CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
I found a Russian officer wearing a Nagant revolver, and asked for one of his bullets. He evidently didn’t believe in reverse Lend-Lease, since it cost me a five-pound note. I’d sent Big Mike to make a call to Harding and then find Bull and see if Inspector Flack was still around. I waited in the same room where Flack had interrogated Kaz and me, playing with the 7.62mm bullet, rolling it around my fingers.
Big Mike had pestered me to tell him what I was cooking up, but I told him to wait a few minutes so I could think it through and explain it to everyone together. I had most of the pieces put together, and could guess at the rest. Proving them would be harder, but right now what I wanted was to throw as much doubt on Kaz as Vatutin’s killer as I could. I knew that was going to be an uphill fight as soon as Flack came into the room.
“This had better be good, Boyle,” Flack said, standing across from me, arms akimbo. “I’ve been on the telephone explaining to the Foreign Office how come two Soviet officers have been killed within hours of each other. And that was after explaining it to the commissioner, ten minutes after I explained it to Detective Inspector Scutt. So I am in no mood to waste time with you.”
Bull and Big Mike sat. I gestured to the remaining chair and tapped the table with my Russian bullet, waiting for Flack to sit. He had a right to complain. I didn’t envy his role as messenger when the news was all bad and he was the messenger delivering it up the chain of command. Finally, he sat.
“I want to start at the beginning, as much as I can. This began with Gennady Egorov found bound and shot in a manner suggestive of the Polish bodies found at Katyn. A map showing the route of a Russian supply truck was discovered on him, hinting at his involvement with recent hijackings. Plus, he was found on Archie Chapman’s turf.”
“Correct,” said Flack.
“In the course of that investigation, I stumbled onto an informant for Captain Kiril Sidorov. Eddie Miller, of the Rubens Hotel, who provided Sidorov with information on the Polish Government in Exile. Then Eddie was found dead. You suspect Kaz, but I think Eddie was poisoned, then stabbed, by Sheila Carlson.”
“We’ve been over all this,” Flack said, drumming his fingers on the table.
“We know that Egorov was shot with a dumdum bullet. You recovered fragments that indicated a. 32-caliber slug.”
“Which fits the weapon Lieutenant Kazimierz carries,” Flack said. “Remember, we also found a dumdum round in his desk, with the neatly filed X on top.”
“Yes, so convenient. All you were missing was a big red sign that said, ‘Look Here.’ Tell me, does Kaz strike you as stupid?”
“No, he does not. But anyone can make a mistake.”
“Sure. But think for a minute. If Kaz didn’t kill Egorov, who put the bullet there?”
“Eddie Miller, perhaps. He was working for Sidorov.”
“OK, same question. Did Eddie strike you as stupid?”
“From what I heard, he was not the brightest fellow. Gullible, certainly.”
“The kind of guy to be entrusted with a key piece of incriminating evidence, to frame Kaz?”
“We’ll never know, will we? Please come to the point, Boyle.”
We were interrupted by an orderly with a pot of coffee and a tray of cups. It was perfect timing. The coffee smelled good, and as Flack dumped in a healthy spoonful of sugar, I knew he’d stay as long as the coffee lasted.
“Two things have bothered me about this case. First, Sheila Carlson. We know she worked for MI5, for an operative known as Mr. Brown. Mr. Brown seems to have gone to extremes for king and country, and Sheila was happy to oblige, plotting to kill Tadeusz Tucholski with a poisoned cake. She might as well have, too. Everyone else was connected to each other: Sidorov, Egorov, Kaz, Radecki, Vatutin, Tad, Archie, and Topper. They all had a connection, no matter how slim.”
“Sheila was connected to Eddie,” Flack said. “She lived and worked with him.”
“Exactly,” I said. “And she killed him as well.”
“So you say,” Flack said, sipping his coffee. “Brown seems to have gone too far, even by MI5 standards. Cosgrove told me he’s been reined in, transferred elsewhere.”
“Good. And I hope you had the contents of Eddie’s stomach tested,”I said.
“As a matter of course, yes, but I haven’t heard anything yet. It is not a priority with everything else we have on our plate: murdered Russians and German aircrews running about.”
“Sheila was the one person who stood alone, after she killed Eddie. Eddie was the only one who knew her, who might have an idea of where she’d gone. Even Brown and his MI5 henchmen couldn’t find her. Think about that,” I said, leaning over the table, staring into Flack’s eyes, willing him to see it as I did. “She needs her identity card and her ration card. How hard should it be for MI5 to find someone in England these days?”
“Your point?”
“She killed Eddie for a reason. To eliminate anyone who knew anything about her. If she was simply an MI5 agent, why would she worry about that?”
“Lucky for her she did,” said Big Mike.
“Right, but how was she to know Mr. Brown had gone off the reservation and needed to get rid of her?”
“So she had another reason,” said Bull, looking to Flack as if to coach him. Flack was silent.
“Yes. And that reason connects to the other thing that bothered me. The information on the truck hijackings had to come from within the Russian Embassy. They laid out the routes for the delivery trucks. But what was in it for whoever did it?”
“Money, of course,” Flack said as Big Mike poured him more coffee. I made a mental note to get him promoted to sergeant.
“Sure, maybe for the produce and booze. A little extra to spend in London. But what good are dollars or pounds back in the Soviet Union? He couldn’t bring them in and deposit them in a bank.”
“If I had to go back to Russia, I should be glad of extra money while I was in London,” Flack said.
“But what if you didn’t have to go back?” I asked, and watched Flack think that one through.
“We are Allies with the Soviet Union, Boyle. We couldn’t let one of their officers defect. What is the point, anyway? We have three dead Russians; no one is defecting!”
“No. You have two. Egorov and Vatutin, both murdered by Kiril Sidorov. With help from his lover, Sheila Carlson.” I sat back and took a sip of coffee. It was good.
“What?” Flack and Big Mike said at the same time.
“Sheila was working both sides of the fence. Maybe Sidorov recruited her through Eddie, but I don’t think Eddie knew. She was working for MI5 and saw no reason not to supplement her income. But it went further than that. Maybe they fell for each other, or maybe it’s all about the money.”
“What money?” Flack said. “They can’t have earned a fortune from tipping off the Chapman gang.” I knew I had him interested at last. He wasn’t sarcastic, he was working the problem.
“That was just for expenses. They needed it for forged identity papers and ration cards. There have been cases of papers stolen from bodies recovered after the bombings. I bet some of those match the descriptions of Sheila and Sidorov. Part of their deal with Archie Chapman. The real payoff was information about the gold shipment.”I told him about the half million in gold coming from Scotland.
“And you’re certain about Sheila and Sidorov?” Flack said.
“Certain enough,” I said. “I remembered that Sheila had been wearing a beige utility coat and a blue scarf when we first met her. When I was tailing Sidorov, before he met with Eddie, I saw him bump into a woman wearing the same coat with a blue scarf over her head. She dropped her pocketbook and he picked it up. I bet they were close to the end of their game, and using spy craft to be certain no one saw them together. But they had to have a way of communicating. Passing notes on a busy sidewalk would do the trick.” I didn’t mention I’d remembered the coat and scarf in my dream, and that it had been Dalenka wearing them.