“So either he was forced in there or was meeting somebody where he didn’t want to be seen.”
“I don’t think he was forced. Neither his watch nor wallet had been taken. Close to ten quid on him.”
“That would rule out any prostitutes or gangs I know. A drunk would be more likely to bash his skull in with a brick. Who does that leave?”
“The first thing we looked at was political extremists. Fortunately, all the Fascist sympathizers have been put in custody or sent away. It doesn’t have the look of a political assassination. No note, nothing to give credit to an anti-Communist cause.”
“You said some kids found him?”
“Yes. Bunch of them, ten to twelve years old. They’d left the shelter ahead of their parents, and were playing in the cleared areas. Those bricks are a great attraction for the lads. One of them was running pell-mell when he tripped over a boot, which proved to be attached to Captain Egorov. The boys came out screaming to a constable, saying they’d found a dead Nazi. They didn’t recognize the uniform, and jumped to the most exciting conclusion.”
“Are there many Soviet officers in London?”
“Apparently there are. I’d never seen one myself, but there are a number at the Soviet Embassy, others working with British Lend-Lease, and some with temporary military missions. Egorov was part of a Red Air Force contingent conducting some sort of joint meetings with your Eighth Air Force. Beyond that fact, we were told in no uncertain terms it’s all top secret.” Lend-Lease was FDR’s brainchild, a swap of arms in exchange for military bases on British soil. Most of the weaponry went to England, some to the Soviet Union.
“Who did you ask?”
“We went through the proper channels. Up to the home secretary, requesting clearance to talk with Egorov’s counterparts in your air force. Basically, we were told to stuff it.”
“What about the Russians?”
“Have you ever dealt with the Russians, Lieutenant Boyle?”
“I know a good Russian bakery in Roxbury.”
“And I know a nice Russian lady who gives piano lessons. But our Soviet friends refuse to answer any questions. Refuse to even talk to us. Except to say that when English workers establish a Marxist state, all crime will vanish along with private property. But until that day, we should find the gangsters who killed Captain Egorov and avenge his death.”
“With no help from them.”
“Or from the Americans. Until now, that is.”
“I don’t know how much help I can be, Detective.”
“Well, I’d say an officer on General Eisenhower’s staff, who has Colonel Blimp from MI5 smoothing the way for him, might be able to open some doors.” Flack relaxed, leaning back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. Daring me to say no.
“Eighth Air Force doors, you mean.”
“What a grand idea, Lieutenant! Glad to have you with us.”
“I’ll try. It might have to wait a few days, until my boss gets here. A colonel will make more of an impression.”
“Captain Egorov is in no hurry. Anything else you need to know?”
“Yes. Did you search the boys who found him?”
“Search them? What for? I told you Egorov still had his valuables.”
“From the point of view of a thief. What about from the point of view of a young boy who thinks he found a dead Nazi?” Flack was quiet, and I could see his mind turning the idea over. I had a hunch that a killing like this, an execution, had to come with a message. I wasn’t certain, but if there had been one, it could be hidden in some kid’s sock drawer, if he’d thought it was a souvenir swiped from a dead Kraut.
“All right, Lieutenant Boyle. That’s not a bad idea. I’ll talk to the parents while you talk with your air force chaps. Anything else?”
“Yeah. A couple of things,” I said. Scutt and Flack had responded to me no differently than my dad would have to any outsider back at the Boston PD. They were suspicious, and I couldn’t blame them. So I thought it wouldn’t hurt to tell them what Harding had told me, to show them I had something more to offer than half-baked ideas. “It’s likely that Captain Gennady Egorov was not really an air force officer. My information is that he was NKVD. Secret police.”
“If that’s true, it answers something that’s been bothering me. The Russians don’t let their people go out alone; they’re always in groups. He must have been one of their watchers.”
“So who was he watching?”
“Someone who found the workers’ paradise lacking in some way?”
“That would be my bet,” I said. Flack nodded in agreement as he removed a pack of Gold Flake cigarettes from his pocket. He offered me one and I declined. As he lit up, I wondered why I didn’t tell him about Colonel Harding’s other suspicion, that this might have something to do with the Poles. And with the Katyn Forest. I didn’t even want to think about Kaz’s pistol, his. 32-caliber pocket automatic.
CHAPTER FOUR
I took Birdcage Walk, the leafless trees lining the road, stark and bare against the sky. Big Ben tolled at my back, and ahead of me was Buckingham Palace, with its white facade gleaming even in the dull, gray light. These were grand sights, but all they did was reinforce what my gut was telling me-that an empire doesn’t back down from tough decisions. If the Poles threatened the coalition, that would threaten victory, and if I knew anything about the Brits, they didn’t like losing. Not that their American cousins liked it much either.
So maybe Kaz was right about General Sikorski, maybe it hadn’t been an accident. Maybe it was the Russians, or the British, or both working together to solve a common problem. But that was pure conjecture on his part. Me, I needed proof, and some link to the dead Russian. Otherwise, it wasn’t any of my business.
Or was it? Had Kaz gone off the deep end and started killing Russians? It was too fantastic to be true. First, he wouldn’t have known Egorov was NKVD. And even if he had, Kaz was too smart to carry around a pistol that matched a slug found in Egorov’s skull. No, it didn’t make sense. Best to forget about it, and not mention the coincidence to anyone. But I did need to talk to Kaz and tell him what I was up to. I was meeting him for lunch at the Rubens Hotel, and it would be the perfect time. I turned left at the palace as the wind gusted, swirling leaves around my feet, pushing me toward the hotel.
I signed in at a desk manned by a sergeant wearing Poland’s red shoulder patch on his British Army uniform. He made a call, then sent me up to the third floor. At the head of the stairs were a couple of guards, both with Sten guns hung from their shoulders. I gave them my name and they looked me over like bodyguards while I wondered what a couple of bursts from those Sten guns would do to the woodwork.
“Billy, come in,” Kaz said from an open set of double doors. “ On jest z mna,” he said to the guards.
“ Tak, pan,” one of the guards said as he patted me down before letting me proceed.
“Kaz, you’ve been watching too many gangster movies.”
“Standard precautions, Billy. No exceptions.”
He led me into a sitting room with a table for four laid out. It was a pretty fancy room-high ceilings, big fireplace, and a soft, deep carpet. Two guys in British Army dress uniforms. Severe creases in their tailored trousers. Red shoulder patches with Poland emblazoned across them. Big smiles. I looked at Kaz, but he avoided my gaze. Instead, he took my arm and guided me toward the two officers.
“Billy, allow me to introduce Major Stefan Horak. He is my superior. And his aide, Captain Valerian Radecki.”
“Welcome, Lieutenant Boyle,” Horak said, shaking my hand. Radecki made a little bow. “How is your uncle?”
“Fine, sir. How is yours?”
“I pray he is well, but I have no idea,” Horak said, his eyebrows knitted in confusion. He looked at Kaz, then back at me. “Your uncle is somewhat more famous, is he not?” Horak spoke near-perfect English, with only a slight accent, but I could tell he was unsure of the conversation, which suited me fine. I wasn’t sure I liked it either.