Road of Bones

by James R Benn

  “Captain Boyle, I must thank you,” Maiya said, joining us and laying a gentle hand on Nikolin’s good arm. “Not only did you succeed in freeing Lieutenant Nikolin, I was able to fly the entire way back. And land! Perhaps now General Belov will let me join the Night Witches.”

  “I’m glad you got to fly, Maiya,” I said. “But I’m surprised Major Black isn’t here to welcome you home and celebrate your flight.”

  “I am sure the major’s duties are more important than a routine flight,” Maiya said, even as her eyes flitted about the hangar, looking for someone special. There were a lot of straight faces among this small group.

  “Congratulations, Maiya,” Sidorov said, taking Nikolin by the arm. “But we must get our friend to the hospital. Doctor Mametova is waiting for him. As is a much-needed bath.”

  Kaz detached himself from the pilot and helped ease Nikolin into the passenger seat.

  “What happened to your shoulder?” I asked as I started the jeep, pointing to his sling. Sidorov handled the translation and reported that the penal company had been shelled last night, adding that Nikolin said he’d now paid his blood debt.

  “Sad,” Kaz mused from the back seat. “He had no debt to pay. He was delivered to the tramplers by error or design, but through no fault of his own. Yet he believes he must be at fault.”

  “Who else could it be?” Sidorov said. “The Party cannot be in error. Stalin does not make mistakes. Therefore, the burden falls on each believer who finds himself sent to a labor camp or to the NKVD cells. They search and search until they find the flaw in themselves that led them to their fate. To admit the Party was wrong would destroy the entire tissue of lies that comprises their very soul. Yes, it is very sad. But in Soviet Russia, it cannot be otherwise.”

  Kaz was silent. I wondered if Sidorov’s words had penetrated his hatred for the Soviets, and what they’d done to his nation. In my book, Sidorov was a criminal, but also a victim. I pitied him. But I doubt Kaz did. It’s hard to pity a man you hate for murdering your countrymen.

  I parked in front of the hospital and turned to Nikolin.

  “Tell us about the night you were sent away,” I said. “About being summoned to see Belov.” Sidorov rattled off the translation. As I listened to Nikolin respond, I was struck by the look on his face. It was odd, as if he didn’t understand the question.

  “He says he was not summoned by General Belov,” Sidorov said. “He left his post to find Major Drozdov, to be asked to be relieved on account of illness. The major was angry with him and confined him to quarters. Later that night Drozdov returned and demoted him, telling him he was being transferred for his own good. He was shocked when he ended up in the penal company. He did not think Drozdov intended that.”

  “But that is not how it happened,” Kaz said.

  “It’s not what he told me,” I said, thinking about the order with Belov’s signature still in my pocket. It wouldn’t do any good to confront Nikolin with it. Somehow, he’d been told what to say. No sane man would risk a return to the minefields by changing his story. “Let’s take him inside.”

  “You are sure?” Kaz asked. I nodded yes, smiled at Nikolin, and got out to lend him a hand. At least he had the good grace to look ashamed.

  We walked Nikolin inside, where Doctor Mametova was waiting.

  “One last question,” I said. “Ask him if he knew the narkoman who overdosed.”

  As Sidorov translated, I saw a different look on Nikolin’s face, not the feigned surprise that he showed about Belov’s order, but a simple agreement.

  “Yes, he knew Lieutenant Mishkin,” Sidorov said. “He was troubled. There were rumors of drug use, but he never saw Mishkin take anything. Other than a good deal of vodka.”

  “He wasn’t surprised when Mishkin died?” I asked. Nikolin shook his head.

  “No,” Sidorov said. “He thought he would come to a bad end, one way or the other. Mishkin’s father was a high-ranking member of the nomenklatura and got him out of trouble several times. They were told not to speak of it, since Mishkin had brought disgrace upon himself, his father, and the NKVD. Very bad.”

  “Thanks,” I said to Nikolin, who smiled and gave himself over to Doctor Mametova and her nurses, who were already stripping him of his filthy uniform and escorting him into a ward.

  We headed back to the jeep, running into Drozdov as we left the building.

  “Did you have enough time with Lieutenant Nikolin?” Drozdov asked. “You may see him again once Doctor Mametova is done. He will be kept in the hospital overnight so his wound can be tended.”

  “No, it’s fine, Major. It was just as you said. He must have been confused before,” I said.

  “I am sure. The front is confusing enough, but to be in a penal detachment can be disorienting. Is that not right, Captain Sidorov?” Drozdov said as he stood square in our path.

  “Indeed. I wonder why Lieutenant Mishkin was never sent to a penal company? Doctor Mametova told us he likely overdosed on heroin. There must have been signs. Is that not right, Major Drozdov?” Sidorov said, echoing Drozdov’s own threatening words.

  “Things are not always as they seem. You would be good to remember that. All of you. Well, except for Captain Boyle. He is well connected, as they say. Related to the great General Eisenhower. But you, Sidorov, could be returned to the camps at the snap of a finger,” Drozdov said. He snapped his fingers as he turned his gaze to Kaz. “And you, Baron Kazimierz, any member of the degenerate aristocracy in a British uniform should tread carefully when in the Soviet Union.”

  “I understand it must be difficult to maintain good manners when hosting your allies,” Kaz said, “especially when you have a superior officer due for an inspection. It must be trying.”

  “I am only giving advice,” Drozdov said, inclining his head slightly as if he considered an actual apology, then decided against it. “This is not the West. There can be consequences for libeling the State. Now, I must ensure Lieutenant Nikolin receives the best of care. Good evening.”

  “I don’t know what we learned,” Kaz said. “But I do know two things. I want to hear your theory, Billy, and I want to eat. The mess hall is not the Cosmos Hotel, but it will do.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s get some food, and I’ll tell you both a story. And we did learn something from all this. It was important that Nikolin tell his story. The story that leaves out anything suspicious about Belov or Drozdov’s actions.”

  “Which means, either you were lying,” Sidorov said, “or someone got to Nikolin and explained what was expected of him. Sorry, but I am simply stating the facts. I do not believe you lied, at least not purposefully.”

  “Fair enough,” I said, starting the jeep. “Kaz, what did you get from the pilot?”

  “Nikolin was waiting for them at the airport, accompanied by an older fellow, one Fedor Popov, who told the pilot he was sad to see a Russian boy turned over to the imperialists. They brought him aboard and flew straight back. They were on the ground approximately ten minutes.”

  “Fedor was my translator,” I said, driving toward the mess hall. “A former professor who survived a stint with the tramplers and was a big help to me. He was also smart enough to put on a good show once he had to associate with an American.”

  “A smart man,” Kaz said. “What about . . .?” He nodded to my jacket pocket, remembering what I hadn’t told Sidorov.

  “I have the order Belov sent Nikolin,” I said.

  “Cunning of you to withhold it,” Sidorov said. “But you know that to produce it now would sign Nikolin’s death sentence.”

  “I do,” I said, parking close to the mess hall. But not too close. “Which is why I won’t use it. But now that I’ve come clean, it’s your turn, Captain Sidorov. Tell us what you learned at the bookstore. The first time you went there.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  I turned
toward Sidorov. My hand rested on my holstered pistol. The fading sun lit his face, the rays of western light illuminating his fear. Kaz leaned forward from the rear of the jeep, and I heard the brush of his Webley against the leather holster. Then the clack when he cocked it. This time he wasn’t playing.

  “Oh my God, Major Drozdov,” Kaz said, rehearsing his sad story. “We were comparing sidearms, the Russian, English, and American models. I don’t know what happened. Mine went off suddenly.”

  “A terrible accident,” I said. “I always thought the Webley was a bit delicate.”

  “What are you doing?” Sidorov said. “Is this more playacting? It is not amusing.”

  “Keep your hands on your lap,” I said as he began to slide his right hand to his side. I glanced around. Several uniformed figures strolled into the mess hall, ignoring us, anxious to get out of the cold. “We know you went to the bookstore before we made the trip together. What did you find?”

  “And why the charade?” Kaz asked. “Why go again?”

  “All right,” Sidorov said, raising his hands carefully, as befitted a guy looking at two pistols. “Yes, I did go and ask about Kopelev’s purchases. I did discover he had a keen interest in books with maps of the Black Sea. Turkey, Iran, and the surrounding area especially.”

  “You said maps were hard to come by. And deliberately inaccurate,” I said.

  “Yes. Actual maps are treated as state secrets. But those in books are not controlled in the same way, especially not the older editions. Volumes on geography and customs of other nations, for instance. That is what Kopelev was searching for.”

  “Why keep that from us?” Kaz asked.

  “I was desperate to hide anything that would cast suspicion on a Russian,” Sidorov said, turning his head to face Kaz. “As I told Billy when he first arrived, the authorities want an American to be found guilty. If not, I will be sent back to the camps.”

  “That is a problem entirely of your own making,” Kaz said. “But you found precious little actual evidence other than Lieutenant Kopelev’s interest in geography.”

  “Shipping and rail lines in particular,” Sidorov said. “He had asked the manager to watch for any books on the subject.”

  “You thought this information would not be useful in bringing charges against an American?” Kaz said, thrusting his revolver between the seats and tapping Sidorov on the elbow. “The truth, for once.”

  “No, not what I learned at the bookstore about Kopelev,” Sidorov said. “It was the information I gleaned at the Cosmos Hotel that worried me. Shall we dispense with pistols at sunset and lay all our cards on the table, as the Americans say?”

  Kaz uncocked his revolver and holstered it, Sidorov letting out a sigh at the sound of metal on leather. I moved my hand off my holster.

  Bull walked up to the mess hall entrance, accompanied by Major Black and a couple of other officers. I waved as they went in, as if everything was normal, while eyeing Black and figuring how to approach him.

  When I was done with Sidorov.

  “Okay, let’s go in,” I said. “We’ll have a nice calm chat.”

  “A productive chat,” Kaz said. “Otherwise I may lodge a complaint with General Belov about how unhelpful you are. Perhaps we will request a new Soviet investigator. Then what will become of you, Captain Sidorov?”

  “Do that and Belov will turn to Drozdov for advice, since this is an NKVD matter,” Sidorov said, getting out of the jeep and brushing off his uniform, as if getting rid of the unpleasantness clinging to it. “And we know how he feels about you, Lieutenant.”

  “Let’s all shut up and get some food,” I said, losing my patience along with my appetite as the smell of boiled cabbage wafted out of the mess hall.

  We secured our food, a bottle of vodka, and a small table off in a corner. Our plates were heaped with ham, cabbage, potatoes, and carrots, but no one touched the food. Sidorov poured our drinks, took a slug, and set the glass down with a thud.

  “I went to the Cosmos to ask about Lieutenant Mishkin,” he said, turning the glass in his hand as he looked at us. “Is that how you knew, when I went directly to the facilities?”

  “Yes,” Kaz said. “And I overheard the bookstore manager talking about your previous visit. They obviously assumed I did not speak Russian.”

  “Ah, I see. Well, I had asked more questions about Mishkin the day you arrived, Baron. I heard he bought drugs at the hotel and thought it worthwhile to follow up. The Cosmos is not only known for prostitutes, but for illicit drugs as well, although the latter is much harder to obtain than the former.”

  “What kind of drugs?” I asked.

  “Cannabis is the most common,” Sidorov said. “It is brought up from the Caucasus and is easily available. Amphetamines, usually stolen from the military. Some heroin, which is what Mishkin wanted.”

  “Is that where he got it?” I asked, taking a drink. The warm glow in my stomach began to make the cabbage look good.

  “No,” Sidorov said. “Mishkin had purchased heroin there before, but my contact, who was also my waiter, said his source had been shut down completely.”

  “You are certain?” Kaz asked, trimming the fat off his slab of ham.

  “Quite certain. I traded American cigarettes for information. They make an excellent and highly valued currency,” Sidorov said, draining his glass.

  “Okay, so why didn’t you share this tidbit?” I asked.

  “Because it does not implicate an American,” he said. “It only highlights the fact that one NKVD officer was a narkoman and another was gathering what could be construed as state secrets. Hardly information Moscow wants to come out of this investigation.”

  “Kopelev was looking for books, for God’s sake,” I said. “How the hell do you get state secrets from books published in Russia?”

  “Billy, I must admit Captain Sidorov has a point,” Kaz said. “However illogical, Stalin’s government could see these facts as disloyalty to the Soviet Union on the captain’s part.”

  “Which by its nature, would be an illegal act,” Sidorov said. “Making me an enemy of the people. Which is why I did not tell either of you. Perhaps I would have, if I thought it had any bearing on the case, but I saw none.”

  “In a real investigation, you don’t rule anything out,” I said. “Even if it doesn’t seem to have any bearing on the crime. We need all the pieces of the puzzle, even the unimportant ones around the edges. Is there anything else you haven’t told us?”

  “Other than the meat dumplings were excellent, no,” Sidorov said. “Does that satisfy you? Are we friends again? Or at least allies, I hope.”

  “Allies, perhaps,” Kaz said, eyeing Sidorov before spearing a potato. “Which means you should explain the order you’ve held back, Billy.”

  “I’ll show it to you later,” I told Sidorov. “I thought it might be proof of Belov’s involvement and I wanted to confront Max with it, first of all. But he’s gone, and now Nikolin has been forced to change his story.”

  “We know what would happen to Nikolin if you produced that document,” Sidorov said. “He would be an inconvenience, a pawn to be eliminated.”

  “I’ll hold off for now,” I said. I tried the ham, which was salty. “I don’t really know how it would help us at this point anyway.”

  “Perhaps we should determine if it is a forgery or not,” Kaz suggested. “That may give us a clue as to General Belov’s part in all this.”

  “Maiya,” Sidorov said, settling into his food and talking around a mouthful of ham. “She works in his office and should know his signature. You could show it to her.”

  “Think she can be trusted?” I said.

  “To a degree, yes. She is carrying on a relationship with Major Black. Undoubtedly, she reports to Drozdov any important information she gleans,” Sidorov said. “Drozdov would have approached her once h
e learned of their affair and made it clear what he expected.”

  “You’re saying I should ask without Drozdov’s knowing.”

  “Exactly. As a Soviet soldier involved romantically with a Westerner, she needs to be careful. If it became an issue, she would be forced to denounce you. Having a military order in your possession is probably a crime, now that I think of it,” Sidorov said. “So many things are.”

  “I agree,” Kaz said. “It could be dangerous for her, but we need to know if it is a forgery or not. I am sure you can approach her quietly and get her opinion. Now, it is time for you to explain your theory.”

  “I will,” I said, spotting someone getting up from another table. “In a minute, be right back.”

  It was the copilot I’d seen this morning, the shell-shocked lieutenant covered in his crewmate’s blood. He looked different all cleaned up, but he was easy to recognize. Tall and thin, with thick blond hair. The only thing different was how casually he moved and how easily a smile came to his lips, as if this were a different man altogether.

  “Lieutenant,” I said, intercepting him as he made for the door. “We talked this morning at the airstrip. I wanted to see how you’re doing.”

  “Sorry, Captain, I don’t recall,” he said, studying me with steady blue eyes. “Have we met?”

  “You were watching the rest of the B-17s land,” I said, checking my memory and his face. Yep, this was the guy. “Your crew had been shot up, and you told me about the apartment building in the Bronx with all the soldiers. Guys taking college classes.”

  “Sorry, Captain, you’ve got me mixed up with someone else. Have a good evening, sir.” With that, he donned his crush cap and left the mess hall. Watching him, I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  “Captain, he’s been like that since debriefing,” said a first lieutenant. “We lost three men, all shot up bad. Real bad. I sent him back to check on the waist gunners, and it did something to him. He won’t even admit they’re dead, says everything’s just fine. I don’t know what to do. I can’t count on a guy in the copilot’s seat if he’s cracked up, ya know?”