Stalin's Gold (7 page)

Maksim shook his head in resignation and wandered off to the corner of the room with his drink. His work was over now and there was nothing to stop him going down to the cellar himself. But it was true. Voronov was somehow protected by a higher power. It was safer to be near him, as he had said. After all that he had been through, no bomb was going to fall on Kyril Voronov.

Chapter 7

Sunday, September 8

September 8
^th
. Merlin’s mother’s birthday. She had been gone for almost ten years now. What would she make of all this? She had always hated the Germans after his dad had established himself as a freak statistic by becoming one of the very small number of London inhabitants killed by Zeppelin bombs in the Great War. Well, being killed by a bomb in this war was not going to make you a freak statistic. Merlin looked up at what he could only describe as the skeleton of the Chelsea house. Loose fragments of wallpaper in one of the upstairs bedrooms flapped pathetically back and forth. It was raining for the first time in a long time. A thin stream of water ran down from the middle of what remained of the buckled upstairs. Rescue-workers were carefully removing the stones.

“Need a hand?”

“No, mate, it’s alright. Best to move along though. The rest of this could fall down at any minute.”

Merlin nodded. A young boy in shorts came out of the front door of the next house, which was somehow completely intact. He had a bright red bike with him which he wheeled over. Merlin winked at him and the boy managed a weak smile back. “That’s Betty’s house.”

“Is it? Did she…” He could see that the boy was trying hard not to look at the rescue-workers. He looked across the street and then back at Merlin. He started to mount his bike, but stopped. Inexorably his eyes moved to the mound of rubble that had been the lower floor of Betty’s house. Suddenly one of the rescuers shouted. “Watch it. I think there’s…”

The men carefully removed some bricks and something white appeared, poking out of the rubble. It was a child’s hand. Merlin shuddered.

The little boy dropped his bicycle and burst into tears. Merlin knelt down and embraced the child who buried his face in the policeman’s chest and sobbed uncontrollably. “There, there, son.” It was inadequate, but what else could he say?

* * *

Sonia opened the door and threw her arms around him. “Frank, you’re alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

Sonia had gone to see Jan at Northolt the previous day and Merlin had been particularly anxious. Sonia was very careless about going to the shelters in a raid. “What will be will be” was her motto. “If my name is on the bomb, so be it. Kismet is the word, isn’t it?” Stupid girl.

They stood at her doorway happily embracing for a moment before Sonia pulled him through the door.

Sonia had finally got hold of Merlin just before midnight on Saturday to let him know that she was safe in Northolt and to make sure that the bombs hadn’t got him. She had seen Jan for a quick sandwich at the base before his squadron took to the air. Someone told her about the particularly heavy bombing and she’d thought of getting back to London to find Merlin, but she had promised to see Jan later. She had found a telephone kiosk on the base and had been ringing Merlin’s flat on and off all night. When she did get him, she had exploded with frustration. “How was I meant to know that you’d gone to Scotland Yard, you stupid man? I’ve been trying you for ages!” Having grabbed a couple of hours sleep in a chair in the canteen, she had caught the milk-train in the morning and had been waiting impatiently for hours.

They sat down on the sofa and kissed, gently at first, then more urgently. Suddenly, Sonia pulled away. “Now then, Mr Policeman, hold your horse a minute. I have something for you here. It’s from Jan.”

Merlin opened the envelope that Sonia passed to him. “It’s in Polish.”

“I am to translate it for you. He’s not confident in his written English. Here goes:

‘Dear Frank, I am giving this letter to Sonia for you as I am very concerned about my friend, Ziggy. His full name, or maybe I should say the name he goes by here, is Zygmunt Kilinski. We fought together against the Germans in the Polish Air Force and then escaped together through Romania so that we could fight again in England. He is a very brave man and a very good pilot. The weekend when I came to London and met you, I spent some time with Ziggy. We had some fun and a few drinks, but I could tell that Ziggy’s heart was not really in it. He mentioned a few times that there was someone he had to see if he could that weekend. At the end of our meal together on the Sunday, he found a telephone, made a call and then announced that he was going off to meet an old Polish friend. He clearly did not want me to join him, just patted me on the back and told me he’d be round at Sonia’s in the morning at nine. He never turned up. I left a note, but Sonia tells me the note was untouched where I’d left it when she got home in the evening. He was due back on duty with me on Tuesday, but did not appear there and he’s been missing all week.’”

The sound of a backfiring car nearby interrupted Sonia, who paused, went into the kitchen, and reappeared with a glass of water. She took a couple of sips then resumed.

“‘The Squadron Leader has been very good in allowing me to ask you to investigate before posting him as a deserter. I would be very grateful if you or one of your officers could look into it. I am aware that I have not given you much to go on, but if you could make it out to Northolt, perhaps his belongings or some of his colleagues might be able to give you some clues. Obviously we are very busy here as you must be in town. It goes without saying that we shall defeat these German bastards, English and Polish fighting together! I have given your name to Squadron Leader Kellett and I have written his telephone number at the bottom of this letter. Please call him if you can to arrange a visit. It is hard to predict the pattern of German bombing, but I think they favour the night at the moment, so the morning might be best. The Squadron Leader will have the best idea no doubt.

Jan Sieczko

P.S. Please look…’ Oh, I’m not going to read that.”

“Why not? What does he say?”

“Oh, he just mentions something silly about you and me and wants you to make sure the bombs don’t get me!”

“Silly, how do you mean?”

“Never you mind. Anyway, that’s his letter. What do you think?”

“I am very sorry Jan’s friend has disappeared. With luck it’s nothing sinister, but as your countrymen are fighting so hard for us, if one gets into trouble, they certainly deserve our help. I’ll have to sort out things at the Yard though. Gatehouse will need to know if I’m opening an investigation and he might want me to get a junior officer involved. I’ll try and swing it though.”

Sonia kissed him on the mouth. “Thank you, Frank.”

“Now, where were we?”

* * *

Jack Stewart fell exhausted onto the cot bed. For the first time his team had been kept busy on their home patch. They had received urgent messages for help from the East End, but they had their hands full in Chelsea. With the activity of Friday night in the East India Dock and yesterday’s goings on around Cadogan Square, he hadn’t slept for forty-eight hours. He wouldn’t be on his cot now if he hadn’t been ordered by a superior officer to take a break. “They’re bound to keep on coming today, perhaps in greater numbers, so it won’t do us any good if you’re a complete basket case. Get a couple of hours at least. We’ll try and rotate your men with the men from Battersea, although they’ve not had a very easy time of it either. Go on, off with you.”

As Stewart lay on the cot he could hear the radio in one of the other rooms. The newsreader said that there had been casualties overnight, but implied they were not great. Stewart knew the truth was much worse than that. Hundreds had died at least and he’d guess that thousands had been injured. Someone turned the radio off. Stewart’s eyes closed, but he couldn’t sleep. His mind was filled with the images of the night. He had seen many terrible things, but the worst must be the woman and the baby. She was waving at him from the fourth-storey window of a house just off Sloane Street. The fire had taken a firm hold and the floors below were engulfed in flames. The woman had been shouting something, but he couldn’t make out a word through the bedlam of the droning planes, the explosions, the multifarious noises of the fire and the roar of the hoses. He shook his head and cupped his hand to his ear. Some of his men were attempting to put up a ladder, but the heat was too intense for them to get close enough. He could see the flames leaping higher around the window and then there was a crack as some of the roof disintegrated. He saw that the woman was holding a baby out from the window. She was going to let the baby go and wanted someone to catch it. Stewart shouted over to his men.

“Forget the ladder. She’s going to jump. Get the—” There was another crack and another part of the roof crumbled. An explosion of smoke and flames filled the space where the woman had been. Then he saw them, mother and child, flames streaming from the woman’s nightdress as they tumbled through the air into oblivion.

He opened his eyes and reached beneath the cot. He scrabbled around until he found the Johnny Walker. He took a long pull on the bottle. The warm, amber liquid burned his dry throat, but served its purpose. Within seconds Jack Stewart fell asleep.

* * *

Saturday night had produced some excellent pickings, there was no doubt. Jake dropped the sack carefully on the ground and rummaged in his trouser pockets for the key to the lock-up. Of course, you needed good nerves for this sort of business and good nerves were what he and Billy had. They had done much better than when they’d been traipsing round the suburbs. Tooting and Bexleyheath weren’t exciting locations for their activities, though they’d come across some nice jewellery and the odd interesting-looking painting.

“Come on, Jakie, get a move on. This is bloody heavy.”

“Well, there’s nothing to stop you putting your sack down too while I get this bloody thing open, is there?” Ash spilled onto Billy’s shoes from the almost spent cigarette precariously attached to Jake’s lips. Billy grunted, but kept hold of the sack, which was slung over his shoulder. Finally, Jake found the key in his back pocket and fumbled in the dark to insert the key and open the padlock. He pushed at the door, which creaked open stiffly. As Billy pushed in behind him, he reached out for the light switch.

Their journey to Shepherd’s Bush from Chelsea had not been without incident. The engine of Billy’s old Austin had overheated as they were coming along Holland Park Avenue and they’d had to leave the car and walk the last mile. A copper had stopped them and almost given them both heart attacks. However, he hadn’t asked them what they were doing or what was in the sacks, but had pleasantly enquired whether they needed any help. Having turned down this kind offer, they had almost been run over by a speeding fire engine as they crossed over from Shepherd’s Bush Green into Wood Lane.

Never mind. They were safe now. Billy began to empty his sack while Jake lit up another cigarette. “Let’s have a look then.”

Billy pulled out a finely gilded carriage clock.

“Eighteenth century, I think. Very nice. Want a fag?”

Billy shook his head and removed a small painting in an ornate frame.

“Another eighteenth century piece, I think, Billy. Or perhaps early nineteenth. Very soothing. A riverside scene out of town. Could be the Thames. Or perhaps it’s French?”

A steady flow of valuable objects followed the picture onto the dingy floor. Jake started unloading his sack as well. Fine pieces of porcelain, which the men had taken the time to wrap in newspaper before setting out on their journey from Chelsea, some miniature portraits, silverware, another landscape painting, ancient leather-bound volumes, candlesticks – all in all, a particularly good haul.

The two men sat down on the floor and laughed. “It’s a damn sight better when the Germans bomb Chelsea than when they bomb the Isle of Dogs, eh?”

“Watch where you’re dropping that bloody ash, Jake. We don’t want to damage anything. He should give us a bloody good price for this lot.”

“Yeah. Well, let’s not hang around too long. There’ll be plenty more pickings tonight from the sound of those planes.”

Billy nodded and the two men rose to their feet. They picked up the various valuable objects from the ground, carried them over to the back of the lock-up and loaded them carefully into some empty tea crates. Then they pushed the crates under cover of a large green tarpaulin, which already concealed several other full crates.

As they came out into the yard, a dog barked. They made their way to the street and saw a cluster of incendiaries falling not so far away. The sky to the east was aglow. They hurried on.

* * *

Count Tarkowski was holding his nose. He and his wife had been down in the Belsize Park tube shelter for some five hours. They had found a corner spot and had made themselves reasonably comfortable with the blankets that they had brought with them, but as the hours had gone by the shelter had filled up and they had been hemmed in by the press of bodies. The stink of sweat, urine and other bodily fluids had become almost overpowering. To his immediate right was a very fat mother with a screaming baby and two out-of-control toddlers. To his left, next to his wife, an old man in some sort of uniform he did not recognise lay snoring away, alternating this with a regular breaking of wind. In front of him, a well-dressed couple tried to comfort their teenage daughter, who was having hysterics and who had vomited at least twice. A few yards away was the tube railway line and when he had stood up briefly to stretch his legs a while back, he had seen a gang of rats massing in a corner. A couple of them had somehow made their way up to the platform and he watched them darting between prostrate bodies, fortunately away from where he and his wife were.