by James R Benn
“Yeah, I know. Get him checked out. They can fly him to Tehran if you don’t want him on a mission,” I said.
“His first mission. His first fucking mission,” he said, wandering off, almost as rattled as his copilot. It’s hard to see the horrible shredding of human flesh in battle. It’s also tough to watch the human mind shut down and seal off those horrible memories, leaving a frail version of a human being where once there was a whole man. More frightening than flak.
“Someone you know?” Kaz said as I sat down.
“Someone who doesn’t know himself anymore,” I said, and then waved off the question forming on his lips. “Never mind.” I poured myself a stiff dose, drank, and cursed this goddamn war.
“Lieutenant Mishkin,” I said, getting back to the case. “I didn’t know his name until today, but there was something wrong with that story. Things didn’t add up.”
“The Communist Party will never admit to it, but we have many narkomen in our nation,” Sidorov said. “For those who wish to escape from the Soviet state, it may be the only route.”
“Yeah, I know. There’s always a way for drugs to find their way to people who have a need,” I said. “There’s money to be made and the customers have no one to complain to about the price.”
“Capitalism,” Sidorov said.
“Exactly,” I said. “Supply and demand.”
“Are we back to Punchy and his Boston drug enterprise?” Kaz asked.
“Not yet,” I said. “At first, I was surprised that it was an NKVD officer who had overdosed. Especially one who had been assigned to a joint Soviet-American airbase.”
“Ah, but we are back to Caesar’s wife,” Kaz said, smiling as he took a drink.
“Right. What are the chances an NKVD officer with a drug problem would be assigned to a high-profile post, especially one where he’d be expected to work with Americans?”
“If he used heroin and had a steady supply, he could have kept it a secret,” Sidorov said, without a lot of enthusiasm. “He could have been using a drug dealer as an informant. Or bribing him with the threat of arrest.”
“Seriously, Kiril,” I said. “The way everyone in the Soviet Union watches everyone else, how realistic is that?”
“Yes, I must agree,” he said. “Everyone who was posted to this base had to be thoroughly vetted. The Kremlin would take no chances when it came to working directly with our allies. Caesar’s wife would be the cardinal rule. That, and total loyalty.”
“We have to ask ourselves then, how did Mishkin get here, and did he have any role in the murders?” I said.
“He overdosed before the murders, Billy,” Kaz said.
“Exactly,” I said. “What does that tell you?”
“That he found a supply,” Sidorov said. “Although my contact at the Cosmos Hotel said there had been no heroin for months.”
“Okay, so let’s put a few things together. Mishkin had access to heroin. There was a widespread shortage of morphine, which is now over. Sergeant Morris signed for one shipment to the Khazar Brothers in Iran. Morris was into small-time black market trading, but from everything we learned, he wasn’t a real criminal type,” I said.
“Everyone agreed about Morris,” Sidorov said, nodding. “He was well-liked by the Russians he met because he tried to speak the language. Unusual.”
“Now we have Lieutenant Kopelev,” I said. “A dedicated Communist. A reader and thinker. As the officer responsible for approving flight manifests, he had routine contact with Morris.”
“A reader, and a stickler for the rules,” Kaz said, absentmindedly tapping his finger on his chin. “A fellow with an eye for maps, who ended up dead.”
“We can assume he stumbled across something that he shouldn’t have,” Sidorov said. “Involving the shipment to Iran? Drugs? The black market?”
“Put it all together,” I said. “The morphine drought. Mishkin’s overdose. Maps of the Black Sea and Iran.”
“My God,” Kaz whispered as he glanced at Sidorov, whose eyes went wide.
“Heroin,” Sidorov said, keeping his voice low. “Being smuggled out of the country, by Russians on American aircraft.”
“Yes. Kopelev was suspicious and was trying to determine what route was being used for the drugs,” I said.
“Opium is grown in the Kyrgyz province on the Chinese border,” Kaz said. “The opium is processed into morphine. It sounds as if a major shipment for this region was diverted.”
“Diverted, and processed into heroin,” Sidorov said. “That would take resources. A secure laboratory and secrecy.”
“All of which could be supplied by your former employers,” I said. “My bet is Mishkin was part of the scheme and just couldn’t hold back from sampling the wares.”
“Yes, that makes sense,” Sidorov said. “As a narkoman, Mishkin would be invaluable. His contacts would trust him and have access to the people to do the processing.”
“Wait a moment,” Kaz said. “Is it really possible for the NKVD to have stolen a large shipment of morphine?”
“Do you mean morally or logistically?” Sidorov said. “Some men might have wondered at such orders, but not everyone involved would have to know the whole story. Moving a few freight cars off a siding would not be difficult. After all, the NKVD is responsible for railway security.”
“This is a decent theory, I must admit,” Kaz said. “It answers the question of motive. Kopelev was killed because of his suspicions. Morris, because he declined any further involvement.”
“And the double killing served as a warning to their next unwilling accomplice. Major Preston Black,” I said.
“I may have an American to blame after all,” Sidorov said. “But one who would likely point his finger at the guilty party, which could be a death sentence for us all.”
“Who is the guilty party?” Kaz asked. “I understand how the morphine could have been hijacked. But who is behind it, and how did they plan to profit from it? Sell the heroin in Iran?”
“Those are two different questions,” I said. “My guess is that it’s either Drozdov or Belov. They both were perfectly placed to send me on that suicide mission, but I don’t have a shred of actual evidence as to which man was behind it.”
“What about the other question?” Sidorov said, raising his voice to be heard over the Russian and American officers who were doing some serious drinking at a nearby table. “Profit. Russians have little familiarity with it.”
“You’re forgetting the maps,” I said. “They showed Black Sea ports. Ports in Turkey.”
“Tabriz is not far from the Turkish border,” Kaz said.
“As a neutral nation, Turkey can ship goods nearly anywhere,” Sidorov said, picking up on Kaz’s line of thinking. “With southern France liberated, Marseilles would be only a few day’s journey by ship.”
“Marseilles, the heroin smuggling capital of the world,” Kaz said. “Ah, now I see. Punchy.”
“Right. Punchy saw a vacuum and jumped in to fill a need. Didn’t work out the way he imagined, but he had the right idea,” I said. “The French mob must be desperate to reestablish supply lines. They’ve been disrupted by war, and I bet they’d pay top dollar for some quality heroin.”
“Khazar Brothers Shipping,” Sidorov said. “In Tabriz, where the rail line from Tehran goes through. From there, any halfway decent smuggler could get a few crates safely to a Turkish port. The dutiful Lieutenant Kopelev suspected as much.”
“Right now, our ex-con pal Max is probably setting up delivery, courtesy of the Allied Persian Corridor,” I said.
“I suggest we approach Belov and Drozdov separately in the morning,” Kaz said. “We tell them we’ve made a connection to Max and the stolen drugs, and that we need their approval to travel to Tehran to pursue it.”
“If one says yes and the other says no, we have our kin
gpin,” I said.
“Kingpin?” Sidorov asked.
“Head honcho,” I said. “Mastermind.”
“Oh. The one who will have my head for revealing his role,” Sidorov said. “Wonderful.”
“Maybe we should speak to them without you,” Kaz said. “I doubt they would allow you out of the country in any case. That may shield you to some extent.”
“Why don’t you go back to the Cosmos Hotel tomorrow morning?” I said. “Confirm that there was no heroin available around the date of Mishkin’s overdose and find out if any is available now.”
“Good,” Sidorov said. “I will claim that your request was made without my knowledge. I will be suitably outraged. Thank you, both of you.”
I was about to comment how kind it was of Kaz to suggest protecting Sidorov, but I was interrupted by sirens.
Air raid sirens.
“Where’s the nearest shelter?” I said as I stood, kicking the chair back. I’d never even looked for shelters, given how far behind the lines we were. Neither Kaz nor Sidorov knew, so we joined the throng headed for the exit, some of them laughing and stumbling.
“Get to the slit trenches,” an officer shouted, pointing to the side of the mess hall. In the murky darkness, I could spot men running into long, narrow ditches, some of them hidden by a chest-high brick wall. We followed, huddling in the last few spots. The whirring rise and fall of the siren continued as men shouted and complained in English and Russian.
The screaming of the sirens lessened, only to be replaced by the harsh chatter of machine-gun fire as tracers lit up the night sky.
“Something’s not right,” a lieutenant in front of me said, arching his neck to look up at the sky. “If there were bombers to shoot at, they’d be dropping flares by now. Pathfinders, so the main force can find the target.” He was right. The RAF Pathfinder units pinpointed targets at night with bright flares to increase the accuracy during the bomb run.
“Look,” Kaz said, standing upright. “The tracers are everywhere. They are firing blind.”
“Russians shoot as they drive,” Sidorov said. “With great gusto.”
The sirens faded into silence. The shooting continued. Graceful lines of tracer fire arced across the sky from every corner of the airfield, the staccato bursts heavy and harsh. But they were the only sound. No droning of aircraft engines, no detonating bombs.
“False alarm, false alarm!” voices shouted from the roadway as a jeep passed by.
“Then what the hell they shootin’ at?” the lieutenant asked, a sensible question which had no answer.
“Hey Billy,” Bull said, waving to us as we stepped out of the slit trench. “I’ve been looking for you. Big Mike’s plane landed safely. My CID contact in Tehran knows of the Khazar Brothers and will have more dope in the morning.”
“Good to know,” I said as the throng of men dispersed, most headed to their quarters. Sudden sirens and shootings are sobering.
“General,” Kaz said, “why were only machine guns firing? Are there no heavy antiaircraft weapons here?” Kaz was right. All I’d seen were the .50 machine guns mounted on trucks.
“We asked, even offered to bring in our own antiaircraft units, but the Kremlin nixed the idea. Too many Yanks for them, I guess. But they took Browning machine guns and trucks to be manned only by their troops.”
“Fairly useless against He-111s flying at a height of six thousand meters,” Sidorov said, casting his gaze to the stars as if the German bombers might be hiding there. “But a lot of fun to fire into the heavens, I am sure.”
“If there ever is a real air raid, we’d be in trouble, no doubt about it,” Bull said. “No protection, not even night fighters. The nearest Russian night-fighter base is miles east of us.”
We stood as the sounds of revving vehicles and squawking men quieted under the sparkling night sky. It was too beautiful an evening to be ruined by German bombs, and I managed to drink in the grandeur of night on the steppes. Everywhere I looked, there was empty sky. For now.
“You boys need anything?” Bull asked. “Like handcuffs?”
“We’re not there, Bull,” I said. “But we’re close. Captain Sidorov is going to interview a possible witness in town tomorrow, and we’ll be talking with General Belov and Major Drozdov about developments.”
“You need me there?” Bull asked.
“It would be best if you were elsewhere,” Kaz said, rocking on his heels as he held his hands behind his back.
“Not a problem,” Bull said. “I already wish I was.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
After a breakfast of powdered eggs, black bread, and strong coffee, Kaz, Sidorov, and I hoofed it out of the mess hall like the three Musketeers. A Yank, a Pole, and a Russian walk into the Operations building to solve a crime. We were a joke in search of a punchline.
We figured to tackle Drozdov first, as soon as Sidorov got clear of the airbase. Talking it over, we decided he needed to cover all the bases and search out any possible drug sources in Poltava. He’d start at the hotel, then see where the trail led.
But before Drozdov, we decided to rattle Major Black’s cage. If he and Drozdov were heading out on their Bulgarian mission soon, we needed to get whatever we could out of him. Without Sidorov in the room. Because, if my hunch was right, Russians would make him nervous.
First stop was Bull’s office. I knocked and opened the door.
“Just in time,” he said, waving us in. “I’ve heard from Big Mike.”
“Is he well?” Kaz asked. “He is in hospital?”
“Not exactly,” Bull said. “They wrapped his ankle and told him to stay off it. They had a bed for him, but when my CID pal showed up to get the details about the case, Big Mike took off with him. On crutches.”
“Why the hell would he do that?” I said.
“I forgot to mention, Colonel Paul Gideon of the Criminal Investigation Division used to be a vice detective in St. Louis,” Bull said. “He and Big Mike apparently hit it off.”
“Jesus, I bet Big Mike couldn’t wait to flash his badge,” I said. Big Mike was still more blue than khaki and sending him off to Tehran to heal up had backfired. He and Gideon would be trading cop stories as they tracked down Max, dollars to doughnuts.
“Don’t worry, Gideon is a good man, he’ll watch out for Big Mike. Gideon’s already sent news about Private Maxim Bogomozov,” Bull told us. Max was already at work on the rail line, loading supplies from trucks that came up from ports in southern Iran and acting as an unofficial interpreter. He was still in Tehran, and, according to Gideon’s sources, he was behaving himself and popular with the American enlisted men he worked with. A friendly Russian who spoke English, after a fashion, was a rarity to be sure. Especially one who knew how to pick up the low-hanging fruit on the supply chain. There was always petty pilferage going on, and if a guy wasn’t too greedy and shared the pickings, he’d get by okay.
“I am sure Big Mike knows to stay clear of Max,” Kaz said. “It wouldn’t do for Max to know he’s being watched.”
“There’s no need,” Bull said. “Gideon has his own men working undercover on a black-market job, and they’re keeping an eye on Max. Big Mike and Gideon are meeting today with an inspector from the Iranian Gendarmerie to find out more about the Khazar brothers.”
“Good. If Big Mike has two other policemen to talk to, he may stay off his leg long enough for it to heal,” Kaz said, more mother hen than crime fighter.
“What are you three up to while Big Mike is busy in Tehran?” Bull said. “I just got another message from our Military Mission in Moscow. They want answers.”
“Captain Sidorov is questioning people in Poltava today,” I said. “People who need a reason to flap their lips. You have anything on hand? We could use smokes and scotch if you can spare them.”
“Here,” Bull said, opening a desk drawer.
“A carton of Luckies. And to show I want results, I’ll throw in my last bottle of Jameson.”
“Now that’s commitment,” I said, tossing the cigarettes to Sidorov and grabbing the bottle. “This oughta loosen lips.”
“Just make sure they’re not yours, Boyle,” Bull said. “Now get to work.”
On the way out, I looked for Maiya, but she wasn’t at her desk. Black wasn’t in his office, and I wondered if they were enjoying a last snuggle before he went off on his OSS derring-do.
“These are very effective tools of the trade,” Sidorov said as we caught up with him. “The only problem will be separating the truth from the chaff of lies I will be told when the nefarious types see this bottle. Liquid gold.”
“At least you’ve got twenty packs of Lucky Strikes to divvy up. Drop us off at Black’s quarters on your way out, willya?”
“Certainly,” Sidorov said as we clambered into the jeep, Kaz beating me to the passenger’s seat.
“Billy,” Kaz said. He nodded in the direction of the steps leading to the main entrance of Operations. It was Maiya, carrying a handful of folders. Looks like it wasn’t breakfast in bed for her and Black.
“Be right back,” I said, hopping out of the rear seat.
“Maiya, good morning,” I said. “Do you have a minute?”
“I have many minutes, Captain Boyle. You may have one of them.” She smiled, but without a lot of warmth. I was obviously keeping her from someone more important than me.
“That’s all I need,” I said. “You know General Belov’s signature, don’t you?”
“Of course, I do,” she said. “I handle much of his correspondence. Why?”
“Please tell me if this is his signature,” I said, withdrawing the folded, worn order from inside my Ike jacket. She opened it and scanned it, blinking her eyes in a double take.
“Where did you find this, Captain?”
“I just found it,” I said, waving my hand vaguely in the direction of the roadway, as if it had fluttered by. “What do you think?”
