by James R Benn
“What do you mean? Has he got something up his sleeve?” I got into the jeep and started it up.
“There is no such thing as a straightforward NKVD officer, certainly not one at his level. But don’t worry, I am perhaps too suspicious. I have betrayed people and have been betrayed. It makes for a nervous imagination. Now, let us find where Major Black and Maiya have gotten to, so we can go through his pockets.”
I drove back to the barracks, wondering if it was Sidorov who had something up his sleeve. Was I underestimating him? He’d vowed to never go back to the camps again, and I can’t say I blamed him, but I didn’t want to be his patsy either.
Sidorov stayed silent on the short drive, and I couldn’t think of any comforting words. So I let the quiet settle over us as I thought about who I’d be willing to kill not to have to spend the rest of my life in the USSR.
“Max!” I shouted as we entered the barracks. He materialized, as if he’d been ready to sprint to that spot as soon as I walked in. “You know about tomorrow morning, right?”
“Yes boss. Coffee and black bread. I bring, wake you, we go to runway three. Okay?”
“The same for me, Max,” Sidorov said. “I will see Captain Boyle off. Now, tell us where to find Major Black’s quarters.”
“Not far,” Max said. “I take you.”
“Max, do you have a bottle of vodka?”
“I am Russian, Kapitan,” Max said. “Which means answer is yes, but bottle is half empty.”
“Perfect,” I said. “Get it.” I went to my room, stashed the travel orders, and grabbed some of the rubles Black had given me.
“Too much, boss,” Max protested, with minimal enthusiasm, as he pocketed the grimy notes and led us to the apartment block which housed the permanent contingent of American officers. In five minutes, we were at the door of a two-story brick building. There were four doorways, each set above a short set of concrete steps.
“Germans burn it, but your engineers, they fix up nice,” Max said. “Better than most Russian officers, no kidding. That is Major Black, there.” He pointed to a first-floor apartment, a faint light glowing behind drawn curtains.
“What’s the layout?” I said. “The rooms?”
“Room with chairs and couch. Sitting room, yes? Small bedroom. No vannaya, except at end of hall. Only generals have own vannaya.”
“Tell us, Max, how long has Maiya been sleeping with Major Black?” Sidorov said.
“Who says that?” Max asked, feigning outrage. “Maiya is good Communist girl.”
“Of course,” Sidorov said, taking the bottle from me and handing it to Max. “Which is why the major likes her, isn’t it? Major Black is sympathetic to our struggles.”
“Yes,” Max said, taking a slug and eyeing both of us, trying to figure the angles. “He speaks Russian, not too bad, not too good. Tells me about Russian artists, but I do not know the names. The only artists I know make the taty.”
“Here,” I said, forking over more rubles and taking the bottle back. “Tell us more.”
“You know how it goes with the musor,” Max said to Sidorov. “They always want something.”
“Who?” I asked.
“The police, the authorities,” Sidorov said. “Although it does not mean exactly that.”
“What you feed the pigs,” Max said. “Waste, garbage. Like those in power.”
“You work for them too, Max,” I said. “Like Maiya.”
“Max is simple private,” he said. “Privates obey the bosses, no choice. Maiya, she too. The musor wants to know everything. What Americans say, what they think of Stalin, what secrets they have. Max cannot get secrets like Maiya, no.”
“Do you think Black knows what she’s after?” I asked.
“Black knows what she wants, but like all men, he is blinded by what he wants,” Max said. “Now I go. This talk is dangerous. “Spokoynoy nochi.”
“Good night, Max,” Sidorov said. “Be careful.”
“Was that a warning?” I asked as Max faded into the night.
“I must admit to some sympathy, even though he is a criminal and obviously is telling Drozdov everything we do. He could be sent back for the slightest indiscretion,” Sidorov said. “I suspect he may have been released on Drozdov’s orders, to have another English-speaking informer. He can’t provide women for every American, after all. Max can more easily mix with the enlisted ranks and pick up information that may be useful.”
“Think he’ll report this stroll to Black’s place?”
“Money makes people forgetful, Billy. There is also nothing strange about you visiting a fellow American officer, or my accompanying you. But if there were the slightest chance he would get in trouble with Drozdov for withholding information, he would denounce us immediately.”
“Then let’s get going, just in case,” I said, spilling a bit of vodka into my palm and rubbing it into my cheeks like aftershave. Sidorov just took another slug.
We went inside, slamming the foyer door against the wall and banging on Black’s door.
“Black! We’re here for a drink, open up,” I shouted.
“Davayte vyp’yem, drug,” Sidorov yelled, which I figured meant much the same.
“What the hell are you doing, Boyle?” Black demanded as soon as he had the door open. Not all the way, I noticed.
“Hey, I’m a long way from home, I just wanted to have a drink with you,” I said, working at slurring my lines. “We can talk about old times in Cambridge. You know that bar, the one at the corner of Bow and Linden? Can’t remember the name. You know it?”
“Captain Boyle, the last thing you need is another drink. And I went to Yale, remember?” Black said, backing up as we moved into the room, alcohol vapors preceding us. His shoes were off, his field scarf was gone, and his shirt was half unbuttoned. The last thing he wanted was two drunks in his sitting room when he was halfway to paradise.
“Major Black, just one drink,” Sidorov said. “It is all we have left in this bottle anyway.”
“You got any bourbon, Major?” I said, looking around the room and spotting keys in a small dish on a table by the door. The perfect spot to leave debris from your pockets at the end of a long day. “I’d kill for some bourbon.”
“Please leave. Both of you. Captain Boyle, you have an early flight, you should get some sleep,” Black said, his face turning red.
“Oh, you already knew,” I said, staggering backwards and reaching out for the table to steady myself. “I wanted to surprise you and celebrate with a toast. Let’s have a toast, okay?”
“I think Major Black is correct,” Sidorov said, having observed my clumsiness. “We should go. Ya proshu proshcheniya.”
“Apology accepted,” Black said, ushering us out and slamming the door as soon as we dragged our heels across the threshold. I heard high-pitched laughter as we descended the steps.
“The laugh will be on us if we are caught,” Sidorov said. “Are you sure you wish to do this?”
“Hell yes,” I said. “Too bad he’ll never know, long as we get this key back tonight.”
“Then let us proceed before we sober up,” Sidorov said.
Operations was next. The place was quiet, with night duty personnel at their desks, looking busy and avoiding the eyes of prowling officers who might mean trouble, or a new assignment. We checked Bull’s office first to be sure he hadn’t come back for some late-night paperwork. An American corporal carrying a cup of coffee told us the general was expected back after dinner, which could be any time now. We moved on to Black’s office as a Russian private brushed by us, weighed down with a stack of files. Wandering officers seemed to be taken for granted.
I turned the knob on Black’s door. It opened, and I wondered if the Russians kept their offices locked. Maybe not, since that would only make it harder for the NKVD to snoop around. Sidorov slid
inside and I closed the door behind us. Not bothering with the lights, I used Black’s key to unlock the desk drawer, grabbed the key to the file cabinet, and got that open.
“Easy,” I whispered to Sidorov, dangling the keys to the warehouse by a chain. I pocketed it and we walked out like we owned the place.
“The next lock will be more difficult,” Sidorov said once we left Operations behind. “It will be guarded.”
“Then make it an official inspection,” I said. “Tell the guards its part of our investigation, and we’re doing a security check of the building. Put a lot of bark into it.”
“Excellent,” Sidorov said. “For all we know, it was this time at night that the killings occurred. Should Drozdov ask, I will tell him we wanted to observe the scene during darkness.”
“And see what the guards’ routine is,” I said as we walked to the warehouse. “With any luck, I’ll be able to compare notes with what Nikolin tells me. If I can find a translator.”
“That may be a challenge,” Sidorov said. “But Drozdov did say he radioed ahead, and he may have arranged for an NKVD translator.”
“I’d rather it was you,” I said, realizing how easily we’d worked together. Which brought Kaz to mind. “I want you to extend Lieutenant Kazimierz every courtesy. It will be a shock to hear about Big Mike and to find me gone.”
“I will. I understand you are friends. I will endeavor to make up for the past,” Sidorov said. It was a tall order, but it sounded like he meant it. Or I was a sap. One or the other.
We approached the warehouse and two sentries snapped to attention. There was no one else around, and the wind had a damp chill to it. It looked like these guys had a long, cold night ahead of them.
Sidorov identified himself and I could hear my name in the flow of rough Russian consonants. He pointed at the door and the second-floor windows, the guards answering his questions as fast as he fired them. His voice softened as he evidently showed his satisfaction with their responses. He nodded. They nodded. Everyone was relaxed. That’s when he told me to unlock the door. I pulled out the keychain and the guards stepped aside, relief evident on their faces. These officers weren’t going to report them and were about to get out of their hair.
“Well done,” I said as we entered.
“I told them not to mention our inspection, since we will be conducting it randomly, and we did not want their comrades to have advance notice,” Sidorov said as he flicked on a switch. A faint and gloomy yellow light illuminated the staircase. At the top, I unlocked the door to the storeroom. Sidorov hit the light, and everything was as we last saw it.
Except for the three boxes.
Stacked one on top of another, off to the side, were three stout wooden crates. They were painted with the universal green-pea-soup paint beloved by armies everywhere. A padlock held each one shut tight. They were about four feet by two feet, and two feet high each. Hefty, but not too heavy to be easily carried by the leather handles affixed to each side. I tried Black’s keys, but they didn’t work.
“More top secret weaponry?” I asked.
“Perhaps,” Sidorov said, squinting in the dim light to make out the stenciled Cyrillic letters on the side. “It seems destined for Khazar Brothers Shipping in Tabriz.”
“Where the hell is that?”
“In Iran, about six hundred kilometers northwest of Tehran,” he said. “There are warnings about tampering with the shipment. State security, that sort of thing. I would not attempt to open them.”
“We’d need a crowbar anyway,” I said. “If they arrived after the killings, I don’t see how it would matter anyway. Who knows what the NKVD and OSS are up to in Iran? Can’t say I know much about that part of the world.”
“The Soviet Union and Great Britain invaded Iran in 1941,” Sidorov said. “The Shah was pro-German, and it was thought necessary to have a more friendly government to secure the oil fields and transport routes for supplies from the Mideast.”
“And now we have a friendly government?” I asked, feeling the weight of the top box and trying to guess its contents.
“The son of the old Shah, Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, was installed as the new king. The young Shah has declared war on Germany, and now we have supplies and oil flowing to everyone’s satisfaction.”
“Okay, that’s enough history. Let’s help ourselves to some morphine,” I said.
Everything was still in place on the shelves. Gold coins, plastic explosives, radio sets, and dozens of weapons. I spotted the silencers and gave them each the sniff test. None of them had been used, or if they had, the killer had taken the time to clean and oil them down.
“One carton,” I said. “If they don’t take inventory again it might not even be noticed.” The stacked cartons were filled with smaller cardboard containers of five morphine syrettes each. Each carton contained sixty of the cardboard boxes. Three hundred syrettes might help tide Doctor Mametova over until her regular shipment of morphine made it through.
“Take it from the bottom,” Sidorov said. “Each carton is numbered, and they might notice if the top one is gone.”
“You’d make a good thief,” I said. “Max would be proud.”
“Max would be overcome in here,” he said. “A vor’s paradise.”
Smuggling the carton out past the guards was our next challenge. Sidorov came up with the idea of strapping the box to my back, using the adjustable canvas slings from a couple of Sten guns. As long as I buttoned up my jacket and didn’t jump around too much, I’d be okay.
I hoped.
We took the stairs and headed out. The guards jumped to attention as Sidorov locked the door behind us. They saluted. I raised my right arm to return the salute and felt the box shift. One of the straps had loosened and began to slide down my chest. I tucked my arm in to hold it and staggered with the shifting weight.
Sidorov stepped in front of me, saluted the guards, and spoke quickly, in a friendly voice. The guards laughed.
“Turn around and walk, you capitalist tool,” Sidorov said, blocking their view. I tucked my hands into my pockets and used my elbows to keep the carton in place.
“Is that how you described me?” I asked.
“That, and more. The rest of what I said was far worse. I told them you couldn’t hold your liquor.”
Once we reached the hospital, I took off my jacket and Sidorov took the carton in hand. The place was quiet except for the groans and what sounded like murmured curses. Two nurses ran by us, their eyes grim and exhausted.
We found Doctor Mametova in her office, reading medical files by a faint light, a cigarette clamped between her lips. Her eyes went wide as Sidorov set the carton down on top of the paperwork. She might not have been able to understand English, but she knew exactly what these syrettes were.
“She wants to know where we got this,” Sidorov said, after they had both spoken. “I told her Bulgaria.”
“Tell her not to spread the word around,” I said, putting my finger to my lips. “Hush hush.”
“Doktor Mametova understands,” he said. “She wants to know if we will be going back to Bulgaria anytime soon. I told her sadly, no. She still does not know when their regular supply of morphine will resume.”
“Ask her about the soldier who overdosed,” I said. “Was there a theft of the hospital supply?” Sidorov and the doctor had a bit of back and forth.
“She has not had any drugs to be stolen,” he said. “And she wishes to know where the fool got his supply so she could buy some as well. It must have been very pure, because he died instantly, with the needle still in his vein.”
“Heroin?” I asked.
“Da,” Doctor Mametova said, the Russian version evidently close to the English. She exchanged a few sentences with Sidorov, who told me she hadn’t tested the residue but thought it was likely heroin. Or poison, she didn’t really care how the idiot k
illed himself.
“Was he an airman or solider?” I asked. “Or NKVD?”
“She says the only thing worse than stealing morphine is stealing morphine and asking about the secret police,” Sidorov said. “Come, we have things to do.”
But not before Doctor Mametova rose from her desk to hug and kiss us. Then she shoved us out of the small room, patting us on the back like small boys who’d unexpectedly done a good deed.
We went back to Operations and returned the keys to Black’s filing cabinet. At his apartment building, the lights were all out. Good news, because that meant he likely hadn’t noticed the missing desk drawer key and wasn’t tearing the place apart searching for it. Inside the foyer, I took the key out of my pocket and slipped it under the door, flicking it with my finger to shoot it closer to the table where he’d dumped his stuff.
In the morning, he might curse my clumsiness, but I’d be long gone by then. To some spot on the map close to the Polish border. Zolynia. Closer to a potential witness. Closer to the Germans. And with any luck, closer to Big Mike.
Chapter Fourteen
Five o’clock came too damn early. I downed hot coffee and dark Russian bread after I’d washed and shaved as Max laid out my flight gear. Helmet, lined jacket, gloves, web belt with my .45 automatic and combat knife, plus a cloth sack with a couple of cheese sandwiches and an apple. It was like going camping with a nice lunch put together by a heavily tattooed mother hen.
“Okay boss, we go,” Max said, grabbing my jacket and helmet. “I drive you, yes?”
“No, I will drive,” Sidorov said, finishing his cup of coffee. “His flight will be dangerous enough.”
“Sure, sure,” Max said. “You got to watch out for Messers close to front. Ublyudki.”
“I would not worry, Billy,” Siborov said. “I am sure General Belov arranged for an escort to fend off those German bastards flying Messerschmitt fighters.”
