by James R Benn
“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 émigré 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 spo
ke 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.
CHAPTER NINE
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 café, 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.
