you’d want to know.”
“Thank you,” I said, trying to work out what that meant in the mix of death, theft, intrigue, and betrayal I was trying to unravel. “There’s something I should tell you, too. Tadeusz is dead. I made up the story about his being alive in hopes it would get back to Sheila, and make her try again.”
“She was successful then?”
“Indirectly.” I told him the story of seeing Tad at St. Albans, and his reaction to hearing about Eddie and Sheila.
“The proverbial straw,” Cosgrove said, shaking his head. “How odd that we both have news about life and death, quite opposite in the telling. I must admit, I would have preferred the original stories to this outcome. Sheila Carlson seems to lack any moral center. Pity about the young Pole, truly.”
“His life was a nightmare. He said he wished he’d been killed with all the others.”
“He actually witnessed it? In Katyn?”
“Yes,” I said. “He told me the whole story. They pulled him out of line when they discovered they hadn’t finished questioning him. About one minute before he would have joined the bodies in the pit.”
“Dear God.”
Silence descended between us. Cosgrove rested his hands on the windowsill, weariness suddenly overcoming him. I waited, listening to the sounds drift up from the street below. Life flowing by, as if all the murders and lies in this war were to be expected and endured as a matter of course.
“There’s something else,” I said.
“What?” Cosgrove said, finally turning to face me.
“Kiril Sidorov knows about Diana Seaton, and her mission.”
“Impossible!”
“He didn’t mention her name, or where she is, but he did say he knew there was a woman I cared about on a mission behind enemy lines. How could he know that?”
“Do you know where she’s gone to?”
“I had Italy figured, probably Rome.”
“She didn’t tell you, did she?”
“No, she got angry when I asked. But I put a few clues together, and Rome seemed like a safe bet. Maybe the Vatican?”
“I shouldn’t comment,” Cosgrove said, in a way that confirmed I’d been right. “But if that were the case, Rome is filled with Communists. She may have come into contact with a cell, but I don’t know why that information would be routed back to London.”
“Would Kim Philby know? He seemed to be in charge of SOE.”
“He is, for Spain and the rest of the Mediterranean. He definitely knows about all missions in the area. Sharp chap, but I wouldn’t come at him directly with a question about a security breach. He’s apt to have you thrown in a military prison while he looks into it. I will ask discreetly.”
“Will you let me know what you find out? About Diana, I mean.”
“Yes, I will. I won’t be able to reveal details, but I can let you know if she’s come to harm.” It was my turn to look away. I’d heard more than I wanted to about Gestapo torture chambers, more than I wanted to believe. “Sorry, Boyle, that was clumsily said. I will tell you what I find.”
“Thank you,” I said, facing Cosgrove. This was difficult for him, I knew. He’d followed orders all his life, with a certainty that he served a good and righteous master. Now his master had upset everything he believed in, everything he counted on, and he found himself conspiring with the likes of me. It took courage and, for the first time, I saw the younger man in him. Or maybe I simply saw him for who he really was, without regard to age, uniform, or belief in the British Empire.
“Save your thanks. I may need them and more before all is said and done.”
“One more thing, Major. Is there any kind of shipment headed for the Soviet Embassy, something more valuable than booze or food?”
“Why do you ask?” Cosgrove narrowed his eyes, studying me, as if I’d come up with a really smart comment. He looked surprised.
“Is that a yes?”
“I can’t answer that question, Boyle, to say yes or no. Either would leave the impression I know of such a thing, one way or the other. But I would like to know what you suspect.”
“Scotland Yard says hijackings are down, so maybe it’s a rumor.”
“ What is just a rumor?” Cosgrove was angry now, and we were back on more comfortable ground.
“Just some loose talk. I’ll let you know if it comes to anything. Have you heard of the Three Kings?”
“I assume you’re not talking about a Christmas pageant, Boyle. If you mean the resistance group from Czechoslovakia, yes, I have. Last of the leaders was taken in 1941. Showed potential, as I recall. No sign from any of the survivors since, if there were any.”
“There is one. She’s here in London. Is that something Philby might be interested in?”
“Smart chap, Boyle; he may indeed. Could you produce this woman?”
“She runs a bordello for Archie Chapman. I know where she is. Producing her might be a bit difficult. She goes by Dalenka.”
“Well, MI6 would have no trouble if it comes to that. Could be a Nazi plant, but that would be useful in its own way. I’m certain Philby will want to know more, and information about Miss Seaton will be a small price to pay in exchange. I’ll see him later tonight, and will be able to speak to him alone.”
“You mean without the mysterious Mr. Brown?”
“Indeed.”
“Do you think he had anything to do with the killing of Egorov?” I asked, as I opened the office door for him. He put his weight on his cane, and frowned.
“Brown? No, I don’t. Egorov’s name never came up, and as you’ve seen, he is a bit of a braggart. I think if he had, he would’ve said something about it. I expect you’ll solve that mystery, Boyle. You seem to have talent in that direction. Be certain to tell me anything you learn about threats concerning shipments to the Soviets. Good day.”
I watched his rolling, limping gait as he left through the outer office. I’d had some strange conversations with the man, but this was the first one that had ended on a friendly note, which made it the oddest of them all.
“Let’s get to that pub,” I said to Big Mike.
“You’re the boss, Billy.”
A five-minute drive took half an hour in the thick fog. Vehicles hugged the curb to stay on their side of the road, and the late afternoon looked more like dusk. The only good thing was that the Germans wouldn’t be sending over bombers in this weather.
“Sheila Carlson could have walked in and out of the Rubens ten times,” Kaz said from his seat next to a window at the Bag O’Nails Pub.
“She probably won’t show herself in London,” I said, explaining that Mr. Brown had ordered her killed, and how she’d slipped away.
“There’s a man who doesn’t like loose ends, and a woman who is very careful,” Kaz said. “What do we do now?”
“Let’s eat,” Big Mike said. “It’s early, but we have a long drive ahead of us.”
“We can’t get to Dover in this soup,” I said.
“We should’ve left earlier, before it got this bad. Sam won’t like it that we hung around here and got stuck. So we’re leaving, after we eat.”
“OK,” I said, giving in to the lowest ranker at the table. No reason to argue with a corporal who has generals and colonels for pals and who could lift me three feet off the floor. Big Mike and I ordered ale, while Kaz stayed with Scotch. I really wanted vodka, God help me, but I resisted the hard stuff. Before long I was tucking into a plate of fish and chips. Kaz had chicken and turnips, while Big Mike indulged his taste for odd English dishes.
“Steak and kidney pie?” I said. “I didn’t know they still served that in the twentieth century.”
“It’s good,” Big Mike said. “Beefsteak, nice fluffy pastry, and the kidney tastes like liver. Sort of.” He chewed a bit, and took a long swallow of ale.
