Rag and Bone (35 page)

“Worth checking out,” he said, like any good cop would. You never passed up a lead, no matter how slim. That’s how cases were solved. We drove back to the main road, turning south for Dover, belly landings and wild-goose chases behind us.

CHAPTER
•
TWENTY-FOUR

W
E LEFT
K
AZ
at the Lord Nelson Inn, on Flying Horse Lane in Dover, not far from the docks that ran along the channel. Dover Castle loomed over the town from the heights to the east, an ancient gray fortress that had been called the Key to England since the days of Napoleon, maybe before. All three of us got rooms at the inn, since there wasn’t much of a tourist trade these days. Flying Horse Lane looked like a nice little side street, except for the building directly across from the pub that had taken a direct hit. The Germans still fired their big artillery pieces across the channel, aiming at the castle and hitting everything around it in the process. The front of the three-story structure was nothing but a mass of bricks, tumbled into the street. Stairs jutted out into thin air, and wallpaper fluttered in the sea breeze where it had torn away from the collapsed wall. A few men in blue coveralls worked at stacking the bricks, which meant this had been a recent hit. I hoped what they said about lightning held true for artillery shells.

I’d told Kaz to stay put, in case Scotland Yard had a long tail on us. We had passed a bookstore about a block from the inn, and Kaz said he’d only need a few minutes there and he’d be set to hole up in his room. The newly painted sign over the store window read
FRONTLINE BOOK SHOP
, and I got the feeling that folks here were proud to be closer than anyone else in England to the enemy, less than twenty-two miles across the channel.

Big Mike gunned the jeep up the steep road as we tried to figure out where the entrance was. The castle was huge, the
outer walls and battlements encircling the hill above the town. There was an inner circle of fortifications, with the actual castle in the center of that. It looked like something out of Robin Hood, and I half expected to see knights on horseback. Instead, we came to a stop at an antiaircraft emplacement, where the sergeant in charge told us to go back down the switchback road and find the military entrance at the base of the cliff. It was much less grand than the approach to the castle. We parked the jeep under camouflage netting and walked into a wide chamber cut into the limestone cliff. The air smelled damp and chalky, and I glanced back for a glimpse of blue sky before we turned a corner and lost sight of it. The duty officer checked our papers and directed us to the area assigned to the Eighth Air Force staff. The tunnels were well lit, clearly marked, and filled with a constant hum from the ventilation system. Offices and large rooms had been carved out on either side of the main chamber. It made the Underground Tube shelters in London look cramped.

“Billy, good to see you,” boomed the voice of Colonel Bull Dawson. “How do you like our little hideaway?”

“Not bad, sir,” I said as Bull pumped my hand in a crushing grip that came from long hours of holding onto the controls of a B-17 at thirty thousand feet. “Where do you have the Russians stashed?”

“Come on,” he said. “You’ll both want to see this.” Bull led us down a narrow stairway, the stone worn in the center by centuries of martial footsteps. He pushed opened two metal doors and ushered us into a large, square room with a catwalk, about five feet high, on one side. The other wall was filled with detailed maps, taped together, forming a mosaic of England, France, Germany, Italy, all the way to the Soviet Union. The tables between the two walls held plotting boards, maps with airfields, antiaircraft defenses, dotted with symbols for fighters and bombers along routes that stretched from England to the Ukraine, with connections to Italy and back to England.
American and Russian officers huddled in small groups, pointing at maps, pushing aircraft markers across plotting boards. At the far end of the room was a communications center, filled with switchboards, radios, teletypes, and signal repeating gear, tall metal boxes that reached to the end of the corridor.

“This is where they fought the Battle of Britain from, can you believe that?” Bull said. “That was before either Russia or America was in the war. Now we’re planning Operation Frantic from the same rooms. Amazing.”

“Yeah,” I said, trying to sound enthused about the historical import of the whole thing, but my attention was on Captain Kiril Sidorov. He was up on the catwalk, walking back and forth, his hands clasped behind him, watching every Russian officer who talked with an American. His eyes danced over them all, looking for what, I wondered? Signs of disaffection? Desire for personal property? Preference for bourbon over vodka? By his side was Rak Vatutin, who had his eyes on me. Both of them wore sidearms, and I had the sense of being in a cell block, with those two as guards. Maybe the Russians were used to it, but I didn’t like it one bit. I was tempted to shout out Topper’s message to Vatutin, and see what his reaction would be. But I wasn’t here to have fun, so I waved to him, just to enjoy seeing him turn away.

“You wanted to talk to the Russians, right?” Bull said. “Captain Sidorov agreed, as long as he could sit in.”

“Who’ll sit in when I interrogate him?”

“Look, Billy, you tread lightly here, understand? This is a major operation, and I don’t need a loose cannon right now. Talk to these guys, fine, but don’t call it an interrogation and get their Russian noses bent out of shape. They’re easily offended. Like me. Got it?”

“Got it, Bull. When can I get started?”

“Right now. I’ll take you to an empty office. Forget you ever saw all these maps. Big Mike, you need some grub?”

“Thanks, sir, but I’ll stick with Billy,” Big Mike said, with a
glance toward the Russian hawks on the catwalk. He must’ve been concerned to pass up a chow line. Sidorov took notice of us and came down the steps.

“I see you found us, Lieutenant Boyle,” Sidorov said. “I hope you do as well finding the killer of Comrade Egorov.”

“I will, unless they move all of you somewhere else.”

“I hope not. This was done quickly and with great secrecy, so I believe we are secure. We even have a good cover story, about being shown the local defenses against invasion. The Home Guard has given us tours, showing off their hidden bunkers and many devious devices. A true proletariat people’s army, the English Home Guard. We’ve gazed across the channel through binoculars, of course, and the British have allowed us to assist in firing some of their large artillery pieces at the Nazi beach defenses. It makes for good relations between Allies. Our officers go out to the pubs and local events to spread the cover story, along with our American and English hosts.”

“Always in pairs, right?”

“Of course, except for Captain Vatutin and myself. Our job is to attend functions where our officers are in attendance, to provide additional security, and to make sure the script is carefully followed. It is good for the populace to see Soviet uniforms as a matter of course, instead of as an exception.”

“Security is pretty tight, Billy,” Bull said. “So far the cover story is holding up with everyone who has come in contact with the Soviets. It was Captain Sidorov’s idea, to have them out in the open. Pretty good one, too. Keeps them from going stir-crazy in here.”

“As long as everyone sticks to the script,” I said.

“That is what we are here for,” Vatutin said, sidling up to us. “What is your purpose?”

“To talk to your men,” I said. “They may be able to help put together a better picture of Gennady Egorov’s activities before he was killed. To help find his murderer.” I could sense Bull relaxing at my diplomatic language. I almost added something
about capitalist gangsters, but then decided that might be too close to the truth.

“That is acceptable,” Sidorov said. “Since Captain Vatutin is with us, why don’t you start with him?” Vatutin tried to smile to show that he didn’t mind, but it was hard for him, coming out more like a snarl. He smiled more readily when drunk, I recalled from our last meeting.

Bull walked us to a small room past the communications equipment, and shut the door with a clang. Big Mike stood against the door, as if daring either Russian to try and leave. I sat at a desk, empty except for a pad of paper and a pencil. Tools of the trade. Sidorov and Vatutin sat opposite me.

“How well did you know Gennady Egorov?” I said.

“Comrade Egorov was a fine man, an exemplary Communist,” Vatutin said, darting his chin forward.

“Come, Rak,” Sidorov said. “We don’t need funeral orations here. Simply tell the lieutenant the truth. You know, the thing that actually happens?”

“Yes, I know the truth,” Vatutin said. “But do these Americans deserve it?” Sidorov nodded, and Vatutin shrugged, as if the responsibility for uttering this precious commodity was no longer his. “Egorov was not well liked. Some might say he did his job too well.”

“What was his job?”

Vatutin struggled with this, but continued after an encouraging nod from Sidorov. Whatever the ranks they wore on their uniforms, it was evident that in the NKVD Sidorov was the boss. “The same as ours, to act as security for the embassy, to gather information, and to be sure none of our own were seduced by the West. But he had no sense of balance, no ability to let even the slightest infraction go unnoticed.”

“Do you let infractions go unnoticed?”

“Of course. People need to feel they are getting away with something once in a while. It helps them cope with being in a strange country. Letting off steam, you say, correct?”

“Yeah, we do. I have to say I’m surprised. I thought you Soviets were a tough bunch.”

“There is another reason,” Vatutin went on. “If you stop every infraction, then you can never tell who will go on to commit a more serious one. But Egorov didn’t care about that, he cared only about looking good to our superiors. So he denounced anyone he could.”

“What did that get him? Didn’t your superiors know the kind of guy he was?”

“Yes. One who would do whatever he was told, without the slightest thought of anyone else.”

“That was an advantage. Did he ever denounce you?”

“No. I gave him no cause,” Vatutin said.

“Did you know where he was going the night he was killed?”

“He told both of us he was meeting a contact. That’s all.”

“Who else besides the three of you have that much freedom of movement, to go out alone?”

“The ambassador, but he would never go alone. Along with our immediate superior, we are the designated security.”

“You mean NKVD?”

“That is unnecessary to go into,” Sidorov said. “The three of us—Egorov, Vatutin, and I—were the operational security team.”

“OK, but no one else, other than the three of you, could just stroll out alone?”

“According to the rules, that is correct. But in actual practice, it could be done,” Vatutin said.

“Who is your superior?”

“No one at the moment,” Vatutin said grudgingly. He looked at the wall, the floor, then at his hands.

“Osip Nikolaevich Blotski?” I asked. Vatutin’s eyes shot up to meet mine. Bingo. From me he looked to Sidorov, who looked as if he’d never heard the name, which was damned odd, since old Osip had been beaten within an inch of his life the night of the opera. Seeing no reaction from Sidorov, Vatutin decided it was up to him.

“Yes,” he said. “We worked under Comrade Nikolaevich.”

“And now?”

“Captain Sidorov is in charge, until a replacement is named,” Vatutin said.

“Congratulations,” I said to Sidorov. “Who planned this move? Who knew about it in advance?”

“Comrade Nikolaevich had approved the transfer of the planning staff to Dover the day before he was attacked. It had been presented to the ambassador by the British Foreign Office, since it involved the relocation of a number of Soviet citizens. A delicate matter.”

“So it was left to you to work out the details,” I said to Sidorov. “The logistics, the deception plan?” He nodded.

“Why would Comrade Nikolaevich go out alone, at night?” I asked.

“That surprised me, I must admit,” Vatutin said. “He did enjoy walking in the parks for exercise, but always during the day, with a companion.”

“Any idea why he went that night?” Both men shook their heads, clueless.

“Was Egorov in charge of scheduling the shipments of produce to the embassy?” I said, trying a different tack. Vatutin sat, silent. “Was that your responsibility then?”

“No,” he said.

“Whose was it? His?” I pointed at Sidorov. “Protecting your boss?”

“No.”

“The ambassador’s?”

Sidorov laughed, and nodded to Vatutin again.

“All right. It was Egorov’s. We were forced to investigate him. He found out and was quite angry,” Vatutin said.

“What did you find out?”

“Nothing. We followed him, but he never met with anyone suspicious.”

“But he must have met with his contacts,” I said.

“He told you, no one of a suspicious nature,” Sidorov said. “This line of questioning must cease. We have a responsibility to protect our countrymen on duty in Great Britain. Our meeting with contacts to insure the continued safety of Soviet citizens is not part of this investigation.”

“OK, I get it,” I said. “So someone was tipping off a London gang, and you’re sure it wasn’t Egorov.”

“No. As Comrade Vatutin said, we never saw him meet with anyone suspicious. The manner in which he was killed, and the map you found, both suggest he
was
involved. He was a careful man, so we would not expect to find evidence easily. It was his death that showed he was. And, remember, the hijackings stopped after his death.”

“Right,” I said. I wished Sidorov would leave so I could give Topper’s message to Vatutin and watch his reaction. Time and place. Time and place for what? It sounded like another hijacking, but I wasn’t sure. “Who took over that responsibility, after Egorov was killed?”

“I did,” Sidorov said. Strange, I thought. Did Vatutin have access to the same information? Was he rifling through the boss’s files, or did Sidorov delegate the details to him?