by James R Benn
“Sure we did, Peaches. But we couldn’t wait. There’s a blind drop at the railway station in Shepherdswell. One or both of them was to check it every third day, five o’clock in the morning. It was a place to leave emergency messages, or to rendezvous if things went south. I didn’t want to wait three more days.”
“It had just been checked?”
“Aye. Sheila had been there the morning we last met, but my men told me she’d had no word from Sidorov. She was frantic, so they said, desperate for her cut. I thought we’d lost our opportunity, but with you willing to carry our message to Vatutin himself, it was easier to ride your coattails, so to speak.”
“Cheers,” I said, raising my glass and finishing off the gin. The stuff was beginning to grow on me. Now I knew where Sidorov would be in two days. No need to beat the countryside, just let him come to us, to the rendezvous with his lover at the station. It was more than I could ask for, but I had one more question.
“Did you give Sidorov a book of poetry?” I asked.
“Why, Peaches? Are you hurt I haven’t given you a gift?”
“Just curious. Did you mark that passage, the one about the ladder?”
“I did give him the Yeats, yes. Marked it, no. I’m too careful with my books for that,” Archie said, pouring himself another glass and smacking his lips as he drank. He leaned back in his chair, and we could have been sitting in a warm room by the fire, from all you could tell by the expression on his face.
“Did you write the Latin inscription?”
“Latin? No, I didn’t go to no toff school to learn Latin! Didn’t go to school much at all. What did it say?”
“The bodies are asleep, the souls are awake,” I said. “That’s what was written in Latin.”
“I showed him Yeats, and pointed out the poem he should read. The book had no inscription when I gave it to him. I wouldn’t chance some bright detective snooping around and finding my hand in Sidorov’s book. But he had a need of poetry, that man.”
“Why?”
“Oh, he’s a tortured soul, did you not see that, Peaches? For all the brains you’ve got in that Yank head, couldn’t you see into his heart? It was ruined, and this was his way back.”
“His way back where?” Now I was confused.
“To himself, foolish boy! That’s what he’s escaping, don’t you know? The Bolsheviks are bad enough, and worth fleeing, but he’s running from something deeper and blacker, rooted in his very soul.”
“What?”
“Haven’t a clue, and don’t give a goddamn. Ha! There you go. But mark my words, there’s torment under that sharp mask he wears. I gave him the book so when he was free of Stalin and that bloody bunch, he’d understand. That there’s no escaping the foul rag and bone shop of the heart. I know, Peaches. Believe me, I know.”
“I’m sorry, Archie.” I didn’t know exactly for what, but I was. And for some reason, it was important for this half-mad criminal to know it.
“You must be a good son, Peaches,” he said, clapping a friendly hand on my arm. I couldn’t help but wonder what Dad would make of Archie. I was glad I’d never find out.
“Thanks,” I said, and saw Archie grin as he stared past me.
“Now lookit those two. No sense of propriety, they should be fighting to the death! Ha!” Archie pointed to Big Mike and Charlie, who were sitting next to each other on a cot, the shotgun resting between them, as Big Mike lit up a Lucky for the ex-boxer.
“If Big Mike starts in about Detroit, he’ll talk him to death,” I said as I got up.
“Tell Charlie to come over and have a drink with me, willya? Then you go your way and I’ll go mine, and neither of us will speak of who said what here tonight. Agreed?”
I agreed. Again, it seemed the only sensible thing to do.
CHAPTER THIRTY
WHEN IT CAME down to it, they gave up without a fuss. We had the station staked out all night, and spotted Sidorov in the shadows about four o’clock in the morning. He was watching for a trap, as I knew he’d be. So we kept our distance. There were two MPs in the locked station, along with a constable, sitting in the dark. Big Mike and I were in a windowed garage across from the station, the jeep ready to go. We had men stationed at every intersection, but we’d been careful not to have any military or police vehicles visible. Sheila was careful, too. She’d parked her automobile a few streets away and walked to the station, whistling a tune. Maybe it was a signal, or maybe she was looking forward to seeing her lover.
We knew Sidorov had been busy, stealing a motorbike outside of Dover, and there had been two reports of break-ins that matched his likely route to Shepherdswell. Clothes, blankets, and food. Odds were that he’d been living rough, waiting for the scheduled meet with Sheila. I watched him through my binoculars as he came out into the open. He was unshaven and dirty, but he’d gotten rid of the German uniform, and looked enough like a farm laborer not to attract undue attention.
They were pros, I had to hand it to them. They didn’t immediately go to each other, but walked the perimeter of the platform in opposite directions, checking to see if anyone was around. When they satisfied themselves they were alone, they embraced. That was the signal. We wanted them both, and the moment Sidorov put his arms around Sheila Carlson and held her close, rocking in that way that people do when happiness overcomes them, the station doors burst open and the MPs took them. I opened the garage door and Big Mike floored it, getting us to the platform in five seconds. Detective Sergeant Flack, trailed by several constables, came out from another building to the sound of police whistles. Above it all, as Sheila Carlson was pulled away, her arms outstretched, fingertips clawing at emptiness, I could hear her wailing.
“Kiril! Kiril! Kiiirilll!”
Sidorov was silent, his eyes locked on to hers as they handcuffed him.
THAT HAD BEEN four hours ago. Now we were seated in an interview room at Scotland Yard. Detective Inspector Scutt, Detective Sergeant Flack, and me, across the table from Sidorov. Tea had been served. It was almost civilized. Sidorov had not spoken, except to say thank you for the tea, and more sugar, please. I had wanted to interrogate him in Shepherdswell, right in the station if need be. I wanted to get to him before the shock of his capture had time to wear off. But Scutt had ordered him taken to the Yard, and that was that. He’d been allowed to wash up, and now with his hair combed back and a teacup in his hand, he looked almost normal, in spite of the well-worn working clothes he had on.
“Captain Sidorov,” Flack began, after a nod from Scutt. “You are facing very serious charges. Two murders and numerous crimes in connection with the hijacked trucks. We’d very much like to hear your side of the story.”
“Murder? Whom have I murdered?” Sidorov said, manufacturing a surprised look on his face.
“You know very well, sir. Gennady Egorov and Rak Vatutin.”
“They have been murdered, yes,” Sidorov said. “But not by me.”
“Perhaps we can simply start with what happened in Dover,” Flack said. “The night you joined the Home Guard search party.”
“I became separated from the group. Someone attacked me, hit me on the head, and after that, things are a bit vague. I have a memory of someone removing my uniform. I have no idea at all how I came to be wearing these clothes.”
“How did you get from Dover to Shepherdswell?”
“I don’t recall. The blow to my head must have affected my memory,” Sidorov said as he sipped his tea. He wasn’t even bothering to lie very well.
“I should inform you, Captain Sidorov,” Scutt said, “that while diplomatic immunity does apply to many crimes, a charge of murder is quite serious. Immunity may be waived. In any case, at a minimum we can hold you for trial. Since Great Britain and the Soviet Union are Allies, and two of the victims were Soviet citizens killed on English soil, I would imagine your government would want the matter decided here.”
“That makes sense,” Sidorov said. “But I am not worried.”
“So your story is that you wandered the countryside for days, and just happened to stumble onto your accomplice, Sheila Carlson?” Flack said, continuing with the questioning.
“Ah, there you have me. I do confess to a crime of the heart. I was having an affair with Miss Carlson. We had arranged to meet in Shepherdswell, and as I found myself close to there, and my wits returning, I thought it best to meet her.”
“Thank you, Captain Sidorov,” Flack said. He opened a folder on the table in front of him. “Or should I say Lieutenant Stefan Kobos, on medical leave from the Kościuszko Squadron. Or perhaps William Barlett.” Flack tossed identity papers onto the table.
“These men do bear a resemblance, I admit,” Sidorov said, giving the photographs the slightest of glances. “Not a very good likeness, though.”
“You don’t seem to appreciate the gravity of the situation, Captain,”Flack said.
“I would say it is you who do not. While working with our American friends on a most secret and important project, I volunteered my services to join in the search for German parachutists. While in the field, I was attacked, and wandered for days with no clear recollection of where I was or what I was doing. Finally, when I am recovered enough to keep an appointment with a young lady, I am handcuffed and brought here, treated as an enemy of the people. And what do you have for proof of these fantastic claims? Forged papers with pictures of a man who looks somewhat like me? Preposterous.”
“We have Sheila,” I said, keeping my voice quiet and low.
“Or should we call her Margaret Pemble?” Flack said, pulling her papers out of the folder. “Or Victoria Fraser?”
“It was smart,” I said, “having a second set of identity papers, in case your first plan went south. And I liked the wounded Polish fighter-pilot routine, too, right down to the pebbles in your shoes to make your limp look authentic.” I took three pebbles from my pocket and threw them onto the table.
“Stones? These little stones are more proof? This is laughable.”
“Here’s the deal,” I said. “Sheila hasn’t killed anyone, so Scotland Yard is not interested in her.” Sidorov didn’t know that we had proof of Sheila feeding Eddie the poisoned cake and knifing him, so I left that out. Flack had gotten the medical report on Eddie’s stomach contents, which included the poison-laced cake. “But MI5 is. Her controller, Mr. Brown, is looking for her to tie up loose ends. We’ve got her, Kiril. We’ve got her cash and all her identity papers. We’ll cut her loose without a shilling, and call MI5 ten minutes before we do it. What do you think she’ll do, faced with that choice? Rat on you, or take her chances?”
“Take her chances,” Sidorov said, finishing his tea. “May I go now?”
Scutt didn’t let him go. Next we had a try at Sheila. Since Scutt had her for Eddie Miller’s murder, he didn’t think there was much he could bargain with. But she took a tough stance, saying everything she’d done had been at the order of MI5, and she stressed her role as an informant for Scotland Yard as well. It was smart. If they charged her and brought her to trial, her evidence would have to be repressed due to the Official Secrets Act. That would give any lawyer enough to call for a dismissal.
We went back to Sidorov and lied through our teeth. Sheila had given him up, she’d sworn out a statement, and we were going to send her to America with a new identity, to protect her from MI5 and Mr. Brown. It was a good yarn, but Sidorov only had one question.
“What’s the magic number?” he’d said. Nothing else. We didn’t know what he meant until we pulled the same routine with Sheila.
“What’s the magic number?” she’d said.
“They have everything planned,” I said to Scutt and Flack in their office. “Even the signal for when they have to give each other up. They figured we’d try this, so they have a code. If things got too hot and heavy and one of them was forced to give evidence, they’d give the number. That way the other knows it’s for real.”
“Then let’s make things hot and heavy,” Flack said, and outlined his plan. I liked it, and made a call to Cosgrove.
Two hours later, we stood in the main entrance to Scotland Yard. Sidorov was in cuffs, held by two constables. Opposite him was Sheila. Her eyes darted everywhere as she tried to work out what was happening. Her handcuffs were unlocked, and a woman constable guided her out the open door, keeping her a good five feet from Sidorov. They called to each other, but that was all they had time for. The constables turned Sidorovso he could see out onto the street. Standing on the sidewalk, at the bottom of the stone steps, was Mr. Brown. Two burly men stood on either side of him, their menacing glares focused on Sheila.
“Too bad,” I said to Sidorov. “She seems like a real smart dame.” Sheila was out on the steps now, and the constable closed the door behind her. There was nowhere for her to go except straight into the waiting arms of Mr. Brown and his thugs. She turned, and I could hear her words through the glass.
“Good-bye, Kiril.” She was a killer, but she had grit. No screams, no begging for mercy. She descended the stairs, head held high.
“No,” Sidorov said. “Get her back. I will confess. To everything.”
HE DID. BASED on my agreement to make good on a new American identity for Sheila. I promised I would make that happen as soon as she was released by Scotland Yard. What Sidorov didn’t know was that she was being formally charged with the murder of Eddie Miller at that very moment, so I wasn’t worried about her being released anytime soon. Another thing Sidorov didn’t know was that Mr. Brown had been sacked, and was being debriefed about his excesses by MI5. Cosgrove had called in a favor and gotten him delivered to the sidewalk in front of Scotland Yard for five minutes. The thugs were our thugs, not his. It was a con.
Kaz had been released, and emerged from a very long bath at the Dorchester yearning to breathe free and eat hearty. In the hotel dining room that night, we gathered to toast his freedom: Harding, Big Mike and Estelle, and even Cosgrove. Estelle had done well on her surveillance duties, and Harding had given her and Big Mike a two-day pass so he could show her around town. They were in seventh heaven, and even Harding was in a good mood. Cosgrove was friendly, and told stories of the Boer War in South Africa, where he’d served alongside Winston Churchill himself. Kaz and Big Mike drank too much vodka, but I stayed away from the stuff. There was champagne and fine wine, and I drank enough to enjoy the taste and avoid a hangover. Everyone was so happy. I thought of Diana, remembering holding her tight on the deck of the destroyer, with smiling, laughing people all around us.
I should have known.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
THE SUMMONS HAD come around noon. I was in the office at Norfolk House, typing up my report. Harding told me Cosgrove had called, and that he’d pick me up at the front entrance, and to make sure my shoes were shined. He wasn’t as talkative as he’d been at dinner the night before, so I didn’t ask questions, spit shined my dress browns, and hoofed it to the street.
“Follow my lead,” Cosgrove said when I got into the car. It was a short ride. The driver let us off at the rear of the Foreign Office, and we entered a sandbagged bunker at the side of the white steps that led up to the government buildings, set along the Thames. Royal Marine sentries snapped a salute to Cosgrove, who showed his papers and was escorted in, with me tagging along.
“He’ll be down this way,” Cosgrove said, navigating the narrow corridors and cramped rooms as if he knew them well.
“Who?” I said. “What’s going on?”
“The prime minister called, Boyle. That’s what’s going on. Look sharp, you’re about to meet Winston. Guaranteed to be an experience.”
“Charles, good of you to come!” boomed a voice as we entered a room made small by desks, ventilation ducts, support beams, a wall-sized map of the world, and the unmistakable figure of Winston Churchill.
“At your service, Prime Minister,” Cosgrove said.
“No need to be so formal, Charles. I just asked an old friend over for a chat. Come, let�
��s go into the Cabinet Room, much quieter there.” The Cabinet Room was empty except for a square table that took up most of the space. At one corner sat a tray of bottles and glasses. Whiskey, brandy, water. Until now, Churchill had ignored me, and I stood back, uncertain of what to expect.
“Winston,” Cosgrove said with an easy familiarity that surprised me, in spite of the stories he’d told last night. “This is Lieutenant Boyle, the fellow you asked about.”
“Lieutenant,” Churchill said, “I hope you’ll join two old warhorses in a drink. Whiskey and water, I should think. Never liked whiskey as a young man, until I went abroad. When I was a subaltern in India and there was a choice between dirty water and dirty water with some whiskey in it, I chose the latter. I have always, since that time, made a point of keeping in practice.”
“Yes, sir” was all I could get out.
“Oh dear,” said Churchill, “we’ve made you nervous, Lieutenant Boyle. I should have remembered. Charles and I were lieutenants together in South Africa, during the Second Boer War. We wouldn’t have enjoyed being dragged in to drink with two old men, would we?”
“Depends on their liquor,” Cosgrove said. Churchill laughed and passed the glasses around.
“Sit, gentlemen,” Churchill said. He settled in and produced a cigar from his jacket pocket. He wore the familiar three-piece pin-striped suit, with a gold watch chain decorating the vest, and a polka-dot bow tie. He worked at lighting the cigar, took a drink, and smacked his lips. For a moment, he reminded me of Archie Chapman, the bon vivant gangster in his underground lair.
“I understand, Lieutenant Boyle, that you’ve solved the puzzle of these dead Russians. One of their own, I take it?”
“Yes, sir, in league with a woman. An Englishwoman. Apparently he recruited her as an informant, and they fell in love. Their plan was to get some money, new identities, and disappear.”
