Authors: Mark Ellis
* * *
Merlin was still puzzling about the gold he had found when he realised it was lunchtime. He decided to find out how his friend Jack Stewart was bearing up. As he walked down the stairs, he toyed with the idea of getting a car from the pool, but just as he got outside he could see a bus moving slowly along the Embankment. He broke into a run and managed to get onto it just as the traffic lights in front of Big Ben were turning green. Twenty minutes later he jumped off on the King’s Road, turned down Flood Street and found the Chelsea AFS station around the corner from one of his and Stewart’s favourite haunts, The Surprise pub.
As soon as he pushed through the swing doors, he found Stewart, or rather heard him, tearing a strip off a couple of firemen.
“Why on earth haven’t you got that pump fixed? You’ve had six hours since we got back. I said everyone could have a little rest, but by little rest I didn’t mean six hours. It’s a small job anyway and shouldn’t take more than half an hour.”
Merlin heard a stuttered apologetic response.
“That’s no bloody excuse. Well, get on with it now anyway. We’re probably only a short time away from the next raid. Go on, off you go.” Stewart emerged from behind a bright red door, shaking his head. Stewart’s frame never did have much meat on it, but Merlin thought his friend was thinner than the last time he’d seen him.
A broad grin split the fireman’s face. “Well, this is a nice surprise. Frank Merlin, welcome to my humble abode. ‘Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam. Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home!’”
Like Merlin, Stewart was a great lover of poetry and through their many years of friendship they had enjoyed proclaiming favourite lines to each other. “Have you got any time to be taken out of your humble abode, Jack? Time for a quick one round the corner?”
Stewart consulted his watch. “I shouldn’t, but alright. A very quick one.”
Minutes later, both men were nursing modest half-pints of mild while trying to get to grips with two rather stale pork pies.
“So, how are you finding it, Jack?”
“Finding it. How am I finding it? Well, I don’t know if I have the words to be honest, Frank. Hellish. Stomach-churning. Knackering. Those are some not very good words. Strangely, also exhilarating, awe-inspiring, invigorating. Those are some good words. And Byron had some better. How does it go now?
‘For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed,
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still!’”
“Muy bueno! Beautiful. Anyway, I thought you’d like to know that I’ve been thinking of you. To tell the truth, I’m still upset the A.C. blocked me from joining up. I can’t help feeling that I should be doing something more worthwhile in this war.”
“Oh, don’t feel like that. You’re doing just as important a job. Didn’t you just get that creepy little woman-murderer his just desserts? You know I’ve been twiddling my thumbs for months waiting for some action. It’s just the case that now the fire service’s moment in the spotlight has finally arrived. It’s probably going to be a long moment, but…” Stewart shrugged.
“How are your men holding up?”
“Very well, all things considered. They’ve been brilliant. I have to bawl them out sometimes, but the sense of camaraderie is wonderful – some young lads, some older men showing guts and resilience in hair-raising circumstances they could never have imagined before this war. Helps to give me belief and confidence that we’re going to lick those Nazi bastards. Anyway, enough of me and mine, what are you up to? And how’s the luscious Sonia?”
“She’s fine. Refusing my advice that she get out of London into the country, of course. Her brother’s on the scene. A pilot in one of the Polish squadrons. Seems a nice chap.”
“Well, I’ll bet he’s a busy boy at the moment. Working on anything interesting?”
“A couple of things. I’m just about to start looking for one of Sonia’s compatriots. A pilot in her brother’s squadron who’s gone missing. And Gatehouse has also involved me in sorting out a response to looting.”
“Looting?”
“Apparently there have been significant outbreaks of looting since the bombing started in August. Quite surprising levels of activity in the suburbs and now in the last few days in central London. Have you come across anything?”
“Not really. We’ve been too busy concentrating on the fires themselves rather than the aftermath. I hadn’t really thought about it, to be honest. I suppose it’s just human nature, the worst of it, but human nature all the same. I can’t think that any of my men would be capable even if the opportunity arose. I’ll keep more of an eye out from now, if I can. So how has the A.C. involved you?”
“Typical Whitehall. The levels of looting are frightening them. There’s no civil defence contingency plan. The A.C. was put on the spot in some meeting and did as he usually does in such circumstances, turned to me, after, of course, bawling me out quite unjustifiably for not anticipating and planning for such a problem myself.”
“So what’s being done?”
“There’s to be a committee. I’ve got my Inspector Johnson to sit on it. They are meeting on Wednesday. Apparently there’s going to be someone from your lot in it. Have you heard of a man called Sir Archibald Steele?”
Stewart laughed. “Sure I have. I know him well. Some people in the service call me his protégé! In any event he was very instrumental in getting me my promotion.”
“Good man?”
“One of the best.”
“Well, that’s nice to know. I’ll tell Johnson.”
A siren sounded. Stewart drained his glass. “I’d better be off.”
“Good luck, my friend.”
Stewart touched the peak of his cap in mock salute and disappeared through the door. Merlin ordered a cheese sandwich to take away the taste of the mouldy pork pie. It was equally unpalatable.
* * *
Voronov cradled the glass of red Georgian wine and looked intently at Countess Tarkowski. She had chosen the cold meat salad despite his fervent entreaties to attempt one of the Georgian delicacies on offer. “My dear, they have meat here you can’t find in many other places. They have a line into the Russian embassy’s kitchen. The lamb is out of this world – try the Chanahi or perhaps the Buglama stew. You’ll love it.”
But no, cold cuts would be fine, thank you, for the lady. And she’d only eaten half a slice of ham as far as he could see. Every time he had looked at her, her dark eyes had been concentrated on her plate or the table. She drank only water and he could discern a faint tremble in the hand that raised her glass.
Well, she might stint her food, but he wouldn’t. He demolished the chilled soup in quick order and then, having been unable to choose between two dishes, he had them both – the Chanahi lamb stew and the Khachapuri savoury pie. Delicious! And he had talked, of course. Talk was one of his great specialities. He had talked about some of his Russian adventures, bowdlerised in deference to his gracious companion, about his friends, about the powerful men he knew all over Europe. He had talked about everything under the sun except what he had arranged the lunch for. She had said little, toying desultorily with her lettuce and occasionally allowing the hint of a smile to move her lips.
Why was she so dull today? At the party she had been an impressively lively hostess, laughing and chatting gaily with everyone. Ah, yes, but then – she was no fool. He had presumed on an old brief acquaintance with the Count and Countess in pre-war Warsaw to gatecrash the soirée his sources had told him about and had taken the opportunity to pass her a message. When he had caught sight of her reading the note he had given her when leaving the party, he had seen the shadow quickly fall over her face. She loved her family. That was why she was here – but she had no illusions.
Mikhail came to remove the plates.
“A dessert, Countess. You should try the butter cake. It is sublime!”
The Countess shook her head.
“Ah. Two coffees then. And I’ll have some of that Georgian brandy that your family keeps for best. A cigarette for you perhaps, my dear. Yes? No. Very well. I’ll have a cigar. My usual.”
After Mikhail disappeared the Countess finished her glass of water and looked directly at Voronov for the first time. “Your stories are all very interesting, Mr Voronov, but perhaps you could get to the point of our meeting. You said in your note that you knew of Karol’s situation and, what were the exact words again, that one favour might be returned with another. What exactly did you mean by that?”
Voronov swirled the remaining dregs of his wine in the glass before draining it. At the outset, he had insisted on deferring any discussion about his note till after they had eaten. Now it was time for business. “My dear, I apologise for not coming to the point a little earlier. I thought it would be nice if we could get to know each other a little better.”
“Very well. Now we know each other a little better, what do you have to say about Karol?”
Voronov stroked his beard and shook his head slowly. “Such a story. Such a story. A brave man, your Karol, but perhaps not such a sensible man, if I may say so.”
The Countess pursed her lips. “I would call him a brave man of principle myself. If it is not sensible to be a man of principle and to stand up for those principles, then, yes, perhaps he is as you say.”
“Ah, principle! Such a nice word. But principle is an expensive thing to have in such times, especially in a little country like Poland, at the mercy of two monsters, as it is.”
“Can we please dispense with the sophistry and get to the point? My brother Karol is in prison in Moscow. He made the mistake of placing Polish patriotism ahead of his personal well-being and refused to become a puppet administrator in the half of my country swallowed by your Mr Stalin. This was an annoying and unexpected affront, hence Karol’s removal in short order to the Lubianka. I assume he remains there, although for all I know he may already have been removed to Siberia or indeed may be dead.”
“He is alive, my dear.” Voronov saw the Countess’ beautiful, dark eyes water. She took a deep breath.
“Are you sure?”
“I am sure. You may trust me. I have very reliable sources.”
“And is he still in Moscow?”
“He is, although there is some talk of moving him back to Poland.”
Hope brought colour to her face for the first time that day. “You mean he is to be freed?”
“That rather depends.”
“Depends. Depends on what?”
“On you, my dear.”
The Countess shivered. Her paleness returned. “This, I presume, is the favour of which you spoke?”
Mikhail appeared with Voronov’s brandy and cigar. Voronov clipped the end off the cigar, lit it and drew on it in a leisurely fashion. He picked up the brandy glass and put his large, red nose in it, savouring the smell at length before tasting. Finally, he looked back at the Countess. “A favour, Countess. Yes, a favour. You can do me a favour.” He suddenly reached out a hairy hand and placed it over the Countess’s. She tried to withdraw, but Voronov’s grip was too firm. “Perhaps you can even do me more than one favour.” His wet lips pulled back from his teeth in an approximation of a grin and he winked. “And for one or perhaps more favours, I can help Karol.”
“How?”
“Well, my dear. I am sure you know how well connected I am with the authorities back there. I can call even the Big Man a friend, although Comrade Stalin’s view of friendship is perhaps a little unorthodox. I need information, Countess. You may be in a position to provide this information to me. If you can do what I want, then I can pull strings. Depending on the quality of your information and, let us say, how accommodating you are in your work, I may be able to improve his condition and get him out or even get him to England.”
“And if I can provide this information, whatever it is, how on earth will I know whether you are pulling the strings for Karol?”
“You will have to take my word for it, Countess.”
“And if I do not trust your word?”
“If you do not, your brother has no hope. And how will you feel if you had the chance to help him and refused? You must trust me, my dear. I am Karol’s only hope. Give me what I want and you could be dining with him in this restaurant by Christmas.”
The Countess looked away before reaching out for Voronov’s brandy glass. She drained it, slammed the empty glass back on the table and stared at Voronov. “You had better tell me what it is you want to know.”
* * *
Some of the mechanics were playing football on the grass behind the huts. Jan watched them through the window of his room.
“Like a game?” Miro Kubicki flourished his pack of cards in Jan’s face. Printed on special Polish paper at the beginning of the century, the cards had been designed by some relative of his who fancied himself as a Polish version of Toulouse-Lautrec. Kubicki insisted that all games be played with his cards. Since he had a very good record of winning, Jan was seriously beginning to suspect that the cards were marked.