Rag and Bone (12 page)

“Or maybe he didn’t plan on going back.”

“Comrade Egorov may have been tempted by the lure of easy money, Lieutenant, but he was not a traitor, not to the motherland, nor to his family.”

“There would be reprisals?” I asked.

“That is a ridiculous word,” Sidorov snapped. “We have laws in the Soviet Union. Article 58 of the criminal code makes any kind of counterrevolutionary activity punishable, including the nonreporting of crimes by others. The usual sentence is six months’ imprisonment in a labor camp.”

“Six months in Siberia seems like a very long time.”

“Well, what should we do? Send them to the Crimea for the sunshine? But this has nothing to do with the case. Tell me if I
can assist you in any way with your pursuit of Captain Egorov’s killer.”

“Do you still have his body? His clothing?”

“No. His remains were cremated and are being returned to the motherland by convoy. We found nothing of interest on his person; apparently the child found the only relevant evidence. Do you have it?”

“No. Inspector Scutt at Scotland Yard does. Do you want to see it?”

“I don’t wish to cause unnecessary trouble for his family, so it does not need to figure in my report to the Foreign Ministry. But perhaps it will help the investigation. I shall call on the inspector this afternoon. Now, if there is nothing else …?”

“Just a few more questions,” I said. Sidorov seemed to have switched gears, from the charming, tea-sipping commissar to suddenly giving me the bum’s rush. “Have you gone through Egorov’s paperwork? I assume he submitted reports on his activities.”

“Of course, but that information is restricted, as I am sure you understand.”

“But did you find anything that might shed light on his murder?”

“Lieutenant Boyle, that is what Scotland Yard is supposedly for. And now the Americans have assigned you as well. I hope our Allies will treat Captain Egorov’s death with the same importance they would if he had been an English lord.”

“Can you tell me what the business at High Wycombe with the Eighth Air Force was all about?”

“No. If you have to ask that question, you already have been told by your own people that it is top secret. Now, what is your other question?”

“Did Captain Egorov’s duties bring him in contact with the Polish Government in Exile?”

“We no longer have relations with the so-called Polish government in London.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“It will have to do. This interview is concluded.” Sidorov rose and wordlessly escorted me out of the building, all trace of friendliness gone. On the steps, I turned to thank him, but all I saw was the door closing and, out of the corner of my eye, the scarlet Soviet banner snapping in the breeze, like a whip.

CHAPTER • NINE

I
HOOFED IT
to the Notting Hill Gate, trying to figure out what Sidorov’s angle was. Had he pumped me for information, then given me the bum’s rush when he was done? Or did he have an appointment with his boss, or maybe his tailor? Or someone involved in murder and theft?

I turned before I got to the gate and walked slowly back toward the embassy. As soon as I got within sight of the two front sentries, I stopped and leaned against the trunk of a tree, staying out of their line of vision while watching for anyone leaving the building. I tried to look harmless, just a guy waiting for his date, but this wasn’t the kind of neighborhood where you hung out on a street corner. Nearly every mansion had a shiny brass plaque declaring it some nation’s sovereign ground. I waited for a bobby or a guy in a dark suit to roust me, but before anybody got the chance, I saw what I was looking for. Captain Kiril Sidorov, thankfully walking in the opposite direction, his overcoat as bright as a blue jay’s among the brown, khaki, and dark blue that flowed along the sidewalk.

I followed, keeping the bobbing steel blue service cap in sight. He turned off the road and into Kensington Gardens, walking briskly past the palace with its black iron gates decorated in gold leaf. I wondered if he thought about the czar and his family, all those children gunned down in the name of the people. Probably as much as the czar ever thought about children starving in Russian villages.

He took the bridge over the Serpentine and stopped to admire the view. I had to remind myself that Sidorov was
NKVD, and that surveillance was second nature to him. He had picked this route because it gave him a clear field of vision to spot a tail. I kept my head down and tried to blend in with the crowd of uniforms parading through the park. I took a chance and stayed on the opposite bank, walking along Rotten Row, keeping my eye on him across the narrow body of water.

I almost lost him crossing the street at Hyde Park Corner, when he waited until the last second before dashing across. Luckily, a double-decker bus stalled and I darted between slow-moving vehicles, managing to keep Sidorov in sight. He took a side street and emerged in Belgrave Square, where he sat on a bench and casually looked around, as if he were enjoying the winter sunshine. I didn’t think he had spotted me or even suspected a tail. But it did tell me he wasn’t out for an afternoon stroll. He was on his way to a meet, and I had to wonder if it had anything to do with my visit and Egorov’s murder. Or maybe the Poles, or the Eighth Air Force, or who the hell knew. I didn’t have a clue, except for the feeling in my gut that something was wrong with what Sidorov had told me. I had no idea what it was, but his sudden brusque switch hadn’t felt right.

Sidorov got up, circled the small park, spun on his heel, and turned back the way he had come, almost colliding with a woman wearing a blue scarf tied about her head, her hands stuffed in the pockets of her plain beige coat, and her eyes cast down to the pavement as she plowed through the crowd. He put out one hand to steady her, then knelt to pick up the pocketbook she had dropped. He gave her a quick, almost courtly bow before moving on. He had a way about him, a confidence that flowed with every step he took, whether trying to spot a tail or playing the gallant with a woman on a busy London street.

He walked quickly for a few more blocks before entering Victoria Station. The narrow streets in the Belgravia district twisted and turned, hiding what was at the end of each passageway, but I was certain I was within spitting distance of the
Rubens Hotel. I waited for a crowd to bunch up at the entrance to the station and mixed in with them. Sidorov was nowhere to be seen. I bought a newspaper and pretended to read, holding it up in front of my face and peering over the top. I stood in a ticket line, scanning the cavernous room, until it came to my turn, and I strolled away, searching for that distinctive coat. At the far end of the room, a giant sign advertised Aspinall’s Enamel, sold everywhere in London. Beneath the sign was an entrance marked
REFRESHMENTS
, and I went in, looking for steel blue.

I saw it. The flash of a sleeve in a café, as Sidorov hung up his coat. He took a seat at a little table, his back to the wall, so he could see the station through the large plate-glass window. It was a snug place, no more than ten tables, built to offer a quick bite and a cup of tea between trains. It was packed with travelers, their suitcases and duffel bags making movement difficult. Sidorov sat alone, his eyes darting, his body still. I moved behind a pillar and took out my newspaper, allowing myself a glance up every few seconds. I was at the edge of his field of vision, one of a hundred GIs killing time in a busy station. I didn’t think he’d made me.

A squad of British Tommies marched past, two abreast, their sergeant barking at them to look lively. They blocked my view and by the time they’d gone, there was another man sitting at the table with Sidarov. He faced away from me, and all I could make out was his dark hair slicked back and the gray cloth coat he wore. A waitress brought Sidorov his tea, but his companion waved her away, the gesture betraying his worry, as if he didn’t want her listening, and couldn’t wait to finish the conversation. In about two minutes, he pulled a fedora hat down low over his eyes, stuffed his hands into his coat pockets, and made a beeline for the exit. I glanced at Sidorov, sitting with his cup of tea in front of him, as he lit a cigarette. I wondered if he’d drink the English tea, but I couldn’t hang around to find out.

I followed the fedora. It was a lot easier than tailing Sidorov.
Out the main entrance, up Buckingham Palace Road a couple of blocks, before disappearing down an alleyway adjacent to the Rubens Hotel. As I turned the corner I heard a door slam shut. Three steps led up to an enclosed landing. Above the door the sign read
STAFF ENTRANCE
. I tried the handle and it opened. Inside, in a narrow hallway with coat hooks along the wall, Sidorov’s pal had hung up his fedora and was pulling off his coat. He had a surprised look on his narrow, thin face. His eyebrows shot up in a questioning look, and he seemed on the verge of telling me I’d come in the wrong door, but he held back, uncertain of what I was there for.

“Here, let me help you,” I said, grabbing him by the collar. I snapped his head against the wall, enough to let him know I meant business. Then I took one wrist and pulled it up behind his back and propelled him down the hall.

“Ow! Let go of me, you crazy Yank! Ow! That hurts! I’ll scream for the police, I swear I will.” He began squirming and kicking at my feet, but I pulled up on his wrist some more, and he stopped.

“Let’s call the police. I’m sure that they’ll be interested in apprehending a spy.”

“I’m no spy! What, are you drunk? Let go of me.”

“Not a spy? You might be right. I mean, the Russians are our Allies, so it’s not like spying for the Germans. But the Poles are guests in this hotel, and I’m sure your employer will have something to say about that. What’s your job here?”

“What’s it to you? You’re a Yank.” I slammed his head into the wall again, to keep him focused.

“Ow! Stop that!”

“Are you all right, Eddie?” A small voice came from a door, held open a few inches. A girl in a maid’s uniform gazed at Eddie and what I hoped was a good-sized bruise on his forehead.

“Yeah, yeah, just a misunderstanding, Sheila. I’ll be there in a minute,” Eddie said. I let his wrist go and put my arm on his shoulder, to show her we were just a couple of pals roughhousing.
I figured it also put Eddie in my debt, since I didn’t make him look bad in front of the young lady. I smiled at her, but she kept her eyes on Eddie, trying to figure out what was happening. She was good-looking, with thick, dark hair pulled back behind her ears, brown eyes, and a small mouth that hung open for a few seconds in surprise until she recovered.

“I’ll see you later then, after our shift,” she said, and shut the door. I tightened my grip on Eddie’s shoulder and gave him the hard stare.

“I’ve got a whole bunch of options here, Eddie, and you basically have none. I could tell the manager you’ve been selling out the guests, and then you’d be out of a job. Or I could tell the Poles, and they’ll cut your tongue out. Or I’ll tell Sidorov you’ve been giving him phony information, and he’ll slit your throat.”

“Who’s Sidorov?” Eddie said. He was beginning to shake, and his voice had a desperate quiver to it. “I haven’t done anything wrong, honest.”

“The Russian you just met in Victoria Station. He probably gave you a different name.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Eddie said, his voice breaking. “It was just some easy money, you know. Nothing was supposed to go wrong. What are you going to do with me?” His lower lip was shaky, and his eyes were watering up. I didn’t want a blubbering mess on my hands, so I soothed him a bit.

“Listen, Eddie. I think we can work something out. I have a friend on the Polish staff. Do you know Lieutenant Kazimierz?”

“The baron, you mean? Small fellow?”

“That’d be him. He might be interested in hearing about the Russian. He might even see his way clear to paying you to keep meeting with him.”

“How about I just stop, and we all part company as friends?” Eddie offered.

“Sorry, Eddie. It doesn’t work that way. Either we talk to Kaz or I throw you to the wolves.” Eddie had that look in his eye, the look I’d seen a hundred times before. A guy in a dead-end
job, or with no job, sees a way to make a quick buck. At first it works like a charm, but then something goes wrong. The fact that you can count on something to go wrong escapes these chumps. Then when it does, they get the look that Eddie was giving me. A beseeching, haunted look. The look of a guy who is hoping you’ll set things right, when the whole thing was his fault in the first place. The look of a guy who will never learn.

“OK, if you say so,” Eddie said.

“You can trust me, Eddie. The name is Billy.” I stuck out my hand and we shook. Eddie might never learn, but I’d learned fast. A chump is a chump, but the best chump is
your
chump.

Within twenty minutes we were in a room with Kaz and Captain Valerian Radecki. I couldn’t leave Eddie in place as Sidorov’s spy, so I explained to both of them what I’d seen, and suggested they might want to use Eddie to funnel phony information to the Russians. It gave me a headache trying to figure out which side I was on, so I’d gone with helping Kaz.

“Edward Miller,” Valerian said, leafing through Eddie’s billfold as he paced behind him. “Why are you not in the army, Edward Miller?”

“I tried to sign up. Punctured eardrum, they said. What are you going to do with me?”

“Eddie,” Kaz said, leaning on the table, leaning into Eddie and his nervous eyes. “We should be asking what you were going to do with us. Betray us? To the Russians?”

“It didn’t seem that serious, sir, honest. Just some harmless information, about who came and went, what the gossip was, that sort of thing.”

“But the money was good,” Valerian said. “More than a tip for your cooperation, correct?”

“Yes, it was.” Eddie stared at the table. He was afraid of Valerian, who somehow managed to give the impression of easy violence lurking beneath the surface.

“What did he ask you about today?” Kaz said.

“About that fellow, the real nervous one. Tadeusz Tucholski. Lately that’s all he’s been asking about. Where does he live, who sees him, what does he talk about, that sort of thing.”