“Glad to meet you, Roy. As I said, I don’t want to be a pain. I know what we’d think in Boston if the FBI told us to cooperate with a stranger.”
“You’d think he was a troublemaker, looking either to claim the glory for himself if things go well or to find a scapegoat if they don’t.”
“You’ve given this some thought.”
“We’ve been handed a hot one, all right, and I don’t much like the idea of some Yank second-guessing our every move.” Flack leaned forward in his seat, his eyes narrowing as he studied me. All I could see were dark brown pupils, two little pebbles of suspicion. “So tell me the truth. Why are you here?”
“Is this why Scutt left? So you could give me the third degree?”
“Detective Inspector Scutt left because we’ve been chasing those buggers for thirty-six hours straight. I can hardly keep up with the man myself, so I have no patience left, especially for an American spy.”
“General Eisenhower recently sent an American officer home because he called another officer on the staff a British son of a bitch. If he’d called him a plain SOB, he’d still be working for Ike. Instead, he’s on a slow boat home in disgrace.”
“All right, Lieutenant Boyle, I will rephrase. I don’t want any son of a bitch second-guessing or spying on us. Is that clear?”
“I’m not a spy. I don’t even think I’m a son of a bitch.” We stared at each other, the usual territorial cop’s pissing contest in full swing.
“Maybe not,” Flack said, leaning back in his chair, releasing some of the tension from his furrowed brow. “Why does General Eisenhower care about a dead Russian in London? Last the newspapers said, Eisenhower was still in Italy.”
“Who am I to argue with the press?” I raised an eyebrow, trying to signal knowledge that wasn’t yet public. Plenty of military types knew about Uncle Ike’s promotion, but the official announcement was being handled at levels even higher than his.
“Oh. For the big show? Really?” Flack pursed his lips, giving the idea a try.
“Really,” I said. “But you didn’t hear it from me.”
“All right then,” Flack said. “For the sake of Allied unity, here goes. First, meet Captain Gennady Egorov of the Soviet Air Force.” Flack tossed four photographs onto the desk. The first was a picture of a man lying facedown, his hands tied behind his back. It looked like the kind of string you use to wrap parcels, but lots of it. He was dressed in a military-style overcoat, and there was dark splotch on the back of his head. The second was a close-up of the head. The entrance wound from a bullet was clearly visible, a hole dead center at the back of his skull. The third picture had been taken from several steps away. It showed the body lying between two stacks of bricks, like the ones I’d seen at cleared bomb sites. The final photograph was of his face, contorted by the effect of the bullet, but not so much as to disguise his features. Blond hair, a faint mustache, thin lips, and prominent cheekbones. Maybe a good-looking guy, or maybe short of that. His eyes were open, dull with death.
“Where was he found?”
“In Shoreditch. Near Spitalfields Market. In a tunnel of bricks. Do you know London?”
“I was stationed here a while ago. That’s over by St. Paul’s?”
“Close by, but east of there. Directly north from the Tower, if you’ve time to play the tourist. Kids found him in the morning, when they came out of the Underground shelter.”
“You mean the subway-the Tube? People still sleep down there?”
“Not in the numbers they used to. Back in the Blitz, we had nearly two hundred thousand people sleeping in the Underground stations. Nowhere near that now, of course, but I’d say there’s two or three thousand every night.”
“Why? There hasn’t been a raid in months.”
“Well, you’ve got to have a permit to sleep in the shelters. Some are afraid if they stop going down, they’ll lose their permit. I guess they figure Adolf ’s not quite done with us, so they’re taking no chances. And a few are just plain afraid, can’t sleep aboveground, worrying about the Luftwaffe. Others are bombed out and still got no place to go. They all have their reasons. Liverpool Street Station, the one in Shoreditch, it’s one of the biggest.”
“You think he was killed during the night?”
“The doc says so. Between midnight and two o’clock. Most likely he was shot right there. Soil on his pants and overcoat matches the ground. You could see the bits of red brick on his knees, from when he knelt.”
“When was this exactly?”
“Five nights ago. Friday night, or Saturday morning, I should say.”
“Have you recovered the bullet?”
“Dr. Mullins barely got it out of his skull before a delegation from the Soviet Embassy showed up. Protested at our lack of respect for the dead comrade, and took him away. Anyway, the bullet looked like a. 32 caliber. It was a mess, like a dumdum bullet, perhaps a homemade one.”
You could make your own dumdum slug by taking a hacksaw and cutting an X on the top of the bullet. That way it would fragment on impact and cause horrible internal injuries.
“The killer must have been close. Those slugs aren’t very accurate. No one saw or heard anything?”
“Not a soul. The idea of those stacks of bricks is to keep them close for the rebuilding. Problem is, no one’s rebuilt anything yet, and they’re a warren in which all sorts of mischief goes on. Prostitutes, gangs, drunks, they all end up using them. Found one with a tin-roof add-on overhead, all nice and snug.”
“So either he was forced in there or was meeting somebody where he didn’t want to be seen.”
“I don’t think he was forced. Neither his watch nor wallet had been taken. Close to ten quid on him.”
“That would rule out any prostitutes or gangs I know. A drunk would be more likely to bash his skull in with a brick. Who does that leave?”
“The first thing we looked at was political extremists. Fortunately, all the Fascist sympathizers have been put in custody or sent away. It doesn’t have the look of a political assassination. No note, nothing to give credit to an anti-Communist cause.”
“You said some kids found him?”
“Yes. Bunch of them, ten to twelve years old. They’d left the shelter ahead of their parents, and were playing in the cleared areas. Those bricks are a great attraction for the lads. One of them was running pell-mell when he tripped over a boot, which proved to be attached to Captain Egorov. The boys came out screaming to a constable, saying they’d found a dead Nazi. They didn’t recognize the uniform, and jumped to the most exciting conclusion.”
“Are there many Soviet officers in London?”
“Apparently there are. I’d never seen one myself, but there are a number at the Soviet Embassy, others working with British Lend-Lease, and some with temporary military missions. Egorov was part of a Red Air Force contingent conducting some sort of joint meetings with your Eighth Air Force. Beyond that fact, we were told in no uncertain terms it’s all top secret.” Lend-Lease was FDR’s brainchild, a swap of arms in exchange for military bases on British soil. Most of the weaponry went to England, some to the Soviet Union.
“Who did you ask?”
“We went through the proper channels. Up to the home secretary, requesting clearance to talk with Egorov’s counterparts in your air force. Basically, we were told to stuff it.”
“What about the Russians?”
“Have you ever dealt with the Russians, Lieutenant Boyle?”
“I know a good Russian bakery in Roxbury.”
“And I know a nice Russian lady who gives piano lessons. But our Soviet friends refuse to answer any questions. Refuse to even talk to us. Except to say that when English workers establish a Marxist state, all crime will vanish along with private property. But until that day, we should find the gangsters who killed Captain Egorov and avenge his death.”
“With no help from them.”
“Or from the Americans. Until now, that is.”
“I don’t know how much help I can be, Detective.”
“Well, I’d say an officer on General Eisenhower’s staff, who has Colonel Blimp from MI5 smoothing the way for him, might be able to open some doors.” Flack relaxed, leaning back in his chair, arms folded across his chest.
