Stalin's Gold (21 page)

Sonia nodded meekly.

“Well, let’s wait until tomorrow and then you can ring them. If he’s asleep and under medication, there’s nothing to be achieved tonight.”

Sonia’s sobbing gradually subsided. “You are right, Frank. Of course. I think we can forget the concert though. Come on, let’s go to bed. The washing up can wait until tomorrow.”

As Frank lay with Sonia in his arms, her now calm and serene face lit up by the shaft of moonlight that shone through the half-closed curtains of the bedroom, he couldn’t help thinking about Ziggy Kilinski and his cruel death. Someone in the Polish squadron must know something that would help in the investigation. He must have confided in someone about his past. If he drove Sonia up to the base tomorrow, he could do some poking around. Maybe Kellett had some more papers on the man. He had been given a very basic personnel sheet, but maybe there was more information in the files.

Sonia stirred, an eye opened and her hand played around Merlin’s bare stomach. He forgot about Kilinski.

Chapter 14

Sunday, September 15

The car rumbled to a halt in the driveway outside 11 Group Headquarters at RAF Uxbridge. Hillingdon House, which had become RAF Uxbridge, was a rambling, old mansion dating back in parts to the eighteenth century. It was here that Air Vice Marshall Keith Park, a tall, craggy New Zealander, was overseeing the Royal Air Force’s struggle in the Battle of Britain.

“It always amuses me, my dear, to recall that this estate was built by a German soldier. The Duke of Schamberg, for it was he, served under William of Orange. He got a knighthood in the Battle of the Boyne, if I recall correctly, and—”

“Yes, Winston, you told me all this the last night. Now, do you not think we should get out of the car?”

“Yes, dear.” The Prime Minister banged on the window and his young male secretary, who had already exited the front seat, opened the door. Struggling with his cane and his cigar, the PM finally made it safely onto the gravel in front of the main door. Keith Park was already waiting, with a small group of officers, and brisk greetings and introductions were exchanged.

“Right, gentlemen and Mrs Churchill, I think you may recall the way, but best follow me.” Park led the party through the grounds, eventually arriving amongst some bushes at a small door, which appeared to be an entrance to nowhere. One of Park’s officers opened the door and led the way down a long and steep flight of stairs. They went down two levels then along a corridor with several doors. Park assembled the party outside one of them. “Alright, Mrs Churchill? And you, sir?”

“Yes, Park. I’m fine. Fit as a fiddle, you know.” A puff of cigar smoke followed his exclamation.

“May I remind you, Prime Minister, that our air conditioning can’t cope with cigarette or cigar smoke.”

Winston Churchill pouted back at Park for a moment before handing his cigar to his secretary. “Put it out and keep it safe, please, Henry.”

Henry extinguished the cigar unhappily and placed the soggy item in his coat pocket.

“Thank you, sir.” Park opened the door and they entered the control room or, as it was more commonly called now by the officers, the Battle of Britain Ops Room. A large room, two floors high, revealed itself to them. In the middle of the room was what at first looked to be a large, brown table, but which on second viewing emerged as a map of southern England, the Channel and the northern coast of Europe. Several WAAFs stood around the map or plotting table holding wooden poles with a block at the end, with which they could manoeuvre small models representing squadrons of aircraft around the table. There were seats positioned above the table and stairs to individual control rooms behind curved and tinted-glass windows.

The room was a hub of relentless activity.

“I guess that we are going to have a rather busy day, Prime Minister, Mrs Churchill. Our intelligence sources suggest that Herr Hitler may be at the end of his tether. If the Germans are to launch their invasion, which we know they are fully prepared for, they would be unwise to wait much longer before the autumnal weather really sets in. The cloud and rain of the last few days seem to have cleared for the moment and I thought when I awoke and saw the sun shining that today might be a big one. Now, perhaps I can explain what everyone is doing.”

Park took his guests around the room, introducing them to people and asking them to describe their duties to the Prime Minister and his wife. Churchill asked an attractive, young WAAF at the plotting table what the model she had just placed on the map represented. “That’s the Kosciuszko Squadron, sir. Flying out of RAF Northolt.”

“Ah, yes, the brave Poles. I understand that they are magnificent pilots, Park?”

The Air Vice Marshall, whose subordinates had had some difficulties with the headstrong Poles, nodded. “As long as they are obeying orders, Prime Minister, yes, indeed, they are fine airmen.” Another young WAAF hurried up to and handed Park a message. He read it and grunted. “As I thought, Prime Minister. I believe we are about to have some heavy action. May I…?”

“Of course, Air Vice Marshall. You must get on with your job. What news?”

“We’ve just had a radar report of a build up of enemy aircraft near Dieppe and there’s another formation approaching Dover. I doubt that these will be the first and last.”

“The ghastly Hun is trying to deliver a knock-out blow, eh, Park?”

“Indeed, Prime Minister. Would you like to take a seat and observe?”

“Yes, yes. Give me my cigar, Henry. I may not be able to smoke it, but I shall gain some comfort and reward from having it between my lips, as we observe what transpires. Go to it, Park, and God speed!”

Park went up the stairs and disappeared into one of the glassed-in control rooms. After watching him go, Churchill winked at the WAAF he had spoken to and, with his wife and secretary, eased himself into one of the rows of seats above the plotting table, from which vantage point they watched the proceedings with intense interest.

* * *

Merlin arrived mid-morning at the Northolt base. Sonia was angry with him because he had allowed her to sleep in. She would have wanted to arrive at the crack of dawn to see Jan and Merlin guessed this, but she had looked so angelic in the bed and so peaceful after the stress of the previous night that he had not woken her. Then they had had to go to the Yard to get the car, which added another half an hour. A few sharp words had been exchanged, but she had calmed eventually as they sped down the A40, placing her hand on his as it rested on the gear stick.

The guard at the gate glanced briefly at Merlin’s warrant card and frowned. “All hell is breaking loose today, sir. In you go.”

As they drove up to the main administration building, Merlin could see what he meant. People were running in what seemed to be every direction, but more generally in the direction of the planes and the runways. As they got out of the car, Merlin saw Jan’s two friends, Kowalski and Kubicki, racing past, pulling on their jackets. Jerzy saw Merlin and Sonia and waved before disappearing around a corner. Merlin ushered Sonia into the building and they walked up to a prim-looking WAAF sitting at a desk upon which Merlin placed his warrant card. “I know it’s probably a stupid question, but what’s happening?”

The WAAF picked up the card and sniffed. “It is rather a stupid question, Chief Inspector. We’re having a scramble, obviously. There’s rather a lot of incoming and everyone is going up.”

“I see. Well, this is Miss Sieczko, Jan Sieczko’s sister. We understand he was injured yesterday and she’d like to see him.”

The girl, for now that they were close up Merlin could see she was not much more than that, sniffed again. “This isn’t the best time, but as you’ve come all the way out here you’d better go ahead. The medical block is fifty yards to the left as you step out of the door here. You can’t miss it. There’s a red cross on the front door.”

In the hospital it didn’t take them long to find Jan, who was sitting up in his bed, accepting a drink of water from a nurse. He had bandages on his face, around the top of his head and on his left shoulder. Sonia burst into tears then pulled herself together and leaned forward to kiss Jan’s face gingerly, taking care to avoid the injuries. Jan said what sounded like some soothing words in Polish before acknowledging Merlin. “It’s only some grazes, you know, Frank.” Merlin nodded and extended a hand to Jan.

Sonia spoke some more Polish before reverting to English for Frank’s benefit. “He says it’s just grazes, but a bullet went clean through his shoulder. That is not a graze!”

Jan gave his sister a feeble smile. “Look, my darling sister. It was a clean injury. They say my shoulder will recover fine. The disaster of it is I am missing out today! It could be the biggest day of the war and I’m stuck in this stupid bed.” He banged his free right hand on the bedside table and fumed for a while before shouting to the nurse to get his sister and her friend a cup of tea.

Sonia began to talk in Polish again, gripping Jan’s hand tightly. Merlin looked around. There was only one other patient in the ward, in a bed at the far end. He was groaning pitifully, his body almost completely swathed in bandages. An officer unknown to Merlin approached the bed.

“Badly burnt, I’m afraid. They are doing the best they can. I’m Kellett’s number two, Chief Inspector. Vincent is the name. Flight Lieutenant Vincent. Front desk told me you were here, so I thought I’d pop over.”

Vincent’s right arm was in a sling. He moved towards Jan’s bed. “We two crocks are missing out today, eh, Sieczko?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I collected a windowfull of glass in my arm, Chief Inspector. Thought yesterday I’d still be able to manage, but woke up with no feeling in my fingers and the medicos tell me I can’t go up.”

“What’s the situation, Flight Lieutenant?”

“Latest reports from Uxbridge are that there’s a force of over 200 bombers, with a host of escort aircrafts, over Calais and they are heading our way. Pretty much everyone is being scrambled. Here our 303 and 229 Hurricanes are now getting airborne. The Spitfire squadrons at Biggin Hill, Hornchurch and Warmwell are doing likewise, I believe. Then no doubt the Hurricane squadrons at Kenley, Debden and Hendon will be—” Vincent was interrupted by the sound of breaking glass as Jan knocked a jug of water off his bedside table, waving his arm in frustration.

“Now, now, Sieczko. Get a grip, man. Nothing we can do about missing out today. Just concentrate on getting fit as soon as possible.”

Jan sighed and Sonia put her arm around his good shoulder and gave him a hug.

Merlin thought for a moment. “As you are here, sir, do you mind if we have a word about Kilinski?”

Vincent looked a little surprised. “The Yard never sleeps, is that it, Chief Inspector? Well, I can give you a few minutes. I’ll need to get over to the ops room shortly. Come along, let’s go to the Squadron Leader’s office.”

“Back in a moment, darling.”

Sonia nodded and grasped her brother’s hand tightly.

Kellett’s office was in the main administration building. “I was just wondering, Flight Lieutenant, if I could have a look at Ziggy’s personnel file?”

“I understood that your girl took a carbon copy away with her last time.”

“I know and I saw it, but I was just hoping to see the file itself just in case…”

“That’s alright. It’s here in this filing cabinet. Just give me a moment.” Vincent opened a drawer with his good left hand. “Here it is. Do you also want another look at his belongings? I’ve got them stored in a cupboard just outside. I can get someone to bring them in here, if you like.”

“Yes, why not. I’d be grateful.”

Vincent went out to organise Kilinski’s belongings, leaving Merlin with the file. This was his first proper look at it. Robinson had told him the file wasn’t particularly helpful, so he had only given it a quick glance. She was a clever girl, but she was young and inexperienced. She could have missed something.

* * *

Cole and Robinson had agreed to meet up in a pub in Richmond for a lunchtime drink and a sandwich. They had both had a bit of a trek to get to the White Cross. Both lived with their parents; she in Hampton and he in north London. She had come by bus, he by underground.

They sat by the window looking at the Thames, which was twinkling in some welcome sunshine, and chewing their ham sandwiches. They had not been able to meet up for a few days and Cole had enjoyed with great relish telling of his encounter with royalty. Claire Robinson had made an attempt to be impressed, but Cole could see she wasn’t quite herself. “What’s up, Claire?”

Robinson sipped at her gin fizz and gave him a weak smile. “You are up, you idiot.”

“What?”

“Why on earth did you agree to go on these foolhardy errands with Inspector Johnson? Surely they could have found someone else?”

Cole stretched his long legs out under the table and looked bemused. He would never understand women. “Thought you’d be proud of me getting out there into the thick of it, chasing down looters.”

“More like getting yourself blown up.”

Cole reached over and grasped Robinson’s hand. “Sorry, Claire, but it’s my… my duty, isn’t it?”

Robinson shook her head, smiled weakly then pecked him on the cheek. “Yes, I suppose it is. Well, at least the Germans did you a favour last night by staying away.”

“That’s not going to last long though, is it? Anyway, I worry about you. The way things are, anyone could cop it in a raid.”

“Yes, but you are exposing yourself to particular danger, chasing around all the hotspots with the AFS.”

Cole sipped his beer and decided there was nothing more to be said on this subject and hoped Claire would decide the same. Just then, a thickset man burst through the door and loudly demanded a pint. As he waited, he was muttering something under his breath. Cole could just make out the word “hell”. The barman returned with his drink and noticed his agitation. “Anything the matter, mate?”

The man downed half his pint before answering. “Just drove my van up from Sussex. Hundreds, maybe thousands of them, I don’t know.”