by James R Benn
We left the mess hall as workers unfurled a long scarlet tablecloth, the lights reflecting a reddish hue across Stalin’s grim and jutting jaw.
“I’ve got VIPs coming in from every direction,” Bull said. “The Moscow Military Mission is demanding we wine and dine them and show them how well we’re working with our allies.”
“Journalists, we hear,” I said.
“Yep. A bunch of Soviet propaganda types have been traveling around with American war correspondents. All one big happy family. So, if you run into any of these guys, keep your lips zipped about the murders,” Bull said. Fine, I told him. I wouldn’t mind a few hours on any other subject.
“We were able to get permission from Colonel Aristov to leave for Tehran,” Kaz said. “Along with Captain Sidorov.”
“Really?” Bull said, tossing down a pen and leaning back in his chair. “I’m surprised, but that’s good news, right?”
“Yeah,” I said, shutting his office door. “We ran a little experiment. We asked Belov and Aristov separately, figuring that the guilty party would say no. Belov was a very insistent nyet.”
“Does that make him guilty?” Bull asked.
“All it tells me is that for all his demands, he doesn’t want us to take the one step that would keep us close to the solution. Aristov had no problem, which in my book says he’s not afraid of what we’ll find,” I said. “Drozdov was also surprised, but he didn’t seem concerned.”
“It will also give us a chance to squeeze Max harder,” Kaz said. “Outside Russia, with few contacts, it may be easier for him to violate his vor principles.”
“Okay. I’ll have a C-47 warmed up and ready whenever you want, just give me the word,” Bull said. “And I’ll get a message to Big Mike.”
“Aristov said he’d have the paperwork in the morning. We’ll go as soon as we can. Will you need Belov’s approval?”
“No. It’s the responsibility of the NKVD officer to approve manifests. Be here at oh-eight-hundred, we’ll get his stamp of approval, and then put you on board,” Bull said as a knock sounded at the door. It was Sidorov. I explained what he’d been up to and Bull said he wanted to hear.
“I spoke to the few people who were still playing chess. Even a shooting does not stop a good game,” Sidorov said, taking a seat. “I spoke to people on the street, to either side of the park. I spoke to the investigating officers. Everybody admits to seeing something, but they cannot quite remember exactly what. Some saw a couple walk by Dmitri. Some saw only a woman. Some saw a soldier, but no one agrees on his rank. One man swears it was a German who had been hiding in a basement. Another claimed it was an English agent.”
“The cop’s curse,” I said. “Everyone wants to tell you what they think you want to hear.”
“Exactly. One straightforward old man asked me what he should have seen,” Sidorov said. “It was a useless afternoon.”
“I saw you gave Maiya a lift,” Kaz said.
“Yes. She wanted to see Major Black, and he had little time to spare, apparently.”
“We saw Drozdov taking supplies from the warehouse,” I said. “All of them. I was surprised Black wasn’t there.”
“Perhaps he had his hands full. Maiya was in quite a rush,” Sidorov said. “Who can blame the man? He is going to the mountains of Bulgaria, after all.”
“It can be a lovely country,” Kaz said. “In the summer. But now, we have news for you, Captain. Colonel Aristov has given his permission for us to fly to Tehran tomorrow. All three of us.”
“What?” Sidorov sat back in his chair as if he’d been pushed. His eyes went wide, and his mouth hung open. “Are you certain?”
“He was quite clear. He wanted the investigation to proceed and for a Soviet representative to be part of it,” Kaz said. For once, Sidorov was silent.
“All right,” Bull said. “If that’s all you’ve got, get out of my hair. You might as well have one good meal before you leave, they’re pulling out all the stops tonight. But get yourself cleaned up, Boyle. Put on a new shirt and look sharp. Shine your boots, for chrissakes. And you, Lieutenant Kazimierz, well, you look fine.”
We got out of there before Bull could continue his critique of my military bearing. I decided a shower and shave wouldn’t hurt before the shindig, since we didn’t have much else to do. On the walk to the barracks, Sidorov was still in disbelief.
“What was Aristov’s attitude?” he asked Kaz.
“Brusque, but helpful,” Kaz said. “He was very focused on supervising the loading of the truck. There was a lot of valuable material.”
“What about the morphine?” Sidorov asked me.
“I confessed to Drozdov in a hypothetical sort of way. I think he approved, although if he wasn’t about to leave, he might have felt obligated to follow up. Nothing to worry about.”
“When a senior NKVD officer acts in an unusual manner, it is always good to worry,” Sidorov said. “But I will take him at his word. What else is there to do?”
“Return to Poltava and make your report when this is all over,” Kaz said. “We shall go our way and you yours. You may put the facts, as we learn them, into whatever form Marxist dogma demands.”
“Ah, yes. The corrupting materialism of the West and how the criminal classes succumbed to it,” Sidorov said. “I can see a scholarly paper on the subject. Excellent idea.”
“I’m taking a shower,” I said.
Chapter Thirty-three
Dinner was a disappointment. Fish, cabbage soup, and kasha. The American correspondents had brought along a case of bourbon, so that made them popular with officers who’d had their fill of vodka. After we’d eaten and listened to welcoming speeches in two languages—one boring in English and the other boringly Russian—we began to move around the room.
Sidorov chatted with the Pravda reporter while Bull introduced us to W. L. White, one of the American reporters.
“Mr. White wrote They Were Expendable,” Bull said. “That bestseller about the PT boats in the Pacific.”
“They’re making a movie of it now,” White told us, beaming. “John Wayne in the starring role.”
“Sounds great,” I said, noticing Kaz already moving away. We’d had our own encounter with PT boats in the Pacific and a troublesome sometime-pal of mine from Boston. Neither of us was interested in revisiting that memory.
I scanned the room for any sign of Drozdov or Black. No sign of them, and for all I knew, they were on their way to Bulgaria.
“What’s the big deal with Bulgaria anyway?” I asked Kaz as I sipped my bourbon and watched the Russians for any more familiar faces. Belov was present, of course. But no Maiya. No Aristov.
“Bulgaria was somewhat of a reluctant German ally,” Kaz said. “They declared neutrality this summer, and now various factions are urging their leaders to actively declare war on Germany.”
“Switching sides before the Russians take over the whole country,” I said.
“Yes. The current government wants to remain neutral, but other elements are pushing for a more active anti-German role. There are pro-Western factions and Communist factions, but all seem to want the Germans out. I imagine Black and Drozdov will be working with them and anti-fascist resistance in the mountains to cut off the German retreat. That is only my guess, though,” Kaz said, with false modesty. For a lieutenant, he had an excellent diplomatic and strategic sense.
“Drozdov would be under orders to back the Communist faction, wouldn’t he? And the same for Black and the pro-Western bunch,” I said.
“Yes, of course. And they could be killed by either side. The riches they are carrying would tempt anyone, regardless of political affiliation. However the joint mission has the blessing of the OSS and the NKVD, so perhaps they have some protection. But they will have to be wary.”
“Those fools going to Bulgaria?” Sidorov said as he joined us. �
��I wager they will be dead by this time tomorrow. I had a contact within the Bulgarian secret police, an agent who had Communist sympathies. She provided us with information about their methods, which were barbaric, even by our standards. But then it turned out she was a double agent. Regrettable.”
I didn’t ask what exactly Sidorov regretted. I didn’t want to know.
I got a refill and sat down to sip my bourbon and toast this joint goodbye.
The brass and dignitaries were whooping it up at the head table under the steely gaze of Uncle Joe. I found the big map more interesting and followed the lines, starting in England and leading here, the very bomb run I’d come in on. Sofia, Bulgaria, was on the map from when they were on the Nazi side. Delivery of five-hundred-pound bombs from a squadron of B-17s probably helped them decide to give up that fight.
Someone started singing. It was in Russian, which was momentarily blocked out by “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Everyone was out of tune, but it created enough noise to wipe out all the chatter and clatter going on around me. My eyes were glued to that map, and my thoughts were racing, making connections to bits and pieces we’d gathered over the last few hours and days.
Why kill Dmitri? Because he was a threat. A threat to something that was about to happen. A last-minute loose end.
Who approved the Bulgarian mission? Someone high up. Not Belov, since it wasn’t a Red air force operation. Someone with clout in the NKVD.
Why was it approved now? Because the drugs were en route. I didn’t have concrete proof, but the timing suggested it.
Sidorov’s comment about the turncoat Bulgarian agent suggested something too. Switching sides. Hidden agendas. Nothing was as it seemed.
Hidden destinations.
Pieces clicked into place.
If I was right, no one was going to Bulgaria. They were going to Iran. Who were they?
I stood, looking around again. Four people were missing from this bash. Black, Drozdov, Aristov, and Maiya.
One of them was a pilot.
“Goddamn it,” I muttered. “Molly the Moll.”
“What is the matter, Billy?” Kaz said, giving me a concerned look. “Are you talking about Punchy again?”
“No. Not Punchy. Molly. She saw what was coming. She was a dame with a plan, and she made it work. I should have seen it. It was right there in front of me the whole time, but I didn’t take her seriously.”
“Who?” Sidorov asked.
“Maiya. Didn’t you say a woman was spotted in the park?”
“Yes, but every witness was unreliable,” Sidorov said.
“And there was also a couple seen near the killing, a woman and a man,” I said, keeping at it. “You dropped Maiya off at Black’s. How long would it have taken them to get into town? No time at all. That’s why Black wasn’t at the warehouse, don’t you see?”
“But we know their mission has been approved,” Kaz said. “By Moscow. Colonel Aristov confirmed it.”
“However it happened, we need to find out if Maiya’s been assigned to fly them, and if they’ve left yet. Now!”
We barreled through the carousing crowd to the head table where Bull sat with the correspondents, General Belov, and Lieutenant Nikolin, who clearly looked out of his element. Sidorov spoke quietly to Nikolin, while I beckoned Bull away from the reporters. We didn’t need this scheme splashed all over the morning papers, not that the Russians would admit it ever happened.
I gave Bull the lowdown, trying to sound like I knew what I was talking about and hadn’t gone off the deep end.
“Jesus, I hope you’re wrong, Billy,” he said as Belov made his way to us, Sidorov whispering in his ear.
Belov let loose with a long string of Russian, the words wafting over us on a cloud of vodka fumes.
“Yes, Maiya is the assigned pilot,” Sidorov translated. “The general says she has proved herself a very capable pilot. Why should she not go? She deserves this honor.”
“When are they leaving?” I asked, trying to hide my impatience.
“In less than an hour,” Sidorov said, after Belov had checked his watch. “The general planned on going to runway three to see them off.”
“Maiya, Drozdov, and Black?” I asked. The general’s response was basically who else?
“How far is it to their destination?” I asked. It was about eleven hundred kilometers. Seven hundred miles. Belov confirmed she’d be flying a new, more powerful version of the Yak-6 on this mission. The Yak-6M model had a range of over six hundred miles, but she’d still have to refuel along the way.
But they were going even farther than Bulgaria. It was thirteen hundred miles to Tehran, somewhat less to Tabriz. Either way, they’d need two refueling stops. But they’d already planned for that, I was sure.
Kaz filled in the general on our suspicions. Belov made calming gestures, holding out his hands palm down.
“There must be a mistake,” Kaz said, translating. “Maiya Akilina is a loyal Soviet officer. Are you saying she came under the corrupting influence of the American spy?”
There was no mention of Drozdov, since that would complicate Belov’s one-sided view of things. But this wasn’t the time for political debates, so I said yes, it was probably that. Anything to get him moving.
Then the sirens began. The low, mournful wail stopped everybody in their tracks as it wound into a higher, more insistent range.
“Another false alarm?” I asked Bull as people started for the exits, chatting with each other excitedly, showing more curiosity than fear.
“Maybe,” he said. “They could still be jumpy from that recon plane this afternoon.”
A Red air force officer rushed in and handed Belov a note. He read it, his eyes scanning the paper twice as if he couldn’t believe it. He made a grim announcement which Sidorov repeated for the Americans.
“German aircraft were sighted crossing our front lines, on course for the Poltava area. We are on alert,” Sidorov said as Belov made for the door.
“Where are the Russian night fighters?” Bull shouted. “When will they intercept the bombers?”
Sidorov spoke quickly to Belov, but the only answer was the door slamming shut behind him.
“Bull, have you ever seen a Russian night fighter?” I asked as we left the building. Outside, people stopped and scanned the skies, bright with stars.
“Never. Belov tells me they’re stationed at a nearby base, but he won’t say where.”
A nearby machine gun fired off a few bursts, the tracers flying in bright arcs into the darkness. A few others sounded off, but it was obvious they were firing blind. The noise of the guns blended with the screaming sirens, all awaiting the oncoming fury.
“You should go to the slit trenches,” Bull said. “I’ve got to get to Operations.”
“Runway three!” I said, heading to a jeep. I let Sidorov drive. We needed to get there fast.
All the hangar lights were out, but as we turned onto the runway, I spotted a single aircraft and a couple of nearby vehicles. Sidorov saw it too, and with Kaz hanging on in the back seat he sped up, swerving as he braked to a halt alongside the twin-engine plane.
The darkness turned to light. A bright, brilliant flare burst above us. One, then another, as the Luftwaffe pathfinders dropped their parachute flares. The immediate effect was to illuminate the main runway across from us, where rows of B-17s sat like ducks in a well-lit row.
Closer to us, the face of Maiya Akilina shown like alabaster in the reflected light, her gaze raised skyward. As she turned her eyes on us, her arm rose, the dull sheen of the Tokarev automatic pistol aimed straight at Major Black, who stood next to Drozdov. Black’s eyes were wide with shock and surprise, and it didn’t seem like it came from the flares.
“What are you doing here?” Maiya snapped, her pistol moving in our direction. I could see Black and Drozdov had alrea
dy dropped their weapons on the ground. “Get out of the vehicle. Keep your hands where I can seem them, please.”
“We’re about to be bombed, Maiya. You need to get to cover,” I said, figuring she might think we’d come to warn her. “What’s with the gun?”
“She’s crazy,” Black said, desperation in his voice. “I don’t know what’s going on.”
“She says Major Black killed a drug dealer in Poltava,” Drozdov said, taking one step away from Black as he edged closer to the aircraft.
“She and Black are in this together,” I said. “And she’s not going to Bulgaria.”
“That’s not true,” Black said, just as the roar of engines overhead announced the arrival of the main German bomber force. “Jesus, we don’t have time for this!” He turned, running for the hangar.
Maiya shot twice. Black crumpled, his faltering momentum rolling his body on his side.
Her pistol returned to me. Sidorov and Kaz stepped aside. Drozdov stood stock still, the shock evident on his face. This is not what he expected of Maiya.
The whistling sounds of falling bombs demanded our attention. The first explosions rippled along the main runway, tearing into the Fortresses parked wingtip to wingtip. Between us and the explosions I could see ground crew running for their lives. It seemed like a damned good idea.
“There’s too many of us, Maiya,” I said, taking a tentative step closer to her. “You can’t shoot all of us before one of us draws a bead on you.”
“I don’t have to,” she said. Colonel Aristov stepped out of the aircraft, his PPSh-41 papasha trained on Drozdov. “Daddy has many bullets for you.”
Aristov.
Of course.
Another cascade of bombs fell on the runway. Secondary explosions lit the sky as fuel tanks blew and sent up inky billows of yellow, smoky flames. If daddy didn’t kill us, the bombs would finish us off. With a pistol and a papasha trained on us, running away would only buy us a patch of blood-soaked earth.
So I ran straight at Maiya, diving into a roll, hoping to distract them long enough for Kaz and Sidorov to unholster and get off a shot. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Drozdov duck and grab for his pistol, scooping it up as shots rang out in every direction. Two bursts from daddy, then multiple single shots. Maiya screamed, but it wasn’t in pain. She was mad, because Kaz and Sidorov were both behind the jeep, firing at Aristov, who was in front of the aircraft. She needed it functional, not full of holes.
