Stalin's Gold (22 page)

“Thousands of what?”

“Planes, German planes. Hordes, yes, that’s the word, hordes of Nazi bombers. How much is a horde?”

The barman shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, however many that is, that’s how many there were. Biggest bunch I’ve seen yet. I heard there was a huge wave of bombers earlier as well. London’s going to take a pounding today, I bet.”

Cole and Robinson exchanged worried glances, then he put his arm around her. “I’d better go back into town and see if I can find Johnson.”

* * *

Merlin could hear the sound of returning aircraft. He looked at his watch. He was surprised to see that it was just after two o’clock. His investigation had been productive. Robinson had been right about the file. It was a simple, skimpy outline of Kilinski – a birthday in 1920, a birthplace in Warsaw, no other family details and a brief outline of his flying service in Poland. He had spent an hour or two trying to read into it anything informative to the case, but had failed. Kilinski’s belongings, however, had yielded something after very careful scrutiny – one item that Merlin found in the back pocket of a pair of trousers, a receipt for a bill in a restaurant off Trafalgar Square called Odessa. Then, from another trouser pocket, the business card of Eugene de Souza, General Manager of the Polish Commonwealth Trading Bank. His prospective interview with Mr de Souza was instantly moved up to the head of his list for the following morning.

As he shut the lid of Kilinski’s trunk, Squadron Leader Kellett appeared at the door, grinning broadly, his face covered in grime. “We’ve fought the bastards off for now.”

“Where are they?”

“Most are already limping back to France. Our pilots and guns did brilliantly. The Germans dropped a lot of bombs, of course, but not many on central London, which was their main target. As for our men, squadron 303 performed magnificently. No losses and a number of claimed hits.” Kellett banged a table with his fist. “My God, Goering will be smarting!”

“Is that it for today, do you think?”

“I think there might be another wave on the way. I’ve told the boys we must be ready for anything. Vincent looked after you, I understand?”

Merlin nodded. He decided that he would very much like to have a further chat with members of the squadron about Kilinski, but now was not the time. Indeed the way things were going in the air, it might not be the time for the foreseeable future. He would have to see what interviews with de Souza, the Tarkowskis and perhaps other Poles in the legation would reveal. He shook hands with Kellett, thanked him, wished him all the best and headed back to collect Sonia.

Jan was asleep when he reached the hospital bed.

“They’ve sedated him because his shoulder was giving him real pain.”

Merlin might have asked Jan about the restaurant or if Kilinski had ever mentioned de Souza, but clearly it was time to go. Sonia protested, but she was by now completely exhausted by all the emotion and in the end came quietly.

* * *

Sam Bridges and his wife were taking a walk in Battersea Park when they heard it. The heavy drone of a large aeroplane grew louder and louder, but there was something wrong about the sound. Increasingly it was accompanied by a clattering, juddering noise.

Bridges took Iris under the cover of a park hut and they turned to watch the stricken aircraft appear from over the top of Prince of Wales Mansions trailing a stream of black smoke. They could see sparks of flame flaring on one of the wings. Higher above, Bridges thought he could see a couple of Spitfires shadowing what presumably had been their target. As the bomber passed above them, the engines made a screeching sound as the pilot struggled to find some thrust.

After it had passed over them, Bridges ran in the direction of the Thames and moments later heard a loud explosion. Reaching the roadway nearest the river he could see a tall column of smoke and flames rising from the direction of Victoria.

Back at the hut he found Iris sitting on a bench, crying. “What’s the matter, love?”

“A fine gentleman, you are! Deserting your pregnant wife like that.”

Bridges sat down beside her and put an arm around her shoulders. “Sorry, Iris. Got caught up in the moment.”

Iris dabbed her nose with a handkerchief. “What happened then?”

“Well, it crashed. Somewhere in Victoria.”

“Theirs or ours?”

“One of their bombers, a Dornier I think, but some civilians will have got hurt when it came down, I shouldn’t wonder.”

Iris shuddered. “Put your hand here, Sam. She’s giving me a right old kicking.”

“What do you mean she? It’s young Winston, isn’t it?” He put his hand on her stomach and indeed felt a tremor against his fingers. “He’s a right old one, isn’t he? Going to play for Chelsea, I think!”

“What do you mean Chelsea, Sam Bridges? He’s going to be a Gunner just like his old uncle Alf, God rest his soul!”

“Alright, alright, Iris. Whatever you say. Let’s get back home now and have a nice cup of tea.”

* * *

Billy and he weren’t going out this Sunday night and with a thick packet of crisp notes in his pocket, Jake Dobson had decided he would relax and enjoy a change of scene. He hadn’t been up west for a drink for a while – he’d been there for work, of course, but that was different. No, today he fancied a good walk. As a night-worker his day started late of course. He had slept like a baby through the morning bombing and it was after three when he got dressed and walked out of his dosshouse. He bought himself a fry-up in a café in Hatton Garden, then made his way through Holborn and up Oxford Street until he came to Hyde Park. He stood for a while at Speakers’ Corner, listening to some maniac ranting on about how we could win the war if we all became vegetarians. Someone in Smithfield market had told him the other day that Hitler was a vegetarian. He thought about contributing this snippet of information to the debate, but let it go. From his perspective anyway, he didn’t want the war to end. He was making too much money out of it. Then again, he thought, as he sauntered down Bayswater Road, he wasn’t making as much as he should be. His stomach began to churn again as he thought about the way he was being cheated. A drink would take his mind off this, but the pubs weren’t open yet.

He turned to the park and headed towards the Serpentine. Despite the buzz of planes high above and the threat they posed, there were plenty of people out taking a Sunday walk. When he reached the lake he decided to rest his feet for a moment and sat at the end of a bench. The ducks and other waterfowl waddling and fluttering all around him didn’t seem to be suffering too much from the war yet. A big, brown duck in front of him would do very nicely for Sunday tea, he thought idly. There was no possibility of him pulling that off though, not with all these crowds around. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten duck. Of course, with the money burning a hole in his pocket he could afford to go to the finest restaurant and order one. He looked down at his shabby trousers. Not in these duds though. He must get himself some new clothes and then he’d be able to enjoy himself a little more.

A pretty, blonde girl wandered past with some sort of mongrel dog on a lead. Jake whistled at her but received two fingers in response as the girl hurried away giggling.

“Fuck you,” Jake shouted. The man at the other end of the bench tut-tutted. The two men stared at each other for a moment before they recognised each other.

“My God, it’s you, ain’t it? Mister lardy-da Evans.”

“Oh!” Evans became a little flustered and the sheets of the newspaper he had been trying to read began to fall apart. He bent down to retrieve two of them, which had dropped underneath the bench.

When he straightened up, Jake had edged along the bench and was only an inch or two away. “Quite a coincidence meeting up like this, Mr Evans, ain’t it?”

“Yes, quite, er, Mr…”

“You can call me Jake. No need to stand on ceremony seein’ as we are so closely linked in business, eh, Mr Evans? What’s your first name then?”

“Francis.”

“Hmm. What a nice name.”

Jake looked up at the sky. “Don’t know what’s really happening up there, do you? Can’t see or hear any more bombs dropping now, but I reckon something’ll be happening again soon.”

“Yes, no doubt you are right. In any event, I must get going. Have a good day.” He attempted to rise, but Jake clasped his coat with a powerful hand and pulled him back to the seat.

“No need to rush, Frankie boy. Such a lovely day and it’s nice for me to have a bit of company. Don’t see much of anyone apart from Billy and, I have to tell you, he’s a boring old fart. No, stay, let’s chat.” Jake relinquished his grip on Evans’ coat and started to pick his nose. Evans registered his disgust. “Oh, pardon me. I must mind my manners, mustn’t I?” Jake withdrew his finger and wiped it on his trousers.

“My old dad, God rest his soul, used to play this trick when I was a nipper. He put his finger up one nostril like this and hummed ‘Any Old Iron’ then pulled it out and stopped humming. Like he had a gramophone up there or something. Heh! He was a card, my old man.”

As Jake gazed mistily into the distance, recalling the comic skills of his late parent, Evans made another move to rise, but Jake’s hand shot out again to restrain him. “Alright, alright. I know you don’t want to be stuck here on this bench with lowly old me, eh, Francis? But let’s have a little word. A business discussion, you might call it.”

“What business?” Evans nervously folded his newspaper.

Jake leaned forward close to Evans’ face. “I know you know.”

“Know what, Jake? Please stop speaking in riddles.”

“Riddles, eh? I’ll riddle you, mate.”

Evans jerked back his head, recoiling at Jake’s foul breath. “Look, I’ve got to go. Say plainly what you have to say.”

Jake leaned back and smiled. “I know that Billy and I are being given the bum’s rush on your valuations of the loot. I am right, aren’t I?”

“How would I know? I give my ideas on value to Mr Trubetskoi, who then discusses them with you. If he gives you different figures from mine, what can I do about it?”

“You can tell us direct next time, can’t you?”

“Well, if Mr Trubetskoi is amenable, I—”

“We’ll make sure he’s a… bloody… menable! And you’d better watch out, mate, because I’m bloody close to the end of my tether on this.” Jake raised his fist in a menacing manner and bared his teeth. “Billy and I are busting a gut in bloody awful conditions. Most people would shit themselves if they went through what Billy and I go through. All I want is a fair whack! But I’m not afraid of causing physical pain to people who shaft me. Have I made myself clear, Mr lardy-da Francis Evans?”

Evans stood up, the newspaper rustling in his shaking hands. “Very clear. Now, if you don’t mind?”

“Nah. Off you go. Just think of me when the bombs are coming down tomorrow night. Making you rich!”

“As a matter of fact, I shall be…” Evans bit his tongue. What need was there for this thug to know of his fire service.

“What’s that?”

“Never mind. Good day to you.”

Jake watched Evans hurry off towards Kensington.
The pubs must be open soon
, he thought, and he headed off in the opposite direction, thinking of that nice little place in Belgravia where they served a lovely pint of Fullers.

Evans too went in search of a drink. It was now absolutely clear to him what he had become involved with and he was sick with fear.

Chapter 15

Warsaw 1938

David couldn’t help himself. He could quite easily have avoided this particular street on his journey across the city. Several other cross-streets could have served his purpose as he made his way out of Nalewki, the ancient Jewish quarter of Warsaw. Yet it was to Dzielna Street that his legs automatically led him. And there it was, the grim building that had been his home for just over twelve months. Wisps of smoke rose slowly from a chimney just behind the grimy walls, which stretched out far along the street ahead of him. The ache in his right arm, which had been with him ever since his stay there, sharpened as if to warn him of the folly of approaching so close. The two guards at the gate stared dully at him as he halted briefly and rubbed the painful arm vigorously with his left hand. One of the guards muttered something to his colleague and then shouted out. “Hey, Jewboy. What are you up to? I’d move along if I were you. Unless you’re looking for cheap accommodation. If you are, we might be able to help you.”

The guard launched a gobbet of spit at David, who stumbled before running to the other side of the street, narrowly avoiding being hit by a coal haulier’s horse and carriage. He could hear the guards laughing and felt his forehead prickle with perspiration. He cursed himself for taking this route and for his cowardice in running away from the guards. He breathed deeply and glanced across the road at the jeering guards before fixing his eyes firmly on the pavement ahead of him and walking away as calmly as he could manage. He would not pay his compliments to the Pawiak Prison again – not on a voluntary basis at least. Shuddering at this thought, he turned across Zamenhofa, which was clogged with morning traffic, turned right and then left by the Mostowski Palace. After pausing briefly to take in the clean, neo-classical lines of that elegant building, he carried on down towards the Krasinski Gardens. As he turned his head to the right, his eye was caught by a flash of sunlight glinting on the high dome of the Great Synagogue of Warsaw. He bowed his head and offered a brief prayer seeking God’s favour. It was not the first prayer he had offered up for divine support in his new assignment. If things went wrong, he could end up behind those forbidding, grey prison walls again. Hannah said he was mad to take on the job, but then he needed to put food on the table for her and the twins. How else was he going to do that without making use of his God-given skills? And what choice had he anyway, given who was asking him?

David crossed the wide boulevard and passed through the gateway into the gardens. The raucous traffic noise receded and some of his tension eased as he breathed in the more fragrant air. He stopped and took a breather on a bench overlooking the small garden lake. An old man wearing a skull-cap under a stovepipe hat sat at the other end of the bench, fingering his thick, grey beard. In front of him, a small boy out for a walk with his nanny was feeding bread to the ducks. It was April and spring had well and truly arrived in Warsaw. As David left home that morning, there had been a brief sharp shower, but now a surprisingly strong sun was making its presence felt. Only a few of the early morning clouds remained. As the ducks squabbled over the bread, David smiled, closed his eyes and raised his face to the sun.
It’s good to be alive
, he thought. When you’ve survived the horrors of somewhere like Pawiak, the simplest of life’s pleasures can be profound.

The louder quacking of the ducks as the little boy ran out of bread roused him from his brief reverie. He opened his eyes and sat forward with a jolt then turned to the old man, who smiled and raised his hat.

David returned the compliment, then pulled the gold watch his grandfather had given him out of his waistcoat pocket. “Damn, I’m going to be late. Good day, sir. I must be on my way.”

The ducks gathered hungrily around another bread-bearing small child, a girl this time, as he strode off round the lake and towards the baroque opulence of the Krasinski Palace. He lovingly fingered the watch in his pocket with his free hand. It had only been retrieved from the pawnshop a week ago. He’d thought he’d lost it forever and couldn’t believe that the broker hadn’t sold it. Goldschmidt had been a school friend of David’s Uncle Samuel and maybe that had softened his heart a little, although compassion was not a common trait in that profession.

The Krasinski Palace had been built in the late seventeenth century for a mayor of Warsaw. David had learned all about its design and construction in his studies. The ornamental reliefs above the façade of the palace had been sculpted by Andreas Schluter, who had gone on to do more great work in his native Germany. There was no time, however, to dawdle gazing at the meticulously crafted heroic dress of the Roman figures, as David had done many times before. He hurried on out of the gardens and turned into Miodowa Street. More baroque and neo-classical architectural splendours presented themselves there, but David kept his head down and moved as quickly as he could down the street towards his rendezvous in the Old Town. After passing behind the Branicki Palace, he turned left and raised his eyes. The bronze statue of King Zygmunt III glinted in the sun on top of its tall, granite column in the Castle Square. As David entered the square, he bumped into a blind man who was trying to sell his last few copies of one of the daily newspapers. He apologised and the man wandered off shouting out something about the Polish team’s recent qualification for the football World Cup and then about anti-Jewish riots in Dabrowa.

A small crowd was milling in front of the Royal Castle, another baroque masterpiece whose walls displayed different shades of colour as the sun dipped in and out of the light cloud cover – one moment orange, another salmon pink, another rose. He suddenly saw the crowd’s subject of interest – a tall bear wearing a Turkish fez and a brown waistcoat. The animal was under the control of a grizzled, old hunchback, who danced about clumsily and was mimicked in even more laboured fashion by the bear, which growled plaintively at the onlookers. David hurried on and entered Piwna Street, one of the streets leading from Castle Square to the Rynek Starego Miasta, the heart of Warsaw, the Old Town Market Square. It was there that his destination lay.

It was a very busy market day and people crowded into the narrow passages between the stalls that covered all but the very centre of the square. There, a group of colourfully dressed jugglers and acrobats were entertaining those of the crowd not intent on buying any of the wide range of food, clothing, old books, cutlery or pictures on offer. The sounds of violins and tambourines mingled with the indignant squawks of chicken and other fowl, the disgruntled squeaking of pigs, the barking of dogs and the shouts of merchants selling their wares.

Slowly David pushed his way through the throng towards the far corner of the square diagonally opposite from where he had entered it. As he shrugged off a juggler pestering him unsuccessfully for a contribution, he noticed a stall selling playing cards, dice and a ragbag of other sources of amusement. He waved a hand at the youthful proprietor, who smiled broadly back at him, revealing a large gap where his two front teeth should have been. “Yes, sir, what can I do for you?”

David bowed, in the process knocking a ragdoll from its resting place on the stall to the ground. Beads of sweat poured down his forehead as he bent down to pick up the doll. The square was stifling and he was wearing a thick, coarse suit and had walked a good distance. He would be glad to get into the shade of the house. But before he did that, he would do a little something for his younger brother. After all, he now had some money and soon, if all went well, he would have more. “I see you have some chess pieces. Do you have a full set with a board?”

The stall owner reached down under the stall table and with a flourish produced a board, a little faded in colour, but serviceable. From a corner of the stall table he picked up a wooden box and slid back the cover. “A full set, sir. Check if you like, but they’re all there. A fine set, sir. No doubt about it.”

David smiled apologetically as he meticulously removed the slightly faded chess pieces from their box and counted them out, despite the young man’s assurances, black first then white. “Yes, very good. I think these will do. How much?”

“Three zloty.”

“You are joking my friend. One zloty.”

The stallholder sucked in his breath and shook his head. “Two zloty.”

The two men haggled for a few minutes and settled on one zloty and fifty groszy. David handed over the money.

“Shall I wrap it, sir?” The stallholder pulled some old newspaper out from a box at his feet.

“Yes, please, but can you keep it for me? I have an appointment nearby. I will be back in an hour. Will that be alright?”

The toothless grin again. “Of course, sir. I’ll be here for the rest of the day. Don’t worry.”

“Good. See you later then.”

The stallholder bowed low and doffed his cap again.

Worrying that it was probably unwise to place such trust in a market vendor, David slipped through the narrow gap between a stall selling homemade jams and honey and another selling kettles and pots and pans and found himself in front of an impressive doorway. Up two steps and set a few feet back from the pavement was a high, broad, oak door, to reach which he had to step through a magnificent stone portal. Some of the masonry above the door was covered in gilt and in the centre stood a unicorn with a bright, golden horn. With one hoof raised and its head turned, it stared imperiously into the square.

David stepped up from the pavement and reached for the heavy, black door knocker. He struck the door twice and could hear the sound of the vibrating oak echoing in the room beyond.

A white-haired man in an old-fashioned, green servant’s uniform appeared at the door. He had a long, bushy, white moustache, the ends of which hung down well below his chin.

“I am—”

The man put his finger to his lips. He looked coldly at David. “Yes, I know. You are expected. Please, come in.”

David went in and stepped onto a highly polished, marble floor. Above him, dark oak beams traversed the ceiling and around the walls were scattered heavily framed and forbidding portraits of members of the Polish nobility through the ages.

“I will let the master know you are here.” The servant inclined his head towards a high-backed, wooden chair in the far corner of the room, which was otherwise devoid of furniture. Then he disappeared through another thick, oak door and David sat down carefully on what proved to be a singularly uncomfortable chair.

He glanced up and noticed that the ceiling in between the strong old beams was covered in faded, decorative artwork. The unicorn featured heavily as did various other mythical or non-mythical animals. David presumed that there was some symbolic, heraldic meaning in the design. He looked down to appreciate the beauty and symmetry of the star-patterned marble floor and then stood up and stretched his arms in the air. The pain in his right arm was pounding again and he rubbed it vigorously. He sat back down and began to relax, only then to be assailed by fresh uncertainties. Perhaps Hannah was right and this job could only lead to trouble? But what choice did he have? His talent was what created the opportunity, but then again, without his talent he would still be languishing in the Pawiak Prison. What other choice did he have? Survival was at stake.

He heard steps in the adjoining room. The door flew open and David stood up. His right arm shuddered in a brief spasm.

“Ah, there you are. Come, come, my clever friend. Come through here, if you please.”

* * *

Monday, September 16, 1940

Merlin propped his newspaper against the large saltcellar on the café table and read the headlines of the
Daily Herald
.

The main headline blared “175 NAZI PLANES DOWN”. Others read “RAF Triumphs in Biggest Air Battles of War”, “Raiders Chased Back to the Channel” and “RAF Puts Goering in Shade”. A second huge wave of bombers had crossed the Channel on Sunday afternoon and had been as effectively repulsed by Britain’s Hurricanes and Spitfires as they had been in the morning’s raid. Merlin wondered whether the figures for German losses had been overstated as usual, but, having been at Northolt himself the previous day, he knew that the thrust of the stories was correct. Something like 400 enemy planes had set out during the day to destroy London and they had palpably failed to do so. A small number of bombers had got through to the heart of the capital, but relatively little damage had been done. There was a sense in the newspapers that some turning point might have been reached, which was reflected in the cheerful atmosphere in Tony’s Café. He finished his tea, nodded to Tony and left some coppers on the table. Within minutes he was in his office at the Yard.

Bridges was tidying up Merlin’s desk and WPC Robinson was hovering at the door.

“Everyone alright then? Survived the weekend in good shape, did we?” Merlin sat down at his desk and they exchanged words about the RAF’s apparent great success on Sunday.