Stalin's Gold (29 page)

“You had better come with us. Your foolish friend has caused the completely unnecessary deaths of the Count and my good friend. I should kill you both for that, but…” He waved his free hand in the air and shouted over his shoulder in Russian. “Maksim. Bring the magnum and load this gentleman into the car.” Maksim appeared, gun in hand, and grabbed Kowalski by the arm as Voronov instructed Jake and Billy to drag the unconscious Miro and follow Maksim. Voronov told them that he would remain by the lorry covering them.

Maksim was just about to open one of the car doors for Kowalski when a young woman in a nanny’s uniform appeared at the gate of a house a few yards further down from where the lorry had pulled over. As she turned to close the gate behind her she saw the scene for the first time – the dead men, Miro’s unconscious body, the blood, the guns. She screamed in terror. Maksim, Jake and Billy looked back in confusion at Voronov, who was walking over to the woman and in that instant Kowalski took his chance and bolted. He ran as fast as he could along the edge of the pavement, which was bordered in the most part by thick hedges, hoping desperately they would provide some protection from his pursuers. There was the crack of a gun report and he heard the bullet whistle inches above his head. He ran another twenty yards then stopped and hid behind a tree. Hearing the sound of squealing tyres he poked his head out and looked back to see Voronov’s saloon accelerating away with the lorry following behind.

* * *

Merlin and his team arrived a little later than intended because they had had to divert around a bomb-crater just outside the Lord’s cricket ground. As they pulled up, they saw the Countess standing rigidly outside her front door, staring hard into the distance, as if looking for something. A number of men who looked like workmen stood around her, seeming equally confused. Then Merlin heard a cracking noise, and another. “Was that what I think it was, Sergeant?”

“Sounded like gunshots, sir.”

One of the workmen pointed at the next road junction and shouted something about a lorry. The Countess turned slowly to look at him, her hands clenched tightly together in front of her, and shouted her husband’s name. “Adam!”

Merlin got back in the car and Bridges took off, taking the first turning down Snowdon Drive in search of the source of the shots. At the end of the road, Bridges paused briefly until Merlin directed him to the right. “There. Be careful.” The stolen Austin remained where it had stopped, pulled in at right angles to the kerb. There were no other vehicles in sight. “Approach carefully, Sam.”

Merlin could see three motionless figures, two in the road near the car and one on the pavement a few yards away. “You’d better stay in the car, Constable.”

“Certainly not, sir.”

Merlin decided to ignore Robinson’s insubordination. “Very well, but stay close to me.”

Bridges walked over and knelt down to look at the first of the bodies in the road. “The Count, sir. Looks like he’s had it.” A thin stream of red liquid trickled from the corner of Tarkowski’s mouth as he lay, his head face up, in the blood-soaked gutter.

“This one’s alive.” Robinson knelt by the man on the pavement who was wearing a Polish Air Force uniform. While the back of his head sported a very ugly-looking bloody wound, his eyelids were fluttering. Merlin knelt down beside her. “Why it’s Jan’s friend Kubicki. What the hell is he doing here?”

Bridges turned to the final body. “This one’s dead too, sir. Both men killed with a bullet in the skull.” Bridges stood up and told Robinson to find a police box to call for an ambulance. “I saw one around the corner.” Merlin looked down at the second corpse. “Who’s this then?” Strands of red hair hung over Trubetskoi’s sightless eyes, which seemed to stare up at him in amused surprise. The face looked Slavic to him.

“Look at those tyre marks, sir.”

“Yes, Sergeant. A large vehicle brought to a halt by this car. The lorry the man was shouting about presumably. A hijacking?” They inspected the car, which revealed nothing of immediate note. Robinson returned and said that an ambulance and more officers were on their way.

“Look, Constable, you’d better stay here with our injured man and those other poor fellows. Which way do you think they might have taken the lorry, Sergeant?”

“If we keep going in this direction, we’ll get to the Finchley Road. That’s our best bet, I should think.”

As the two men got back into their car they heard more gunfire. “Hurry, Sam!”

* * *

Kowalski hid behind a tree and paused for breath as the police car rushed past him. He muttered a string of violent Polish curses. That idiot, Miro! If only he could have been a little more patient. He replayed in his mind what had just happened. God, what an idiot!

His first thought when he stopped running was to find the Countess and tell her the terrible news, but the arrival of the police car suggested to him that this might not be wise. If he went back to her, he would have to answer all sorts of awkward questions from the police. And what about Miro? He had seen that the hijackers had left him on the pavement. He should have gone back for him, of course, but the police would no doubt sort his friend out. He was alive and he had a thick skull. As for the hijackers, they were probably well away by now. At least two of them were Russians. Government men probably. Well, they had the gold and there was nothing to be done. He had done his best to help Tarkowski, but he’d better get back to Northolt. His plane should be fixed by now and there would be Germans to kill tomorrow. He was breathing more easily now and his nerves were no longer jangling. He walked calmly away from the tree. It wouldn’t take him too long to get to Marylebone Station.

* * *

The lorry had not made it to the Finchley Road. As they approached the junction, Merlin and Bridges came across it halted in the road, its path blocked by a long, foreign-looking limousine with diplomatic number plates. Another smart saloon car sat beside it. A stocky, grey-haired and moustachioed man in a grey overcoat and a skinny fellow in a gabardine mackintosh were pointing guns at a large, bearded man and two scruffy heavies. The bearded man was handing over a gun to the man in the overcoat. Merlin got out of his car and shouted, “Please, everyone lower your guns.”

The grey-haired man shouted back, “I am a Russian Embassy Official. Grishin is the name. These men are thieves in possession of Russian government property, which I am requisitioning.”

“That is as may be, but you must lower your gun, sir.”

“Only when you have these crooks under control.”

Merlin told Bridges to stand back and began walking slowly towards the men. A shot rang out and he flattened himself on the road. He was unharmed, but heard one of the Russian officials, the skinny one, cry out before falling to the ground.

Voronov laughed. “Well done, Maksim!” As Grishin anxiously searched for the source of the shot, Voronov escaped around the side of the lorry and into someone’s front garden, while Jake and Billy ran hell for leather into a small lane between the houses behind them and disappeared. When Grishin and Platonov had stopped Voronov’s car and the lorry minutes before with their own roadblock, they hadn’t noticed Maksim, who still had Voronov’s Smith and Wesson, slipping out of the Packard and behind some dustbins near the car. Voronov now moved from the garden, under cover of some bushes, to join Maksim and took possesion of the gun. Grishin meanwhile ran behind his car and was joined there moments later by Platonov, who had only been grazed by Maksim’s shot.

Merlin hurried back and knelt down behind the police Austin with Bridges. Moments later there was a shout as Maksim broke his cover. Somehow he avoided the hail of bullets from Grishin and Platonov and made it to the entrance of the lane down which Jake and Billy had escaped. He cast a brief glance back at his boss before vanishing from sight.

“Maksim, you bastard! Come back…”

“Come out, Kyril Ivanovitch. This is idiotic. You have no hope.” Merlin could see that Grishin was reloading as he shouted in Russian to the bearded man.

“Ha, Valery Grishin. I spit on you. You know I have a hundred lives. I have thwarted our great leader Comrade Stalin many times. Why not once again?”

More bullets pinged against the metal of the bins and the Packard before Voronov burst from his cover, maintaining his fire as he ran towards the lane down which the others had made their escape. Grishin needed to reload, but Platonov got off another couple of shots, one of which was successful. Voronov came to a halt, staggered a few steps, then slowly crumpled to the ground. All was silence, save for the hissing sound of the steam escaping from the Packard’s bullet-damaged radiator. After a cautious minute’s wait, Grishin slowly emerged from behind his car and walked the few yards towards the fallen body. He turned Voronov over with his foot and saw that he was still breathing. Voronov opened his eyes, coughed up some blood, and smiled up at him. Grunting with pain and effort, he reached up to grasp Grishin’s wrist. “I have enjoyed my lives, my friend.” He attempted a chuckle. “So I guess this really was my hundredth.” A stream of blood stained his beard. “Such a messy end, eh? Please give my regards to Josef Vissarionovich. I wish him pleasure of his gold.” His grasp relaxed and the great luck of which Voronov was so proud finally ran out.

* * *

After some to’ing and fro’ing with the A.C., who had had to consult several lofty civil servants, Merlin had arranged for the lorry’s contents to be deposited that evening in the vaults of the Bank of England. Grishin had ranted and raved at him in Hampstead and followed him to Scotland Yard, insisting that the gold was Russian property and should be entrusted to his care. The Russians had made representations to the Foreign Office, the Treasury and the Prime Minister’s Office, all to no avail.

Miro Kubicki was recovering from his concussion at the Hampstead General Hospital and hadn’t yet been questioned. The Countess was still distraught and in no fit state for interrogation. The second dead man at the original hijacking scene had been identified by papers on his body as Misha Trubetskoi, Voronov’s business partner and partner in crime.

Robinson had been kind enough to make Merlin a hot chocolate, which he was now enjoying in his office as his cuckoo clock sounded to tell him it was midnight. He hoped the exact story of what had happened in Hampstead that afternoon would become clearer tomorrow. He was doodling with a pencil on the blotting pad on his desk and found himself writing down the name of Kilinski. A lot had happened, but would any of it lead them any closer to Kilinski’s killer? The night’s bombing seemed to have subsided. He shut his eyes.
Best
to
give
my
brain
a
rest
until
the
morning,
he thought.

Chapter 17

Wednesday, September 18

The moon had appeared from behind the clouds and lit up their faces. After escaping, they had run like madmen down Finchley Road, pushing their way past pedestrians and attracting much attention. By the time they reached Swiss Cottage, they felt sure they were not being chased, but who was to say that there had not been a police alert. They slowed down to a walk, but their hearts were still beating double time. As they passed St John’s Wood Tube Station, a policeman turned the corner of the road and almost bumped into them. When he had showed no other interest than to warn them to watch where they were going, they relaxed a little more. After resting on a seat in Regent’s Park, they had found a pub, congratulated themselves on their survival, drunk a skinful and then set off to walk home. A bombing raid had delayed their journey and they had found shelter in a derelict office block.

“I think the bombers have gone now, Billy.”

“Haven’t heard the all clear, have you?”

“Nah, but it’s all quiet, listen.”

“Alright. Let’s get going.” They rose from the linoleum floor of what had been the reception area for an accounting firm called Thomsons, as a large sign hanging upside down above the main doorway informed them. They made their way towards Marylebone High Street and then on to Euston Road. As they turned right and headed towards the City and East End, they suddenly became aware of aircraft engine noise. They looked up and saw a light in the distance somewhere over Oxford Street. “Looks like someone’s come a cropper.” Billy turned and kicked a large stone in front of him.

Jake had stopped and was looking back. “I don’t think it’s a fighter. It’s too big.”

The men resumed their journey, aware of increasing noise. They began to run. The roar became intense. Panic suffused the men’s faces. Moments later, the stricken flaming Heinkel bomber crashed onto Euston Road, down which it ploughed for a hundred yards or so, taking a few parked cars, a stray dog, and Jake and Billy with it.

* * *

The team, including the newly returned Constable Cole with his arm in a sling, had gathered in Merlin’s office. “Thank you, everyone. You alright, Cole? Good. Well, we had a rather exciting day yesterday. Sorry you and Cole missed all the fun, Peter. I feel I can now say I know what it was like to live in the Wild West. First shot at in the Arcade on Monday night, then yesterday again in Hampstead. All a bit like the Gunfight at the OK Corral.”

Merlin was feeling very good this morning. What was it the Prime Minister had said in his youthful memoirs? “There is nothing more exhilarating than to be shot at without result.” In the Arcade, he had avoided a bullet clearly intended for him and although in the Russian shootout no bullets had been aimed at him, several had passed within inches of his head.

“The question is, of course, what the hell was that all about? Well, Colonel Grishin has told me a story. As some of you know, the Colonel has been moving heaven and earth to get the gold from the lorry on behalf of the Russian government. The story, of course, justifies the Russian entitlement to this gold, and we should bear that in mind in judging its veracity. Anyway, according to Grishin, some time ago, in the Spanish Civil War, the Republican side – that’s the bunch that eventually lost, by the way – agreed to send Mr Stalin a large shipment of gold as some sort of security for all the financial and material help the Russians were giving them. Spain had a lot of gold from its years of empire in the Americas and was at the time one of the five leading bullion owners in the world. In any event, when the shipment was sent, a small part – still worth a fortune – was siphoned off somehow on arrival in Odessa. In due course, the Russians became aware of this and worked hard to identify potential culprits. After a while they focused on a Pole, an officer who had served the Russians in Spain, as the main culprit. Somehow he had managed to get the gold through the apparently porous local national borders to accomplices in Poland.” Merlin paused to check he had everyone’s attention. “Now, these accomplices were members of his family, which was, according to Grishin, Count Tarkowski’s family, or more specifically, the Countess’ family. The Polish officer’s name was Alexander or Sasha Stanislawicki.”

“The Stanisawicki ingots.”

“The ingots indeed, Constable Robinson. Stanislawicki is Countess Tarkowski’s maiden name and Sasha was her brother. The gold, when it arrived in Poland, probably Warsaw according to Grishin, was in many forms. Much of it was ancient Aztec or Inca gold jewellery or body decoration. Grishin thinks, and this seems to be a sensible assumption, that the Stanislawickis felt it unsafe to keep the gold in the form in which it arrived. They had the gold melted down and then turned into ingots with the Stanislawicki crest on them. If anyone came looking, they could simply claim that the gold was family gold and had been in the family for generations. The family was well known to be powerful and wealthy, though Grishin says there were hints that their finances might have become strained. Somehow or other, Tarkowski and the family managed to get the gold to London. Grishin only became aware of this latter fact in the past few days. Voronov was a Russian émigré in London whom Grishin knew to be up to no good and had placed under observation. The man was apparently a notorious crook and fraudster, who had lived something of a charmed life. Grishin said he was quite close to Stalin. It’s my understanding that proximity to Stalin often proves deadly, but Voronov somehow managed to keep on good terms. Grishin by chance happened to be following Voronov yesterday, witnessed the hijacking and put two and two together regarding the gold. He has been good enough to give me the embassy’s full background report on Voronov, which is being translated for us now. That, for what it’s worth, is his story.”

Johnson raised a hand. “So, if Voronov and his partner were sponsoring looting expeditions, that would appear to be in character?”

“Yes, it would, Peter. And I have been thinking that the men who scarpered from the scene in Hampstead yesterday might be the looters who shot poor Cole here.”

“Not poor, sir.”

“Sorry, Cole, bad choice of words – brave Cole here, I mean.”

“Where does all this leave us with Kilinski, sir?”

“Good question, Sergeant. Obviously we have to speak to the Countess. There is, however, a slight problem. The A.C. has been on to me. The Polish Legation have insisted that the Countess be left in peace to come to terms with her loss. I told the A.C. that I would try and be understanding, but that I would need to see her as soon as possible. The A.C. asked me to put any interview off for a day, but I said I didn’t think I could do that.” Merlin paused. “That was not very popular.”

“When can we see her then, sir?”

“I’ll leave it until this afternoon. There’s one other person we should speak to and that’s Kubicki. Do we know if he’s still in the hospital, Sergeant?”

“He checked out this morning. Went back to base.”

“Very well. Another trip out to Northolt, I think. You come with me, Robinson. Sergeant, you’d better stay here, fend Grishin off and tidy up any loose ends from yesterday. Peter, you and Cole generated an excellent looting lead, but it looks like the big fish in this particular case have copped it.”

“Not to worry, sir. The small fry may reappear and there are plenty of others out there. We’ll get back on the job with Stewart as soon as Cole is able—”

“I am able now, sir.”

“That’s the spirit, Cole, but I think you’d better wait until that sling is off, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

* * *

Miro Kubicki was seething and his head was throbbing. The staff at the hospital had not been keen for him to leave, but he had insisted.

When he arrived at the base, he went straight to Kowalski’s hut. Jerzy was by his bed, putting his final bit of kit on as the squadron was due in the air imminently.

Kubicki’s first action was to throw a punch, but he was weak and Kowalski easily deflected it. “What the hell, Miro, what are you doing? What’s wrong with you?”

Miro fell onto the bed and put his head in his hands. “Ty draniu, Kowalski, you bastard. You took me off on what was very nearly a suicide mission yesterday. I was almost killed and then you left me for dead with those bastards and ran off. Then you ask what is wrong.”

“Look. I’m sorry. It would have been better if you had kept calm, but—”

“You are a bastard, Jerzy. I fought like a man at least. What have you really been up to with those people, the Count and everyone?”

Kowalski shrugged, smiled enigmatically and disappeared through the door.

An hour later when the policeman arrived to see him with the pretty girl, Kubicki was lying on his bed with a wet towel on his forehead. Physically he was feeling a little better, but his anger had not subsided. He told them everything about what had happened the day before. They were, of course, previously unaware of Kowalski’s participation in events. He had no compunction about telling them.

“He seemed very close to these people, the Count and Countess. You should speak to the Countess about him. Where was all this gold from? He wouldn’t tell me. He drags me along to help without telling me that there were some mad Russians prepared to go to war for this gold. What was he thinking?”

“Where is he now?”

“In the air, Inspector. Up above, free as a bird.”

* * *

The two Messerschmitts came out of the sun on his right. Kowalski could see them clearly, but he thought the two other squadron planes on his left might be blinded. He waggled his wings and dived, hoping that they would get the message to follow him. His radio was on the blink for some reason. As he bottomed out of his dive, he saw that his friends had been slow off the mark and the German planes were almost on them. Squeezing the maximum out of the Hurricane, he rose steeply and flipped back over and behind the Messerschmitts. His mistake was not to notice another German fighter coming out of the sun. The two RAF planes beneath him were now under fire. Flames began to flicker from one of them. Jerzy squeezed the trigger and sent a line of tracers beneath him, catching the tail of one of the Germans. Moments later there was an explosion and he could see that half of his left wing had gone. The third Messerschmitt closed in for the kill. Splinters of glass sprayed his cheeks as the bullets grazed the windscreen. As the plane began to spiral down, he managed to cross himself. He thought of the good things he had done and prayed forgiveness for the bad. He thought of Maria and Adam and the Stanislawickis. He thought of Jan and Miro. And he thought of Kilinski.

* * *

Merlin had asked the station commander at Northolt to call him when Kowalski returned from his mission. Back at the Yard, he picked at a currant bun that Bridges had brought in from Tony’s Café and pondered what to do. There was a brief knock on the door and the A.C. entered. “Ah, Frank. There you are.”

Merlin rose, but the A.C. nodded him back into his chair as his mottled teeth revealed themselves in a wintry smile. “Just a quick word. I thought you should know, I’ve had quite a bit of flak about your battle in Hampstead yesterday. No. No. You needn’t get worked up. I told everybody that it was an incident that would have happened whether you were there or not and the fortuitous fact of your presence prevented things getting much worse. In any event, the Home Secretary was most anxious that this matter get resolved as soon as possible. He was very shocked, of course – he used similar words to yours, though instead of talking about a cowboy gunfight, he said something about Chicago gangsters. The long and short of it is that you are to ignore the complaints of the Poles and if getting to the bottom of things requires a vigorous interrogation of this unfortunate Polish lady, you are to get on with it.”

“Thank you, sir.”

* * *

“I am afraid the Countess is still not fit to receive visitors.”

Merlin squeezed the telephone receiver tight in irritation. “Look, Doctor Molik. There have been two gunfights on the suburban streets of Hampstead. I have three bodies. All something to do with a pile of gold in the Count and Countess’ possession. The Countess is the only person who can cast full light on these events. Regardless of what you—”

“But, Chief Inspector, it is not only I insisting that the Countess be left in peace. General Sikorski, the leader of the Polish government in exile is adamant that—”

Merlin rose from his seat. “Look, Doctor, I don’t care whether it’s you, Sikorski, the Prime Minister or the King of England insisting. I am on my way to see the lady.” He slammed down the phone and grabbed his coat.

They arrived at the Tarkowski residence just after two. At the door they were met by the doctor who was a short, balding man with a wispy, grey beard. He remonstrated with Merlin again, but his complaints were halted by an imperious voice from above. “Stop it, Doctor. I will see them. They are only doing their jobs.” The Countess, dressed in black, descended the staircase slowly and elegantly, before leading Merlin and his colleagues into her drawing room. A large, life-size portrait of a dashing young man in military uniform, brandishing a sword in the air, dominated the room.