James Benn - Rag and Bone

I got out of the way as Kaz used a jump rope. I had to admit, I was pretty impressed with how he’d built himself up. He’d always had stamina but it had been that of the soul. Now his body was ready to keep up with his spirit and his intellect. Unfortunately, as smart as he was, he hadn’t come up with an answer to my problems. I did knee curls with the weights, thinking through the list of my troubles with each slow repetition.

One, I was nowhere in terms of the Egorov case. I had no clue who killed him, or why. I had the word of honor from a guy who robbed me that he had nothing to do with it. Swell. Plus, the whole idea of a Russian officer working with the Chapman bunch didn’t add up. No one in the Soviet Union was allowed to get rich, so what was he going to do with his loot?

Two, I’d stirred up a hornet’s nest out at High Wycombe asking about Russians at the Eighth Air Force HQ. Something top secret was going on, based on those red strings from Bull’s map, the squad of MPs who had been after me, and Estelle’s sudden transfer after she talked with us. What it was, I had no idea, only a promise from Bull that he’d try to get in touch.

Three, there was no love lost between Kaz, his Polish buddies, and the Russians. I’d uncovered an informer, but that likely had nothing to do with the case. I still wasn’t totally sure Kaz was innocent, and as I thought through the little I’d come up with, I realized he looked good for it. In the absence of any solid leads, my dad always said, go with what you got, no matter how slim. It at least gave the illusion of forward movement, and more often than not there was some truth embedded in your suspicions. Was that true of Kaz? I knew he could be ruthless, far more ruthless than his studious appearance would suggest. But Nuno was a hard case, too, and Dad hadn’t given him up to the authorities or the Mob.

Four, I’d gotten myself in big trouble with the quartermaster corps, the military police, and, worst of all, Colonel Sam Harding. They’d be looking everywhere for that truck, and it wouldn’t take anyone at Norfolk House with an ounce of sense to figure out who the fast-talking lieutenant and the giant corporal were. If I’d solved the case at the cost of a truck and goods, Harding might’ve backed me up. But to come up empty all around, no way.

Five. I needed a five. I kept up the reps, switching from one arm to the other, generating perspiration but no inspiration.

“What will you do, Billy?” Kaz said, rubbing his head with a towel.

“I’m not sure. I’d like to get in touch with Bull, but that might only set the dogs on me again. I guess I’ll see if Inspector Scutt can help, then go fess up to Harding.”

“Good luck. No matter how stern his visage, Sam Harding was always fair.”

“Not so with your new boss, Major Horak?”

“No, sadly,” Kaz said. “While he is my superior, he leaves much in the hands of Captain Radecki, who is far too impatient. A good soldier, but not a diplomat. Perhaps because he lives with pain every day.”

“Is he still being hard on Tadeusz?”

“Yes, and I think it caused him to retreat into his mind forever. Radecki had threatened to turn him over to the Russians if he didn’t speak. He meant to force the issue, but he has little understanding of the human mind. Now Tadeusz shows no response at all. The doctor says he needs to be sent to a hospital, where he can receive full-time care. He no longer speaks, barely eats, and spends most of his time sleeping.”

“So the one surviving eyewitness to Katyn has everything locked up in his head, unable to get it out.”

“It would have been merciful if the Russians had shot him that day, I regret to say. We’ve changed the story we are feeding the Russians through Eddie Miller. Since Tadeusz will now be safely out of the way, we are saying we have a witness, using much of his story as he told it.”

“In hopes the Russians might do what?”

“We have no hopes for the Russians. It’s the Americans and the British we need to influence. Hearing we have a witness may help open some minds. And perhaps Tadeusz will come out of his trance once he’s had rest and quiet.”

“Kaz, is there any possibility in your mind that someone from the Polish Army could have shot Egorov? Maybe someone who’s heard Tadeusz tell his story? Hell, I know I’d be hard-pressed not to take some revenge if that happened to my own people.”

“I know you have to ask, Billy, but no, there isn’t. As for revenge, I have thought about it. I agree, it is difficult not to. But if I wished to take violent revenge against the Russians, why would I kill just one, way out in Shoreditch? It’s not much of a statement.”

“But there’s the twine, and the execution just like at Katyn.”

“True, but a bullet to the back of the head is not a purely Russian invention. And naturally the victim would be bound. It does make one think, but if I were to go to all that trouble, why kill him in the East End, where it could easily be mistaken for random violence? Why not dump his body in front of his own embassy, or at the palace, or on Fleet Street so the newspaper people would get the first look at it? It does not add up.”

“You’re right,” I said. There was a knock at the door, and Kaz opened it for room service, delivering our morning coffee and toast. An envelope addressed to Kaz and a note on Dorchester stationery sat on a silver tray.

“The note is from the chef, and says with his compliments,” Kaz said, a quizzical look on his face. I took the cover off one of the bowls on the cart.

“Peaches,” I said. “Sixty-three crates, and this is what I end up with.” I thought I wouldn’t be able to eat them, but taste won out over remorse. “What’s in the envelope?”

“I don’t believe it,” Kaz said. “A note from Captain Kiril Sidorov.”

“What?”

“An invitation to the Soviet Embassy, tonight,” Kaz said, as he handed me the elegantly lettered invitation on creamy card stock, topped with the emblem of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics in full color, the red star over the globe, stamped with a golden hammer and sickle, a design leaving little doubt. Kaz read the note. Dear Lieutenant Kazimierz:

Since relations between our two governments do not allow for an official invitation to be sent to you for tonight’s cultural event, I have taken it upon myself to forward this personal invitation. Your most interesting colleague, Lieutenant Boyle, is also being invited, along with several other officers from Norfolk House. I sincerely hope you will attend and demonstrate that, in spite of the differences between us, we are united not only in our struggle against Fascism, but in the appreciation of fine opera.

Yours, Kiril Sidorov, Captain, Red Army Air Force

“Opera?” I said, trying to keep what I knew was a childish whine out of my voice.

“Billy, I have been invited to the embassy of the government responsible for the deaths of tens of thousands of my countrymen, the regime that invaded Poland in collusion with the Nazis, and all you can think of is the ordeal of sitting through an opera?”

“Sorry, gut reaction. Why do you think Sidorov sent it, whatever it’s for?”

“You tell me, you’ve met him.”

“He’s not what you’d expect. Relaxed, not all up in arms about the workers of the world. He obviously does his job well, but he doesn’t present a serious front.”

“You sound like you like the man.”

“Actually, I was thinking that he reminds me of you in some ways. Educated, urbane, speaks English perfectly and, hey, he likes opera, too.”

“There are some educated Russians,” Kaz said, granting the possibility that Sidorov wasn’t a swine. “The invitation says it’s a new film of a Russian opera, not a live performance. Ivan Susanin. I’ve not heard of it.”