Rag and Bone by James R. Benn Page B

questions as a bigger guy in an even baggier suit searched me. Neither of them had spent their spare time shopping in London, that was for sure. Who was I, whom did I want to see, for what purpose, who was my superior officer, and finally, what was my civilian occupation.
    I used Harding’s name, holding Uncle Ike in reserve in case things got dicey. I told them I wanted to speak to Captain Sidorov in connection with the murder of Captain Gennady Egorov.
    “The assassination of Captain Egorov,” the smaller dark suit stated, waiting for the answer to the last question. It didn’t seem worth debating the difference. He had a thin face, with a thick mustache that looked out of place over pale, pursed lips. He spoke English carefully, considering each word as he strung them together in a series of harsh consonants.
    “Why does it matter what I did in civilian life?” I asked. I wondered if his mustache was an imitation of Joe Stalin’s.
    “It will assist us in determining if you are an enemy of the people. We do not want provocateurs causing trouble for our comrades.”
    “Aren’t we all on the same side, comrade?”
    “We must be vigilant in the class struggle, as well as in the struggle against Fascism, especially in this decadent city. Your civilian occupation, please?”
    “Have you guys seen Ninotchka yet?”
    “We have no one here by that name.” Busy writing in his notebook, he still hadn’t looked me in the eye. The big guy stood with his arms folded, a bored look on his broad, dull face. His neck was thick and his knuckles were decorated with scar tissue. I wondered what his civilian occupation had been.
    “No, the film,” I said. “With Greta Garbo.”
    “Western films are a frivolous waste of time. We have our own Russian motion pictures brought in for entertainment. Perhaps Captain Sidorov will invite you to see one. Your civilian occupation?”
    “Police detective. Friend and protector of the people.”
    “Hmm.” He wrote some more, and finally looked at me. I sensed he was weighing the obvious benefit of a detective working on the assassination of Comrade Egorov against my being a lackey of the ruling class. We had our fair share of Communist sympathizers in Boston, especially over in Cambridge, where the most ardent of them usually came from the richest families. I wasn’t exactly a fan of the moneyed crowd and politicians who ran things, but it seemed to me the Reds had as many bosses as any factory hand, and less of a chance of quitting than any textile worker in New England.
    “Very well, Lieutenant Boyle. I will inform Captain Sidorov you wish to see him. Be seated.”
    I sat. Big Suit stood and looked out the window as the thin guy picked up a telephone and spoke in Russian. He set down the receiver as Big Suit cracked his knuckles, then refolded his arms. It was a cozy little scene. Big Suit leaned over to get abetter view out the window, and I could see the outline of an automatic pistol in his waistband. I bet the thin guy kept his in a desk drawer. The guards outside were window dressing; this was the real security, or at least the main line of defense.
    After twenty minutes, a young woman in a Red Army uniform came to my rescue. She wore a brown high-collar shirt, yellow shoulder boards, a wide leather belt, and a row of medals lying at a pleasing angle on the curve of her breast. She smiled and crooked her finger at me. I followed, happily, leaving the white room and dark suits behind. She wordlessly led me up a flight of stairs and through a set of double doors, which she closed behind me.
    A Russian Air Force officer came forward, hand outstretched. “Lieutenant William Boyle, I greet you in the name of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. Captain Kiril Sidorov, at your service.”
    His steel blue uniform was well tailored, suiting his slim frame. The light blue collar tabs and piping matched his eyes perfectly, and his leather belt gleamed. He’d definitely paid a visit