by James R Benn
“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. D
ecent 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.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
BIG MIKE DROPPED me off at New Scotland Yard, after bending my ear about Estelle. Apparently he’d done a very thorough interrogation, and had ended up with a date for Saturday night. He wanted to show her London in style, and quizzed me on the best restaurants. I told him to talk to Kaz about that. As he drove off in the direction of the Rubens Hotel, I gazed at the Thames, thinking of all the happy couples making the most of a weekend pass, and all the lonely people, pining for the dead and the living. Big Mike was lucky, with someone new and exciting to look forward to. For guys like Kaz, there were only memories, some good, some bad. Either way, the past had bricked up a wall around them, and it would be damned hard for anyone to bust through it.
I had to count myself lucky, but in a distant, someday sort of way. Diana might never return from her mission. But she could, and that had to be enough to get me through the night. That, and the memories of our last nights in Naples, with room service and wine, clean sheets and a soft bed. I could see Diana in her dressing gown, her arms around my neck, as we danced in her room to the sound of a band drifting up from the piazza. The memory was heaven, except for the possibility that it would be my last of her. I almost envied Kaz his certainty, but I knew it was because I hadn’t paid the price he had for it. I focused on that dressing gown, shimmering and silky in the moonlight, praying that this memory would serve until we could make new ones.
The wind howled up the river, casting a damp chill along the banks. To the south, I could see streams of contrails, heavy bombers making their way back to bases north and west of London. Were they the same groups we’d seen this morning? The formations were more ragged now, individual aircraft flying behind the others. The drone from their engines was faint, a distant mechanical sound you could easily ignore, unless you thought about the shot-up boys inside, especially in those last, low, limping bombers. The sound stayed with me
as I entered the Met and took the stairs to CID. I let the clatter of footsteps and conversation work their way into my brain and bring me back.
“Tell us again,” I heard Detective Sergeant Flack say. He was leaning against Detective Inspector Scutt’s desk. He and Scutt were staring at a young boy, maybe ten years old, seated on a ’ard-back wooden chair. The kid twisted around to look up at his father. I knew it was his father because he stood with his arms folded in the way a father does when he finds his kid in trouble with the cops. Tight across his chest, and a scowl on his face. The kid’s eyes were wide, and his lower lip quivered a bit. Flack gave me a quick nod and I moved closer.
“Speak when yer spoken to, lad. And look to the sergeant there, not me!”
“It was like I told you,” the boy said. “I found ’im, but it was Tommy who ran off ta call the rozzers and I didn’t want ’im claiming all the credit. I figured if I got a medal or somethin’ offa the dead Jerry, they’d know who found ’im. Thought there might be a reward. Is there a reward?”
“Your reward, young man,” said Scutt, “shall be the knowledge you served the Crown by telling the truth.”
“Oh,” he said, in a small voice.
“Where did you find the map exactly?” Scutt said.
“All folded up, inside ’is cap, it was. I was gonna take the cap, but I thought the map might be important, so I took it ’ome to work it out as best I could.”
“What did you work out then?” Flack said. I moved closer and saw a road map unfolded on Scutt’s desk.
“They’re bringing somethin’ right into London, from up north. Nazi commandos, maybe? The road is marked clear as day, right to the palace, all the way from the country. I been up there, when we was evacuated. I ’ated it. Too quiet, with sheep and whatnot roaming about. I was glad ta get back.”
“Alfred, please do us a favor. The next time you find a map that might direct German commandos to Buckingham Palace, please bring it to me,” Scutt said. “And the victim was not a German, he was a Russian officer.”
