Rag and Bone (37 page)

Now that my ladder’s gone

I must lie down where all the ladders start

In the foul rag and bone shop of the heart
.

“By God, you do have a brain, Peaches. Who would have thought you cared for anything but chasing killers and thieves? I’m impressed, and glad you know something of your heritage, misguided as it may be. But enough talk of verse, it’s time for straight prose. Did you deliver your lines?”

“Yes, this afternoon.”

“To Vatutin, shut up in that great fortress?”

“Yes. Is that why you followed me?”

“What we set out to do is important, Peaches. When I shake on something, it gets done. No regrets, no looking back. Now, tell me, did you get a reply?”

“No. Actually, he looked confused.”

“Good! Confusion to our enemies! Ha! Now if this works well, I will owe you for your troubles. Wait for the reply to come. Do those Russians ever leave the castle?”

“I’m not sure,” I said, not wanting Archie running after Russians with bayonet drawn. “Maybe with an escort.”

“We will watch, Peaches. We will wait and watch, only a short distance away, but unseen. Just around the corner like.” With that, Archie winked, rose, and walked out.

“Thanks, Billy,” Topper said, as he pushed off from the bar. “No hard feelings about following you down?”

“No, I should’ve thought about it. You wouldn’t have been hard to spot in that line of military traffic.”

“Don’t count on it. We have a staff car of our own.”

“Tell me, Topper,” I said. “Do you still want to join up? Like when you first tried and your dad got you out?”

His eyes went hard, and his easy manner vanished. “You shut your mouth, Boyle. I don’t take that talk from anyone.”

“I was serious. I’m not questioning you. But others will, after the war. Like those who lost their men, all those Shoreditch boys who joined up and bought the farm. And the ones who come back, who know hard steel and killing, they’ll look at you, too, and wonder if you deserve to lord it over them. Archie’s a tough one, he’s seen the elephant, they’ll respect him. But how long does he have? How long before it’s Topper Chapman running things? Hey, it may work out fine, they may think you were smart to stay a civilian. I know I wish I had.”

Topper was rigid, his face red, lips compressed. I watched his hands, figuring there was a one-in-five chance he’d pull a knife or use his knuckles on me. Instead, he stuffed them into his pockets, and followed his father out the door. I let out a sigh. I didn’t know where it might lead, but I thought this might be where I could drive a wedge between Archie and Topper. Threaten Topper with the loss of respect, and threaten Archie with the loss of his son. I didn’t like it much, but it was all I had.

I got myself another ale and tried to figure what I had that added up. A drunken friend wandering the streets, feeling betrayed. A crazy criminal waiting for a message from a Russian. Something obviously valuable making its way to the Russian Embassy. A Russian traitor, feeding information to the Chapman gang. Or was “traitor” too strong a word? A crooked Russian like Rak Vatutin, selling, not feeding, information. But what was he after? What could he take back with him to the Soviet Union that would convert to wealth in a Communist system? It still didn’t make sense.

But I did have something new. Egorov had been in charge of the hijacked shipments, and he’d been a stickler for the rules. That meant either he was the stoolie, or someone else was and it was making him look bad. Based on what Vatutin and Sidorov had said, and how the other Russians had reacted to questions about him, my money was on the latter. Had Egorov gone after the tipster, and found out more than was healthy for him? Maybe Archie and his gang had eliminated him after all and tried to pin it on the Poles.

I took a drink, hoping the confused swirl of facts in my mind would settle into some sort of pattern. They didn’t, but at least the ale tasted good. I set the glass down, and noticed the wet circles where the glass had sat on the wood tabletop. Some overlapped, some stood alone. That was the problem, figuring out which facts overlapped and which didn’t. Was Sheila Carlson out of the picture? Was her circle gone, disappeared, dead? I set the glass down again. Egorov, dead. Again. Eddie Miller, dead. Two separate circles. Valerian Radecki, his circle overlapped Eddie’s. Tadeusz Tucholski had his own circle, crowded by Sheila, Eddie, Kaz, and Radecki. Sheila Carlson’s circle went down over Eddie’s, Radecki’s, and Kaz’s. The glass went down for Sidorov, taking in Eddie and Egorov. I gave Vatutin a circle, linked to Egorov and Sidorov. It was getting messy, which didn’t surprise me. Then the Chapman outfit got one, taking in Egorov, since he was found on their turf, and Vatutin. But that still didn’t tell the whole story. Vatutin might be just the messenger. It could be any of the Russians, Sidorov or even someone back at the embassy, it was impossible to tell.

I wiped away the condensation with the palm of my hand, my suspicions damp and clammy on my skin. A group of three Russian airmen and a couple of Royal Navy officers entered, the pale blue Soviet Air Force uniforms contrasting with the deep blue of the British Navy. The Russians looked away when I glanced in their direction, probably uncomfortable after our
earlier talks. What was it like, always wondering who was denouncing whom? How different was it in Soviet Russia or Nazi Germany? In both places, you had to appear purer than pure if you didn’t want to end up at the end of a rope or against the wall. What choice did they have but to be suspicious?

I finished my ale and got up to leave. No sense ruining their party. I pulled on my coat and stepped outside, deciding to look for Kaz. I nearly collided with Sidorov, who was half turned, looking up at the night sky.

“Look,” he said, pointing to the southwest, and I understood he meant to listen. The distant, insistent drone of engines came from a corner of the sky. He opened the door and spoke in rapid Russian, and soon we were all out in the street, watching and listening. The stars were hidden behind clouds to the east, but to the south and west the sky was clear.

“There!” someone shouted, his hand pointing to a barely visible twinkling, as the German bombers passed in front of stars, their engines growing louder and louder. The Russians were jabbering excitedly to each other as the antiaircraft batteries around the castle started up, first the 40mm Bofors guns streaming tracers skyward, followed by intense beams of searchlights stabbing at the sky, trying to get a fix on the direction of the bomber stream. Then the big guns, 3.75-inch antiaircraft cannon, began blasting the sky, sending up shells rigged to explode at various altitudes.

The searchlights caught first one, then two, planes, providing a target for the gunners. The aircraft were passing Dover at an angle, and I could see the tracers and explosions arc toward the northeast, following the German bombers as they headed toward the Thames and the London docks to the north. The firing continued for another minute, and then the guns went silent and the searchlights switched off, leaving us in stunned silence and darkness.

Sidorov grabbed my shoulder and pointed, saying something rapidly in Russian. It was an orange flame, flying through the
night sky, going down, down to the ground, shot out of the sky by the Dover air defenses. Another smaller flame lost altitude but held its course, descending and growing larger as it disappeared over the northern horizon to the cheers of the crowd.

“That’s two less for London to worry about, lads,” one of the Royal Navy officers said.

“Aye,” said a constable who’d joined the crowd. “But it’ll be another long night for us and the Home Guard. The crew could’ve bailed out before she went over. They could be anywhere from the cliffs or as far up as Shepherdswell if they waited another minute.”

“In Russia,” one of the Soviets said, “you would not have to search. You would find only their corpses.”

“Well, sir, this is England, so we must search,” the constable said, before addressing two men in civilian clothes. “Bert, Tom, get your gear, we’ll form up at town hall in thirty minutes. Good night, gentlemen,” he said to us.

“Good night, Constable, and good luck with your search,” Sidorov said, his politeness belying his earlier cold-blooded comments. “Come, Billy, let us toast the downing of the bombers and the search for prisoners,” he said, clapping me on the shoulder like a brother in arms.

“OK,” I said, figuring on one last drink, then I’d look for Kaz. Maybe I could get something out of Sidorov, if only I knew what questions to ask.

We sat in the corner, where Sidorov could keep an eye on his fellow Russians, watching for any lessening of Bolshevik fervor. He’d ordered ale with me at the bar, and as he tasted it, he grinned.

“Good English ale,” he said. “Better than our Zhiguli.”

“Is that a type of ale?”

“No, it is the only brand of beer we have. Soviet efficiency.”

“I didn’t know Russians were big beer drinkers,” I said.

“We have a passion for vodka, it is true. Beer is what you drink when you’ve had too much vodka the night before. Or
when you want to keep a clear head. But still, you drink.” I thought how much that applied to me, since I’d started spending so much time with Poles and Russians.

“Is it true, what he said about searching for downed fliers in Russia?” I pointed to the men at the other table.

“After what the Germans did when they invaded, it is doubtful that any aircrew who survived parachuting would also survive an encounter with our people. Yes, it is likely that only their corpses would be found. Stripped naked, every item of clothing gone. Even if a peasant were willing to let a German live, he wouldn’t let him be taken away wearing warm boots and a leather flying jacket.”

“That constable must have sounded quaint to you.”

“The English and the Americans, I believe, have many beers and ales. We have one. It makes the choice easy. Drink or do not drink. Just as we do not have the luxury of deciding how to deal with our enemies any more than with our thirst. Kill or be killed. Those are our choices.”

“There’s a difference between killing in combat and killing a prisoner for his boots.”

“Ah, yes. A fine distinction. One made in a warm room, drinking excellent ale, with no security police listening. Except for myself, of course,” Sidorov said with a disarming grin, leaning in closer, his voice low, his eyes burning into mine. “But in the Soviet Union, mercy given to the Fascist invader may be interpreted as disloyalty. So the living prisoner with his hands up, begging for his life, may be your death sentence. He could be a dagger aimed straight at your heart. What would you do, Billy? Take a chance and let him live, this man who dropped bombs on your village, who machine-gunned refugees on a crowded road? Have a man like me come and question you, to ask why you did not save the state the trouble of housing and feeding this criminal? To ask, are you perhaps sympathetic to the Fascists? Is that why did you not take his boots, his leather belt, his gloves, his coat? Why did you not at least beat him, comrade?”

“You sound like you’ve spoken those lines before,” I said. It was all I could say. I was almost ready to confess.

“Every actor has his choice. To speak the lines or have no lines to speak. Do you see how easy life is in the Soviet Union? A multitude of choices is dizzying to the average Russian. It is why I must shepherd my flock, like a priest, to keep them holy.”

“A priest also forgives and shows mercy.”

“Another time, perhaps, there will be mercy. For now, the Soviet Union must be merciless to our enemies, wherever we find them. Does that shock you, Billy? Do you show mercy to criminals in your city?”

“Back home, we enforce the law. The same law for all.”

“Ah, yes. The same law for all. With liberty and justice for all, is that not what you Americans pledge? Yet you keep your Negroes in ghettos, and hang them when they step out of line, do you not?”

“No, I don’t. It happens, but it’s against the law.”

“So the police in your southern states, they apprehend the murderers of Negroes, and bring them to justice?”

“Listen, I don’t make excuses for what’s wrong in my country. Maybe you should do the same.”

“Forgive me, Billy, I did not mean to offend. We are taught that your country is wild territory, with gangsters, capitalists, and racists oppressing the workers and peasants.”

“We don’t have peasants. We have poor folks. And we have our share of the rest, too. But right now I’m more concerned about who oppressed Gennady Egorov and why. What do you really think?”

“Between us? I would not repeat this in front of anyone else, but he was an arrogant idiot, and angered everyone he worked with. Half a dozen people would have gladly killed him, and more were glad to hear of his death. We must demand a public investigation, but no one but his father will care, and he is in Moscow.”

“Of those half a dozen, how many would have thought of pinning it on the Poles?”

“All, I’d say. The crisis over the rightful Polish government and the Katyn affair has preoccupied us. It would be an obvious ruse.”

“OK, since we’re talking off the record, how about telling me about that shipment?”

“What shipment? More food?”

“No, not food. The big shipment, coming any day now, the really valuable one,” I said, as if I knew more.

“Sorry, my friend, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“What about Vatutin? Would he know anything about it?”

“Rak? Oh no, he’s a good one for taking orders, but that’s all. If I don’t know about it, I can assure you he doesn’t. Now excuse me, I need to meet him at the rugby club. Those lads can almost outdrink a Russian.”

I watched Sidorov talk with the tableful of Russian and English officers before he left. He had a casual way about him that put westerners at ease. His style was suave, which made him likable, all laughs and handshakes. But his countrymen eyed him as he left, and they seemed to breathe a perceptible sigh of relief as the door closed on his back.