James Benn - Rag and Bone

“Good luck,” I said. “And let me know if anything comes up about Sidorov. Something’s not right there.”

“I still wonder about your Polish friend, you know,” Scutt said. His raised eyebrows invited a comment as we took the steps down to the main door.

“I talked with him,” I said, and shared Kaz’s thoughts about the placement of the body. “Not the best way to make a political statement.”

“Perhaps not. Perhaps it was more personal than political. Or both. Lieutenant Kazimierz could have had words with Egorov, at some diplomatic function. Who knows?”

Not me. Scutt promised to alert the area constables to watch for the truck, but he was only going through the motions, the same sort of thing I’d said many a time when an automobile was stolen or a purse snatched, knowing it would only be dumb luck or a dumber crook that would see it returned.

The rain had stopped, so I walked to Norfolk House, glad for the excuse to delay seeing Colonel Harding. Since he was regular U.S. Army, he was apt to look upon the truck and peaches as his personal property. Scutt could afford to chuckle about it, since I’d only gotten what I deserved. But Harding wasn’t interested in failure, and except for breakfast, I had nothing to show for my gamble.

“Go on in, Billy, they’re waiting for you,” Big Mike said as I entered the office. He nodded to the open conference-room door, and winked. I wanted to ask him what he was so happy about, but Harding appeared at the door and told me to get in, pronto. He sounded mildly angry and agitated, but that was SOP with him. I had expected a full-bore lecture, maybe a demotion, but nothing like that was in the air.

“You know Colonel Dawson, I take it,” Harding said, nodding toward Bull, who sat at the conference table, a large map spread out in front of him. “And Major Cosgrove.”

“Sure. I mean, yes, sir.”

“Boyle,” Cosgrove said, nodding slightly, his eyes briefly darting up to meet mine. I didn’t count Major Charles Cosgrove of MI5, the British Secret Service, among my friends. The feeling would have been mutual, except he was too much of a stiff upper lip to admit to the emotion necessary to say what he thought of me. There had been bad blood between us since he used me in one of his plots, back when I first arrived in London, and worse blood since the business in Northern Ireland a few weeks ago. He had a habit of manipulating people, and some of those people didn’t live long enough to return the favor. I had, and someday I intended to.

“Good to see you, Billy,” Colonel Bull Dawson said. Him I was glad to see. He looked spiffy in his Class A uniform, all decked out for a visit to HQ in London. His brass buttons gleamed, and the silver wings perched over his heart sparkled. His eyes, marked by crow’s-feet from constant squinting into the sun at twenty-five thousand feet, flickered between Cosgrove and me. I could tell he sensed trouble, the way he could probably pick up on a Me-109 coming out of a cloud formation.

“Same here, Colonel,” I said. “Unless there’s a pack of MPs in the next room.”

“That’s what we’re here to talk about, Boyle,” Harding said, taking his seat at the head of the table. I sat next to Bull, and Harding gave him the nod.

“Ever since you hightailed out of High Wycombe, I’ve been asking around about you, Billy,” Bull said. “You seemed like a stand-up guy in Northern Ireland, but I had to be sure. Everyone agrees, you get the job done. Some apparently wish you did it a bit more subtly, but I’m a guy who drops five thousand-pound bomb loads for a living, so subtle doesn’t carry much weight with me. I’ve asked for the highest-level clearance for you on this matter. I briefed Colonel Harding this morning, with Major Cosgrove’s permission.”

“Major Cosgrove can call the shots on that?” I said.

“Yes, I can, Lieutenant Boyle, and it won’t surprise you to know I do have concerns about your conduct. Still, it does make sense to bring you in on this, at least to minimize any damage you might inadvertently do. I already had to speak to Inspector Scutt and tell him to stop asking questions on your behalf. He asked me why the Russians had stopped going to High Wycombe, and over an open line! Lord knows what else you or he may blurt out.”

“You mean like the flights to Poltava and Mirgorod?” I said, putting together the sum total of my knowledge to see if it would get a reaction from Cosgrove.

“This proves my point, Harding! Lieutenant Boyle should be confined to quarters until this matter is completed. And not a suite at the Dorchester, either!” Cosgrove turned beet red, puffing out his cheeks as he tried to control his anger. He was a big guy, around the waist anyway, and I almost worried about him blowing a fuse.

“That’s Colonel Harding, Major” was the reply. The fact that Cosgrove worked for MI5 and could have shown up in an admiral’s getup didn’t matter. His cover was as a major, a rank low enough not to attract attention but high enough to get a decent table at a fancy restaurant. Harding outranked him and expected the military courtesies. “The fact that Lieutenant Boyle has figured out that much means we’re right to brief him now. Bull, proceed.”

“Billy,” he began, playing the peacemaker. “Major Cosgrove is in charge of security for the Soviet personnel. This includes worrying about any potential threats from emigre anti-Communist groups in London. It’s enough to make any sane man jumpy.”

“OK,” I said. “I understand. I only know about the two locations because I noticed they’d been marked on the map in your office. And of course I would’ve stumbled upon the Russian connection from the reaction when I asked about it. The transfer of Estelle Gordon was a tip-off that I was onto something.”

“That was a bit heavy-handed,” Bull said, working at not giving Cosgrove a look. “But we have to be sure word doesn’t leak out about this. London is full of rumors, gossip, and informers. You sure you haven’t heard anything else?”

“Nope. Well, except that the Royal Navy is in on it somehow.”

“Good lord, the man’s a menace,” Cosgrove said, mainly to himself and the ceiling.

“Operation Frantic Joe,” Bull said.

“Now simply called Operation Frantic,” Cosgrove put in, as if reminding a child of a forgotten lesson.

“Right,” Bull said. “The idea began as a response to Stalin’s demand for a second front against the Germans. The Soviets wanted us to do something to take the pressure off them on the Eastern Front. We will, but on our schedule, not theirs. For now, we do have long-range bomber forces, and can put them to work pretty damn quick.”

“Did Frantic Joe refer to Joe Stalin?” I asked.

“Yes, but it was thought to be more diplomatic to shorten it to Operation Frantic. We’re going to set up Eighth Air Force airfields in the Soviet Union, flying shuttle missions back and forth between there and our bases in England. That’s what they brought me back from Northern Ireland for, to plan optimal routes for our bombers.”

“So we’ll be hitting targets on the Eastern Front for the Russians?”

“Yes, plus our own strategic targets. You see, the plan has a dual purpose. It’ll play havoc with the German air defenses. They won’t know if we’ll be flying back to the base we started at, or straight through the Reich. Right now, their air defenses try to intercept us on the way to the target, or on the way home. Once we’re set up with the Russians, they’ll have to spread themselves thin, since we can fly to bases in Italy as well.”

“That’s what the Russians were doing at High Wycombe,” I said. “Planning for their end of Operation Frantic.”

“Exactly. No one was supposed to know. Then you show up asking questions, and everyone gets nervous. So here we are. We need you inside the tent, Billy. Just keep your mouth shut about it.”