James Benn: Rag and Bone

Kaz had been released, and emerged from a very long bath at the Dorchester yearning to breathe free and eat hearty. In the hotel dining room that night, we gathered to toast his freedom: Harding, Big Mike and Estelle, and even Cosgrove. Estelle had done well on her surveillance duties, and Harding had given her and Big Mike a two-day pass so he could show her around town. They were in seventh heaven, and even Harding was in a good mood. Cosgrove was friendly, and told stories of the Boer War in South Africa, where he’d served alongside Winston Churchill himself. Kaz and Big Mike drank too much vodka, but I stayed away from the stuff. There was champagne and fine wine, and I drank enough to enjoy the taste and avoid a hangover. Everyone was so happy. I thought of Diana, remembering holding her tight on the deck of the destroyer, with smiling, laughing people all around us.

I should have known.

The summons had come around noon. I was in the office at Norfolk House, typing up my report. Harding told me Cosgrove had called, and that he’d pick me up at the front entrance, and to make sure my shoes were shined. He wasn’t as talkative as he’d been at dinner the night before, so I didn’t ask questions, spit shined my dress browns, and hoofed it to the street.

“Follow my lead,” Cosgrove said when I got into the car. It was a short ride. The driver let us off at the rear of the Foreign Office, and we entered a sandbagged bunker at the side of the white steps that led up to the government buildings, set along the Thames. Royal Marine sentries snapped a salute to Cosgrove, who showed his papers and was escorted in, with me tagging along.

“He’ll be down this way,” Cosgrove said, navigating the narrow corridors and cramped rooms as if he knew them well.

“Who?” I said. “What’s going on?”

“The prime minister called, Boyle. That’s what’s going on. Look sharp, you’re about to meet Winston. Guaranteed to be an experience.”

“Charles, good of you to come!” boomed a voice as we entered a room made small by desks, ventilation ducts, support beams, a wall-sized map of the world, and the unmistakable figure of Winston Churchill.

“At your service, Prime Minister,” Cosgrove said.

“No need to be so formal, Charles. I just asked an old friend over for a chat. Come, let’s go into the Cabinet Room, much quieter there.” The Cabinet Room was empty except for a square table that took up most of the space. At one corner sat a tray of bottles and glasses. Whiskey, brandy, water. Until now, Churchill had ignored me, and I stood back, uncertain of what to expect.

“Winston,” Cosgrove said with an easy familiarity that surprised me, in spite of the stories he’d told last night. “This is Lieutenant Boyle, the fellow you asked about.”

“Lieutenant,” Churchill said, “I hope you’ll join two old warhorses in a drink. Whiskey and water, I should think. Never liked whiskey as a young man, until I went abroad. When I was a subaltern in India and there was a choice between dirty water and dirty water with some whiskey in it, I chose the latter. I have always, since that time, made a point of keeping in practice.”

“Yes, sir” was all I could get out.

“Oh dear,” said Churchill, “we’ve made you nervous, Lieutenant Boyle. I should have remembered. Charles and I were lieutenants together in South Africa, during the Second Boer War. We wouldn’t have enjoyed being dragged in to drink with two old men, would we?”

“Depends on their liquor,” Cosgrove said. Churchill laughed and passed the glasses around.

“Sit, gentlemen,” Churchill said. He settled in and produced a cigar from his jacket pocket. He wore the familiar three-piece pin-striped suit, with a gold watch chain decorating the vest, and a polka-dot bow tie. He worked at lighting the cigar, took a drink, and smacked his lips. For a moment, he reminded me of Archie Chapman, the bon vivant gangster in his underground lair.

“I understand, Lieutenant Boyle, that you’ve solved the puzzle of these dead Russians. One of their own, I take it?”

“Yes, sir, in league with a woman. An Englishwoman. Apparently he recruited her as an informant, and they fell in love. Their plan was to get some money, new identities, and disappear.”

“Leaving a corpse behind we’d think was Captain Sidorov,” Cosgrove added. “Apparently he was decent enough to want to spare his family retribution.”

“Stalin is cold and ruthless,” Churchill said. “As is their entire system of government. This Sidorov then is not entirely without scruples?”

“He killed when his plan was threatened,” I said. “But much of it centered around protecting his wife and daughter from Article 58, if you’re familiar with that, sir.”

“The law that would make his wife and child enemies of the people,”Churchill said. “I wonder if it will still apply.”

“I don’t know, this is a criminal matter, not political,” I said.

“It is all politics, Lieutenant. It was politics when he dressed up the first murder to be blamed on the Poles. It has been political, with ambassadors hounding me; Stalin-Stalin himself-demanding that our man in Moscow explain what is happening. You’re aware of the Polish situation?”

“You mean the massacre at Katyn? Yes.”

“The less said about that, the better. There’s more to this than Katyn, Lieutenant. The Poles are agitating for their prewar borders after the fighting is over. But they took their eastern lands from the Russians in the 1920 war, so who can say which is right? Now the Poles in London want us to take sides, and the Americans, too. And at what danger to this grand alliance? Do the Poles ever think of that?”

“I imagine they think of freedom, sir.”

“Sadly, Poland is occupied by the Nazis. Freedom cannot be thought of until we rid Europe of Hitler and his regime. That can only be done in conjunction with the Soviet Union. Stalin may be a beast, but he’s a beast at war with the beast at our door.”

Why I was here began to sink in. I drank my whiskey and water and kept my mouth shut.

“I’ve spoken with the commissioner,” Churchill said. I knew who he meant: Sir Philip Game, commissioner of the Metropolitan Police.

“Sidorov is going free,” I said.

“He will go home to the Soviet Union,” Churchill said. “Hardly free. At this juncture, we cannot allow any potential for rupture in our relations with Stalin. He could see this as a sign of our taking sides between the Moscow Poles and the London Poles. Too much of this affair has been wrapped up with the Katyn matter. The murder of Egorov, the informants at the Rubens Hotel, the attempted murder of that poor Polish boy. The arrest of Lieutenant Kazimierz.”

“You’re very well informed, Prime Minister,” I said. I knew it was hopeless to say anything else. In Churchill’s mind, the release of one Russian killer was a small price to pay for insuring all those other Russians kept killing Germans.

“I’d like to be informed as to your attitude, young man. Charles tells me you have a sharp mind, but that you can be unorthodox. I need to know this matter will be settled. Prosecuting Sidorov and creating a breach with Stalin will not help the Poles, or us. Only the Nazis will benefit.”

I told him he had nothing to worry about. After all, I was drinking his whiskey.

“ So what’s the plan?” I asked Cosgrove as we got back into his staff car. I really wanted to ask him about my sharp mind, but I kept my curiosity to myself.

“Sidorov is going home with the story he told. Attacked by a downed German flier while assisting the Home Guard. Found wandering days later, severe concussion. No reference to Sheila Carlson. It’s been worked out privately with Ambassador Ivan Maisky.”