James Benn - Rag and Bone

“Don’t you keep track of people going out as well as coming in?”

“Yes,” Sidorov said, nodding his head. “But sometimes there are circumstances… the gathering of information is a delicate matter…” He waved his hand in a dismissive fashion, as if he couldn’t think of the words but that any simpleton should be able to figure it out.

“You mean NKVD officers masquerading as Soviet Air Force officers can come and go as they please.”

“Yes, exactly,” Sidorov said, slapping his hand on the arm of his chair. “That is the gist of it.” He grinned like a schoolboy. “It makes solving a murder that much more difficult. Who watches the watchers, yes?”

“It’s been my experience that someone is always watching. They may not understand what they’ve seen, but sooner or later you can find someone who had their eyes wide open when everyone else was asleep.”

“That, Lieutenant Boyle, is a great truth. A sad one, perhaps, but very true. Everything is seen; there are no secrets.” We sat quietly and watched the glow of the coal fire for a minute. Sidorov spoke to Sergei in Russian, and Sergei made a phone call. Within a couple of minutes, a tray with hot tea was brought in. The tea was poured into glasses set in brass holders, and Sidorov added sugar to both before handing me mine.

“Tea, prepared the Russian way, not the English style,” he said.

“What’s the difference?” I said after a hot sip.

“Well, we don’t ruin it with milk. And we prepare the tea in a concentrated form first, then boiling water is added. It enhances the flavor.”

“It’s good,” I said. It was, but I wasn’t about to debate tea. “We threw English tea into the harbor, during our revolution.”

“In Boston, yes?”

“Yes. That’s my home. What about you?”

“Vyazma. It is west of Moscow. I have not been home for a long time.”

“Your family is there?”

“No, my wife and daughter live in Moscow. She works for the Propaganda Ministry. Vyazma is on the approach to Moscow. It was occupied by the Germans for two years. We retook it last March. Vyazma once had a population of over sixty thousand. We found exactly 617 alive.”

“I’m sorry.”

“As am I. It makes all this attention to the death of one man almost ludicrous, does it not?”

“Another great truth, Captain Sidorov. Even in the midst of war, murder is unacceptable.”

“Yes,” Sidorov said slowly, almost reluctant to grant the point. “Tell me, what did you find that links Gennady to this criminal-what did you call him-Chapman?”

“Archibald Chapman. Seems to be the local crime boss, in Shoreditch, anyway. The kid who found Captain Egorov was going to pinch his cap as a souvenir. He found a map folded up inside and took that instead. It showed the route between your embassy and the farms up north you buy supplies from.”

“Scotland Yard didn’t mention any map,” Sidorov said, frowning.

“I thought it might be worth pressing the kid on it, so they brought him back in, with his father.”

“That was smart, Lieutenant Boyle.”

“Even a blind squirrel manages to find a few acorns now and then,”I said. Sergei laughed, and I decided his English was excellent. Sidorov smiled over his glass of tea.

“We did have a large truckload of supplies hijacked on the road to London last week,” he said. “Beef, lamb, and a large quantity of whiskey. We thought it due to the rampant criminal activity associated with a decadent imperialist society. Now it appears one of our own had a hand in it.”

“But what would Captain Egorov get out of it? If he was paid off, how would he get the money home? Wouldn’t a large quantity of English pounds raise suspicions when he returned to the Soviet Union?”

“Yes, but he was not a stupid man. He could convert them to jewels, perhaps, and sell them for rubles in Moscow, or trade them for what he desired.”

“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.

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.