Road of Bones

by James R Benn

  “Do you think we should split up?” Kaz asked as I pulled in at Operations. “I wouldn’t want Captain Sidorov to shoulder the burden alone.”

  “Do not worry on my account, Baron,” Sidorov said, swinging his legs out of the jeep. “As sure as I am that you’ve kept no secrets from me, I shall keep none from you.”

  “Jesus, Kaz,” I whispered as we took the steps into the building. “I thought for a minute back there you were going to plug him. What’s got into you?”

  “I am poking a stick and enjoying the response. Soon we will have to put Sidorov to the test and see what side he is on,” Kaz said.

  “He’s on the side that will keep him out of the labor camp,” I said. “Did he tell you about the road of bones?”

  “Yes, in some detail. He is an enemy of my people as well as a man who tried to do me harm. His masters will enslave Poland just as the Germans did. I shed no tears over his Siberian sojourn.”

  “You don’t know that’s true,” I said. “The Brits and Americans can’t let that happen, not after your people have fought so hard.”

  “Billy, there was a time when your naivete was charming,” Kaz said, stopping outside Bull’s door. “But after more than two years of war and all we have endured, surely it is time to leave it behind. I am a realist. Soviet tanks are now crossing into Poland. They will not leave. This I know. You should as well.”

  “You’re right, Kaz, I should. I’m sorry Harding sent you here,” I said.

  “He told me I could decline,” Kaz said. “Perhaps I should have. I wanted to learn more about my next enemy, but for the most part, he is much like my old enemy. I suppose it was a trip for biscuits, yes?”

  I smiled. It was one of the first bits of American slang I’d taught Kaz. A meaningless journey.

  “Come on, let’s check on the manifests,” I said. It was hard to keep a grin on my face, but I did my best.

  “I’ve got duplicates on file,” Bull said when we explained what we were after. “Months of them.”

  “I’d say the last four days, including Big Mike’s flight,” I said. He handed over today’s manifest and pulled a thick file from his desk drawer. It included a diplomatic pouch from Moscow, nothing else in terms of cargo.

  “That was a scheduled flight from our Military Mission in Moscow,” Bull said. “It refueled here, carrying mostly officers being rotated out. Big Mike should be over the Caucasus Mountains right about now.”

  “Here,” Kaz said. “Yesterday, the manifest shows mostly cargo. Including five cases, measuring four feet by two by two, destined for Khazar Brothers Shipping in Tabriz, Iran. Designated as classified.”

  “Right,” Bull said, checking the sheets. “Yesterday afternoon, that flight was mainly cargo. Engine parts for repair in our shops at the Tehran airbase. A couple of men who had been injured and sent out for treatment. Plus these cases.”

  “Signed for by Major Preston Black of the OSS,” I said.

  “Five cases,” Kaz said. “Billy, you said there were three.”

  “Right,” I said. “We need to talk to Black.”

  “You can talk to him, but it won’t do any good,” Bull said. “He’s got top secret security clearance for this mission, whatever it is.”

  “Bulgaria? Everybody knows about that. He told us it was just approved by Drozdov’s bosses,” I said.

  “He’s been flapping his gums about Bulgaria for a while, complaining that Moscow was withholding the go-ahead,” Bull said. “If they’ve given him the green light, it is news to me. If this shipment has anything to do with Bulgaria, it’s news to me. OSS operates in its own world, just like the NKVD. Black doesn’t report to me any more than Drozdov reports to Belov.”

  “Has Major Black shipped other items to Tehran?” Kaz asked, taking a seat in front of Bull’s desk and crossing his legs, shaking out a crease in his finely tailored trousers.

  “He’s gotten plenty in from Tehran,” Bull said. “He sent back a couple of defective radios about a month ago, I remember that. But I wouldn’t know what else he’s sent.”

  “You’re saying you don’t know what Black sends to Iran?” I asked.

  “Correct. He has clearance from the top to conduct his mission as he sees fit,” Bull said. “Let me see that file, I’ll see if I can spot anything else.” I handed over the file and he flicked through the papers. “Here you go, this one stands out. A single crate, same dimensions as the ones yesterday. Hey, to the same place. Khazar Brothers Shipping in Tabriz, six weeks ago.”

  Six weeks ago? That was unexpected. It didn’t make sense, although a few other things were starting to.

  “Tabriz,” I said. I walked over to a large wall map of the region. “That’s on the rail line that a lot of Lend-Lease supplies come into Russia on.”

  “Yes,” Kaz said. “Most of the Persian Corridor supplies come in by sea, through Bandar Shahpur on the Persian Gulf. Then by rail north through Tabriz, although some supplies are sent to ports on the Caspian Sea.”

  “Right,” I said, tapping my finger on the map. “But if Black is shipping materials to Tabriz, there has to be another destination. It makes no sense to fly them to Tehran and then send them back to Russia by train.”

  “Perhaps Khazar Brothers Shipping is a conduit for materials destined for the Bulgarian operation,” Kaz suggested, tracing his finger along the rail line leading to Tabriz. “After all, Tabriz is near the eastern Turkish border. Bulgaria is on Turkey’s western border.”

  “Since Turkey is neutral, they could be planning a route in that way,” Bull said. “Through Istanbul. At this point in the war, Turkey might even cooperate, unofficially. The Turks wouldn’t mind favoring the winning side, and they might want a claim to some Bulgarian territory once the shooting’s over.”

  “It would be interesting to find out something about this shipping firm,” Kaz said. “Who are the Khazar brothers and are they connected with the OSS or the NKVD?”

  “Anybody we can ask in Tehran, Bull? Maybe outside of channels so we don’t get Wild Bill Donovan too upset?” General Donovan was the head of the Office of Strategic Services and vehemently defended his organization’s secrecy. He wouldn’t like the army checking into his operations one damn bit.

  “I have a friend in the Provost Marshal General’s Office in Tehran,” Bull said. “I can ask him if Army CID has any dope on them, or contacts with Iranian police who might know.”

  “Great,” I said. We’d had a few run-ins with the Army’s Criminal Investigation Division. They weren’t the most cooperative bunch, but this was right up their alley. “Tell him it’s about black-market smuggling if he asks. CID will eat that up.”

  “I’ll get a radio message out,” Bull said. “But do you have any actual evidence this is connected to the murders?”

  “Concrete evidence? No,” I said.

  “Well, I’ll send the message,” Bull said, heading for the door. “Make yourselves at home. I’ll check on Nikolin’s flight too.”

  “What about Big Mike?” I asked, tapping my finger against my lips and staring at the map, willing myself to make sense of all this.

  “He hasn’t even landed yet,” Bull said, checking his watch. “Anything else, Captain Boyle?”

  “Sorry, General Dawson,” I said, turning and standing straight enough that it might have looked like attention. “I appreciate it, sir.”

  “Jesus, Billy, don’t get carried away,” he said, and stalked off.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  “I understand we have no actual evidence,” Kaz said, still studying the wall map. “But what do you have in mind?”

  “I think it’s all about proximity,” I said, tracing my finger on the map along a line from Poltava to Tehran to Tabriz and points beyond. “Proximity to the OSS/NKVD storeroom in the warehouse. Proximity to Tehran and Tabriz. And proximity to power, the kind that sto
ps at nothing to achieve its goal.”

  “What goal?” Kaz asked, his hands akimbo, staring at the map.

  “The same goal Punchy Killeen had,” I said. “To fill a vacuum.”

  “If I had to hazard a guess, I would conjecture Punchy is from Boston,” Kaz said, returning to his chair and settling in. “And you have a story about him.”

  “Just so happens you’re right,” I said, taking my seat. “Back when I was still a cop in Boston, walking the beat along the Inner Harbor, a punk named Punchy Killeen made his big move. Punchy had been part of the Gustin Gang, an Irish mob that got hit hard by the Italians and busted up.”

  “I recall you have mentioned them,” Kaz said. “Weren’t they shot under a flag of truce?”

  “Not exactly, but close enough. Guy from the North End by the name of Joe Lombardo offered a sit-down to Frank Wallace and his number two man. In the crime world, that is like a flag of truce. A sit-down means no shooting and you try to talk things out. Well, Joe didn’t play by the rules, and he had Frank and the other guy killed. That broke up the Gustin Gang and put the North End Italians in the driver’s seat. But guys like Punchy, they kept at their rackets and tried to not draw any attention to themselves. No one likes a gang war, it’s bad for business.”

  “Wouldn’t the police like it?” Kaz asked. “Fewer criminals all-around, I would think.”

  “Like I said, it’s bad for business. All-around. Dead gangsters don’t make payoffs. But that’s not the point. Punchy had a piece of the action down at the docks. Once the war started, he noticed the supply of drugs was drying up. With the Germans sinking ships bound for the States, and the usual routes through the Mediterranean disrupted, heroin was getting harder and harder to come by.”

  “Ah, Marseilles,” Kaz said. “The port in southern France which sees much of the drug flow from the Middle East.”

  “Correction. It saw drugs come through,” I said. “As soon as the shooting war started, especially with the Germans and the Italians tearing up North Africa and the Mediterranean Sea, sources dried up.”

  “So, starting in the spring of 1940, there was a shortage of drugs, especially heroin, being brought into the United States,” Kaz said.

  “Right. Punchy had a connection in Mexico and started importing cocaine. Lots of it. He figured that the heroin wouldn’t make a comeback until the war was over, and he could make a killing substituting coke for smack. It wasn’t for everyone, since coke is a stimulant, but there was enough demand that he was riding high for a while,” I said. “So to speak.”

  “Only for a while?” Kaz asked.

  “Right. Then the North End guys tumbled to what was happening and started gunning for Punchy’s boys. A few bodies were left in the streets until both sides realized they were only drawing attention to themselves. The North End gang asked for a sit-down,” I said. “Punchy was smart enough not to trust them and planned to skip town with his money and his cocaine.”

  “Planned to? What happened?” Kaz asked.

  “He had a girlfriend. Molly the Moll, they called her. Molly was pretty sharp. She saw what was coming and got out of town ahead of Punchy,” I said. “She took Punchy’s stash of coke and cash with her. Neither of them was ever heard from again. People said Molly went to California. Others said Punchy’s destination was the bottom of Boston Harbor. In short order the Mexican connection was reestablished, with the Italians from the North End in charge.”

  “Poor Punchy,” Kaz said, giving a casual flick of the wrist to signify Punchy’s departure. “But what does this have to do with two murders in Poltava?”

  “Nature hates a vacuum, isn’t that the saying?”

  “Abhors,” Kaz said. “Aristotle said nature abhors a vacuum.”

  “He knew what he was talking about. So did Punchy, and so did our killer.” The random pieces of this investigation were starting to come together, but I was still flummoxed by the single shipment six weeks ago. If my suspicions were correct, that one didn’t fit the pattern. I went to Bull’s desk and looked at the manifest he’d found it on.

  One wooden crate, three feet by two by one. Machine parts, supposedly.

  Only it hadn’t been signed for by Major Preston Black.

  The name was Sergeant Jack Morris.

  “Look,” I said, handing the sheet to Kaz.

  “My God, you were right,” Kaz said. “Proximity. Sergeant Morris was part of this. As one of the air transport ground crew, he could sign for materials to be added to the manifest.”

  “He did, and a few weeks later he was killed,” I said.

  “Who was killed?” Sidorov asked, entering the office.

  “Morris,” I said quickly. “Doctor Mametova has morphine now, doesn’t she?”

  “Yes, she does,” Sidorov said. “How did you know?”

  “Indeed, Billy, how did you jump to that conclusion?” Kaz asked.

  “The real question is, how did the opium harvested in the Kyrgyz province end up in a Poltava warehouse under OSS and NKVD jurisdiction? I’ll admit, it is a bit of a jump, but all the pieces fit, finally. It’s the only theory that works any way you look at it.”

  “Maiya’s aircraft is inbound, with Nikolin aboard,” Bull said, popping his head in. “They’re about ten minutes out, and I sent the message to CID in Tehran, ought to hear back in a couple of hours.”

  “Let’s go greet Lieutenant Nikolin,” I said. “I’d like to be sure he’s in one piece.”

  “But wait, what about your conclusion?” Kaz asked.

  “Time for that later, let’s get to the airstrip,” I said. I wasn’t sure what Nikolin would say, but I wanted to be there with Sidorov and Kaz as translators before anyone gave him the official party line. “Hurry!”

  I hustled down the corridor, taking a second to glance into Black’s office. No sign of him. I started the jeep as Sidorov and Kaz caught up with me, whispering to each other as they got in. It was usually the cold shoulder or veiled sarcasm between those two, so I was glad to see them kibitzing, even if it was probably about how crazy I was acting.

  “Billy, are you saying Morris was involved with drug smuggling?” Kaz said, glancing back at Sidorov.

  “No, not really,” I said. “But he did get in over his head. Look, there’s Maiya’s plane.”

  The twin-engine Yak-6 banked overhead, lining up for its approach. I took the roadway to the hangar at the end of the runway. General Belov and Major Drozdov were already there, standing by a staff car. Two soldiers, each with a PPSh-41 slung across their chest, stood to the side. An honor guard to welcome Nikolin home, or was daddy there to threaten him?

  “Have you come to welcome the prodigal son home?” Drozdov said, waving his hand in greeting. He was a lot cheerier than the last time I saw him.

  “It is more like Daniel returning from the lion’s den,” Kaz said. “But I understand you may not be overly familiar with Bible stories. Opiate of the masses and all that.” Kaz kept a straight face. I barely managed it.

  “Stalin has reopened churches,” Drozdov said, speaking loudly as the aircraft taxied to a halt near us. “The Russian Orthodox Church is an ally in the fight against fascism. I am a proud atheist, but I recognize the need for fairy tales to ease the burden of our times.” He managed to keep a straight face himself as he spouted the party line.

  Sidorov stepped forward, saluted General Belov, speaking to him in Russian. Drozdov joined in and their discussion grew heated, and louder, when the pilot cut the engines.

  “Sidorov requested an immediate interview with Lieutenant Nikolin,” Kaz translated for me. “Belov deferred to Drozdov, since Nikolin is NKVD. Drozdov at first objected, saying he had arranged a medical checkup for Nikolin. Then they agreed we could accompany Lieutenant Nikolin to the hospital and speak with him on the way.”

  “Doesn’t sound like anyone’s trying to keep him from u
s,” I said.

  “No. More of jurisdictional squabble,” Kaz said. The aircraft door opened and Maiya stepped out, her flying goggles on her forehead and a smile on her face. She reached up to help Nikolin down. His uniform was soiled and dirty except for the white sling that held his left arm.

  General Belov went forward and gave Nikolin a Russian bear hug, clapping him on the shoulders without a thought of his injury. Nikolin looked startled but managed a salute as Belov spoke. Drozdov got in his handshake as well, along with a few words. Nikolin flinched at first, then drew himself up straight and gripped the major’s hand firmly. He was smart enough to know there was a certain way to act in this situation. Follow the lead of the brass and don’t offend anyone.

  “Belov says he is pleased Nikolin is returned to duty and tells him he should be proud of his wound. Drozdov told him the penal company was a mistake, a lazy clerk getting the paperwork wrong, and that he only demoted him to save him from a worse fate,” Kaz said.

  “Do you think Nikolin bought it?” I asked.

  “There are worse fates than the tramplers, I am sorry to say,” Sidorov said. “So yes, I think the young lieutenant believes him, because he must. After all, as an NKVD officer, he knows of other terrible fates.”

  As I approached Nikolin, Belov was busy chatting with Maiya, all smiles. The pilot stood by himself, and I gave Kaz a nudge. He got the message and began speaking with the pilot, pointing to the Yak-6 as if he was interested in it.

  Nikolin grasped my hand and unleashed a torrent of Russian. His eyes brimmed with tears, and I could tell he was thanking me for his release. His skin was pale, grime from the battlefield still scored into his face and hands. Sidorov spoke to him in soothing tones, pointing to our jeep.

  “I told him we will take him to the hospital to be checked and cleaned up,” Sidorov said. “And that we have a few questions to ask on the way. He thanks you. Profusely.”

  “Please tell him it was Major Drozdov’s order that set him free,” I said, watching Nikolin’s eyes. Would he express surprise? No, his reaction was flat. Nothing.