Stalin's Gold (27 page)

* * *

After bundling a complaining Sonia into a taxi, Merlin crossed the road and went up Bond Street, heading for his rendezvous with Johnson and Stewart. He turned right into Burlington Gardens and eventually found Stewart and Cole halfway down Savile Row. Cole was pointing his torch into one of the posh tailor shops that lined the street. The tailors’ dummies seemed strangely sinister to Merlin and he shivered. “Where’s Jack Stewart, Inspector?”

Johnson nodded down the street where Merlin could see firemen, illuminated by the towering flames, training their hoses on a burning building. “Stewart’s down there with his men. The place took a hit about an hour ago.”

Merlin could just make out Stewart standing beside one of the hoses supervising the operation. Even at his seventy or so yards’ distance, Merlin could feel the heat generated by the fire.

“Cole and I were just doing some exploring.” A crackle of gunfire sounded in the distance.

“Very good, Peter. Let’s carry on up here. This should be prime looting territory. All these fancy shops, galleries and so on and the Royal Arcade just round the corner.” The policemen wandered up towards the top end of the street. The blackout was well observed in this hub of British tailoring and they came across nothing unusual. There had been no aircraft noise for a while, but, when they reached the corner, they could again hear the whirr and buzz of the Luftwaffe coming in for second helpings.

Johnson looked up. “Here they come again.”

Merlin stopped by the entrance to the Albany. “As the Inspector knows, Constable, the flats here in the Albany, or sets as they are called, are amongst the most exclusive in London. Waiting list as long as your arm. Aristocrats, politicians, writers – plenty of famous ones here. Byron, Gladstone, Macaulay, amongst others.”

“Any film stars, sir?”

“Yes, Cole. Someone told me that Leslie Howard had one of…” Merlin paused and looked up. “Hear that?”

An eerie whistling sound directly above heralded the imminent arrival of a bomb. Merlin turned and pushed Johnson and the young constable in the direction of Bond Street. “Run! For Christ’s sake, run!”

* * *

Tarkowski could hear explosions in the distance and there was a misty glow in the sky at the end of his street. The telephone rang and he turned away from the study window and returned to his desk. The room was lit only by the small lamp on a table behind him. He hurriedly swallowed a couple of painkillers with a glass of water, then picked up the receiver.

“I am so glad you phoned. Are you alright? Good. Look, I need your help. I want to move the rest of the gold. It’s best all round, I think, to get it into the safety of the bank.” A flash of light outside briefly illuminated the room. “Do you think you can get away tomorrow? With luck, yes? Let’s hope then. I need to speak to the bank, but I am trying to get transport organised for the afternoon. There are a few good men at the legation who I trust. If you could bring another reliable body that would be good. Trouble? It’s possible. Anyway, call me in the morning to confirm.”

Tarkowski put the phone down and closed his eyes. There was a noise at the door and his wife entered. She was wearing an old dressing gown and her face was plastered with beauty cream, but she was still the most beautiful woman alive to him.

“You are moving it tomorrow then?”

Tarkowski nodded.

“And he’s coming to help.”

Tarkowski nodded again.

“May God be with us.”

* * *

The bomb landed at the north end of Burlington Arcade. Stewart, Evans and three other firemen were swiftly on the scene, having left the rest of the team dowsing the burning embers of the bombed building on Savile Row. The explosion had set off several of the alarms in the Arcade. Jack Stewart arrived with a couple of his men. Stewart wiped some grime from his face. “Not as bad as I first thought, Evans.” Gentle flames were licking away at the roof of a building next to the Arcade and fallen masonry almost blocked its entrance. Stewart climbed over the rubble and tentatively edged into the Arcade. Glass was everywhere. In one shop to their right, the antique watches on display were splattered with debris. There was some movement behind him. “Hey. Who’s that? Frank, is that you? Are you alright?”

Merlin rose awkwardly to his feet, coughing dust. He was covered in plaster and glass, as were his two colleagues. “Just about, Jack. Are you alive, you two?”

Johnson and Cole grunted in the affirmative.

Stewart shone his torch into the Arcade. “Looks like nearly all the shops have had their windows blown out. There’s a lot of valuable stuff here. I think…” Another bomb exploded not so far away and the men were rocked on their feet. “Christ, that was close. The noble Lord Tennyson comes to mind, eh, Frank? ‘Into the Valley of Death…’”

“Yes, Jack, but we are not quite six hundred.”

“Fair point, my friend. I reckon we should stay put here for a moment. Now where’s Evans gone?”

Merlin pointed. “Someone’s just gone down to the other end of the Arcade. Is that him?”

Stewart shouted Evans’ name with no response save the echo of his own voice from the Arcade walls. A moment later, the Arcade walls echoed again, this time with the sound of running footsteps and an out of breath Evans appeared.

“What the hell, Evans? Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.” Stewart reached out and helped Evans over the large concrete slab that had partially blocked the Arcade entrance.

As Evans had reached the far end of the Arcade, he had seen a couple of men clearing out one of the jewellery shops. What Stewart had taken to be terror in Evans’ face was in fact a mixture of fear and indecision. In the light of their torches, Evans had recognised his new associates, Jake and Billy. Should he… tell? He decided that he had no option. “Looters. A couple of them down there. In one of the jewellery shops.”

Merlin patted Johnson’s shoulder. “Come on.” Merlin led the way, Johnson and Cole behind, carefully edging down the gallery behind the light of his torch. He presumed that the thieves ahead had heard Evans’ running footfall and would be prepared for something. When they were about twenty yards from the Piccadilly end of the Arcade, his torch caught a glint of eyes. Cole hurried past him and the looters shouted something to each other. A shot rang out.

The gunfire glare blinded Merlin for a moment. He heard Johnson shout. “Tommy, are you alright?” As his vision cleared, Merlin saw that Cole had crumpled to the ground against a shop window. He was breathing heavily and as Merlin and Johnson turned their torches on him they saw a pool of blood seeping onto the floor to his left.

Merlin caught his breath. “The bastards.” Another shot rang out and the bullet hurtled just between Merlin and Johnson into the already cracked window of the shop. Then they heard the sound of racing feet. Johnson was torn for a moment between concern for the condition of his colleague and the need to chase the looters, but Merlin flew off at once. “Come on, Peter!” The men had at least twenty yards on them. As Merlin ran through the gallery exit into Piccadilly, he felt the heat of another bullet whizzing past his head. He withdrew into the cover of the Arcade and by the time he looked out again, the thieves had disappeared into the safety of the blackout. He felt for Johnson’s arm. “Bugger it!”

From off towards Picadilly Circus, they could hear the whistle of another bomb descending and they turned and hurried back down the Arcade to Cole. Johnson flashed his torch and sighed with relief when he saw that he was conscious. “I think he’s going to be alright, sir.” Cole gasped for air. “It’s my shoulder. Hurts like buggery, but I’m not a goner yet.”

Merlin felt his own shoulder ache for a second or two in sympathy. “What on earth were you thinking, charging off like that, eh? You don’t need to prove your courage to me, you know, Tommy. Anyway, can you walk? We need to get you out of here.” Cole got awkwardly to his feet with his colleagues’ help. As they struggled slowly back down the gallery, a thunderous roar indicated another bomb strike somewhere nearby and when the three men finally clambered over the rubble at the top end of the Arcade, yet another explosion sounded from somewhere in the direction of Regent Street.

“Christ, it’s coming down everywhere.” Johnson’s torch lit upon Evans’ face. He and Stewart were talking to an ARP warden a few yards from the entrance.

“Any medics to hand? I have an injured officer here.”

“What happened down there?” Stewart hurried over with Evans and the warden and helped Cole to sit down on a collapsed wall opposite the Arcade.

Merlin wiped his forehead. “The chaps you spotted, Mr Evans, had a shooter. Cole took a bullet in the shoulder. I think he’ll be fine, but he needs urgent attention. The looters unfortunately got away.”

“I saw an ambulance just now turning into Savile Row.” The warden had an Irish accent. “I’ve got a first aid box with me though. Perhaps…?”

Evans shook his head. “I’ll go and get the ambulance. You see what you can do.” He ran off towards Gieves & Hawkes’ shop at the end of Savile Row his face now displaying a grim determination. As he turned into the road, a nearby building took a direct hit, but he kept running through the smoke and falling debris. Behind him, Cole told Merlin and Johnson he felt good enough to walk to the ambulance himself with some assistance and they followed, while Stewart ran off to find the rest of his men. As the policemen and the warden turned into Savile Row, they saw the ambulance approaching them through the flames and smoke. Johnson flagged it down.

“Can we have a bit of help here?” Cole was helped into the back of the van, which also housed what appeared to be an injured lady of the night. “Alright, ducks? Cuddle up close, why don’t you?”

Johnson tried to follow Cole in, but the orderly pushed him back. “No room here, mate. We’ll be taking your friend here to the Westminster. Come and find him there.”

Merlin flashed his warrant card and glared at the ambulance man.

“Alright, pal. If you insist.”

“See you later, Peter. I’ll look after Cole, don’t worry. And see what happened to Evans.”

* * *

The Lubianka had finally broken him. It wasn’t one thing that had done it, but the accumulation of things. The beating, the lack of sleep, the cold, the endlessly repeated questions, the simulated executions, the stink of the cell and of his disgusting cell-mate. Finally, something had broken in Karol and the words had come gushing out – all that he knew about the leaders of the Polish government in exile, about his erstwhile military comrades, about the Polish Secret Service such as it now was and about the money and the gold. He did not know what time it was when he had given up the ghost. He did not know what time it was now. Hours later, a day?

He glanced over at Andrei, who was muttering unintelligibly while waving his hand at the wall. For once, it suddenly dawned on Karol, Andrei’s actions appeared to have an element of purpose. He seemed to be pointing at something. Karol rose from the stinking floor.

“What is it, Andrei? What are you trying to tell me?” Andrei’s gibbering rose in intensity. Karol bent down to examine the brickwork which Andrei seemed to be focusing on. Then he saw it. A faint glimmer in the gloom of the cell. There was a slight gap between two of the bricks and he reached into it and withdrew the sliver of broken knife, which Andrei must have secreted there. He patted his cellmate’s hand. “Thank you, my friend.”

Andrei withdrew to the other side of the cell, a trace of a smile appearing on his slack mouth. Bracing himself, Karol stood up, said a brief prayer, turned up the palm of his right hand and opened the veins of his wrist.

Chapter 16

Tuesday, September 17

One of the mechanics had given them a lift to South Ruislip and Northolt Junction and now their train clattered merrily along the rails through the suburban metroland of west London.

Kubicki extracted a cigarette from the packet Kowalski waved in front of him. “Thanks. What exactly is it we are going to do in London, Jerzy?”

“After a very nice lunch in the West End, we are going to help some friends move some boxes.”

“Can’t they get some labourers to help? I don’t see why—”

“Look, I don’t think we’ll need to actually use our hands, Miro. It’s just that my friend wants a little security, in case anything goes wrong.”

Miro lit his cigarette. “I don’t understand why you are being so secretive. What the hell is in these boxes? Must be something of value obviously. Why won’t you tell me?”

Kowalski looked out into the tiny gardens of the two-up two-downs running along the railside. He might as well tell him, he thought. When they were at his cousin’s place, it would probably become clear enough anyway. “You are an inquisitive soul, Miro, aren’t you? Always pestering me with questions. Very well, it is gold bullion. From the home country. It was stored in a building that was bombed and moved to a private house. Now it’s thought safer that it goes to the bank. Is that clear enough for you? We are going to my friend’s house to keep an eye out, just in case anything goes wrong.”

Miro blew a smoke circle towards the ceiling of the compartment, of which they were the sole occupants. “Gold, eh?” He licked his thick lips.

* * *

The rain was pattering rhythmically on the window panes of Merlin’s office as Johnson entered. Merlin was trying as ever to sort out the newly accumulated clutter on his desk. After a moment, he stopped, seemingly satisfied, though to Johnson’s eye it still looked a mess.

“How’s Cole doing, sir?”

“He’ll be alright. It’s only a flesh wound. Then again the doctors said mine was a flesh wound, but it’s still giving me gyp.”

“Sorry to hear that, sir.” Johnson took a seat. “I’ve got some interesting information.” He paused to rub his eyes, which were still red and stinging from the previous night’s fire and smoke. “That chap Evans.”

“Oh, yes? I meant to ask. What happened to him?”

“When he ran to get the ambulance for Cole he got hit by some falling masonry. After you went off with Cole, Stewart found him.”

“Is he dead?”

“No, he was lucky. Just a concussion and a broken bone or two. He’s in the hospital now. The point is that when Stewart found him and he had come round, he was a bit fevered and was going on about relieving his conscience. Said he knew who the looters were. Names of Jake and Billy.”

“How on earth…?”

“Apparently, Evans had been asked to value some paintings and other valuables. He’s some kind of art expert by training. A Russian friend of a friend had recruited him. He now realises that these items must have been looted by these fellows Jake and Billy who were in the Russian’s employ.”

“And you got all of this from Jack?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did he have a name for the Russian?”

“Trubetskoi. What is more, when Evans became suspicious, he followed him home one time to a property near Eaton Square. He managed to give Stewart the address.”

Bridges appeared at the door. “Ah, Sergeant, just the man. Anything back from Five yet on that Russian?”

“No, sir. They’ve been their usual unhelpful selves. Said they’d get back to us, but haven’t. It may not matter anyway.”

“How so?”

“Robinson managed to dig up Voronov’s address through someone she knows at the Home Office. He’s a registered alien. Has a big house off Eaton Square. I have the address.”

“Where is Robinson?”

“I let her go and see Cole at the hospital on condition she gets back within the hour.”

“Alright. Well, the Inspector has another address off Eaton Square. I wonder if they match?”

* * *

“Honest, guv. You’re going to have to pay up a large amount of dosh, if you want help with this. Everything is getting far too close to the knuckle, ain’t it, Billy? Look, see how his hands are shaking – not one for nerves normally, are you, Billy?”

Billy wiped some of the smudged smoke burns from his face with his sleeve. “We were far too close to the action yesterday, Jakie boy. I said we should lay off the main target areas as usual, but you wouldn’t listen.” Billy sighed. “Anyway, Jakie’s right, Mr Trubetskoi. We almost copped it last night. And remember, it’s a capital offence now. If we’re caught, we are for the drop. Pay up, as Jakie says. The odds are shortening against us and you’re not going to get us for pennies.”

“What is this pay up you are talking about, gentlemen?” The three men were in the Shepherd’s Bush lock-up where the two looters had hurried, empty-handed, scared and furious, from Piccadilly. A few hours’ uncomfortable sleep had been grabbed on beds fashioned from torn cardboard boxes and rags. Both men were in a foul mood and Trubetskoi realised that he did not have much bargaining power. “A hundred quid for the job. Is that good enough?”

Jake laughed sarcastically. “Hundred quid each, mate. And fifty quid each bonus for successful completion.”

Trubetskoi pursed his lips. “Very well.”

“And what’s in these boxes we are after anyway? If we manage to nick them and they are so valuable, we should have a taste of whatever it is, eh, Billy?”

Trubetskoi had already realised that if he and Voronov were successful in obtaining Tarkowski’s gold, they would certainly have no further need for this looting sideline and no further use for Billy and Jake. Whatever he agreed to, a bullet each in the head would be their ultimate reward.

“Whatever you say, gentlemen. You may have a good taste, as you say. Now, may I outline the programme for you?”

* * *

Eugene de Souza’s head was throbbing. He had vowed to himself several times since waking that he was never going to drink again. Madame de Souza had given him a terrible going over at breakfast and thoughts of murder had jostled with those of remorse all morning. That little necklace would have given him a nice big bonus too. With the proceeds he’d have found the financial demands of Pearl at the Windmill a little easier to accommodate. Although he had sat at his desk as usual from nine until one shuffling papers, no meaningful work had been done. It was now lunchtime and he thought a little fresh air might help. He shuffled to his office door, which was slightly ajar, and reached up to the coat stand for his British Warm. Although it was mild outside, the hangover was giving him the shivers.

As he slowly put the coat on, he could hear Wertheim’s voice whispering on the phone outside. Now at last prepared for the elements, de Souza stood still as he felt a surge of bile suddenly rise to his throat. He remained still for a short while to ensure that he did not have an unfortunate accident. As he waited, the sense of the words Wertheim was speaking penetrated his brain.

“Yes, they are moving the goods here sometime today, Mr Voronov. What? Sorry, sir. I won’t mention your name again, but there’s nothing to worry about. He’s locked in his office with a massive hangover, oblivious to everything. We’ve been told to be ready to receive the goods some time between five and seven tonight and I’ve agreed to stay in to facilitate the deposit. If you are going to act, you had better get on with it. Yes, sorry, but I have made myself clear, no? And you remember our arrangement, funds to be… Yes? Very well. Good luck, sir.” The phone was replaced on its receiver.

Despite the great loss of brain cells he had suffered over the past twenty-four hours, de Souza understood fully what he had just heard. He had had his suspicions for a while about Wertheim and these had finally proved justified. Placing his homburg on his head, he walked through the door. He would deal with the clerk tomorrow, but first things first. “Off to lunch, Wertheim. Back in an hour.”

The clerk bowed obsequiously. In the street, de Souza turned right and walked towards the public phone box on Lombard Street. He pulled out his small pocket notebook and found the Count’s number.

* * *

The man in the gabardine mac was nowhere to be seen as Voronov paced in front of the windows of his study. The telephone rang. “Thank God. Where have you been? Never mind. Have you got the men organised? Good. Wertheim tells me they are shifting the gold to the bank this evening. We have to be there this afternoon. I suggest you get over to the house now with the men and get the lie of the land. Keep out of sight.” He glanced over at the old Russian clock on the sideboard. “It’s 2.30 now. You should be there in an hour at the latest. I am going to join you. You have a map, of course. There is a road leading away from Tarkowski’s to the right as you look from his house. It’s called Snowdon Drive. I’ll meet you there. Well out of sight of the house, of course. Don’t do anything until I get there!”

He looked out of the window one more time. No one. Perhaps he had been imagining things yesterday. Like most Russians, he lived in a natural state of paranoia, but maybe this time he was wrong.

Voronov put the telephone down and reached into the bottom drawer of his desk. He had two handguns – a Smith and Wesson .357 Magnum, which the man he had bought it from had told him was the most powerful handgun in the world; and the trusty Tokarev TT, which Maksim had cleaned for him the other day and which might not be the most powerful handgun in the world but had done him good service over many years. In the drawer there was also a canvas bag into which he put the guns and plenty of ammunition. The study door was open and he shouted through it. “Maksim. Get your skinny arse up here. We are going out.”

Maksim appeared out of breath. “Where are we going?”

“Take this bag and get the car. Pull it around to the back entrance. I should put a coat on, if I were you. A thick one. I am going to put a little excitement into your dreary life!”

* * *

Count Tarkowski was sitting at his desk thinking about what de Souza had just told him. It was no surprise, of course. Thank God he had called Jerzy. The front door bell rang and he hurried out of his study to answer it.

“Come on in Jerzy. And who is this you have got with you?” Jerzy made the introduction. “Ah, Miro Kubicki? We met once in Warsaw before the war, I think. Welcome, welcome to my house.”

The Count and his guests exchanged pleasantries in the hallway of his house as several workmen manouevred around them moving what appeared to be very heavy wooden crates. Tarkowski was clearly very nervous and sweat was trickling down his forehead and cheeks into his wing-collar.

“What is the plan, exactly, Adam? How much is to be moved and how?”

The Count inclined his head towards a door on their right and the two pilots followed Tarkowski into his study. When they were seated, Tarkowski opened the bottle of vodka that was on his desk with some glasses. He poured out three full measures and pushed two glasses towards the men now sitting opposite him, raising his own glass in a toast. “To Poland, gentlemen!” They tossed back the drinks and Tarkowski poured refills.

“Adam, before you get us drunk, which I doubt is the wisest thing to do, can you tell us what is happening? I have told Miro what the cargo is, and I have told him of its vital importance to Poland, so you can speak freely.”

The Count shot a concerned look at Kowalski for a moment as if questioning his indiscretion then relaxed. “A very large truck will arrive here at between 3.30 and 4.30. Originally, I had arranged the transfer to take place under cover of darkness, but I have information suggesting that it might be more prudent to accelerate the process. The men you see are extremely reliable men employed by the Polish embassy. Patriots all who know the value of the cargo to their country. When the lorry arrives, all the sixty or so boxes will be assembled in the hallway and front reception room. The boxes will be moved onto the truck and down to the Polish Commonwealth Bank branch in the City where my banker has arranged for them to be deposited in the safety of the bank’s vault where the remainder of the gold is already held. It is all quite straightforward, but, as I told you, Jerzy, I felt it might be useful for you and a friend to be here, just in case.”

Kubicki had tired of looking at his second vodka and drank it, replacing the glass on the desk with a bang. “Forgive me, Count, but what do you mean by ‘just in case’? And what exactly is ‘information suggesting that it might be more prudent to accelerate the process’?”

The Count looked down at his feet for a moment, then winced as he felt a spasm of back pain. “Well, bluntly, it means that there are people who are interested in taking the gold off our hands.”

Kubicki used a finger to remove some of the tough beef they had had for lunch from between his teeth, then waggled it at the Count.“What sort of people?”

“Russians, Miro. Ruthless people.”

“Shit, Jerzy, what the hell have you got me into?”