He touched his fingers to his forehead and gave me a little salute.
“What brings you to Dover?” I asked, trying to hide my surprise. Archie leaned back in his chair and unbuttoned his overcoat. It was a double-breasted tweed, and there looked to be plenty of room within the folds for a hidden bayonet. Topper brought a large whiskey to the table and set it in front of his father, and then returned to his post at the bar. Archie brought the glass to his mouth, and wrapped his lips around the rim, drinking down half the liquid.
“You, Peaches. You brought us to Dover. Courtesy of a fellow at your motor pool, who shared your destination with us. You know, sometimes I can’t decide between violence and bribery. Both work so well, but each takes something out of you. Violence, it brings out the ugliness inside a man. And then regret, maybe. But bribery, that’s hard-earned cash, gone! But it leaves everyone happier, don’t you think?”
“What do you want?” I was in no mood for another philosophical discussion with Archie. He finished the rest of the whiskey and slammed the glass down for Topper to fetch another. He leaned in, his breath hot, woody, and sweet with alcohol, and stared, fixing me like a bird of prey. I couldn’t look away, I couldn’t move. Finally he leaned back, closed his eyes, and gave me an answer of sorts.
Here we will moor our lonely ship
And wander ever with woven hands,
Murmuring softly lip to lip,
Along the grass, along the sands,
Murmuring how far away are the unquiet lands.
“You know those unquiet lands, don’t you, Peaches?” Archie said, after a look around the room to see who might have admired his fine voice. “Isn’t it better to murmur softly, lip to lip?”
“All depends on what you’re murmuring,” I said.
“Ha! You don’t understand. You probably don’t even recognize your own Irish poet, William Butler Yeats. A fine fellow, for an Irishman.”
Yeats. It sounded familiar. I was sure that’s who had written the book of poetry we’d seen at the house in Shepherdswell. Kaz had read a few lines, and I struggled to remember, if only to show up this poetic maniac. “Yeats,” I said. “He wrote one of my favorites.”
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
