Road of Bones Page 5

  “He wasn’t concerned?”

  “Should he be?” Black asked. Now, Major Black was a smart guy, having gone to Yale and then recruited to the OSS. It took him less than five seconds to tumble to the implications. “Oh. Maybe he saw something?”

  “Yeah. And maybe he told his pals about it or reported to an officer. So he gets shipped off to the front. That could be the end of him,” I said. Now, I don’t consider myself a slouch in the brains department, even though I never went to college. As a matter of fact, it took me about one second to see this as an opportunity. “I need a map.”

  “Um, they’re hard to come by,” Black said. “They don’t like Westerners wandering around the countryside. What do you need it for?”

  “How far away is the front near Krakow?” I asked. “I want to find that guard.”

  “Seven hundred miles, something like that. You’d have to ask Drozdov for travel authorization, then General Belov for a flight. They might approve if they thought it was important.”

  It was important all right. A flight sounded good, but it would have to make a stop.

  Kozova was between us and the front. Now I had a reason to head in that direction. All I needed to do was convince a bunch of suspicious Russians to let me go there.

  And then rescue Big Mike.

  Chapter Six

  I was fading fast. I’d started out my day in London, something like seventeen hundred miles away. I was hungry but too tired to do anything about it. Black had pointed out the officers’ club when he dropped me off at the barracks and invited me to join him there. I’d declined, more interested in falling into bed than carousing with a bunch of flyboys.

  Third room on the left, he told me. I saw a light on and heard someone whistling as I walked down the hall. I stopped in the doorway and watched a guy in a crumpled Russian army uniform brushing out my Class-As.

  “Who the hell are you?” I said, unsure if he’d understand.

  “Private Maxim Bogomozov, boss,” he said, snapping to attention. “I help you, yes? Shine boots. Clean clothes, see?” He indicated an ancient armoire where my shirts were hung. Two beds and a small table by the window completed the décor. A few well-worn towels were folded up on the bed, and my sheepskin flight jacket was draped over a chair.

  “Private Bogomozov, have you been assigned to me?”

  “Max. Is easier. Call me Max, Kapitan Boy-el. Yes, General Belov himself tells me to help you. Because good English I speak,” Max said, beaming at the mention of Belov’s name and his implied approval. Max had crooked teeth and a gap in his lower row. Tattoos peeked out from his shirt collar and sleeves. His close-cropped hair was flecked with gray, and wrinkles crowded the corners of his eyes. He was one old guy for a private.

  “It is good English, Max. And it’s Boyle. Billy Boyle.”

  “Good. I learn better, Captain Billy. You no go to officers’ club? Good booze they have.”

  “I’m tired, Max. Could you get me something to eat and drink? Is that part of your duties?”

  “What you need is my duty, Captain Billy. Max will be back in two shake.”

  “Two shakes, Max.”

  “Ah, good, two shakes,” Max said. “Vannaya is down hall.” He made a washing motion, rubbing his hands under his armpits.

  “Bathroom? Showers?”

  “Da. Clean. I come back.”

  I took a shower and put on clean skivvies. By the time I got back to the room, Max was there. A bowl of stew and a plate of black bread was on the table, along with a bottle of clear liquid. I couldn’t make heads or tails out of the Russian script on the label.

  “Is this water, Max?”

  “Ha! Good joke, Captain Billy. Russian water, yes?”

  “Yeah, I’m a funny guy,” I said, tossing my clothes onto the bed and rummaging through my duffel. I came up with a couple of packs of Lucky Strikes and a bar of chocolate. I didn’t smoke, but it paid to travel with goods that were highly valued in a wartime economy. “Here you go, Max. Thanks.”

  “Captain Billy, you are good Yankee,” Max said, grinning as the items disappeared into his uniform pockets. “Anything you need, you tell Max, okay?”

  “How about a jeep?”

  “Sure, no problem. General Dawson, he get you one. I ask.”

  “And some extra gas jerricans. Then you and me go for a drive,” I said.

  “General Belov gives papers, then we go,” Max said. “Jeep from Dawson, papers from Belov. Then we go. Max is mechanic, can fix jeep. But one thing Max cannot do is travel without papers. With American.”

  “It’s dangerous?”

  “You are spy if no papers. Max is deserter and counterrevolutionary. Maybe they put you in prison. Maybe they send you back. Max, they shoot. Then Max dead and you no find man who killed in warehouse. No papers, no good.”

  “You’re right, Max. Don’t worry about it,” I said, sitting down to the stew. “Thanks for the grub. The food.”

  “Yes, and water!” Max went off laughing. He enjoyed a joke, but he’d been dead serious about traveling without papers. That would be the first item on my agenda tomorrow. Right now, the stew had my full attention. It wasn’t heavy on the meat, but it was full of carrots, potatoes, onions, and a good measure of garlic. The vodka went down easy.

  So did I.

  I felt right at home in the morning, wolfing down powdered eggs in the officers’ mess along with Willis, skipper of the Banshee Bandit, and Carter, the navigator.

  “Not flying today?” I asked as I sipped my hot coffee.

  “Nope,” Willis said. “Ground crew are patching up the aircraft. If the weather clears over Romania, we’ll probably make a run at the oil fields, then land in Italy. Then back across Germany to England. The grand tour.”

  “Either of you guys know Jack Morris? The sergeant who was shot in the warehouse?”

  “No,” Carter said, after he and Willis gave a shrug. “Mick Heller might know him. I think he was a crew chief for one of the C-47s. They have their own area off the south runway.”

  “They do the Tehran flights, don’t they?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Supply runs, personnel, that sort of thing,” Willis said. “Once in a while the Russkies allow a flight to Moscow so the brass can meet with the Military Mission.”

  “No rescue flights for downed aircrew?”

  “Not a priority with them. The official line I’ve heard is that front line commanders can’t be burdened with Westerners unfamiliar with the territory. Sooner or later they scoop up our guys and deliver them here,” Willis said. “Mostly later. Good luck, Captain.”

  “Not what you wanted to hear, Captain,” Carter said as he lingered over his coffee. “We’ve gotten used to the way Russians run things here. They can be really friendly one to one, but when it comes to the chain of command, it’s another whole story. They can’t take a crap without wondering if Joe Stalin is constipated.”

  “Lieutenant, you’ve just about spoiled my breakfast,” I said. “But you can make it up to me. As navigator, you must have maps showing this part of the country.”

  “Sure I do.”

  “Like the area between Kozova and here,” I said.

  “Yes, and they’re my responsibility. Maps keep us alive and get us home, Captain,” Carter said.

  “Hey, call me Billy. They must show rail lines, right? As navigation aids,” I said. “I just want to look at it and get a sense of the route Big Mike and the others might take to make it here.”

  “That’s your sergeant? Good name for him. How can you be sure he’s alive?”

  “How could I assume he’s dead?”

  “Okay. I’m in barrack number four. Come by later this morning and I’ll go over them with you. Glad to help if I can, Billy,” he said.

  “Hey, you ever run into the Russian who was killed along with Morris?” I a
sked as we left the mess. “Lieutenant Kopelev, NKVD.”

  “Saw him around, yeah. Always brown-nosing Drozdov, snooping into everything. I got the impression not many Russians liked him. A real stickler. I mean, I bet nobody likes the NKVD, but Kopelev was unlikable all on his own.”

  “You ever have a run-in with him?”

  “No. But ask Mick. He’s knows what’s what around here.”

  I didn’t like hearing that about Kopelev. It only widened the pool of suspects. But maybe I could parlay that into an advantage with Belov. With so many people on Kopelev’s bad side, it made it more vital to interview the men who might have witnessed anyone near the warehouse.

  Yeah, I could work with that. Question was, had they been transferred out on purpose and were they already being sent straight into German machine guns?

  Chapter Seven

  I took the steps two at time and returned a salute to the Russian guards who snapped to attention outside General Belov’s office. Thanks to Max’s ministrations, my dress uniform was wrinkle-free and my buttons were polished. Having a Communist butler was working out a lot better than I’d expected.

  Maiya was in the outer office. She told me to wait while she checked to see if the general had time for me. I cooled my heels in the hallway, my eyes drawn to a map posted on the wall. Everything was in the Cyrillic script, so it was hard to make out place names. I was pretty sure about Poltava, and there was a rail line from the city running northwest to Kiev. That was as far west as the map went.

  I figured Big Mike would do the same as I would; hitch a ride on a freight train going east. If he’d run into Russian troops in a friendly mood, we’d have heard about it, or would soon. The longer there was no information, the greater the chance he was working his way here. If he caught an empty boxcar on the fly, it could be a safe place and a fast ride. Unless the bulls caught him. Railyard guards were one thing. Russian security troops checking for deserters were another.

  “Captain Boyle?” It was Maiya, beckoning me to enter Belov’s office.

  We went in. Belov was leafing through a file on his desk. He frowned, his bushy eyebrows coming together in worried unison as he rubbed his chin. In the corner, Major Drozdov stood huddled with another officer, this one wearing the uniform of the Red Air Force.

  Drozdov glanced at me as he whispered to the other officer. Belov ignored me, shaking out a Chesterfield from a new pack and lighting up. Apparently, I wasn’t the only Yank handing out smokes. Belov blew smoke and gave Maiya a quick nod.

  “Captain Boyle, your colleague in this investigation,” she said. “Captain Kiril Sidorov.”

  “Who?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. It couldn’t be the same man.

  It didn’t look like him.

  Did it?

  “Ah, it is Captain Boyle now? Congratulations,” Sidorov said, stepping forward and extending his hand. “I am still a captain, but that is good. We are on equal footing in this sad business.”

  “I’m sorry, Captain Sidorov,” I said, clasping his hand and wishing I didn’t have to. “I didn’t expect to meet you again. How are you?”

  He looked terrible, a rail-thin version of the suave military attaché from the Soviet embassy in London I’d encountered almost a year ago. His face was shrunken, pale skin stretched over high cheekbones. A knot of scar tissue decorated one eyebrow, raising it to a look of permanent surprise.

  “Pleased to be here,” Sidorov said, a faint smile flashing across his face.

  I bet. I thought he’d be dead by now.

  “I’m eager to begin, Captain. But first, Maiya, please ask the general if there is any news of my sergeant and his fellow airmen,” I said. Her eyes darted to Drozdov, then she translated for Belov.

  “The general says there have been no reports of Americans in the rear areas,” Maiya said.

  “Has he asked for a search to be conducted?” I asked.

  “If I may,” Sidorov said, holding up a hand to halt Maiya, and spoke to the general. Belov glanced at Drozdov, then barked at Sidorov. Everybody in the room was checking in with Major Pavel Drozdov. Hey, I’d be worried about offending a high-ranking NKVD officer myself.

  “The general will ask for a report from the area commander,” Maiya said. “That is all.”

  “I am here at the direct order of General Eisenhower,” I said, veering close enough to the truth. “He will be very disappointed if our brave Soviet allies do not rescue these men after they have bombed the fascist homeland.”

  I was pretty proud of myself for sounding like one of Joe Stalin’s mouthpieces. But I didn’t get a chance to hear how my comradely words sounded in Russian. Sidorov shook his head, a signal to Maiya who opened the door and ushered us out. Sidorov gave out what sounded like pleasantries as he grabbed me by the arm and dragged me along. I looked back as Belov glared at me and puffed on his American cigarette like a locomotive building up a head of steam.

  Outside, Major Preston Black skidded his jeep to a halt in front of us and vaulted out.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said, walking up to our little group. Maiya looked worried, which only made me worry about what Sidorov had said to the general.

  “That’s okay, we had plenty of translators. All Russian, of course,” I said. It would have been nice to have Black’s take on things, not that he’d been much help so far. “Have you met Captain Sidorov?”

  Sidorov was already busy throwing a salute Black’s way and telling him what a pleasure it was to meet him, and how surprised he was to see me here, since we had known each other when he’d served in London.

  Which was one way of putting it.

  “Your English is excellent, Captain,” Black said. “I can hear the BBC accent. Where were you stationed before they brought you here?”

  “I was in the Far East. Quite a different assignment,” Sidorov said. “Now, how shall we proceed? Ah, my dear Maiya, we have little need of an interpreter. Perhaps you have other duties to attend to?”

  “I will remain,” she replied. “Captain Boyle may have need of me. Major Black’s Russian is fair, but far from perfect. Wouldn’t you agree, Major?”

  “Quite accurate, Maiya,” Black said. “Boyle, there’s a jeep here at your disposal. Gentlemen, how do you propose to begin?”

  “Billy, what have you learned?” Sidorov said, then turned to Maiya. “We knew each other well in London. It is a beautiful city.” Sidorov had the charm turned up all the way. I thought I detected a glance here and a shift in posture there which signaled a closeness between Maiya and Black. Sometimes when you try to hide these things too hard it shows. Or was Maiya only there to keep track of us and report back to the general?

  “Not much, Kiril,” I said, maintaining the fiction that we were old pals. “I got in yesterday the hard way, in a B-17 from England. Major Black showed me the crime scene. That was it. Why don’t we start there?”

  “Very well,” Sidorov said. “If we have two vehicles, perhaps you could brief me on the way there. Maiya and Major Black can take the other jeep. Is that satisfactory?”

  It was. Maiya was happy to sit next to Black, which supported my lovestruck theory. And she was equally happy to be bird-dogging us, which led me to believe she was reporting back to Belov. Or Drozdov.

  “I didn’t recognize you at first,” I said, as soon as we were alone. The last time I’d seen him he’d been wearing a tailored uniform, his blue eyes sparkling with confidence and power. This was a changed man.

  “My homecoming was not as I expected,” Sidorov said, a sigh escaping between his lips. “I have been in a labor camp in Kolyma.”

  “Where is that?”

  “Where it is very cold. A few days ago, I was working on the road of bones,” Sidorov said as I pulled out and followed Maiya and Black. Whatever they were chatting about was probably a lot cheerier.

  “What’s that?” I
really didn’t care what his fate had been, but when someone hits you with road of bones, a natural curiosity arises.

  “A road, from the interior to the Sea of Okhotsk. It is being built by prisoners on permafrost, with only the simplest tools. Little food, very cold, long hours. Many prisoners die there. Because of the frozen ground, the authorities decreed that interments be made in the roadbed as it is dug. Much more practical. Hence, road of bones.”

  “Why did they send you there?” I asked. I had a pretty good idea, but it seemed like Sidorov wasn’t aware of the role I’d played. Otherwise, he’d be at my windpipe right now.

  “I was never told, other than the usual talk of counterrevolutionary activities,” he said, craning his neck as we passed a row of B-17s being serviced. “They are beautiful machines.”

  “They’re even more beautiful when you land in one alive and breathing,” I said. “Did they pull you out of the camp because you know me?”

  “The authorities are practical, as I said. Once your name was brought up, files were searched, and my name was found. Or my number, I should say. There is something I must tell you, Billy. Pull over.”

  I did. Black kept driving away in front of us.

  “I will never go back. I will find this killer and it will be an American, you may be certain of that,” Sidorov said, turning sideways in his seat.

  “They’ve made that clear?”

  “I am making it clear to you, that is all that matters. It will be an American. Failure will be a disaster for all,” Sidorov said. “And watch yourself around Maiya. She reports to Drozdov. Everything. Now drive, before she notices.”

  I shifted into first gear and lurched out into the lane.

  “How do you know about Maiya? You just got here,” I said.

  “I can tell. Remember, I used to be NKVD,” Sidorov said. When I first met him, he wore the uniform of an air force major, but that turned out to be a cover for his secret activities.

  “Used to be?” I said, unsure of what to believe.

  “I am nothing now,” he said. “When I returned home, I was stripped of my rank and put on trial. I had been denounced as an enemy of the people and a spy for the English.”