Stalin's Gold (14 page)

He stood up and went to look out at the park again and thought of Spain. That stupid idiot Sasha. Did he really think that such a thing would not be noticed? Grishin thought he had managed to cover his tracks on this one, but what if someone shone a light on the affair again?

He shouted for Ania, who hurried in, fluttering her pale eyelashes alluringly. “I am going for a walk in the park, Ania. What are you doing tonight?”

* * *

Jack Stewart’s group had been on duty all night around St Paul’s where the Germans had had considerable success, though the cathedral remained untouched.

“Goodness, Chief. This is a tragedy.” Evans took off his hat and wiped his face. Soot covered nearly every inch of his face and almost hairless head. The whites of his eyes stood out like searchlights in the black-out.

“Of course, it’s a tragedy. This whole war’s a tragedy, Evans.”

Evans joined Stewart on one of the steps leading up to the cathedral. “No, I mean this is a particular tragedy. This whole area next to the cathedral, Paternoster Row. It’s been the heartland of literary London for centuries – the booksellers, the printers, the binders and so on. As the City has been to business, Paternoster Row has been to books. Now look at it.”

Stewart looked up though he knew well enough what he’d see. The shells and skeletons of buildings and here and there a surviving building blackened and faltering on its foundations. Most of the easily found bodies had been ferried off in ambulances by now, but there were still bodies to be discovered amid the wreckage of bricks, timber and slate, and he could see figures moving carefully in the dark on that errand. His group had just been relieved by an AFS station from Paddington and they were taking a breather before returning to Chelsea. Their session of duty had not been without personal loss.

“Who’ll tell Cooper’s wife?”

“Oh, someone at headquarters. I’d do it myself, but when I discussed it in principle with Archie Steele a few weeks ago, he said I should leave it to the ordinary channels. Some bureaucrat will go and see her. I’m going to send a message though. Tell her she can come to the station and see me if she likes.”

The two men fell silent. Bill Cooper had been training the hose at one of the crumbling old printing houses that Evans had been lamenting when a piece of falling masonry had landed on him and killed him outright. When they’d managed to get him out from under the stone and bricks, they found his face had been smashed almost beyond recognition.

Evans swallowed hard as this grisly vision played again in his mind. “A good chap. A little long-winded, but a good chap.”

Stewart patted him on the shoulder. “Did you get that little bit of business successfully concluded?”

The image of Cooper’s pulped face receded to be replaced by the smug leer of the red-headed Russian. “Yes. Thanks for giving me the time.”

Evans had gone through the paintings meticulously. There had been several choice items – an early Turner, a Van Ruisdael, a Blake drawing, a portrait that looked very much like a Rembrandt but which he had categorised after a little thought as “school of”. He had had to race through everything and the furniture had only been given a cursory look. He’d totalled everything up at a provisional value of at least two thousand pounds. Trubetskoi had been very pleased and gave him five guineas. “Guineas is what you pay in the arts world, is it not, Mr Evans? So guineas it shall be.” Five guineas would go a long way for Evans. It was more than he had expected and more work of the same nature was promised. The hot work of the night had taken his mind off the subject, but now that Stewart had reminded him of it, the nagging doubt reasserted itself. It was good money and he desperately needed it, but what on earth was he getting himself into?

“Come on then, Mr Evans, let’s get going. Can you round everyone up?”

As they turned, there were warning shouts to their right and they remained motionless as one of the surviving buildings crumbled noisily to the ground.

* * *

Voronov had a good view of the street from his study and he saw Trubetskoi strolling jauntily down it from a long way off. He was twirling that stupid stick of his and looking very pleased with himself. Voronov didn’t know why he was looking so self-satisfied, but no doubt he would soon find out. Misha Trubetskoi and he went back a long time and they had been through many things together. They had saved each other’s lives on more than one occasion. In the Polish campaign of 1921, Trubetskoi had thrown a grenade at a couple of Polish officers who were about to put a bullet through Voronov’s forehead. Years later, when Stalin’s Poisonous Dwarf, Yezhov, had taken a liking to Trubetskoi’s then wife and wanted her husband out of the way, Voronov had interceded with Stalin and saved his partner. And there had been other times. They were like brothers now. That being said, there was no avoiding it, brave and adventurous as Trubetskoi might be, he was not the sharpest pin in the box. He thought he was, but there was a great gulf between illusion and reality.

“Ah, Misha, there you are. Did you have a good evening?”

Trubetskoi threw his coat and stick onto the chaise-longue by the door and sat down heavily on one of the two leather armchairs in the room. Above him a large portrait of a younger-looking Kyril jovially surveyed the room. “Excellent, my dear Kyril. Excellent. Despite the firework display laid on by our German friends, I found two brave young ladies of the night who were prepared to return chéz Misha. One was a blonde – natural mind – and the other a rather striking brunette. A most agreeable evening.”

Voronov tugged at his beard. “Good. I’m sure you could do with a strong coffee. Maksim!” The servant had anticipated his master and appeared promptly with two Turkish coffees.

“Some toast perhaps, Misha, an egg maybe?”

Trubetskoi shook his head and Maksim departed at the flick of a Voronov finger. “And so, my friend. How did your meeting go yesterday afternoon?”

Trubetskoi raised his legs onto a footstool and, removing a silver toothpick from somewhere in his jacket, dug violently at his teeth. “I had some beef last night. This lousy English meat always gets stuck in my teeth. Ah. That’s better.” He spat a small remnant of meat into the fire on his left. “Yes. The meeting. It went well, I think.” He smiled complacently across at his partner.

“And?”

“Well. This chap who Blunt recommended. Didn’t really take to him. Asking questions. Superior sort of fellow. However, he certainly knew his stuff. Valued everything at around a thousand pounds
²
.”

Voronov laughed. “So, Misha. Knowing you, the real figure was what, say three thousand? Come on. Don’t try your luck with me. I always find out, don’t I?”

Trubetskoi stiffened and assumed a hurt expression. “Kyril, please. How can you think that I would—”

“Shall I call Mr Evans then? Maksim!”

The servant appeared instantly.

Trubetskoi’s features relaxed. “No. No. Kyril. Just my little joke. Just testing your observational skills are all there. Clear off, Maksim.”

With a nod from his master, Maksim disappeared.

“It was around two thousand. I swear on my mother’s grave. Not a bad sum.”

Voronov pulled a cigar from a box on a shelf behind him before offering one to Trubetskoi. “So, Misha, if two grand is the real figure, I assume you didn’t give that number to our two cockney friends?”

Trubetskoi drew vigorously on the cigar to get it going. Satisfied that this task had been accomplished, he sat back in his chair, blowing smoke rings at the ceiling. “Kyril, my friend. Please. What do you take me for? When this Evans creature had finished, I drew him aside. They did not hear the figure from him. Once I had the details, I got rid of him and gave the men a figure of five hundred.”

“Five hundred! You idiot! Why didn’t you tell them two or one hundred even?”

Trubetskoi sat up. Indigestion coloured his already rosy cheeks. “These men are not morons, as you take me for. Five hundred was a credible figure.”

“Huh!”

Trubetskoi leaned back into the chair.

“So what terms did you agree?”

“I said we’d split the balance of the proceeds down the middle, after the deduction of a hundred for selling expenses. When we’ve got our disposal arrangements in hand I said I’d give them a hundred up front. They quarrelled about this and I’d taken some cash with me, so I’ve already given them fifty in ‘readies’ as they say.”

A large piece of ash fell onto Voronov’s waistcoat and he brushed it away. “Did they suspect anything?”

“My dear Kyril, this is your old Misha. Of course they suspected nothing. I am as smooth as silk.”

“And who do you have in mind for the disposal?”

“I’m not sure. There are a couple of candidates. I’ll check them out and let you know which I think best.”

Voronov grunted. Another chunk of ash grazed his beard before falling to the floor. He bent to open a drawer in the desk and removed a bottle of vodka and two glasses. “So. Here’s to good business.”

The two men stood and clinked glasses. In the distance a siren began to wail.

“How are you getting on with the lady, Kyril?”

Voronov tugged at his beard. “She will succumb to my charms, gradually, Misha. I’ll get what we need soon, don’t you worry.”

* * *

Merlin was looking for Bridges and wandered down the corridor. Passing the small cubby hole on the right where the tea and biscuits were, he found Robinson and Cole in what appeared to be a deep conversation, hands touching across the small table at which they were seated.

“Anyone seen the sergeant?”

They jumped at his voice and Robinson’s face flushed.

“I’m here, sir.” Bridges appeared from the other end of the corridor and Merlin followed him back to the office.

“Something going on there, Sam?”

“I believe there is, sir.”

“Not very keen on office romances.”

“Me neither, sir.”

“God knows what the A.C. will say.”

Merlin seated himself at the desk.

“Cole asked me if he could be allowed to help Johnson in his looting investigation, sir.”

Merlin pushed a pile of papers to the side of his desk. “Did he now? Well, yes, let him. Might take his mind off the beauteous Claire. Get him to come and see me.”

“Your brother’s been trying to get hold of you.”

“Has he? Thank you, Sergeant.” He pressed a button on his telephone and got a line. Merlin’s younger brother Charlie had been lucky and unlucky. Caught in the worst fighting at Dunkirk, he had been fortunate enough to escape from France with his life. Unluckily, he had left a leg behind. A happy and well-balanced young man before the war, when he had worked at a bank, his injury had left him bitter and resentful. Charlie had spent nearly two months recuperating in hospital, but since the end of July he had been sitting in his wheelchair at home in Fulham, passing on his depression and misery to his family. Beatrice and Paul, his wife and young son, were doing their best to support him, but they were having a bad time of it and Merlin didn’t know what he could do to help.

“Hola, big brother. Como estás?”

“I’m alright, Charlie, how about you?”

“What do you think? Fine I suppose for a one-legged cripple with no future.”

“Come on now. Beatrice was telling me the other day that Martins Bank sent you a nice letter wishing you well in your recovery. She thought they were hinting they’d take you back.”

The line crackled with pent-up frustration. “What does she know. They didn’t spell it out, did they?”

“What can I do for you, Charlie? I’m pretty busy at the moment.”

“It’s alright for you. El Grande Jefe de Scotland Yard. You’ve got a life!”

“Look, Charlie, what do you want?”

The breathing at the other end of the line became less intense. “It’s the boy. He hasn’t seen you for a while. Wants to kick a ball with his uncle. Can’t do it with his dad, can he? Can you come around some time? Maybe Saturday?”

“I’ll be there, Charlie. Around lunchtime.” As Merlin replaced the receiver with a sigh, Cole came excitedly into the room.

* * *

Wyczinski’s book, opened at the relevant page, took up half of Merlin’s desk. Robinson, seated opposite him, was just recovering from a bout of sneezing brought on by the dust accumulated in the book’s ancient pages.

“Teutonic Knights on one hand and Aztec treasure on the other. I am beginning to think we are in a Rider Haggard novel.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any more on the necklace?”

“Sorry, sir. Edward hasn’t got back to me yet.”

“Strange coincidence that this gold ingot turns out to be Polish, isn’t it?”

Robinson crossed her legs and looked thoughtful. Merlin walked to the window and looked down at the sandbagging lined along the Embankment. It was bright, sunny and warm again. He felt a sudden urge for a Fisherman’s Friend, which he staved off by biting a fingernail. “Most things come down to the basic motives – love, hate, greed, revenge. Assuming Kilinski has been the victim of a crime, I wonder which it is here?”