“I’m not sure,” I said, not wanting Archie running after Russians with bayonet drawn. “Maybe with an escort.”
“We will watch, Peaches. We will wait and watch, only a short distance away, but unseen. Just around the corner like.” With that, Archie winked, rose, and walked out.
“Thanks, Billy,” Topper said, as he pushed off from the bar. “No hard feelings about following you down?”
“No, I should’ve thought about it. You wouldn’t have been hard to spot in that line of military traffic.”
“Don’t count on it. We have a staff car of our own.”
“Tell me, Topper,” I said. “Do you still want to join up? Like when you first tried and your dad got you out?” His eyes went hard, and his easy manner vanished. “You shut your mouth, Boyle. I don’t take that talk from anyone.”
“I was serious. I’m not questioning you. But others will, after the war. Like those who lost their men, all those Shoreditch boys who joined up and bought the farm. And the ones who come back, who know hard steel and killing, they’ll look at you, too, and wonder if you deserve to lord it over them. Archie’s a tough one, he’s seen the elephant, they’ll respect him. But how long does he have? How long before it’s Topper Chapman running things? Hey, it may work out fine, they may think you were smart to stay a civilian. I know I wish I had.”
Topper was rigid, his face red, lips compressed. I watched his hands, figuring there was a one-in-five chance he’d pull a knife or use his knuckles on me. Instead, he stuffed them into his pockets, and followed his father out the door. I let out a sigh. I didn’t know where it might lead, but I thought this might be where I could drive a wedge between Archie and Topper. Threaten Topper with the loss of respect, and threaten Archie with the loss of his son. I didn’t like it much, but it was all I had.
I got myself another ale and tried to figure what I had that added up. A drunken friend wandering the streets, feeling betrayed. A crazy criminal waiting for a message from a Russian. Something obviously valuable making its way to the Russian Embassy. A Russian traitor, feeding information to the Chapman gang. Or was “traitor” too strong a word? A crooked Russian like Rak Vatutin, selling, not feeding, information. But what was he after? What could he take back with him to the Soviet Union that would convert to wealth in a Communist system? It still didn’t make sense.
But I did have something new. Egorov had been in charge of the hijacked shipments, and he’d been a stickler for the rules. That meant either he was the stoolie, or someone else was and it was making him look bad. Based on what Vatutin and Sidorov had said, and how the other Russians had reacted to questions about him, my money was on the latter. Had Egorov gone after the tipster, and found out more than was healthy for him? Maybe Archie and his gang had eliminated him after all and tried to pin it on the Poles.
I took a drink, hoping the confused swirl of facts in my mind would settle into some sort of pattern. They didn’t, but at least the ale tasted good. I set the glass down, and noticed the wet circles where the glass had sat on the wood tabletop. Some overlapped, some stood alone. That was the problem, figuring out which facts overlapped and which didn’t. Was Sheila Carlson out of the picture? Was her circle gone, disappeared, dead? I set the glass down again. Egorov, dead. Again. Eddie Miller, dead. Two separate circles. Valerian Radecki, his circle overlapped Eddie’s. Tadeusz Tucholski had his own circle, crowded by Sheila, Eddie, Kaz, and Radecki. Sheila Carlson’s circle went down over Eddie’s, Radecki’s, and Kaz’s. The glass went down for Sidorov, taking in Eddie and Egorov. I gave Vatutin a circle, linked to Egorov and Sidorov. It was getting messy, which didn’t surprise me. Then the Chapman outfit got one, taking in Egorov, since he was found on their turf, and Vatutin. But that still didn’t tell the whole story. Vatutin might be just the messenger. It could be any of the Russians, Sidorov or even someone back at the embassy, it was impossible to tell.
I wiped away the condensation with the palm of my hand, my suspicions damp and clammy on my skin. A group of three Russian airmen and a couple of Royal Navy officers entered, the pale blue Soviet Air Force uniforms contrasting with the deep blue of the British Navy. The Russians looked away when I glanced in their direction, probably uncomfortable after our earlier talks. What was it like, always wondering who was denouncing whom? How different was it in Soviet Russia or Nazi Germany? In both places, you had to appear purer than pure if you didn’t want to end up at the end of a rope or against the wall. What choice did they have but to be suspicious?
I finished my ale and got up to leave. No sense ruining their party. I pulled on my coat and stepped outside, deciding to look for Kaz. I nearly collided with Sidorov, who was half turned, looking up at the night sky.
“Look,” he said, pointing to the southwest, and I understood he meant to listen. The distant, insistent drone of engines came from a corner of the sky. He opened the door and spoke in rapid Russian, and soon we were all out in the street, watching and listening. The stars were hidden behind clouds to the east, but to the south and west the sky was clear.
“There!” someone shouted, his hand pointing to a barely visible twinkling, as the German bombers passed in front of stars, their engines growing louder and louder. The Russians were jabbering excitedly to each other as the antiaircraft batteries around the castle started up, first the 40mm Bofors guns streaming tracers skyward, followed by intense beams of searchlights stabbing at the sky, trying to get a fix on the direction of the bomber stream. Then the big guns, 3.75-inch antiaircraft cannon, began blasting the sky, sending up shells rigged to explode at various altitudes.
The searchlights caught first one, then two, planes, providing a target for the gunners. The aircraft were passing Dover at an angle, and I could see the tracers and explosions arc toward the northeast, following the German bombers as they headed toward the Thames and the London docks to the north. The firing continued for another minute, and then the guns went silent and the searchlights switched off, leaving us in stunned silence and darkness.
Sidorov grabbed my shoulder and pointed, saying something rapidly in Russian. It was an orange flame, flying through the night sky, going down, down to the ground, shot out of the sky by the Dover air defenses. Another smaller flame lost altitude but held its course, descending and growing larger as it disappeared over the northern horizon to the cheers of the crowd.
“That’s two less for London to worry about, lads,” one of the Royal Navy officers said.
“Aye,” said a constable who’d joined the crowd. “But it’ll be another long night for us and the Home Guard. The crew could’ve bailed out before she went over. They could be anywhere from the cliffs or as far up as Shepherdswell if they waited another minute.”
“In Russia,” one of the Soviets said, “you would not have to search. You would find only their corpses.”
“Well, sir, this is England, so we must search,” the constable said, before addressing two men in civilian clothes. “Bert, Tom, get your gear, we’ll form up at town hall in thirty minutes. Good night, gentlemen,” he said to us.
“Good night, Constable, and good luck with your search,” Sidorov said, his politeness belying his earlier cold-blooded comments. “Come, Billy, let us toast the downing of the bombers and the search for prisoners,” he said, clapping me on the shoulder like a brother in arms.
“OK,” I said, figuring on one last drink, then I’d look for Kaz. Maybe I could get something out of Sidorov, if only I knew what questions to ask.
We sat in the corner, where Sidorov could keep an eye on his fellow Russians, watching for any lessening of Bolshevik fervor. He’d ordered ale with me at the bar, and as he tasted it, he grinned.