James Benn - Rag and Bone

“Billy,” Kaz said. “You must find Sidorov. If they think I killed him too…” He put his head in his hands and was quiet. Flack nodded to the constable, who led Kaz out of the room.

“I had to do it,” Flack said, after the door closed.

“Do you think he did it? Any of it?”

“He could have. Any one of them. The desire for revenge can be powerful.”

“In the heat of the moment, yes. But four, or even three?”

“Not for me to say. All I know is that those in exalted positions are demanding the case be solved. An arrest is progress, and he’s our only suspect.”

“Yeah, the Poles make great sacrificial lambs. Can I go now?”

Flack sighed. “Of course,” he said, nodding to the constable, who opened the door. His face held the weariness of cops everywhere who have heard it all. The protestations of innocence, the certainty that a friend, brother, lover could not possibly have done it. I felt the impossibility of communicating that to another human being who had not shared the terror, heartbreak, and friendship Kaz and I had. Flack had his job to do, and to him, Kaz was a legitimate suspect, and I could appreciate the logic in putting him on ice for a while. Still, I didn’t feel like cutting him any slack.

“You done with the crime scene?” I asked.

“Yes. I’m waiting for the preliminary medical report now. Take a look, not that there is much to see. That path is well trodden, and between the rains, the sentry, the two of you, the constable, and the victim, there’s not much in the way of discernible footprints.”

Flack was right. The path was hard-packed dirt, soaked from last night’s rain. The grass around it had been heavily trampled. A deep rust-colored stain showed where the head had lain. The stone was gone, but there were plenty like it strewn about. A five-foot stone wall, one of many encircling the castle and the outer buildings, had been hit by a bomb or a shell. Shattered stones were scattered about, and it would have been a simple thing for someone behind Vatutin to reach down, scoop one up, and smash him in the head. He might never have heard it coming.

“Billy,” Bull Dawson called out as he strode toward me. “I just heard. What the hell is going on?”

“Rak Vatutin was murdered last night. Right here,” I said, pointing to the matted grass and bloodstain. “Scotland Yard thinks Kaz did it.”

“Your Polish buddy? Did he?”

“No. I found him here, kneeling beside the corpse. He’d found him a minute before me. But the British government is getting nervous about Russians being found dead or beaten on their turf, so they grabbed the best suspect they had.”

“Jesus, Billy, it’s not just the British. I’ve got a passel of Soviets here who want to call Operation Frantic off. They all think they’re next, and I can’t blame them. With Vatutin dead and Sidorov vanished, they have no secret police to watch them, and I think it makes them more nervous than being watched.”

“Have you contacted their embassy?”

“Had to go through the chain of command. Right up to Ike. It’s in all the papers, he just got back from the States this morning. Some poor bastard’s probably briefing him on the situation right now. It’ll be up to him to decide what to do next. I hope he can salvage this; we’ve put a lot into it.”

“Jesus Christ on the mountain,” I said.

“Pardon?”

“Ike’s favorite curse,” I said. I’d bet dollars to doughnuts that Colonel Harding was hearing it right now. I wondered what Big Mike had found out in London. “Did any of the Russians have an idea where Sidorov is?”

“Dead, they all figure. Like Vatutin. And Egorov. What do you think?”

“I think I need to get some sleep,” I said. “I’ve been up all night, I’m tired and hungry, and can’t think beyond a cup of coffee. I’ll be at the Lord Nelson Inn. Let me know if Sidorov turns up, OK? Maybe he made a lady friend last night.”

“He should be so lucky,” Bull said.

I walked to the inn, knowing I had a lot of work in front of me, and although it felt like I was letting Kaz down, I knew I had to get some food and at least a few hours’ shut-eye, otherwise I’d fall asleep at the wheel. Of course, that assumed I knew where to drive and what to do next. It also assumed I had a vehicle, I realized. I needed to get hold of Big Mike fast.

I walked along the promenade, where the night before I had searched for Kaz. The sun was at my back and the wind in my face as I passed a couple arm in arm, as if they were on holiday and not in a town under shell fire from occupied France. Both in civilian clothes, they were all smiles, the war a mere distraction. Could civilians under bombardment and artillery fire block out the war, and find time for themselves? In uniform, the war and the service were all consuming. The army dictated where I went, what I did, how I dressed, and whom I spent time with. I had almost gotten used to it, and forgotten what it must be like to take a break, enjoy an interlude from the day-to-day grind.

How long before Diana and I would enjoy a day like that, in civvies or khaki? Weeks? Months? Never?

Get a grip, I told myself, as I left the couple behind, arm in arm, gazing out over the channel. It was their time to be moony, not mine. Kaz was under arrest, and I needed a plan. I breathed in the crisp air, trying to force oxygen into my lungs and eventually my brain. I needed to think clearly, and the all-night session with Flack had worn me down. My eyes felt gritty and my legs heavy and clumsy as I opened the door to the inn.

Breakfast was being served and I made that my first priority. I sat at the same table I had last night and thought about the circles of condensation from my glass. Some connected, some separate. Vatutin’s murder was another circle. If Kaz hadn’t killed him, who had, and why? How did it all fit together? Or rather, which circles fit and which stood alone?

Tadeusz Tucholski, Sheila Carlson, Gennady Egorov, Rak Vatutin, Osip Nikolaevich Blotski, Archie Chapman, Valerian Radecki, Kiril Sidorov, and now Kaz. Mr. Brown, Cosgrove, Kim Philby, and all the invisible intelligence agents circling around the Russians and Poles as they fought their diplomatic war within a war.

I visualized another circle, one for the mysterious shipment that Archie was after, but I couldn’t keep all the circles straight, my eyelids heavy with weariness as I finished breakfast. Ideas swirled through my mind as I took the stairs to my room, disjointed images from the past few days. The bomber belly-landing in the field; Archie with his bayonet and poetry; the pebbles on the nightstand in Shepherdswell; Topper in the bordello with Dalenka; the look of incomprehension on Vatutin’s face as I gave him the message. I was missing something, something that I’d thought of, or had to do, I wasn’t sure. I barely got my jacket, shoulder holster, and shoes off before I fell into bed, fatigue driving my head into the pillow.

I couldn’t tell if I was awake and thinking, or asleep and dreaming. The same images floated through my mind. Topper gave me a message, but it wasn’t Dalenka playing the piano, it was Diana. Vatutin was in the room, too, looking confused. Topper got angry, with me, I think, and then they were all gone, except for Dalenka, who had taken Diana’s place at the piano. Why was Topper mad? Where was Diana?

Then I was on the road to Canterbury, but I was walking, and I was with Kiril Sidorov. We were escaping the Merciless Parliament, although I didn’t know if they were after him or me or both of us. Sidorov was telling me about Joey Adamo, the Detroit hood in Big Mike’s story, the guy who was adopted and ran out on his old man, only to end up in a steamer trunk. He thought it was funny, and I asked him why he was laughing. He said, Did you ever think it might not have been Joey in the trunk?