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  “Can you walk a little faster, Billy?”

  “Sure, no problem,” I said, picking up the pace as we double-timed along Rotten Row, the now seldom-used horse track that ran along the south edge of the park. I felt like my head might burst, but I didn’t want Kaz to think I wasn’t up to it.

  “I wanted to tell you I was sorry about yesterday. I had only mentioned to Major Horak that morning that we would be meeting for lunch. He insisted, and you know senior officers like to get their way.” Kaz pumped his arms energetically, like a chicken trying to take flight. He might’ve looked funny, but he wasn’t out of breath.

  “But you’d told them about me,” I said, huffing and blowing air. “About… Uncle Ike… and all that.”

  “Yes, it was only natural to tell them. We’ve been working together for some time, Billy. Of course I would tell them about my friend. Are you all right?”

  “Maybe… Slow down… a bit, OK?” I stopped, leaned over, and rested my hands on my knees, praying I wouldn’t throw up. The moment passed, and we moved on, a quick pace, but nothing torrid. Jesse Owens had nothing to worry about.

  “How long has Tadeusz been with you?” I asked, as soon as I could get a full sentence out.

  “About six weeks. He had been in and out of hospitals and clinics. At first they believed he was mute, but one of his doctors thought otherwise. We knew he was Polish, and that he had come from Buzul’uk, but that was all. I was asked to speak with him because I can speak Russian, Ukrainian, and a little Romanian.”

  “Of course,” I said. Kaz had been a student of languages at Oxford before the war and a translator at Uncle Ike’s first headquarters when I met him. “He responded to you?”

  “Not at first. When I spoke Russian he became agitated, and would not look at me. From that point on, I spoke only Polish, telling him about myself, and where I was from, just making conversation, to put him at ease. Once I mentioned Radymno, a small town in the Carpathian Mountains I had visited. He spoke, in a clear voice, telling me he had lived there.”

  “And then he told you about Katyn?”

  “Not right away. It was clear there was something he was afraid of, and Major Horak thought he might know something. We took him to the hotel to help him feel safe, but he did not react well to Captain Radecki.”

  “I imagine few people do.”

  “He does his job in the best way he can. And he and Tadeusz seem to get along better now. When Tadeusz first came to us, he was quite agitated, and it was some time before he calmed down and let everything out. He talked as he did with you, in a stream, a torrent of memory. He is quite helpless to stop once he starts. Then hegoes into a depression. He will sleep most of the day today, and not speak to anyone, not even me, tomorrow.”

  “It’s amazing he got this far.”

  “I don’t know if he can survive,” Kaz said as we walked through Kensington Gardens. Fog shrouded the Round Pond, the damp creeping into my bones. I picked up the pace as best I could, the throb in my head keeping beat with my steps.

  “Was he wounded?” I asked, but I didn’t think Kaz was talking about a physical injury.

  “He tried to kill himself last week. He kept a knife from his dinner tray and had it to his throat when I came into his room.”

  “How did you stop him?”

  “I told him someone very important was going to come and listen to what he had to say, and that he had to remain alive to tell what he had seen.”

  “You don’t mean-”

  “Yes, Billy. He took the knife from his throat in order to tell you his story.”

  I didn’t like it. I didn’t like anyone putting off death just to meet me. I was bound to be a letdown. I didn’t like keeping a secret from Kaz, and I didn’t like being suspicious of him. I didn’t like how I knew I wasn’t going to tell a soul at Scotland Yard about Kaz and his pocket automatic, and I didn’t want to be responsible for carrying a Polish cause to Uncle Ike’s doorstep. I sure as hell didn’t like my head pounding and my stomach feeling like a rat had curled up and died in it. I felt cold sweat at the small of my back, my face went prickly, and I went to my knees, bowing to the pond, heaving coffee-flavored bile on the royal grass, as my head spun from the effect of last night’s alcohol and today’s guilt.

  I felt Kaz’s hand on my back, patting it like you’d do with a crying baby. He helped me up as soon as I was sure I had nothing left to give, and steadied me as we walked, slowly now, around the pond, past the statue of Peter Pan that seemed oddly out of place and still timeless, in the midst of London at war.

  “Do you feel better, Billy?” Kaz asked.

  I didn’t, and I wanted to come clean with him, but a small voice whispered inside my head, telling me he was a suspect. I argued with the small voice, and finally we agreed he was a potential suspect, which was something different, but it still meant I should play my cards facedown.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Keep me away from vodka for a while, OK?”

  “OK, Billy.”

  We walked through the clearing mist, a cold breeze blowing at our backs. The sky revealed itself, sullen and gray, heavy with the promise of rain. I liked being with Kaz in these early hours, even with a hangover, even with my doubts. He was a friend, someone I could count on to back me up, no questions asked. I silently vowed to do the same for him, until whatever was between us became too powerful for anything I did to matter.

  A POT OF coffee, a bath, and a couple of hours later I was at Norfolk House, trying not to think about vodka and half-mad Poles. I needed a jeep and a map to get me to High Wycombe, where the Eighth Air Force was headquartered. Someone there should know what Soviet Air Force officers were doing in London. I asked at the duty officer’s desk where the chief of staff’s office was.

  “I’d stay away from there if I was you, Lieutenant,” the sergeant at the desk said after giving me directions. “That new guy, Eisenhower’s chief of staff, he got here yesterday, and no one’s come out of there with a smile on his face.”

  “That’s Beetle for you,” I said. General Walter Bedell Smith, known as Beetle, was Uncle Ike’s man through and through. No-nonsense, a face like a bulldog, and a personality to match. He didn’t have much patience for those who didn’t pull their weight and then some. Actually, he didn’t have a drop of patience in his body, which is why I tried to steer clear of him at all times.

  I made my way up the stairs and down a long hallway, while the sounds of typewriters and teletypes echoed against the black-and-white tiles. Clerks, secretaries, and junior officers scurried about, eyes cast down, mouths hanging open in fatigue, or dread. Beetle had already made his mark. Fortunately, before I needed to stand at attention under his scrutiny, I heard a couple of familiar voices.

  “How the hell am I supposed to know where they are? Sir?”

  “You packed them, Big Mike, and you brought them to the plane.”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t fly the goddamn plane here, and I didn’t unload the goddamn plane, now did I? Sir?”

  I stood in a doorway, watching Lieutenant Colonel Samuel Harding pawing through boxes of files while Big Mike stood with his hands on his hips, shaking his head sadly.

  “Colonel, I’m telling you I looked everywhere. They ain’t here.”

  “Then goddamn it, Big Mike, find them.” Harding tossed piles of folders on a table, looking for some paperwork that was probably destined to sit gathering dust in a file folder until the next war came along. I thought about backing up and getting the hell out, but Big Mike saw me.

  “Billy! I mean, Lieutenant. Good to see you. Come in, we’re getting set up here. Nice place, huh?”

  Big Mike was big. So big, I was surprised he could find a uniform to fit into. Six feet plus, and about as broad in the shoulders. Big, beefy arms. He was a brother officer in civilian life. Somewhere, there was a piece of paper that designated me as part of General Eisenhower’s Office of Special Investigations. Me, Kaz before the Poles called him back, Diana when she was detached from
the SOE, and Big Mike. Colonel Harding kept an eye on us. We didn’t have a plaque on the door, and you wouldn’t find us on any Army Table of Organization, and Uncle Ike thought it was best that way. When he needed us, it was to get things done quietly. Like with the dead Russian. When he didn’t, Harding always had a job waiting. He was in Intelligence, specializing in relations with our Allies. It made for interesting work.

  “Yeah, Big Mike. Reminds me of city hall. Colonel,” I said, nodding my head toward Harding. You were supposed to stand to attention and salute when reporting for duty, but I thought Harding might be steamed enough at losing his precious files that he wouldn’t care. I hated saluting.

  “You look like hell, Boyle. Have you been on a bender for the last couple of days?”

  “No sir, Colonel. I’ve been on the case. I had to keep up with some Polish officers making toasts last night. All in the line of duty.”

  “Polish wodka?” Big Mike asked, a grin spreading across his face. “With Kaz?”

  “Yes,” I said, my stomach turning at the memory. Big Mike was angling for an invite to a repeat performance. He and Kaz were quite a combination. A big American Polack working stiff and a small, thin, aristocratic Polish baron, who, for some reason, had hit it off. But I wasn’t in the mood for another bout with the bottle.

  “You have anything to report, Boyle? Anything other than your level of alcohol consumption?” As usual, Harding was short-tempered. I was beginning to think I should have saluted.

  “I’ve met with the Scotland Yard detectives on the case. I need to get up to High Wycombe, Eighth Air Force HQ, and find out what the Russian Air Force officers are up to. Can I get a jeep, and maybe Big Mike to drive me up there?”

  “You’d do me a favor to get him out of here. Then maybe I can find half the stuff we shipped from Algiers. Go.”

  Big Mike didn’t waste any time grabbing his jacket and cap.

  CHAPTER SIX

  There were no road maps to be had, but there was a wall map of greater London posted in a back room where drivers and staff could get a hot cup of coffee. Uxbridge, Denham, Beaconsfield, High Wycombe. About thirty miles west of London. I guessed there would still be no road signs, but you could pretty much follow the main roads from one village to the next.

  A staff car would have been nice, but all a lieutenant could hope for was a jeep with a canvas top. We took Kensington Road to Uxbridge Road, which naturally enough got us to Uxbridge. On the western outskirts of London, the bomb damage was not as extensive, but it hadn’t been cleaned up as well. We passed a row of damaged houses, some collapsed and others with open rooms, their bathtubs, chairs, dressers, and tables on display like a giant’s dollhouse. Some pictures still hung perfectly level, and I saw one easy chair at the edge of the floor, where the front of the building had been torn away, the lamp next to it a sentinel of normalcy in a catastrophically altered world. Past Uxbridge the city turned to country, and military traffic dominated the road. No civilian vehicles, only British and American trucks, jeeps, staff cars, all snarled in traffic jams at every village center, then thinning out on the narrow country roads.

  The sky had cleared, leaving only scattered clouds to drift over the landscape. A faint, distant drone turned into a steadily growing, ground-shaking thrum of high-powered engines. We pulled over and got out, gawkers on a country lane as Flying Fortresses climbed and circled, forming up into a mass of bombers, hundreds of them, the highest trailing white contrails as they headed for their target. The deafening roar turned again to a dull, faraway noise, finally leaving us in silence, except for the scurry of tires on pavement.

  “Jesus Christ, I ain’t never seen so many airplanes,” Big Mike said. “Not all at once, anyway.”

  “Me either,” I said, but I didn’t feel much like talking. The procession of B-17s had left me feeling odd. Out of step. Hundreds of men and machines were off on a mission, and what was I doing? Talking to people, asking questions about other people who were already dead. It seemed a waste of time, when so many others were going to be killed in a few hours. I used to think that every death mattered, especially those who could’ve made it through the war alive. Now, I wasn’t so sure. Captain Gennady Egorov was dead and gone, and nothing I could do would bring him back. Those boys in the B-17s, they were alive now, but plenty weren’t going to make it home, never mind whoever was at the receiving end of their bomb loads. Feeling the vibration of the passing bombers, hearing the thunder of engines, seeing their gleaming white contrails, I felt the enormity of this war. The willingness to accept loss of life and limb, to witness planes burst into flame and fall to the earth. In the wake of such mass, intentional killing, it seemed disconcerting to place so much emphasis on a single bullet that had pierced a single skull. Here I stood by the side of the road, on my way to ask questions about one dead Russian. There they went, off to deal death and maybe draw a dead man’s hand themselves.

  Maybe I thought too much about this stuff. Maybe it was better to follow orders and do the job, whatever it was.

  “Let’s go, Billy,” Big Mike said, his glance lingering on my face. I wondered what he saw.

  “Sure,” I said, climbing into the jeep. The army seemed to be making a soldier of me, regardless of my attempts to prevent it. Or maybe it was the hangover. Whichever, it was the first time the thought of following orders had ever seemed comforting, and that bothered me.

  “What exactly are we looking for?” Big Mike asked after we had a few more miles under our wheels.

  “Russians,” I said, and filled him in on my assignment and what I’d learned from Scotland Yard. I showed him the photo of Gennady Egorov. Kaz and his pistol I kept to myself.

  The road to High Wycombe paralleled the River Wye, which was more of a stream, as it meandered by fields, wooded groves, and low rolling hills. Luckily, the U.S. Army Air Force didn’t stint on road signs, and as soon as we entered High Wycombe we followed posted signs up a short hill, and took a long gravel drive to an imposing gray granite three-story building sprawled across tree-lined grounds. Twin turrets rose from the corners, making the place look more like a medieval fortress than the headquarters of a modern air force. A church, stuck onto the end of the building, looked like an afterthought.

  Big Mike came in with me and peeled off to find a mess hall, saying he was hungry. That was pretty much a normal state for him, except for about a half hour after each meal. But he was also going to gather information, scuttlebutt from other noncoms. I went to the duty desk and asked where the XO’s office was. In any unit, the executive officer was the guy who had to know everything. No sense asking for the commanding officer, he probably wouldn’t bother with a lieutenant from outside his command. The XO would be different; he’d want to know why I was here asking questions.

  I signed in and was sent up to the top floor, my feet fitting the worn grooves in the stone stairs, as thousands of others had done. Officers, clerks, WACs, and occasional RAF personnel swept around me in purposeful motion. Looking for the XO’s office, I passed an open doorway, the sign above it marked OPERATIONS. A private was affixing another sign below that, freshly painted letters spelling out that this was home to Colonel Dawson. The name was familiar, and I figured it was worth a shot.

  “Is that Bull Dawson, by any chance?” I asked the private.

  “No idea, Lieutenant. I just paint ’em. They come and go and I change the names. Ask inside.”

  In the outer office, a sergeant sat at a desk typing with two fingers. The door to the inner office was open, but I couldn’t see inside. The sergeant didn’t look up. With so much brass around, my silver bars didn’t carry much weight.

  “Help you, Lieutenant?” He didn’t stop typing.

  “Colonel Dawson,” I said, crooking my thumb in the direction of the inner office. “Bull Dawson, by any chance? Fresh from Northern Ireland?”

  “Who the hell wants to know?” A voice boomed out.

  “That answer your question, Lieutenant?” Click clack. His l
ack of interest was formidable, so an answer wasn’t needed.

  “How’s the shoulder, Bull?” I said, entering his office. It was large, with two map tables and one large wall map, pieces of string marking the distance from airfields in England to targets in France, Germany, and beyond. Bull was standing at the wall map, removing pins, letting strands of red string drop to the floor.

  “Billy Boyle! Goddamn, I thought you were back in Algiers. The shoulder still hurts when it rains, which is most of the time.” Bull shook my hand, enveloping mine in his big, beefy grasp. We’d met in Northern Ireland, and there had been gunfire involved. Bull had taken one in the shoulder, but it hadn’t kept him from getting me off the island on the q.t.

  “They still got you flying a desk, Colonel?” Bull Dawson wasn’t much for protocol, and wouldn’t mind my calling him Bull. But I’d never met an officer who didn’t like being given his rank.

  “Yeah, they found something more useful for me to do than scheduling transport planes in and out of Northern Ireland. Got my orders three days ago, just getting settled in. No missions yet, but that’ll come. What brings you here, Billy?”

  “I came in a few days ago myself, ahead of General Eisenhower. I’m investigating the death of a Soviet Air Force officer, Captain Gennady Egorov. Got himself shot in London.”

  “Someone here involved?” Bull said, gesturing for me to sit down in one of the two armchairs in front of his desk. He took the other.

  “Not as far as I know. I heard that he’d been involved in some sort of liaison role with the Eighth. Thought I’d check it out, see if anyone knew him.”

  “We don’t have any Russians here, Billy,” Bull said, lighting a cigarette with a Zippo. “English, a few Canadians; the rest are all American. What would a Russian be doing here anyway?”

  “Good question. What about Poles? Any of them stationed here?”

  “No, but I did meet a few of them from the RAF 303 Squadron. The Kosciuszko Squadron, they call themselves. Highest kill rate in the Battle of Britain, a real wild bunch of fliers. They’re stationed over in Ruislip, ten or twelve miles from here. But that was a social occasion. Invite to the new American brass to dine in their mess, that sort of thing. Why?”