Road of Bones Page 7

  “I’m not so sure about that,” Bull said, rubbing the stubble on his chin. “Only Drozdov and Black have keys to that storage room. If they had no need to go in, it would have been days before the smell would have leaked out.”

  “Why would have Kopelev and Morris even gone up there?” I said, to myself as well as to Bull.

  “Well, Captain Boyle, that’s why you received this all-expenses paid trip to the workers’ paradise,” Bull said. “You figure it out. We need answers, and fast. The US Military Mission in Moscow is breathing down my neck. They want answers, and so do I.”

  “The only answer I have so far is how they were killed. Looks like they each took a slug from their own pistol. You didn’t happen to check Sergeant Morris’s automatic, did you?”

  “No, didn’t think to,” Bull said. “It was in his holster. You sure about that?”

  “The doc took a .45 caliber round out of Morris and a 7.62mm round out of Kopelev. She told us the shots were to the back of the neck. Standard NKVD execution. Means they were probably on their knees,” I said.

  “Keep that dope to yourself and tell Sidorov to do the same. If anything points to the NKVD, we need to be one hundred percent certain before we say anything,” Bull said. “Any other cheery news?”

  “The hospital ain’t the cheeriest of places, Bull. They got burn victims and they’re low on morphine. What’s Black saving his supply for?”

  “It’s a joint operation, Billy. OSS and NKVD. Supposedly it’s for a mission to Bulgaria, although so far, it’s been nothing but talk. If Drozdov wanted to release it to Doctor Mametova he’d only have to ask. Besides, it wouldn’t be enough to make a difference.”

  Tell that to the guy screaming his lungs out, I wanted to say.

  But I kept my mouth shut. When it came to generals, even a decent guy like Bull, his ignorance was my bliss.

  Chapter Ten

  Sidorov and I were comparing notes over fried Spam and egg sandwiches in the mess hall. Served on Russian black bread, it wasn’t half bad. I’d heard that the Russians loved Spam as much as they loved the jeeps and tanks we sent them on Lend-Lease, which didn’t say much for the cuisine in the Soviet Union.

  “General Belov also has a safe for storing top secret materials,” Sidorov said, finishing his sandwich. He wet a finger and ran it around his plate, gathering crumbs. He looked up at me, his face flushing. He quickly brushed the crumbs from his finger. “I don’t really need to do that, do I?”

  “You can have another sandwich,” I said softly. He closed his eyes, his forehead wrinkling. Whatever I thought about the guy, right now he had painful memories playing around in his head. “Want me to get you one?”

  “No, no, it is not a matter of hunger,” Sidorov said, waving his hand dismissively. “Not now. It is difficult to shake off the fear of starvation. Of not enough. Not enough food, warmth, rest, or decency.”

  “You survived,” I said.

  “Yes. And now the thought of being sent back there paralyzes me. I was ready to die, Billy, and then they came to the road one day and took me. I thought they were going to shoot me, finally. I was glad. Instead, I was brought here. A miracle. But I do not deserve miracles. You know this.”

  “I do, Kiril,” I said. “Tell me, how bad was it? The camp?”

  “Prisoners died every day,” Sidorov said, his voice hushed. “In their sleep. Working on the road. In the assembly area. Death was everywhere. Work was everywhere. It is impossible to describe.”

  “Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked,” I said.

  “I should have the words to tell you, but it is difficult. You have been in battle? You have seen horrible things?”

  “I have.”

  “Multiply that by one hundred, and then consider there is no rhyme nor reason why people have to endure it. No logic, no clear reason, no guilt, no innocence. There is only the camp and the cold,” Sidorov said, and he shivered, as if his memories had carried the frigid air in with them.

  I took Sidorov’s cup and filled it with tea. I brought it back and put it in front of him, the steam drifting up before his faraway eyes.

  “There were families in the camp,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “Whole families were punished for the crimes, real or not, of the parents. There was a section for children, some who had been born in the camp. Their eyes were vacant. The camp has nothing to offer a child, no love, no warmth, no brightness. But the guards—some of them—tried to be kind to the children. One fellow was in charge of the guard dogs, and one of the animals had a litter. He gave the children two puppies to raise and told them to name the dogs.”

  Sidorov clasped his hands around the cup, absorbing the warmth.

  “It took them two days to think of names for them. They had nothing to draw on, no memories of pets or anything beloved. In the end, they named the pups Ladle and Pail. And that, Billy, is what the camps are like.”

  He drank his tea. I said nothing.

  “As to the safe,” Sidorov said a few minutes later, bringing himself back to the present, “Belov and Drozdov both keep their keys in it. I spoke to Maiya, and she said they are the only two who know the combination.”

  I told him about Black finding the bodies during his search for Kopelev. “It looks like we should ask Comrade Drozdov if he gave Kopelev the key for any reason,” I said. “He was Kopelev’s boss, after all. He might have given orders to do something in the storage room.”

  “What does not make sense is the fact Major Drozdov never mentioned it. That means it either did not happen or he wishes it not to be known,” Sidorov said. “The former is unhelpful and the latter is dangerous.”

  “Okay, so we hold off for now,” I said. “What about Black’s key?”

  “The one to his desk drawer? I think your idea is a good one. An experiment, strictly to assist in our investigation,” Sidorov said. The idea seemed to perk him up.

  “It’s risky,” I said. “If we’re caught, we could be arrested for grand larceny.”

  “Perhaps you would, Billy, but not I. As you must know, there is no such theft in the Soviet Union. There is no need in our classless society. All I would be doing is redistributing wealth held by Western capitalists.” Sidorov laughed. I joined in, just to be polite, but he found it a whole lot funnier than I did.

  We drove over to Transport Command, which was housed in the buildings and hangars near the south runway. The twin-engine C-47 transport aircraft were drawn up in rows, a few being worked on by aircrew. One was being fueled as we pulled to a halt in front of the operations building. We found Lieutenant Reed in his office, signing forms.

  Lots of them.

  “Whaddya need, Captain?” Reed said, barely taking note of us as he wrote out his name and handed a corporal standing nearby paperwork to stamp. “I got to get these requisitions on that bird out there before she flies. Otherwise we’ll be short a lot of spare parts.”

  “And bourbon, Lieutenant,” the corporal said. “Don’t forget the bourbon. Here ya go.”

  “We can see you’re busy, Lieutenant. But I need to talk to you about Sergeant Morris,” I said.

  “The late Sergeant Morris,” Sidorov added. Reed looked up, seemingly surprised a Russian was in the room. The lieutenant was thin and wiry, curly-haired with oil stains on his cuffs and grease beneath his fingernails. An officer who actually worked.

  “Get me a cup of coffee, willya?” Reed said to his corporal, who scooted out of the small office. “What about Morris?”

  “Anything you can tell us about him,” I said. “Like who’d want to kill him.”

  “Everyone liked Boris,” Reed said. “Swell guy.”

  “I thought his name was Jack,” Sidorov said. “Was he Russian?”

  “No, it was a nickname. Since he got along so well with you guys. He spoke a few words here and there. Said his grandparents came from the old country. So
Boris Morris. A joke, ya see?”

  “Amusing,” Sidorov said. “He had no enemies, then?”

  “He had a competitor,” Reed said. “He’s probably the guy who knew him best. But it was nothing to kill a guy over, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Who? And what were they competing for?” I asked.

  “Technical Sergeant Marty Craven,” Reed said. “He maintains our supply of spare parts. Most of these requisitions are from him. He’s good at what he does, from scavenging parts out of damaged aircraft to getting the most out of the supply chain, if you know what I mean.”

  “He’s an operator,” I said.

  “An expert scrounger and a creative businessman,” Reed said. “He hasn’t crossed me, and he hasn’t screwed up on the job, so what he does with our aircrew and our Russian friends is none of my business. Not as long as he keeps these birds flying.”

  “He and Morris were in the same line?” Sidorov asked.

  “Yeah. Competition is good for business, Boris always claimed. But don’t bother trying to pin anything on Craven. His was on a supply flight to Mirgorod when Morris was killed,” Reed said. “He was gone thirty-six hours. No way he could have done it. Hell, I don’t know how anyone got into Fort Knox anyway.”

  Sidorov shot me a look. Apparently, he hadn’t heard of it.

  “Where American capitalists keep their gold,” I explained.

  “Ah,” Sidorov said. “Lieutenant, perhaps you can tell us where to find Sergeant Craven? He may be able to tell us more about his comrade.”

  “Two buildings over,” Reed said as the corporal returned with his joe. “There’s Maintenance, then Supply.”

  Supply was housed in a low, one-story concrete structure. It had new windows and a sheet-metal roof, but the rest of it looked like it had a new coat of whitewash splashed on to cover the scorch marks.

  “The Germans left little standing when they left,” Sidorov said as we approached the door. “I look forward to returning the favor when we reach Berlin. If I live to see the day. It would be something to see.”

  “We knocked a few down for you on the way here,” I said. “Not a trip I’d want to make on a regular basis.” Inside, a wide counter separated the entryway from shelves filled with a jumble of equipment. Engine parts on pallets, propeller blades stacked against the wall, radio sets next to drums of oil and cans of grease. Tool kits and tires formed a low barrier, behind which sat a sergeant sporting two rockers under a T beneath his stripes.

  “Technical Sergeant Craven?” I asked, even though it was evident, not only from his stripes but by the crates of scotch and bourbon behind him. A wheeler dealer.

  “Yes, Captain, what can I do for you?” Craven looked up from the pistol he was cleaning, a .45 automatic in pieces on the desk in front of him. He had a heavy five o’clock shadow and dark eyes which flitted between Sidorov and me. “And Kapitan, I should say.”

  “We’re here investigating the death of Boris Morris,” I said. “But you probably know that already, given your connections.”

  “Captain Boyle and Kapitan Sidorov,” Craven said. “I hope you guys find the bastard who killed him. And Kopelev, too, not that anybody cared for the guy. Sorry, Kapitan, if he was a pal of yours.”

  “I did not know him,” Sidorov said. “But you did. Why do you think they both were killed?”

  “Listen,” Craven said, wiping his hands on a rag. “Me and Boris were kinda in the same line. Helping spread the virtues of the free marketplace, if you don’t mind me mentionin’ it, Kapitan. But it was Boris who knew the lingo, enough to get by, leastways. He was always hanging around with the Russian groundcrews, trading for stuff. It wasn’t big business for him, he just enjoyed it. He actually liked it here. Said he felt at home, crazy as that sounds. I mean, this ain’t St. Louis, not by a long shot. Again, no offense, Kapitan Sidorov.”

  “I understand,” Sidorov said, waving his hand as if batting away the slight. “But you have not answered the question.”

  “I got no idea. What I’m tryin’ to say is that I wasn’t privy to a lot of his deals. I work more with our guys. There’s only so much you can barter for here. Vodka, sure, but not much else. And you can’t take rubles out of the country, so this is one place where cash ain’t king.”

  “What is?” I asked.

  “Scotch, rubbers, and nylons,” Craven said without missing a beat. “There’s a shortage of all three. Vodka takes the sting out of no scotch or bourbon, but they ain’t got nylons at all, so nylon or silk stockings are gold. Condoms are practically nonexistent. Guys bring rubbers in on every flight and trade for whatever they can get. Officers like Kopelev are desperate for them. I heard that if they knock up a dame, they get demoted or sent to the front. You know what NKVD really stands for, Kapitan?”

  Craven gave me a wink as he grinned. Sidorov didn’t take the bait.

  “No ketch venereal disease,” Craven said, chuckling at his joke.

  “You are a clever fellow,” Sidorov said, moving to the side of Craven’s desk and standing over him, his head inclined like a vulture eyeing dead meat. “You must have gotten something of value from Lieutenant Kopelev. What was it?”

  “Hey, I wasn’t anywhere near the place,” Craven said, leaning back in his chair to escape Sidorov’s gaze. “And me and Boris were pals, no matter what anyone says.”

  “Fine. But what did you get out of Kopelev?” I asked, circling around the other side of the desk.

  “Favors, you know. It ain’t hard to get a pass from Reed, but we need permission from the Russians to go anywhere. The town of Poltava ain’t much, but it’s a change of pace. They even got a hotel with a restaurant and a band. Dancing, you know? And you can buy Kraut souvenirs. Nazi daggers, Lugers, that sort of thing. That’s where the rubles come in handy. Guys back in England will shell out real cash for that stuff.”

  “Now I get it,” I said. “That’s how you do business. Bring in stuff the Russians want and use the rubles to buy what GIs want.”

  “Yeah. Free enterprise they call it,” Craven said. “It don’t interfere with my duties. Just ask Reed. Everybody’s happy.”

  “What happened to Morris’s stock?” I asked. “His rubles and whatever he was trading.”

  “His personal effects went with him, minus anything embarrassing,” Craven said. “His crew chief divvied up his booze with Boris’s section. They were pretty close. Far as the rubles go, I have no idea. All I ended up with was his .45. Lieutenant Reed let me have it on account of we were friends. And since I lost mine. Stolen by a Russian, I think.”

  “Which means you sold it, but never mind. That’s it?” I asked, pointing to the weapon he was cleaning. Craven nodded. “Had it been fired?”

  “Yeah. One round. Looks like he got off a shot, huh?”

  “No, Sergeant. He was murdered with his own pistol. Which means the killer got the drop on him,” I said.

  “Which also means it was someone he trusted,” Sidorov said. “A pal, as you say.”

  “Hey, I was nowhere near the place,” Craven said, folding his arms across his chest. “Now what else can I do for you? Need some booze? Hitler Youth dagger? A couple of ladies at the Cosmos Hotel?”

  “Prostitution is illegal in the Soviet Union,” Sidorov said. “So is procuring. What do you call such a man, Billy?”

  “A pimp,” I said. “And that’s in polite society. We have laws against that too, but I’m not sure what the army calls it.”

  “Hey fellas, it was just a friendly offer to introduce you to some ladies. They ain’t hookers, nothin’ like that,” Craven said, his quavering voice betraying his nerves for the first time.

  “Don’t worry about it, Sarge,” I said, now that Craven was getting worried. That’s exactly how I wanted him. Off balance and unsure. “We’re just kidding around. No harm in a little black-market work on the side, r
ight Kiril?”

  “I am sure it is quite illegal in both our armies,” Sidorov said. “But as you say, where is the harm? I cannot see any. Then again, I have not looked very hard.”

  “Hey, fellas, I mean captains, I got nothing to do with those killings, I swear,” Craven said. He stood up, as if looking at us eye-to-eye might improve his chances of being believed. “Tell ya the truth, they made me real nervous. That’s why I wanted Boris’s piece. It cost me six bottles of bourbon.”

  “Reed sold it to you?”

  “Nah. The booze just greased the skids,” Craven said. “Reed was ticked off that I lost my pistol. He wouldn’t sign off on a replacement. But a few bottles of his favorite hooch convinced him to let me keep Boris’s .45. The guy took real good care of it.” Craven traced his finger along the grip of the automatic and let out half a laugh. “We really was pals, ya know.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Tell me this. When you got the pistol, it definitely had been fired?”

  “Yeah. Recent, too. That’s why I thought Boris had maybe put a slug into Kopelev and then took one in return,” Craven said.

  “Not unless they managed to shoot each other in the back of the head,” Sidorov said.

  “They went in there with someone they trusted,” I said. “Now maybe you weren’t within miles of the place, but somebody, a pal Boris trusted, might have told them to meet a guy at the warehouse. The guy who plugged them.”

  “Captain, I didn’t tell Boris to go anywhere,” Craven said. “Plus, they got that place locked and guarded. Ain’t they?”

  “Have you heard otherwise?” Sidorov said, cocking his head as he studied Craven’s face.

  “Everyone knows that kid got himself and his men transferred to the front,” Craven said. “But no one seems to know why. Or won’t say, on account of the NKVD boys.”

  “What kid?” I asked.

  “Lieutenant Vanya Nikolin. Freshly minted junior officer,” Craven said. “Looks like he hasn’t started to shave yet. I hear his men like him ’cause he’s not mean and looks out for them. Unusual in an officer in any army, wouldn’t ya say?”