Road of Bones Page 8

  “I wonder if they think that now, facing the fascists instead of guarding a warehouse,” Sidorov said. “You know nothing else about this?”

  “Zip. And I’d be happy to spill if I knew anything else, just to get you two lookin’ in another direction. Snoopy officers make me real nervous. You got any other questions?”

  “No,” I said, taking a last look at the disassembled pistol. If there had been any fingerprints on it, Craven’s cleaning had eliminated them. “I hope you’ve been straight with us, Sarge.”

  “I do believe Sergeant Craven has been truthful in response to our questions,” Sidorov said as I began to walk to the door. “But there is the unspoken truth, and that is often more difficult to grasp. So, Sergeant, what is it you are not telling us? There is something you know, I can smell it on your breath. Secrets have an odor all their own, subtle, but detectable. Yours are like bile wrapped around gun oil.”

  “Look, Kapitan, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Craven said, sitting down heavily as if he’d been hit by an iron hand. “You’re sniffin’ gun oil right here, that’s all. I told you all I know, honest.”

  I stood back, watching Sidorov drill Craven with those steady eyes of his. It wasn’t a hot day, but I watched as beads of sweat broke out on Craven’s temples. He looked away from Sidorov, unable to withstand his gaze, then warily back again. Sidorov rested his hand on his holster, as if the weight of it was too much to bear. But the threat was unmistakable.

  “Okay, okay, there is one thing,” Craven said. “It might mean nothing, you unnerstand?”

  “Everything means something,” I said. “Spill.”

  “A few days before Boris and Kopelev bought it, there was a rumor about a guy goin’ toes up with a needle in his arm,” Craven said. “Major Drozdov and his NKVD boys were workin’ overtime trying to make it look like everything was normal. But they were tense. Real tense.”

  “This guy,” I said. “Russian?”

  “Can’t say for sure, it was just scuttlebutt. But everyone was talkin’ about it. I was gettin’ ready for a fire sale, I’ll tell ya.”

  “Fire sale?” Sidorov spoke perfect English, but this stumped him.

  “Going out of business,” I said. “Everything is for sale, cheap.”

  “Yep. I’d already started to unload my merchandise. I had a crate of Kraut souvenirs on the next flight to Tehran, where I got a buddy at the airbase. A partner.”

  “But why?” Sidorov asked. “You have a successful business here.”

  “Listen, it’s a racket. You know it and I know it. I like making a few bucks free and clear off hooch, Lugers, and condoms. But I’m small time. I got nothing to do with drugs. If someone’s sellin’ horse on this base, all it’s gonna do is put everyone on the spot and grind business to a halt. I was ready to hunker down and keep a low profile.”

  “Who would sell horses on the base?” Sidorov asked.

  “That’s slang for heroin,” I explained. “Easy enough to make from morphine if you have the right chemicals.”

  “Yeah, and more potent, too,” Craven said. “If you’re selling to users, you make more rubles with heroin.”

  “So what happened to the low profile?” I asked. “You obviously changed your mind.”

  “Nothin’ happened. That’s the point,” Craven said. “The rumors stopped. Drozdov went back to his usual cheery self. The NKVD guards at the gate actually smiled when I went into town. I expected the base to be turned upside down looking for the Cadillac. But nada.”

  “What Cadillac? And nada means what, exactly?” Sidorov was beginning to lose track of the conversation.

  “A Cadillac is an ounce of heroin,” I said. “Nada means zilch. Nothing.”

  “That is very interesting. Thank you, Sergeant. You have been most helpful. I think we are done here, Billy.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “How did you know he was holding back?” I asked Sidorov as we left the supply building. The sun was bright, but there was a bite in the air, a reminder that the wind blowing across the steppe came all the way from Siberia. It held the scent of frost and decay as if it had crossed the road of bones and borne its icy misery thousands of miles, right to where we stood.

  “They always hold back,” Sidorov said, buttoning up his jacket as if he felt the deathly chill enveloping him. “Minor criminals such as Sergeant Craven are never willing to provide anything for free if it may be of value later. Or if it may put them in danger.”

  “It was a bluff?” This wasn’t my first interrogation by a long shot, but Sidorov had seen deeper into Craven than I had.

  “You may call it that, but it has never failed me,” Sidorov said. “The information is not always useful, but the subject does provide it. Petty criminals such as Craven are clever about holding back what they have. He would not provide information for free any more than he would hand out hosiery gratis.”

  “How can you trust a person you’re interrogating when you threaten them? Especially back when you were with the NKVD,” I said, scanning the hangar across from us, where ground crew were busy around a C-47 transport. “Wouldn’t people say anything to make the pain stop?”

  “By the time the Soviet security forces begin inflicting pain, all hope is lost,” Sidorov said. “Pain and terror are the purpose. They have already decided what the truth is, so there is no need of extracting it from any one person. Believe me, I know. But what is necessary is for the subject to confess everything. This includes both the truth he knows and the truth his interrogators reveal to him. The Soviet truth.”

  “How much truth was revealed to you?” I asked, wondering if Sidorov had ever guessed at his betrayer.

  “A great deal,” he said with a sharp laugh, as if he was spitting out something foul. “I was an agent for British intelligence. A reactionary, a counterrevolutionary. An enemy of the people. I agreed, of course, not that it helped.”

  “Pain is the purpose,” I said, reminding myself that Kiril Sidorov was a murderer.

  “Precisely,” he said. “Now, what is our next step?”

  “Let’s find Morris’s crew and see what they have to say. Or what they’re hiding.”

  We made our way across the runway, a solid stretch of Marston Mat, one of those testaments to Yankee ingenuity that had found its way even to this desolate patch of land. The mats were pierced steel planks that came in huge rolls, ready to lay down over cleared runways, and our bootheels clanged against the metal as we approached the C-47. We explained what we were doing to a small group of ground crew clustered around the aircraft.

  “Yeah, Boris was in our section,” one of the mechanics told us. “Damn good communications man. Any problem with a radio, pilots would ask for Boris Morris. He was a good guy. You gonna find who plugged him, Captain?”

  “Hope so. Did Sergeant Morris have a beef with anyone? Any trouble over his business ventures?”

  “Nah, Boris was easygoing. He traded with the Russians a bit. Just ask around,” he said, nodding to Sidorov. “He got along with everyone.”

  “Even Craven?” I asked, hooking a thumb over my shoulder in the direction of the supply building.

  “Even Craven. Between them, they cornered the market for souvenirs. That’s where the money is, getting SS daggers, Nazi flags, and all that crap back to Italy or England,” he said.

  “No bad blood between them?” I asked.

  “Captain, if anyone thought Craven had killed Boris, he woulda met with a terrible accident by now. Walked into a prop, maybe.” He grinned, letting us know he was kidding. Sort of.

  “What about Lieutenant Kopelev?” Sidorov asked.

  “No one shed a tear, not that I noticed.”

  “No, I mean did Sergeant Morris and Lieutenant Kopelev get along? Were they often seen together?” Sidorov clarified.

  “I saw Boris sell him condoms once,
but that’s nuthin’ special. Your stores ain’t exactly well stocked, Captain. Lots of your comrades buy raincoats any chance they get. Gettin’ posted here is like guarding a Sears, Roebuck and Company and havin’ the keys.”

  “Yes, yes,” Sidorov said. “I assume that is one of your famous American department stores. We have them also. The Ukraine is not the most progressive area within the Soviet Union. If you ever get to Moscow, you will see many stores.”

  “Sorry, Captain, no offense. If they ever let me travel, I’ll be glad to see Moscow. Gotta be a damn sight nicer than Poltava. Anyway, Boris and Kopelev knew each other, alright. But Kopelev wasn’t the chummy type. He was always yelling at his men and refusing to help approve anything. Travel, buying local food, manifests, that sort of thing.”

  “A loud officer is uncommon in your army?” Sidorov asked, offering a friendly smile.

  “Captain, there are people who just ain’t happy less they’re makin’ someone else miserable. That was Lieutenant Kopelev in a nutshell,” the mechanic said. “Now I gotta get back to work, this baby’s gotta be ready to fly to Tehran tonight.”

  “Hey, just one last quick question,” I said. “What did you mean about Kopelev approving manifests?”

  “NKVD checks crew and passengers departing the base,” he said. “They don’t like their own people gettin’ out. Coupla months ago, three guys tried to take a Polish refugee out. They’d bailed out over Polish territory and he’d helped them get back. They’d smuggled him in, dressed him up as one of ours, and put him on a Tehran flight. Kopelev spotted something fishy, pulled the Pole off, and raised holy hell. General Dawson got our men out as fast as he could.”

  “What happened to the Pole?” Sidorov said.

  “You know what happened to him, Captain,” the mechanic said, his demeanor changing as he narrowed his eyes and stared down Sidorov. “You damn well know.”

  We left.

  “Dead?” I said as we got into the jeep.

  “The Pole? Yes, probably shot not far from here, out in the grassland, after digging his own grave,” Sidorov said. “It would have been an embarrassment for Kopelev. A quick execution was better for everyone, the Pole included. Less suffering that way, and perhaps Drozdov never found out. Nothing to do with our case, I’m afraid.”

  “No, just a poor guy taking a chance on freedom. As you did. Without the killings, of course.”

  “Please, Billy, spare me your bourgeois preaching,” Sidorov said. “You come from the land of riches, with a Sears Roebuck on every corner. You cannot criticize me for trying for the same thing in the only way I could manage. The Pole tried. I tried. He is dead and I have been to hell. Perhaps freedom is overrated, after all. What would you sacrifice to attain it?”

  “I’d like to think the lives of innocent people wouldn’t top my list,” I said as I started the jeep. “But listen, I’m sorry I brought it up. We need to focus on the present, not the past. What’s next?”

  “For my part, it seems Sergeant Craven is an excellent candidate. He is a criminal, probably habitual. Who would miss him?” Sidorov said.

  “What about his actual guilt or innocence?” I asked. I pulled the jeep out into the road as one of the C-47 engines kicked over, spouted blue exhaust, and snarled into life.

  “A trivial matter. You don’t think they will allow us to actually investigate, do you? There is too great a chance that someone important will be implicated. We need a quick solution.”

  “You need a quick solution,” I said. “I’m not the one with the threat of Siberia hanging over me. We need more evidence. Like why the warehouse guard detail was transferred out of here.”

  “Good luck with that,” Sidorov said. “We would need something to offer General Belov and Major Drozdov, something they want.”

  “Condoms?” I asked. “Nylons?”

  “Who doesn’t want those things? No, I mean something they are desperate for. An American suspect. Technical Sergeant Craven, as I have been saying.”

  “I’m not fingering Craven as the killer, Kiril. Not without evidence, and there’s nothing to pin on him.”

  “You misunderstand,” Sidorov said as I came to a halt at an intersection, waiting for a couple of Russian trucks to lumber by. “We could simply indicate that he is a potential suspect. If Belov and Drozdov see that we are in agreement on this, they will take that as good news. That would be the moment to request travel to question the officer in charge of the warehouse detail. With time to search for your big sergeant, if Drozdov is in a good mood.”

  “Sounds good,” I said, shifting into first. “But what happens to Craven?”

  “Perhaps General Dawson would see fit to transfer Sergeant Craven. I’m sure your airbase in Tehran could use a skilled supply specialist,” Sidorov said. “If the general acts quickly, he could get the paperwork approved before Drozdov notices. After all, checking manifests was Kopelev’s job. There may be a new officer assigned, or Drozdov is managing that in addition to his other duties and may not take note.”

  “Tricky timing,” I said. “But what’s the worst that can happen? Craven loses his bid to corner the condom market?”

  “What is the expression? A silver lining in the cloud?”

  “Close enough,” I said, thinking mostly about Big Mike. This was a long shot, but every day that Big Mike and his surviving crewmates didn’t show up made a long shot look like easy money.

  We drove by six Soviet fighters, Yak-9s, scrambling to take off from a grass runway. They taxied at high speed, racing one another to get into the air without regard to formation or altitude.

  “Are we under attack?” I said, looking at the sky and expecting to see enemy bombers.

  “Not that I can tell. Russian pilots can be enthusiastic with their machines. Not so that one,” Sidorov said, pointing to the biplane we had seen being worked on earlier. It rolled along at a sedate pace, its wheels bouncing on the grasses until it slowly climbed into the air. The biplane’s engine chugged along like a sewing machine, unlike the snarling growls of the Yak-9s.

  We decided a search of Kopelev’s and Morris’s quarters would be our next stop. I was all for going to Drozdov right away, but Sidorov said searching their rooms was such an elementary step that we couldn’t skip it. He was right, so I pulled up in front of the barracks, looking for Max. He’d be the guy to ask, rather than the brass. Less saluting and fewer questions.

  Sidorov went down the hall to look for his gear. He’d been brought straight to Belov this morning and hadn’t seen his accommodations, nor had he any belongings to bring. He seemed excited, which made sense for a guy who probably hadn’t seen new underwear or socks anytime during the year.

  “Max!” I hollered, checking the room across from mine.

  “Here, boss!” Max answered, scurrying from the washroom. “You need me?”

  “Yeah. Tell me, where were Kopelev’s quarters? And Sergeant Morris. We want to do a search,” I said.

  “Sure, sure. I show you,” Max said, bobbing his head eagerly.

  “Who is this?” Sidorov said, strapping a holstered Tokarev automatic to his belt. Apparently Drozdov trusted him with more than new skivvies.

  “Max, the guy I was telling you about. He’s been assigned to me,” I said.

  Sidorov and Max studied each other. Max stiffened and took one step back. Wariness and worry flitted across his face under Sidorov’s scrutiny, and I wondered what the hell was going on between them.

  “Zasuchi rukava,” Sidorov snapped, one hand resting on his leather holster.

  “Da, Kapitan,” Max answered, and rolled up his sleeves, revealing a display of tattoos. On one forearm, a rose was ensnared in barbed wire. On the other, a skull with bared fangs instead of teeth sat above a star.

  “Open your tunic,” Sidorov ordered. Max grinned and unbuttoned. On his thin, white chest was a large elephant, done in
fine detail. The groveling Max, eager to please, was nowhere to be seen. This Max was clearly proud of his tattoos and showed no deference to Sidorov’s rank. Or his pistol.

  “You are a kat, Kapitan,” Max said, buttoning up. “I see it in your eyes. And hands. Rough, like a dockhand.”

  “Cat?” I asked.

  “Kat,” Sidorov said, glancing at his callused hands. “Katorzhnik, a hard labor convict. It describes either a political prisoner or a professional criminal. Max is clearly not political.”

  “You’re a jailbird?” I asked Max, who wrinkled his brow in confusion. That bit of English was too much for him. “Kat?”

  “Yes, boss. No worry, Max no steal from you,” he said.

  “He was sent to the camps when he was very young,” Sidorov said. “A juvenile. That is what the rose behind barbed wire means. And the fangs on the skull symbolize defiance of authority. I am surprised you are in uniform, Max.”

  “I was young man. Foolish. Now I only want to fight fascists and have freedom. No more jailbird, yes?”

  “Yes, I must agree,” Sidorov said. “Admirable goals. What were you charged with?”

  “I worked on docks. Loading ships. Yalta, Sevastopol, Odessa. I was very young, alone. No mat’, no otets. Police say I take things, send me to prison. Very hard. Young boy must fight, you understand?”

  I understood. A kid in the company of adult criminals would be nothing but prey. From the little I knew about Soviet prisons, it had to be a hundred times tougher than any stateside penitentiary. Max had a hard face, sinewy arms, and suspicious eyes, but for all that I could see he was younger than he’d appeared to be. A few years older than me, but not much more.

  “It is difficult to be an orphan, even in the Soviet Union,” Sidorov said. “I congratulate you on your rehabilitation, as well as your command of English. Where did you learn it?”

  “From work on docks and ships. I learn fast. English crews teach me. I also know French. Est-ce que tu parles français?”

  “Un peu. Now show us to Lieutenant Kopelev’s quarters, Max.”