James Benn: Rag and Bone

“For what?”

“The graves had already been dug. Pits, really, you couldn’t even call them proper graves. Excavated by heavy machinery. With the Poles stacked up in them, they didn’t need bulldozers, just muscle and shovels to cover the bodies. That was my job, to cover up the bodies. Much like everyone else is still doing.”

“You saw it all?”

“Yes. I stayed as far away as I could, but it was unavoidable. They marched them in from the railroad, all day. Thousands of Poles. Thousands of pistol shots. And my prisoners would work through the night, covering the bodies.”

“That was the assignment you carried out so well?”

“Only in part. After the last of the Poles were killed, they sent us into the forest one more time. They’d left one pit unfilled, for my prisoners. A small pit, to be sure, for one hundred men. It was hard labor for the guards, shooting them and then having to do the work of burying them. The prisoners went quietly, though. They’d seen so much killing, they seemed to accept it as inevitable.”

“Had you known?”

“No, not until that last day. There was nothing I could do if I didn’t want to end up in the pit myself. I used my pistol and a shovel that day, to show my men I was a proper comrade, ready to share their burden. I could not do otherwise, could not order men to murder and keep my own hands clean. That is what my father-in-law rewarded me for. My enthusiasm.”

There was a sharp rap on the window. It was time for Sidorov to go.

“Good-bye, Captain” was all I could say.

“Farewell, Billy. I’m afraid the confession has not helped my soul, and only unfairly burdened yours. But you asked.”

“I did,” I said, as Sidorov opened the door.

“Do you know what is odd?” Sidorov said, one foot out the door. “At night, I still pray. When I am alone, I pray. As if anyone might answer.”

The door slammed shut, and the Lancaster engines roared their desire to fly into the high, cold darkness. I stayed in the car and watched until the bomber was lost in the starry sky and silence cloaked the night. I knew then why Dad had never told me what he’d done to get Nunoout of trouble with the Mob. There are times when the wheels of justice have to go off course to set things right, and those times are best kept to yourself. I’d never ask again.

This time, as I entered the headquarters of MI5, I didn’t have to cool my heels in the foyer. I was expected, and a guard escorted me up to a small conference room, slightly larger than Cosgrove’s office, where the previous meeting had been.

“Ah, Lieutenant Boyle,” Cosgrove said warmly as I entered. There were eight men in the room, and they all closed their file folders as I came close. Folders with Most Secret stamped in red. “You know Kim Philby, of course. The others, well, you don’t really need to know their names. Sit.” There was a round of chuckles, and I took a seat next to Philby. Besides Cosgrove, his was the only face I recognized.

“Where’s Mr. Brown tonight?” I asked.

“Mr. Brown has been reassigned. Mr. Smythe has taken over his responsibilities, should you need to discuss anything with him. Now, tell us, how did things go with Sidorov?”

“Fine,” I said. “He’s on his way to Lisbon now.”

“Good,” one of the unnamed men said. “We can do without any further difficulties. Well done.”

“Tell me, Lieutenant Boyle,” Philby said as he lit his pipe. “Why did you ask to attend this meeting? Are you looking for a different posting? MI6 is always looking for new talent.”

“Thank you, sir, but no. I’d been curious if I could get Sidorov to agree to work for us-meaning the U.S. and Great Britain-thinking it would be useful to have someone on the inside in Moscow. I had a hunch he might go for it, but I needed more time. I decided to try and close the deal on the way to the airfield.”

“Close the deal?” Philby asked, arching an eyebrow. “In what way?”

“Talking to him, trying to figure out what motivated him. It seemed clear that if he wanted so badly to get out of going back, he must not be a big fan of the workers’ paradise. Turns out he hates his father-in-law, who’s some NKVD bigwig. Not too fond of his wife, either. She’s too much of a dedicated Communist for his taste. Apparently she works for the Propaganda Ministry and believes everything they publish. I finally got him to see it would be his best revenge, to use them against Stalin, as his cover.”

“Remarkable,” Cosgrove said.

“I also promised him a bankroll, if he ever managed to get out,” I said.

“Money is not a problem,” Philby said. “But how are we supposed to contact him?”

“ Corpora dormiunt vigilant animae,” I said. “That’s the password. He’ll repeat it back in English.”

“The bodies are asleep, the souls are awake,” Cosgrove said, slowly translating the Latin. “Fitting.”

“Excellent, Boyle,” Philby said. The others nodded, making notes. “It will be especially useful after the war.”

“And now as well,” one of the others said. “The more we know about Stalin’s postwar intentions, the better. We’ll put a man in touch with him.”

Philby rose to show me out. When we were in the hallway, with the door shut behind us, he leaned in close and spoke in a low voice. “I wanted to thank you for putting me onto Dalenka. We never knew a member of the Three Kings had survived, much less made it to London. She’ll be very valuable.”

“I’m glad,” I said as I shook hands with Philby. I hoped working for MI6 would be an improvement over the Chapman gang.

I left them to their pipes and files, and walked back to the Dorchester. It was a starry night, but no bombers flew over London. The crowds were out, filling the sidewalks and taking in the sights. I imagined Diana looking up at the stars in Rome, and felt certain that, at least for now, she was safe, doing what she needed to do. Someday, we’d walk arm in arm again, perhaps in London, perhaps in some city not yet free of the Nazis.

I thought about the eight men I’d left in that room. From Sidorov’ shints, I knew there was a spy in MI6. There was a good chance it was one of them, or somebody who worked for them or to whom they reported. That was why I’d wanted to ride with Sidorov, to give myself enough time with him to make my story plausible, and to leave no chance of its being checked. Also to give him a chance to convince me he didn’t deserve to be set up. But that hadn’t happened. Instead, he told me what I needed to do. To be the one who held him to account.

I didn’t know who it might be, and had to trust that Cosgrove would investigate discreetly, as he said he would. But I didn’t dare raise suspicions at this point; whoever it was, I wanted him to think he was safe and secure so he wouldn’t hesitate to send on information about Sidorov.

I had no idea how these things worked. It might be as simple as a telephone call or as complicated as a coded message left at a blind drop. Maybe the information would be sent to Moscow by the diplomatic pouch, or by radio. It might take days or weeks, but I was certain that justice of a sort would soon find Kiril Sidorov, as the NKVD took him in the dark of the night, arrested him as a traitor and spy, and threw him into Lubyanka Prison, perhaps in the same cell where Tadeusz Tucholskihad been held. Perhaps he’d have a trial, but it didn’t matter. The verdict was already decided. Kiril Sidorov had betrayed his family and the Motherland. The executioner would become the victim.

Perhaps then, souls might sleep. His, at least.