Stalin's Gold (28 page)

* * *

“Christ! Of all the times to call a review meeting.” Merlin had just emerged from a two-hour meeting of senior officers convened at short notice by the A.C., the main purpose of which had been for the A.C. to let off steam about the harassment he had been receiving from the Metropolitan Commissioner and the Home Secretary about a variety of subjects. Gatehouse had taken it out on everyone, but had had a particular go at Merlin about the looting.

“Robinson’s back, sir.”

“Get her, Sergeant.”

Robinson appeared, a little paler in the face than usual.

“How is he then?”

“He seems to be doing alright, sir.”

“Good. Did the sergeant tell you about the address we got from Johnson, the one this fellow Evans gave us for the Russian Trubetskoi?”

“Yes, sir. And it matches the one I got for Voronov.”

Merlin looked up and stared hard at his print of Dr Gachet. “What are we to make of this? This Voronov fellow is popping up everywhere. Lunch with Kilinski. In cahoots with looters. What do you think, Sergeant?”

“I wonder if he has any links with Tarkowski?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. I think before we see Voronov, we should ask Tarkowski about him. And we have other things to ask the Count. Let’s get going. We’ll try him at home again.”

* * *

It was by pure chance that Grishin had decided to pay a visit to Platonov on this particular afternoon. His driver had the day off so he drove himself. He enjoyed driving in London. At least there was the challenge of some traffic to negotiate unlike in Moscow, where government vehicles had the central streets largely to themselves. He pulled up a block away from the target house and stiffly extracted himself from the car. He lit up a small cigar and sauntered down the pavement, past a crowd of workmen clearing the debris of a bombed terrace house, keeping an eye out for his man. After looking around unsuccessfully for ten minutes and mentally commending Platonov for his professional invisibility, he heard the word “Comrade” and Platonov emerged wearing his gabardine mac from behind a large refuse bin in the mews across the road from the back of Voronov’s house.

“Ah, dobryj dyen, Sergei. There you are. Well done! I doubt they’d spot you there. Anything doing?”

“Yes, sir. His servant just went to get a car from a garage around the corner. He’s parked over there behind that van. At the end of that alleyway opposite is a back entrance to Voronov’s house. He’s been using it a bit.”

Grishin chewed on the end of his cigar. “Does that mean he spotted you?”

“I don’t think so, sir. A man like him – I should think he has plenty of enemies to avoid at the front door. Anyway, it’s not as if this back door is some sort of a secret passage – if he thinks it can’t be found, he’s deluded.”

“Huh! Deluded I suppose is one of many choice words we could use about Kyril Ivanovitch Voronov.”

Sergei Platonov was a cadaverously thin man, with a disproportionately large head that looked as if it might topple off his neck at any time. As his shoulders heaved with laughter at Grishin’s words, this possibility seemed ever more likely.

“I suppose it might be interesting to see where Voronov is going. I have my car down the street. Shall we—”

“If you follow me back down here sir, we can double back round to your car without Voronov’s driver seeing us.”

“Very well, Sergei. Let’s be quick. Here he comes. You are armed?”

Platonov opened his coat a little to display a revolver jammed in his trouser waist. “And I have a spare strapped to my back.”

* * *

The Count and the pilots had moved back into the hallway, which, together with all the ground floor rooms, was now completely filled with large crates.

“Have you got any weapons, Count?”

“Nothing apart from my old service weapon.”

Kubicki cast a concerned look at Kowalski. One of the workmen came over to Tarkowski and told him that everything had now been brought up from the cellar and that the transport should be arriving any minute.

Kubicki’s concern had changed to irritation. “But excuse me, Count. You say these Russians are ruthless people. Do you not think they will arm themselves? It would have been better, Jerzy, if you had thought this through and we could have brought something with us.”

Kowalski shrugged. “I wasn’t aware that these Russians posed such an immediate threat, Miro. Anyway, the transport will be here in a minute. It is broad daylight and we are almost in the centre of London. You are worrying unnecessarily.” At that moment, they heard the sound of an engine and creaking brakes. The Count opened the front door and looked out anxiously. “The lorry is here. Come on, let’s get everything aboard.”

* * *

“Kyril, over here!” Trubetskoi waved Voronov’s car down by a postbox in the middle of Snowdon Drive.

Voronov wound down his window and beamed at his partner. “I have come. All is well! And I assume these two fine gentlemen are the colleagues of whom I have heard so much.”

Billy and Jake stepped out from the cover of some bushes and touched their hats in acknowledgement.

“There really was no need for you to come, Kyril. We can handle it.”

Voronov opened the car door and hauled himself out onto the pavement. “No, Misha. It is a case of ‘all hands to the deck’, as the English say. And Maksim here was yearning for some adventure.”

Maksim, who remained in the driver’s seat, turned and offered a weak smile.

“What is happening?”

“A couple of handy-looking RAF pilots arrived at the house a while ago. Poles I should think. Seems like Tarkowski must have taken pains to have some extra security. He must know something is up. This is not going to be, as they say here, a piece of cake, Kyril. There are also plenty of men loading boxes onto the truck, which arrived a moment ago.”

“The gold?”

“What else?”

“And you all have your guns?”

“Of course, Kyril, what do you take me for?”

Trubetskoi guided Voronov to a gap in the bushes at the end of the road from where they could get a good view of the loading operation in process. “Ah, there, I see that Polish bastard.” Voronov sighed. “And is that the lovely Countess I can see? Yes, such a fragrant beauty. Will I taste of it again? Probably not after today.”

“What was that, Kyril?”

“Nothing, Misha. Nothing. And where are these RAF men you mentioned? Ah, there they are. Fine strapping men, no doubt, but no match for us, I think.” Voronov slapped the shoulders of their two cockney accomplices. “Now, let us all get in my car. There is room for all. We shall go over the plan one more time. Where is the vehicle you stole earlier and came in? Ah, yes, over there, good.”

* * *

The Countess appeared and walked towards her husband and the two pilots who were talking on the pavement in front of their house. She embraced Kowalski and kissed him on the cheek, shook Kubicki’s hand then turned to her husband. “My darling, why don’t you take this? It might come in useful.”

The Countess produced a small Colt revolver from her handbag. The Count made a sign to indicate that her offer was unnecessary, but Kubicki grasped his arm. “Take it, Count. I’ll have it and Jerzy can have your service pistol. I know you said it was old, but we might as well. I dare say we have had more practice with firearms than you recently. Any more ammunition?”

The Count smiled wanly at his wife. “My darling. Could you get the bullets from my drawer in the bureau?”

Twenty minutes later, the loading of the gold was complete. The afternoon light softened as the sun moved behind some clouds. The Count looked up and down the apparently empty street. “I can’t see anything untoward, can you, gentlemen?”

Nothing disturbed the peace of the Hampstead afternoon save for the gentle chugging of the lorry engine, which the driver had just restarted. The three Poles got into the cab alongside the driver, a heavyset man with a sour face. It was a tight fit. The gears were engaged and the vehicle moved off and turned down Snowdon Drive, heading for the Finchley Road.

In his car, Voronov sat up. “Here comes the lorry, Maksim. Trubetskoi and the two Englishmen will be following it in their Austin and you follow them. There, they are turning right.”

Voronov was stating the obvious, but Maksim did as he was told. As he turned the Packard saloon into another leafy suburban street, there was a heavy revving engine sound and then fifty yards ahead they saw the Austin driven by Jake accelerate past Tarkowski’s truck and pull in front of it. With a screech of brakes, the lorry came to a halt, its cargo shifting noisily on its flat-bed but remaining in position. A mixture of Russian and English curses filled the air as Misha Trubetskoi and Billy jumped out of the Austin and ran up to level their guns at the driver’s cabin.

Voronov put a hand on his servant’s arm. “Stop here, Maksim. Let’s keep our distance.”

The abrupt halt had thrown the lorry driver, the Count and the two Polish officers hard against the windscreen. The Count was at the open passenger side window, looking dazed and Trubetskoi hurried to place his revolver against the Count’s forehead.

“You know why we are here, my Polish friend. I have many men with me. Slowly does it. Get out with your hands up and you…” He addressed himself to Kowalski, who was sitting next to the Count. “No funny business or the Count will be joining his ancestors.” As Billy covered the driver and Kubicki on the other side of the cab, Trubetskoi grasped the door handle and pulled.

* * *

The Countess sat in her bedroom, trembling. She did not have a good feeling about things. On the dressing table was a picture of her beautiful boy Karol, sharing a beer with some friends on their old country estate outside Warsaw. She remembered the day the photograph had been taken. There had been a game of tennis in which Karol had excelled, as always. Tennis, riding, shooting, swimming – Karol had been wonderfully good at all these things. A handsome, well-built, young man. Now what sort of shape was he in, assuming he was in any shape at all?

Reaching into one of the dressing table drawers she pulled out one of the ingots. She had kept one back as a memento. It was probably not wise, but… The artistry that had produced the ingots was wonderful. To have such a talent must be a joy. But then, to die with such a talent not properly fulfilled – that was truly tragic. Her beloved Karol had so many talents to fulfil, not just sporting ones but more important ones. In the right world Karol would be a prime minister, a general, a… The Countess’s train of thought was interrupted by a strange noise. She hadn’t heard it for a while, but recalled the familiar sound from the time when they were escaping from Poland. It was the sound of small arms gunfire.

* * *

The Count stepped carefully down from the cab, still covered by the revolver in Trubetskoi’s hand. Before following him, Kowalski touched Kubicki’s arm and whispered in Polish, “Let’s be careful, Miro. We don’t know how many men we are dealing with.”

When the four men were all out of the cab and gathered in front of the lorry, the Count still with a gun at his head, Trubetskoi made a dismissive gesture with his free hand and shouted “clear off” to the driver, who was cowering in terror beside Kubicki. The man needed no second bidding and ran as fast as his fat legs would carry him until he was around the corner and out of sight. Jake got out from behind the wheel of the Austin and joined Trubetskoi and Billy.

Tarkowski looked with disdain at Trubetskoi as he used his free hand to pat the Count down for weapons. Then the Russian pointed at Kowalski and Kubicki. “Your weapons. Hand them over. Now!” Kowalski hesitated then handed over his gun without resistance. But as Trubetskoi took the pistol, a thin smile of triumph playing on his lips, Kubicki suddenly pulled his revolver from his waistband and raised the muzzle to Trubetskoi’s forehead. “You are not having my gun, you fucker.” As he watched the confidence drain from Trubetskoi’s face, he smiled and pulled the trigger. Trubetskoi stood for a moment, mouth agape and the black hole in the middle of his forehead opening like a third eye, before he slumped to the ground. As he fell, a spasm in his hand caused his finger to pull the trigger of the gun he was holding to the Count’s head and the Count gave a strangulated cry as he too fell to the ground. The two lifeless bodies came to rest only inches from each other, their leaking heads combining to produce a single viscous and expanding pool of red blood.

It all happened very fast. Kowalski, Kubicki and the two cockneys stood transfixed by the scene for a moment, unaware of the sudden arrival of Voronov, who darted forward with impressive speed for a man of his bulk and clubbed Kubicki over the head with his Tokarev pistol. Kubicki groaned and fell to his knees before sliding slowly down the grille of the lorry. Kowalski was still too dazed even to be aware of the danger he was in. He knelt down to close the Count’s eyes, oblivious to the gun in Voronov’s hand that was trained on him. Voronov also knelt down, maintaining his gaze on Kowalski, and touched Trubetskoi’s hand. He muttered a few inaudible words in Russian to his dead compatriot then stood up to face Kowalski. His face was distorted with fury and he kicked Kubicki’s inert but breathing body savagely. His voice as he spoke to Kowalski in fluent Polish, however, was measured and even.