James Benn - Billy Boyle

“What I understand is that I’ve got one hand tied behind my back. I’ve got nothing new to report because you won’t let me do what I need to do.”

“You’ve got nothing because you’re sitting on your ass around here whining to me. Get out of here and question Rolf if you want. Do something useful, but keep out of my way. And away from the king.”

“That settles that. Sir.” I reached for the silver coffee pot and poured myself another cup. No reason to try another frontal assault. I added a sugar cube and thought maybe I should ease off a bit. After all, here I was, pouring coffee from a silver service and stirring in real sugar, not that saccharin stuff they were using since sugar got rationed. Why rock the boat? I could end up living in a tent somewhere, standing in line for chow slopped into a tin mess kit.

“I didn’t expect you to give up so easily, Boyle, but I’m glad you’re wising up to how we do things around here. You may end up being useful after all.”

Damn! I had just about talked myself into going along. It would’ve been fine because I was ready to believe it was my own idea. Now I had to respond, even though it was to a know-it-all superior officer spouting off at me. I always hated being told what I had to do. Probably why I never did well in school. Looked like I wasn’t going to do any better in the army. I took a gulp and let the hot, sweet black coffee kick in.

“Yeah, I’m beginning to get the picture. But there’s one thing I don’t quite understand, Major.”

Harding set down his coffee cup with a little clink as the cup hit the saucer. A delicate sound, and it made me think of coffee cooked in the field, served in a tin cup in the rain. No clink, just the pitter-patter of rain on your helmet, rain in your coffee, water squishing in your boots. Harding looked pleased, like his slowest pupil had finally come around. I set my cup down, the coffee swishing around and spilling over the edge, hot on my fingers and overflowing the saucer. A real mess.

“What’s that, Lieutenant?”

“What are you and Major Cosgrove setting me up for?”

There it was. The slightest blink registered and his pupils widened. In just a second everything was back to normal. Hard-ass Harding with the frozen face.

“We’ve been over this, Boyle. Just because we can’t tell you everything-”

“That’s not what I’m talking about, Major, and you know it. Or is Cosgrove running this little game all by himself?”

Harding half stood and slammed his right hand, palm down, on the desk. His coffee cup rattled and now he had coffee spilling into his saucer.

“Listen, you insubordinate son of a bitch-”

“No, you just listen, Major, sir!” We were both up on our feet now, spilt coffee forgotten. “When we first got here, Cosgrove and I were perfect strangers. So how did he know right away that I was just in from the States and that I came from Boston?”

“I don’t know, Boyle, and what the hell would that mean anyway?”

“It means that Cosgrove knew about me, and then pretended not to.

He lied. Why would he do that? More important, why would a lowly American lieutenant be involved with the schemes of cloak-and-dagger officers like you and Cosgrove?”

“What schemes? Maybe Cosgrove saw your file somewhere. He’s very well informed.”

“Why would MI-5 have my file?”

“Major Cosgrove works for the British General Staff, as special liaison to various governments in exile, not MI-5.”

“Or at least that’s the party line for those without need to know.”

“Have it your way, Boyle: you’re the center of a conspiracy by the British secret service, the proof of which is that Major Cosgrove knows you’re from Boston.”

Harding sat down again, gave out a little sharp laugh, and reached for a pack of Luckies. Lucky Strike Green, “Lucky Strike Green has gone to war.” Just like me. Shake one out whenever you need it, use it up, grind it under your heel. Harding tapped the pack against two fingers and drew a cigarette out. He looked at me while he snapped his Zippo open and flicked the wheel, a tiny spark hitting the flint and producing a fine blue flame. He blew out a stream of smoke and spat out a stray bit of tobacco, shutting the Zippo with a metallic click and playing with it, turning it over in his right hand as he smoked. He shook his head and laughed again, but he didn’t fool me. I had seen his tell, that little blink.

“Joke about it all you want, sir. I know something’s not right here.”

“Damn right, Boyle! One dead government official, one active spy, and your investigation is a bust. When are you going to uncover the truth about what’s going on here?”

“Let me share a little professional secret with you, Major.” I sat on the corner of his desk and leaned forward. “It’s something my dad taught me about investigations. He’s a cop too, better than I’ll ever be. Last year I was banging my head against a wall, trying to find out the truth about a killing. Know what he told me?”

“What?” Harding sounded interested, and maybe a little worried.

“Never go after the truth; that’s a waste of time. Chase the lie, and let it lead you to the truth. And I know where the lie is here.” I pushed off from his desk and stood at attention. “Permission to leave, sir?”

“Sure, Boyle,” Harding said, shrugging as if all this made no difference at all. He stopped playing with the Zippo, set it down, and pointed at me with two fingers holding his cigarette. “But first, tell me, did you ever find that killer?”

“Yeah. The guy’s wife shot him in the chest, then blamed it on a burglar.”

“What’d you do, send her to the chair?” He smiled as if the thought amused him. I heard a door open behind me, and the sound of footsteps stopping, like when you walk into a room in the middle of an argument and realize you should have knocked. Two more footsteps backward, the door shut, and we were alone again.

“No, I didn’t send her anywhere. Far as I know, she’s still back home, looking after her two kids.”

“So you didn’t have enough evidence to arrest her?”

“I had plenty.”

Harding stubbed out his cigarette, another little soldier gone. Don’t worry, plenty more where that one came from. Lucky Strike Green has gone to war. Now he was irritated. This little story wasn’t working out the way he thought it would.

“Damn it, Boyle, spit it out! Why didn’t you take her in?”

“The bastard was screwing his own ten-year-old daughter. The wife caught him. First time the kids were out of the house she plugged him good. Two shots in the chest and he was toes up. She and her kids had been through enough, as far as I could figure it, and the guy would’ve got worse in prison anyway. Not a happy ending, but the best one I could come up with under the circumstances. I found the piece in the icebox, not exactly the hiding place of a master criminal. I dumped it in the Charles River and wrote it up as a burglary gone bad, the story she gave us.”

Harding drummed his fingers on the desk, then picked up the Zippo again. He stopped and looked me straight in the eye. “What was the lie?”

“The burglary story. They didn’t have a damn thing worth stealing.” Harding slammed the Zippo down, turned away from me, got up, and walked over to the window and looked out over the heath.

“Have Daphne drive you up to Southwold. Talk to Rolf Kayser. And be careful, Boyle.”

I left, confused by his change in attitude. He sounded like he suddenly gave a damn. I mentally shrugged, chalking it up to the inscrutable ways of senior officers. I went off to find Daphne and Kaz, to begin to chase down a different lie. Time I took my own advice.

“Pack your bags, kids, we’re blowing this joint.”