James Benn: Rag and Bone

I followed Kaz to the table. It was in a back corner, chairs arranged so they both faced the room. The place held about a dozen tables, with a small bar up front. It was almost full. Uniforms of blue, brown, and khaki draped most of the customers, male and female. The few folks in civilian clothes looked dowdy compared to everyone else. Clothes were rationed, as well as food, and the fashionable thing to do was to wear the oldest suit you had, to show you were doing your bit. Except for more wear and tear, that hadn’t changed since I’d last been in London.

“Backs to the wall?” I asked. “Are you expecting trouble, Kaz?”

“You’ve taught me to be observant, Billy. Remember when you told me I should start noticing more than women and artwork when I enter a room?”

“Yes, I do. Seems like a long time ago.”

“Yes. In many ways, it was. I’ve learned that it is wise to be in a position to observe things, and one cannot do that facing a wall.”

“True,” I said, wondering if there was anything else to it. Kaz’s eyes swept the room, checking each table. I did the same, and found nothing but the usual assortment of brass, dames, and civilians. “Are you looking for someone?”

“No. Just looking at faces, checking the exits,” he said with a sly grin. There was a new strength in Kaz’s face, a hard determination where before there had been wryness disguising a great hurt. But there was something else, something he was holding back.

Our waiter appeared, who seemed to be an old friend of his. Kaz chose the fillets of beef for us both, and selected a red wine that sounded expensive.

“To obtain a really good meal in London is still possible, but one must be ingenious,” he said in a low voice after the waiter left. “The government has prohibited charging any more than five shillings for a meal, to contain the black market. It makes it difficult to get some things, like a decent cut of beef, but if one orders a good bottle with it, the beef miraculously improves.”

“Everyone’s got an angle,” I said. “And I’m glad you worked this one out. The last thing I had to eat was a cheese sandwich that had been made in Gibraltar.”

Kaz laughed and crossed his legs, leaning back in his chair. I heard a faint, soft clunk and looked for the source. There was a lump in one of the lower front pockets of Kaz’s uniform jacket, and when he moved it had hit the side of the chair.

“Are you carrying, Kaz?”

“Just a precaution.”

“A precaution? In London? What kind of peashooter do you have there anyway?”

“A Colt. 32-caliber automatic. I understand it is a model favored by American gangsters for its ease of concealment. I read that Al Capone always carries one in his jacket pocket.”

“Kaz,” I said, leaning over the table. “What is going on? Don’t give me that gangster riff, and tell me what the hell you need a piece for to go out to a London restaurant.” The waiter brought the wine, and Kaz went through his tasting ritual, acting like nothing was wrong.

“Welcome back to England, Billy,” Kaz said, raising his glass in a toast.

“Cheers,” I said, watching his eyes. We drank, and I set my glass down. “Spill.”

“It is difficult to explain,” he began. “You have heard of the Polish officers found in the Katyn Forest, yes?”

“Yeah, that was back in the spring, right?”

“April. The Germans broadcast the news that the bodies of ten thousand Polish officers had been found in mass graves deep inside the Katyn Forest, in Russia. Outside of Smolensk, to be precise. They had just taken that area, and the local peasants told them where to look.”

“I remember. It was in the newspapers. The Russians said it was Nazi propaganda, that the Germans had captured those officers when they invaded. It would be just like the Nazis to kill their prisoners and blame it on us.”

“Us?”

“The Allies. Us. The good guys.”

“Yes, well, remember that Poland was attacked by both Germany and Russia. That’s what started this war. It is not so easy for Poles to think of Russia as an ally.”

“That doesn’t explain why you’re making like Al Capone.”

“Billy, we know it was the Russians. We have evidence that they murdered thousands of Polish officers, professors, and priests in 1940 while they were at peace with Germany. But the British government has sided with the Russians and their story of a German massacre, since it is easier than facing the truth. Your government has been silent, which is just as bad.”

“What kind of evidence?”

“Mountains of it. I can tell you the whole story later. For now, please understand that this is very dangerous. No one wants to hear the truth, since it may break the Allies’ alliance. Poland is being sacrificed, once again.”

“And you don’t like the idea of being sacrificed.”

“No. Neither did General Sikorski. You know what happened to him.” It had been big news. Four months ago, General Wladyslaw Sikorski, prime minister of the Polish Government in Exile and head of Polish military forces, had died in a plane crash.

“Yeah. It was an accident. His plane crashed after taking off from Gibraltar, right?”

“Correct about Gibraltar. But what you don’t know, because the news was suppressed, is that a military aircraft carrying the Soviet ambassador and other officials was parked next to Sikorski’s plane before he took off. No explanation has been given for the crash, even though the pilot survived.” Kaz cocked an eyebrow, full of meaning.

“Wait, why would the Russians kill Sikorski?”

“Because he was the leader of a free Polish government, and he insisted upon making known the truth about the Katyn Forest murders. Which made him a very inconvenient leader, for all parties concerned. Gibraltar is a British base, of course.” He took a long drink of wine and set the glass down, hard. Tiny spots of red appeared on the white tablecloth.

“Kaz, have you gone crazy?” I tried to keep my voice in a whisper. “Are you saying the British worked with the Russians to assassinate General Sikorski?”

“What could I be thinking? The British government condoning murder? I must sound like an Irishman. A crazy Irish rebel.” He lifted his glass and drank again, a satisfied smile curling around the rim of the glass.

“Are you in danger?”

“It is war, Billy. I am fighting for my country.”

“What exactly does the Polish Government in Exile have you doing anyway?”

“Investigating the Katyn Forest Massacre. So we may reveal the truth about it.”

“And that means you need to carry a gun? In London?”

“General Sikorski probably thought his plane was safe from sabotage in Gibraltar.”

I didn’t know what to say. I did know what not to say: that I was in London to investigate the murder of a lone Russian. The fillets of beef came, and I tried to concentrate on eating and not think about the knot in my gut. I didn’t like keeping a secret from Kaz, but I had a bad feeling about our reunion. He sounded like he was on a collision course with the Brits. And I knew that Uncle Ike valued unity among the Allies above all else. Kaz and his Polish pals were aiming to throw a monkey wrench into the workings of the alliance.

But that wasn’t what had my guts in a twist.

It was that, deep down in my Irish heart, I knew Kaz was right to keep his automatic close at hand.

Kaz was on the couch, the London Times scattered on the floor, drinking coffee and munching on toast from a room-service cart. He had a towel around his neck and looked like he’d been working out. Again. I pulled my bathrobe on and shuffled my way toward the aroma of coffee.

“Good morning, Billy. I thought about waking you to join me in calisthenics, but decided you needed a good sleep.”