd of uniforms parading through the park. I took a chance and stayed on the opposite bank, walking along Rotten Row, keeping my eye on him across the narrow body of water.
I almost lost him crossing the street at Hyde Park Corner, when he waited until the last second before dashing across. Luckily, a double-decker bus stalled and I darted between slow-moving vehicles, managing to keep Sidorov in sight. He took a side street and emerged in Belgrave Square, where he sat on a bench and casually looked around, as if he were enjoying the winter sunshine. I didn’t think he had spotted me or even suspected a tail. But it did tell me he wasn’t out for an afternoon stroll. He was on his way to a meet, and I had to wonder if it had anything to do with my visit and Egorov’s murder. Or maybe the Poles, or the Eighth Air Force, or who the hell knew. I didn’t have a clue, except for the feeling in my gut that something was wrong with what Sidorov had told me. I had no idea what it was, but his sudden brusque switch hadn’t felt right.
Sidorov got up, circled the small park, spun on his heel, and turned back the way he had come, almost colliding with a woman wearing a blue scarf tied about her head, her hands stuffed in the pockets of her plain beige coat, and her eyes cast down to the pavement as she plowed through the crowd. He put out one hand to steady her, then knelt to pick up the pocketbook she had dropped. He gave her a quick, almost courtly bow before moving on. He had a way about him, a confidence that flowed with every step he took, whether trying to spot a tail or playing the gallant with a woman on a busy London street.
He walked quickly for a few more blocks before entering Victoria Station. The narrow streets in the Belgravia district twisted and turned, hiding what was at the end of each passageway, but I was certain I was within spitting distance of the Rubens Hotel. I waited for a crowd to bunch up at the entrance to the station and mixed in with them. Sidorov was nowhere to be seen. I bought a newspaper and pretended to read, holding it up in front of my face and peering over the top. I stood in a ticket line, scanning the cavernous room, until it came to my turn, and I strolled away, searching for that distinctive coat. At the far end of the room, a giant sign advertised Aspinall’s Enamel, sold everywhere in London. Beneath the sign was an entrance marked REFRESHMENTS, and I went in, looking for steel blue.
I saw it. The flash of a sleeve in a cafe, as Sidorov hung up his coat. He took a seat at a little table, his back to the wall, so he could see the station through the large plate-glass window. It was a snug place, no more than ten tables, built to offer a quick bite and a cup of tea between trains. It was packed with travelers, their suitcases and duffel bags making movement difficult. Sidorov sat alone, his eyes darting, his body still. I moved behind a pillar and took out my newspaper, allowing myself a glance up every few seconds. I was at the edge of his field of vision, one of a hundred GIs killing time in a busy station. I didn’t think he’d made me.
A squad of British Tommies marched past, two abreast, their sergeant barking at them to look lively. They blocked my view and by the time they’d gone, there was another man sitting at the table with Sidarov. He faced away from me, and all I could make out was his dark hair slicked back and the gray cloth coat he wore. A waitress brought Sidorov his tea, but his companion waved her away, the gesture betraying his worry, as if he didn’t want her listening, and couldn’t wait to finish the conversation. In about two minutes, he pulled a fedora hat down low over his eyes, stuffed his hands into his coat pockets, and made a beeline for the exit. I glanced at Sidorov, sitting with his cup of tea in front of him, as he lit a cigarette. I wondered if he’d drink the English tea, but I couldn’t hang around to find out.
I followed the fedora. It was a lot easier than tailing Sidorov. Out the main entrance, up Buckingham Palace Road a couple of blocks, before disappearing down an alleyway adjacent to the Rubens Hotel. As I turned the corner I heard a door slam shut. Three steps led up to an enclosed landing. Above the door the sign read STAFF ENTRANCE. I tried the handle and it opened. Inside, in a narrow hallway with coat hooks along the wall, Sidorov’s pal had hung up his fedora and was pulling off his coat. He had a surprised look on his narrow, thin face. His eyebrows shot up in a questioning look, and he seemed on the verge of telling me I’d come in the wrong door, but he held back, uncertain of what I was there for.
“Here, let me help you,” I said, grabbing him by the collar. I snapped his head against the wall, enough to let him know I meant business. Then I took one wrist and pulled it up behind his back and propelled him down the hall.
“Ow! Let go of me, you crazy Yank! Ow! That hurts! I’ll scream for the police, I swear I will.” He began squirming and kicking at my feet, but I pulled up on his wrist some more, and he stopped.
“Let’s call the police. I’m sure that they’ll be interested in apprehending a spy.”
“I’m no spy! What, are you drunk? Let go of me.”
“Not a spy? You might be right. I mean, the Russians are our Allies, so it’s not like spying for the Germans. But the Poles are guests in this hotel, and I’m sure your employer will have something to say about that. What’s your job here?”
“What’s it to you? You’re a Yank.” I slammed his head into the wall again, to keep him focused.
“Ow! Stop that!”
“Are you all right, Eddie?” A small voice came from a door, held open a few inches. A girl in a maid’s uniform gazed at Eddie and what I hoped was a good-sized bruise on his forehead.
“Yeah, yeah, just a misunderstanding, Sheila. I’ll be there in a minute,” Eddie said. I let his wrist go and put my arm on his shoulder, to show her we were just a couple of pals roughhousing. I figured it also put Eddie in my debt, since I didn’t make him look bad in front of the young lady. I smiled at her, but she kept her eyes on Eddie, trying to figure out what was happening. She was good-looking, with thick, dark hair pulled back behind her ears, brown eyes, and a small mouth that hung open for a few seconds in surprise until she recovered.
“I’ll see you later then, after our shift,” she said, and shut the door. I tightened my grip on Eddie’s shoulder and gave him the hard stare.
“I’ve got a whole bunch of options here, Eddie, and you basically have none. I could tell the manager you’ve been selling out the guests, and then you’d be out of a job. Or I could tell the Poles, and they’ll cut your tongue out. Or I’ll tell Sidorov you’ve been giving him phony information, and he’ll slit your throat.”
“Who’s Sidorov?” Eddie said. He was beginning to shake, and his voice had a desperate quiver to it. “I haven’t done anything wrong, honest.”
“The Russian you just met in Victoria Station. He probably gave you a different name.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Eddie said, his voice breaking. “It was just some easy money, you know. Nothing was supposed to go wrong. What are you going to do with me?” His lower lip was shaky, and his eyes were watering up. I didn’t want a blubbering mess on my hands, so I soothed him a bit.
“Listen, Eddie. I think we can work something out. I have a friend on the Polish staff. Do you know Lieutenant Kazimierz?”
“The baron, you mean? Small fellow?”
“That’d be him. He might be interested in hearing about the Russian. He might even see his way clear to paying you to keep meeting with him.”
“How about I just stop, and we all part company as friends?” Eddie offered.
“Sorry, Eddie. It doesn’t work that way. Either we talk to Kaz or I throw you to the wolves.” Eddie had that look in his eye, the look I’d seen a hundred times before. A guy in a dead-end job, or with no job, sees a way to make a quick buck. At first it works like a charm, but then something goes wrong. The fact that you can count on something to go wrong escapes these chumps. Then when it does, they get the look that Eddie was giving me. A beseeching, haunted look. The look of a guy who is hoping you’ll set things right, when the whole thing was his fault in the first place. The look of a guy who will never learn.
“OK, if you say so,” Eddie said.
“You can trust me, Eddie. The name is Billy.” I stuck out my hand and we shook. Eddie might never learn, but I’d learned fast. A chump is a chump, but the best chump is your chump.
Within twenty minutes we were in a room with Kaz and Captain Valerian Radecki. I couldn’t leave Eddie in place as Sidorov’s spy, so I explained to both of them what I’d seen, and suggested they might want to use Eddie to funnel phony information to the Russians. It gave me a headache trying to figure out which side I was on, so I’d gone with helping Kaz.
“Edward Miller,” Valerian said, leafing through Eddie’s billfold as he paced behind him. “Why are you not in the army, Edward Miller?”
“I tried to sign up. Punctured eardrum, they said. What are you going to do with me?”
“Eddie,” Kaz said, leaning on the table, leaning into Eddie and his nervous eyes. “We should be asking what you were going to do with us. Betray us? To the Russians?”
“It didn’t seem that serious, sir, honest. Just some harmless information, about who came and went, what the gossip was, that sort of thing.”
“But the money was good,” Valerian said. “More than a tip for your cooperation, correct?”
“Yes, it was.” Eddie stared at the table. He was afraid of Valerian, who somehow managed to give the impression of easy violence lurking beneath the surface.
“What did he ask you about today?” Kaz said.
“About that fellow, the real nervous one. Tadeusz Tucholski. Lately that’s all he’s been asking about. Where does he live, who sees him, what does he talk about, that sort of thing.”
“What did you tell him about Tadeusz?” Kaz said. I watched a nervous glance pass between him and Valerian.”
Only what I’ve seen-that you, in particular, are working with him on something. It looked to me like you were writing a book, taking down what he was saying.”
“Did you overhear anything?” Kaz said, in a slow, patient voice that I knew was holding back fury.
“No, never. I only talked to him once, when I brought up a meal. You’d left the room, and as I laid out the food, I asked him how he liked London. He said it was very pleasant, that’s all. Really, those are the only words I ever heard him speak. Honestly.”
“Very well,” Valerian said. “We believe you. We want you to continue to see this Russian as he wishes. But we will provide the information you are to give him. Do you understand?”
“Is this like being a double agent?”
“Yes, exactly, Edward Miller of 420 Penford Street in Camberwell,” Valerian said, tossing Eddie his billfold. “Except this is not the moving pictures. If you perform well, we will pay you. If not, we will kill you.”
“And forget you ever saw me, Eddie,” I said.
“I wish I could,” he said, holding his head in his hands.
“ Thank you, Billy,” Kaz said when we were alone in the hotel lounge bar. “You didn’t have to do that, I know.”
“It would’ve been hard to ignore,” I said. “Once I saw Sidorov meeting with that guy so close to the hotel, I knew it would involve you. I couldn’t let it go.”
“I hope we can turn this to our advantage,” Kaz said, lowering his voice. “The Russians are about to issue their own report on Katyn, now that they’ve had their own so-called experts examine the site. If they know we have an eyewitness, they may take action against him.”
“What kind of action?”
“What do you think?” Kaz said, finishing off the last of his lunch. “But I believe Eddie will soon tell them that our eyewitness confessed to being a fake. A deserter, a criminal who hoped to benefit financially, but grew afraid of unwanted attention. How does that sound?”
“Flimsy. Say he fell in love with his nurse, and she convinced him to tell the truth. The story needs a woman’s touch; it will make his change of heart more convincing. Tell me something, Kaz. Have you been aware of any other spies, or Russians following you around?”
“That’s very good-the woman, I mean. No evidence of Russian spying, although I have to assume they are aware of our activities. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious,” I said, draining my glass of ale, working at not meeting Kaz’s eyes.
“I am glad you are my friend, Billy. I’d hate to think you were suspicious of me.”
“You know me, Kaz. I’m suspicious of everyone.” I tried to smile and make a joke of it. Kaz laughed, but I don’t think he thought it funny. “Ever see this guy before?” I handed him the photo of Gennady Egorov.
“No, I haven’t,” Kaz said. “He doesn’t look well. Who is he?”
“He was Captain Gennady Egorov, late of the Soviet Air Force. Or NKVD. Stationed here in London, shot in the back of the head a few nights ago. I’m supposed to look into it for the general.”
“And you can’t help but wonder if the Polish Government in Exile was mixed up in it, given our differences with the Russians?”
“It’s a possibility that has to be explored, Kaz. It’s the first thing anyone would think of. It was the first thing you brought up.”
“It is how I’ve come to view the world. Through the eyes of thousands of murdered Poles. Through the eyes of Tadeusz. I want the world to know what they did, Billy. I want them to pay!” His voice had risen, and I laid my hand on his arm, quieting him with my touch. Heads had turned in our direction, but the other patrons soon went back to their drinks and dining.
“I know,” I said. I also knew that the Russians were fighting the Germans in far greater numbers than we were, and would be for months. The Poles were important, for historical as well as moral reasons. England had gone to war with Germany over the invasion of Poland, and the Polish people had suffered terribly since then. But the Russians had many, many divisions in the fight, and they were headed for Berlin, killing Germans as they went. The more they killed, the fewer would be facing us when we landed and made our own run at Adolf. Uncle Ike had taught me the mathematics of war, the horrible truth of the planned deaths of thousands. Some must die now so that more would live later. And it followed that some causes would be sacrificed, no matter how honorable, if doing so would lessen the final tally of dead, maimed, and lost. “I know,” I repeated, unable to tell Kaz what it was I knew with such certainty.
“What will you do next?” Kaz said, after the silence between us had become awkward.
“I need to check in with Harding, and then try to find a London gangster named Archibald Chapman.”
“Archie Chapman? What do you want with him?”
“You know him?”
“I know of him, and that’s quite enough. He’s head of an East End gang, and quite vicious. Unbalanced and unpredictable, they say. His gang has gone heavily into the black market since the war, but still runs a prostitution ring and deals in drugs.”
“There may be a link between him and the dead Russian.”
“I’m not surprised he’s the one left standing.”
“Happen to know where I can find him?”
“He lives in Shoreditch, but I wouldn’t advise asking for his address. He is superstitious about air raids, though. He still sleeps every night in the Liverpool Street Underground.”
“So I’ve heard. That’s not far from where the body was found.”
“Be very careful, Billy. He has bodyguards with him at all times.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I have a friend who works for the Sunday Dispatch. He was going to write a series about the London underworld, and he told me about his plans since he knew I was interested in American gangsters. Some of Chapman’s men paid him a visit and convinced him to move on to other projects.”
“How? Did they beat him up?”
“No, he was not injured at all. They stopped him at night on Fleet Street, outside his office. Two of them with some poor soul from the East End slums. They slit his throat right there on the sidewalk and told my friend that would happen to him if he ever wrote a single word about Archie Chapman.”
“I assume he found other stories to write.”
“Yes. No shortage of stories in wartime. I think it gives people license to tolerate things they ordinarily wouldn’t. The black market is harmless in some respects, but shockingly criminal in others. You see your neighbor getting a bit of extra butter or meat, and you quite naturally want yours, too. No one ever thinks about all the theft and organized crime behind it. Not to mention all the riches you Americans brought with you. It seems never ending, all the food, machinery, men, and supplies. Why not take your share, that’s the common feeling.”
“And men like Archie Chapman get rich while better men go off and get themselves killed,” I said.
“Yes. Remember, he’s feared, but also respected by some in the East End. He spreads a bit of his wealth throughout Shoreditch, so the locals tend to close ranks around him. Be cautious when you venture into the Underground, and don’t go unarmed.”
“You still carrying that little. 32 automatic?”
“Of course. Do you want to borrow it?”
“No, but thanks,” I said. “I have a. 38 police special packed away, I’ll bring that along. Not as conspicuous as a. 45.” I thought it was a good sign that Kaz offered his piece to me. A guy who’d popped a Russian in the head a few days ago would’ve gotten rid of it most likely. He sure wouldn’t be eager to offer it to a cop, or whatever the hell I was. “One thing I forgot to ask, Kaz. You know anything about a Russian delegation visiting High Wycombe recently?”
“Eighth Air Force? No, why would they go there?”
“Just what I wanted to know. Big Mike has a date with a WAC from up there. He’s picking her up tonight. Maybe she can tell him something.”
“There is a Polish RAF squadron nearby at the Northolt base. I can ask them, although if they spotted any Russians I would’ve heard about the fight by now.” He smiled grimly. It had been a joke, but it reinforced the truth about the feelings between Poles and Russians. Deadly.