James Benn - Rag and Bone

I followed, keeping the bobbing steel blue service cap in sight. He turned off the road and into Kensington Gardens, walking briskly past the palace with its black iron gates decorated in gold leaf. I wondered if he thought about the czar and his family, all those children gunned down in the name of the people. Probably as much as the czar ever thought about children starving in Russian villages.

He took the bridge over the Serpentine and stopped to admire the view. I had to remind myself that Sidorov was NKVD, and that surveillance was second nature to him. He had picked this route because it gave him a clear field of vision to spot a tail. I kept my head down and tried to blend in with the crowd of uniforms parading through the park. I took a chance and stayed on the opposite bank, walking along Rotten Row, keeping my eye on him across the narrow body of water.

I almost lost him crossing the street at Hyde Park Corner, when he waited until the last second before dashing across. Luckily, a double-decker bus stalled and I darted between slow-moving vehicles, managing to keep Sidorov in sight. He took a side street and emerged in Belgrave Square, where he sat on a bench and casually looked around, as if he were enjoying the winter sunshine. I didn’t think he had spotted me or even suspected a tail. But it did tell me he wasn’t out for an afternoon stroll. He was on his way to a meet, and I had to wonder if it had anything to do with my visit and Egorov’s murder. Or maybe the Poles, or the Eighth Air Force, or who the hell knew. I didn’t have a clue, except for the feeling in my gut that something was wrong with what Sidorov had told me. I had no idea what it was, but his sudden brusque switch hadn’t felt right.

Sidorov got up, circled the small park, spun on his heel, and turned back the way he had come, almost colliding with a woman wearing a blue scarf tied about her head, her hands stuffed in the pockets of her plain beige coat, and her eyes cast down to the pavement as she plowed through the crowd. He put out one hand to steady her, then knelt to pick up the pocketbook she had dropped. He gave her a quick, almost courtly bow before moving on. He had a way about him, a confidence that flowed with every step he took, whether trying to spot a tail or playing the gallant with a woman on a busy London street.

He walked quickly for a few more blocks before entering Victoria Station. The narrow streets in the Belgravia district twisted and turned, hiding what was at the end of each passageway, but I was certain I was within spitting distance of the Rubens Hotel. I waited for a crowd to bunch up at the entrance to the station and mixed in with them. Sidorov was nowhere to be seen. I bought a newspaper and pretended to read, holding it up in front of my face and peering over the top. I stood in a ticket line, scanning the cavernous room, until it came to my turn, and I strolled away, searching for that distinctive coat. At the far end of the room, a giant sign advertised Aspinall’s Enamel, sold everywhere in London. Beneath the sign was an entrance marked REFRESHMENTS, and I went in, looking for steel blue.

I saw it. The flash of a sleeve in a cafe, as Sidorov hung up his coat. He took a seat at a little table, his back to the wall, so he could see the station through the large plate-glass window. It was a snug place, no more than ten tables, built to offer a quick bite and a cup of tea between trains. It was packed with travelers, their suitcases and duffel bags making movement difficult. Sidorov sat alone, his eyes darting, his body still. I moved behind a pillar and took out my newspaper, allowing myself a glance up every few seconds. I was at the edge of his field of vision, one of a hundred GIs killing time in a busy station. I didn’t think he’d made me.

A squad of British Tommies marched past, two abreast, their sergeant barking at them to look lively. They blocked my view and by the time they’d gone, there was another man sitting at the table with Sidarov. He faced away from me, and all I could make out was his dark hair slicked back and the gray cloth coat he wore. A waitress brought Sidorov his tea, but his companion waved her away, the gesture betraying his worry, as if he didn’t want her listening, and couldn’t wait to finish the conversation. In about two minutes, he pulled a fedora hat down low over his eyes, stuffed his hands into his coat pockets, and made a beeline for the exit. I glanced at Sidorov, sitting with his cup of tea in front of him, as he lit a cigarette. I wondered if he’d drink the English tea, but I couldn’t hang around to find out.

I followed the fedora. It was a lot easier than tailing Sidorov. Out the main entrance, up Buckingham Palace Road a couple of blocks, before disappearing down an alleyway adjacent to the Rubens Hotel. As I turned the corner I heard a door slam shut. Three steps led up to an enclosed landing. Above the door the sign read STAFF ENTRANCE. I tried the handle and it opened. Inside, in a narrow hallway with coat hooks along the wall, Sidorov’s pal had hung up his fedora and was pulling off his coat. He had a surprised look on his narrow, thin face. His eyebrows shot up in a questioning look, and he seemed on the verge of telling me I’d come in the wrong door, but he held back, uncertain of what I was there for.

“Here, let me help you,” I said, grabbing him by the collar. I snapped his head against the wall, enough to let him know I meant business. Then I took one wrist and pulled it up behind his back and propelled him down the hall.

“Ow! Let go of me, you crazy Yank! Ow! That hurts! I’ll scream for the police, I swear I will.” He began squirming and kicking at my feet, but I pulled up on his wrist some more, and he stopped.

“Let’s call the police. I’m sure that they’ll be interested in apprehending a spy.”

“I’m no spy! What, are you drunk? Let go of me.”

“Not a spy? You might be right. I mean, the Russians are our Allies, so it’s not like spying for the Germans. But the Poles are guests in this hotel, and I’m sure your employer will have something to say about that. What’s your job here?”

“What’s it to you? You’re a Yank.” I slammed his head into the wall again, to keep him focused.

“Ow! Stop that!”

“Are you all right, Eddie?” A small voice came from a door, held open a few inches. A girl in a maid’s uniform gazed at Eddie and what I hoped was a good-sized bruise on his forehead.

“Yeah, yeah, just a misunderstanding, Sheila. I’ll be there in a minute,” Eddie said. I let his wrist go and put my arm on his shoulder, to show her we were just a couple of pals roughhousing. I figured it also put Eddie in my debt, since I didn’t make him look bad in front of the young lady. I smiled at her, but she kept her eyes on Eddie, trying to figure out what was happening. She was good-looking, with thick, dark hair pulled back behind her ears, brown eyes, and a small mouth that hung open for a few seconds in surprise until she recovered.

“I’ll see you later then, after our shift,” she said, and shut the door. I tightened my grip on Eddie’s shoulder and gave him the hard stare.

“I’ve got a whole bunch of options here, Eddie, and you basically have none. I could tell the manager you’ve been selling out the guests, and then you’d be out of a job. Or I could tell the Poles, and they’ll cut your tongue out. Or I’ll tell Sidorov you’ve been giving him phony information, and he’ll slit your throat.”

“Who’s Sidorov?” Eddie said. He was beginning to shake, and his voice had a desperate quiver to it. “I haven’t done anything wrong, honest.”

“The Russian you just met in Victoria Station. He probably gave you a different name.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Eddie said, his voice breaking. “It was just some easy money, you know. Nothing was supposed to go wrong. What are you going to do with me?” His lower lip was shaky, and his eyes were watering up. I didn’t want a blubbering mess on my hands, so I soothed him a bit.