Authors: Mark Ellis
“Just so. Not much longer, I’d say, but then my outlook on everything is pessimistic now. Let’s change the subject.” Charlie raised his good leg in front of him and moved it from side to side.
“You know the annoying thing is that sometimes when I wake up in the morning, I can feel the leg that’s missing. I begin to think for a moment that by some miracle its grown back.” He lowered his leg and helped himself to a cigarette from a packet on a small table by his side.
“Still off the weed, are you Frank?”
“Yes.”
Charlie lit up and blew a cigarette circle in the air. “Any interesting jobs on?”
“I’m on one concerning a missing Polish pilot at the moment.” Merlin proceeded to summarise the case to his brother, ending with the enquiries made of Tarkowski about Polish government finances.
“I had some dealings regarding Poland when I was working at the bank before the war.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Martins Bank was the correspondent bank of a Polish bank, what was its name now?” Charlie shook ash into an ashtray as he tried to remember.
“Yes, I have it. There was a bank called the Polish Commonwealth Trading Bank. I had to oversee the paperwork on some large financial transfers from Poland in 1939. There were a few accounts set up, the names meaning nothing to me, but I understood from the manager of that bank that they were government transfers. He didn’t spell it out, but he hinted that it was some cautious forward thinking by the authorities, in case things turned out as in fact they did.”
“A lot of money?”
“Oh, yes, millions in sterling terms. There was some bullion too, as I recall.”
“You don’t by any chance recall the name of the manager you dealt with?” Charlie stubbed his cigarette out and fumbled for another.
“De something, I think. De Souza, that’s it. Eugene de Souza.”
They heard the front door slamming and Charlie’s young son, Paul, ran into the room and jumped on his uncle. His wife, Beatrice, followed, carrying a large shopping bag. As she put it down, she sighed with relief before walking over to pat Merlin’s hand. “There you are, Frank. You’ll stop for lunch, of course. I managed to get hold of some nice lamb chops.”
* * *
At the sound of the voice on the other end of the telephone, Grishin’s blood ran cold. Down the line he could somehow sense Beria’s pitiless eyes inspecting his soul through those sinister spectacles of his, while from across the room the relentless eyes in Stalin’s portrait did the same. It was only a few months since Beria had prompted Stalin into ordering the massacre at Katyn. Around 20,000 of Poland’s finest men had perished including nearly all of the Polish military officers taken prisoner by the invading Soviet forces in 1939. A few officers had survived to undergo interrogation in the Lubianka and Beria’s call had been about one of them. Apparently this officer had, as Beria put it, inevitably seen fit to accommodate his interrogators with the answers to their questions, after a little discomfort. Grishin knew well what agonies “a little discomfort” might encompass.
“There has been a development that might interest you, Grishin.” Beria’s wheedling voice always went through Grishin like a fingernail on a blackboard.
“Yes, Comrade Beria.”
“You may recall from your time in Spain that various shipments of bullion were made to us in consideration of the substantial assistance we were giving the ultimately useless Republican forces.”
Grishin shuddered. “Yes, Comrade.”
“By chance a while back, it was discovered that there had been a discrepancy in one of the shipments.”
“Was there, Comrade?”
“You know very well, Grishin. Don’t pretend otherwise. One of your subordinates – a Pole, you can never trust a Pole, of course – stole millions of roubles worth of gold from the Soviet State. Unfortunately, the man died before we tracked him down. You know all this, of course.”
Grishin cleared his throat. “I do not.”
“There, there, Grishin. No need to say anything. The Vozhd is all-seeing and all-knowing and so are his loyal chief lieutenants, such as I.” Grishin could imagine him preening and puffing himself up like a peacock as he sat at his desk in the Lubianka. “Overall you acquitted yourself well in Spain and haven’t put a foot wrong since then. While not forgotten or forgiven, the great leader has chosen, how shall we say, to put your failing concerning the gold in abeyance.”
“But I had nothing to do with any theft! I—”
“That is enough, Grishin. Just be grateful. In any event, as I said, there has been a development. We have been unable to find the missing gold. There was a view that it had ended up with some of your assistant’s friends in Krakow, who had transported it to America. Another line of enquiry pointed to its having ended up in France. Our German friends have been accommodating in affording assistance to our agents in Paris, but to no avail. Now, however, we have other testimony from this Polish officer.”
“Which is, Comrade?”
“That the gold was melted down and transferred via Brussels to London.”
“To where in London?”
“Unfortunately, the witness in question has not yet revealed that, but we shall get it out of him, I am sure.”
“And the gold? What form does it now take?”
“I’ll send you a copy of the witness’ testimony when we’ve finished with him. Then I shall expect you to act!”
* * *
The squadron was scrambled just after half past two and they were in the thick of it an hour later. The German bombers were back in force and there were hundreds of aircraft in the sky above London. The Spitfires were targeting the Messerschmitt fighter escorts while the Hurricanes’ focus was the bombers themselves. Jan and Jerzy found themselves chasing two Heinkel bombers, which had somehow become detached from their escorts somewhere over east London. As they closed in on their prey, a spray of bullets suddenly ripped across Jan’s windscreen and a trickle of blood blinded his left eye. He also felt a dull pain in his left shoulder. The Hurricane’s handling seemed to be unaffected, but visibility was seriously impaired. Looking to his right he could see Jerzy’s plane banking above him and he saw a line of tracers aimed at a target he couldn’t see. He decided to pull away to the left. There was no hope of him tracking down the bombers now and the best he could do was to get safely home. As he couldn’t see the plane that attacked him, he didn’t rate his chances very highly.
As he flew the plane onto a westerly course, he was able to see the great River Thames meandering between the dockland below. It had been cloudy for most of the day, but now the sun found its way through briefly and the water sparkled in the momentary rays.
A loud explosion sounded close above him and he twisted the aeroplane onto a northerly course. Out of the corner of his eye he could see a trail of black smoke and then, as he steadied, he was able to look down and see an aircraft plummeting towards the glittering mass of water. He couldn’t tell if it was Jerzy’s Hurricane or the assailant’s Messerschmitt. Gripping the control firmly, he mumbled an old Jewish prayer he remembered from his childhood. As the last word escaped his mouth, a plane appeared high above him and waggled its wings before diving down, turning beneath him and pulling up on his right side. Jerzy was sticking his thumb in the air and Jan nodded back. They would both live to fight another day.
* * *
Merlin sat at his desk, oblivious to the sound of the anti-aircraft guns on the other side of the river and the steady drone of bombers above.
It’s amazing what you can get used to
, he thought. There was some paperwork on his desk, which he couldn’t get his head around. He had managed to absorb a couple of notes; one message from Johnson to say that he and Cole had survived the night, but, for reasons he would explain in person, had made no progress with their task. The second note was from Bridges mentioning that he had remembered he had a friend whose wife was Polish and did some work for the Polish government in exile.
Removing his new glasses, he attempted to read a new security leaflet someone, no doubt Bridges, had left on his desk. He held it at a distance and then close up, but it was no good either way and he put the spectacles back on. Merlin had been a good sportsman in his time, nearly playing football at a professional level. That was how he had met Jack Stewart. He remained very fit and could handle himself well in a fight as had already been proven several times in the past year. If he needed glasses, so be it. Perhaps he would have to wear glasses all the time soon. Most other parts of the Merlin machine were functioning well. The undercarriage area appeared to be in particularly good nick, after a few years under wraps. He blushed at the thought of Sonia’s perfect naked body and her bewitching face. They had not shared a bed now for a few nights. Perhaps tonight…?
The phone rang. A clipped voice at the other line introduced the caller. “Spilsbury here. Gather you are the chap interested in one of my corpses. The pilot.”
“Ah, yes. Sir Bernard. Thank you very much for calling. Should I come out to St Pancras?”
“I can tell you my findings over the phone or you can meet me at my club, the Junior Carlton Club of Pall Mall. Do you know it? It’s number thirty.”
Merlin knew he would regret foregoing a second encounter with the founder of modern forensic medicine. “I shall be happy to learn what you have to say in person, Sir Bernard. What time?”
“In forty-five minutes at 5pm. It is my habit to have a glass of sherry at that hour. Perhaps you can join me for a glass.”
“Indeed, a pleasure, sir.”
The connection was broken and Merlin sat back for a moment in contemplation of his forthcoming meeting. Then he leaned forward and, reaching past the Eiffel Tower paperweight, he grabbed his favourite pen and a piece of notepaper. Once he knew the cause of death, he wanted to interview Tarkowski again. It would be worth interviewing the Count’s wife too. Then there was this chap Charlie had mentioned, de Souza. It might be useful to see him – in fact, he would arrange to see him before seeing the Tarkowskis. Perhaps he should also try and see someone else at the Polish legation, again depending on what he might learn from de Souza. Then again he was sure he could get more from the pilots and the base. He scribbled notes down and then picked up the telephone and dialled Sonia’s number. There was no answer and Merlin then remembered she was working the afternoon. She wouldn’t be home until six or seven, he thought. He could surprise her. They could go to that cosy Italian place around the corner from her place. By rights he shouldn’t have much of an appetite after the hearty lunch that Beatrice had given him, but he felt that by 7pm he would be voracious again. He wondered whether it might have something to do with love.
* * *
Voronov pulled back the landscape portrait of one of the endless Russian steppes and dialled the combination 21121879. The figures derived from a seminal birth date in Russian history. Of course, the Georgian sheepshagger didn’t really like the idea that he had done anything as humdrum as to be born – in his mind he had been hewn out of granite or, perhaps more appropriate to his current assumed name, forged in a steel mill. Stalin, Man of Steel – well, it rolled a lot more easily off the tongue than Dzhugashvili, that had to be said. Josef Dzhugashvili and he went back a long way – both young revolutionaries, both criminals, both ruthless and violent. Voronov kept his violent side well hidden these days, cloaked in a general air of bonhomie and laughter. But it was still there and he could feel it bubbling close to the surface tonight. There was no particular reason for it, but this side of him needed an airing every so often so that it did not explode out of him unbidden.
He reached into the safe and pulled out a bundle of notes, held together by a rubber band. Whistling tunelessly, he made his way back to his desk and fell into his chair. “Maksim, where are you?”
His servant appeared at the door.
“You are looking guilty, Maksim. What have you been up to?”
“Nothing, Kyril Ivanovitch. I was just having a cup of tea.”
“Laced with some of my best vodka, no doubt.”
“No, no. I’d never do that.”
“Do you take me for a complete idiot, Maksim? Anyway, I’m not going to get in to that now. I can’t find my Tokarev revolver in the desk. Where is it?”
Maksim shuffled to his feet and stared miserably at his master. “I took it out to give it a good clean.”
Voronov leaned back in his chair and belched loudly. He stared hard at Maksim. “You did, did you? And is the gun now cleaned and ready for use?”
The servant nervously picked at his nose. “And who might you want to use it on, Kyril Ivanovitch?”
Voronov banged his fist on the desk. “That’s none of your fucking business! And if you don’t bring it to me here tout de suite, it’ll be you I’ll be using as target practice.”
Maksim scurried away.
Voronov ran his hand through his beard under which the skin had started to itch as it usually did when he got irritated. To be truthful, he didn’t know what he was going to do with the revolver. He might take some pot shots out of the window at whatever domestic animals were foolish enough to come within range. He might just go for a walk in the park and shoot some birds. He needed to do something to relieve the violent tension he felt building in him. Was it Trubetskoi and his stupidity that had provoked this? Or the lack of progress on the gold? Perhaps he just needed another session with the Countess? She had seemed to enjoy the rough stuff or was he deluding himself? He rose from his chair. “Maksim, where the hell is that gun?”