Stalin's Gold (31 page)

Karol’s confession about the gold, secured under torture, might normally be regarded as worthless. However, given the unhappiness that the gold has brought to my family and the evil that has been done because of it, it is probably best now to admit that the story is as Grishin tells it. I am sorry if this admission deprives my government of useful resources in these dire times, but it is going to take more than a few crates of gold bullion to save Poland now. Our fate is in British and, with luck, American hands and may God bless all your efforts. I cannot resist pointing out that this theft by Poles from Russians is a mere drop in the ocean compared with the thefts by Russians from Poles over the centuries.

My younger brother, Sasha, was a bit of an adventurer. Well, perhaps that is an understatement. He somehow ended up as a communist secret policeman for our greatest enemy, but then saw an opportunity to deprive that enemy of some gold and took it successfully. The gold needed to be melted down and disguised. David Nozyk had the skills to help us to do this and we hired him. As you have seen, he did an excellent job. Then he disappeared. I lied to you about not knowing anything about this. Too many lies. The truth about David’s disappearance is as follows. David was a very clever man. After a while he felt his contribution was not being properly appreciated. In other words he became greedy. At some point there was an argument about money. We also discovered that he had been taking some gold items for himself. The amulet in his brother’s possession was clearly one such item. Karol confronted him about this in our house in Warsaw, there was an argument and fists were raised. My son never knew his own strength. He hit Nozyk and as he fell he knocked his head on the edge of a marble table. He was killed instantly. Karol arranged for his body to be buried. Nozyk had worked for us on a strict basis of secrecy and we believed and hoped that no one, including his family, knew about his relationship with us. My son was extremely remorseful about what had happened and anonymously, through a private charity, made provision for Nozyk’s family. In particular an eye was kept out for David’s younger brother, Simon, and steps were taken to enable him to fulfil his ambition and join the Polish Air Force. We heard later that he was, for whatever reason, going under the name of Kilinski.

A few weeks ago, Kilinski appeared on the scene. He came to see my husband a few times. He said that his brother had left him some gold items – ingots, an amulet. While still in Poland, he said he had been able to identify the design on the coin as that of the Stanislawicki coat of arms. His brother had disappeared and his family had presumed him dead. He also knew that David had visited our house in Warsaw. He wanted to know what connection David had had with us. My husband fobbed him off. We then became aware that he was spying on us. He lurked outside the house and outside my husband’s office. Someone tried to interfere with the transfer of gold from my husband’s commercial premises here and we assumed that was him. He harassed our bank manager. Somehow he managed to piece together most of the story and threatened to expose us. He consorted, as you know, with the madman Voronov. Eventually we had had enough, or rather I had. My husband was too kind and gentle a man. When he was out of London for the day at the beginning of last week, I saw Kilinski lurking outside late in the morning. Jerzy happened to ring me and I told him that Kilinski’s pestering was becoming unbearable. I asked him if he could plead family problems to obtain an afternoon’s leave. He promised to borrow someone’s car and come to me. Jerzy adored me. I knew he would do anything I asked. Kilinski was still loitering at lunchtime and I invited him in for a sandwich and a drink. I offered him a brandy, then another. I don’t think he was much of a drinker. He became a little inebriated and morose and was telling me about his brother. Then Jerzy arrived. After a couple more brandies, Jerzy told Kilinski that he would drive him back to the base. The next I heard about Kilinski was when you came to see my husband and said that he was missing. I presumed that Jerzy had taken the bull by the horns and somehow disposed of him. Your finding of the body seemed to confirm this and I am convinced that Jerzy killed Kilinski to protect his family. You may not agree but to me this was an act of nobility. He is dead now, as I shall be in a moment, and I feel the need as we both face our Maker to make a clean breast of it, as you English say.”

Merlin passed the letter to Bridges and sat on the edge of the bed staring back at the strangely serene face of its author.

* * *

“Hello, my dear fellow.”

Evans’ eyes opened blearily to the sound of the familiar voice. His throat was still affected by the acrid smoke he had breathed in Savile Row and he whispered a greeting. Evans struggled to raise himself up on his pillow.

“Here, let me help you.” Anthony Blunt leaned forward and helped Evans to lever himself up on the bed. “There. That’s better.”

To Evans, there had always been something of Carroll’s Mad Hatter as sketched by Tenniel to Blunt’s features, with his protruding set of upper teeth. An attractive Mad Hatter though, as far as he was concerned. “How are you, Anthony?” he croaked.

“Fit as a fiddle, but more to the point, how are you, Francis? They tell me you are on the mend.”

“A lot of bruises, a cracked rib and a few other odds and sods. I guess I was lucky. I’ll survive.”

Blunt pulled up a chair and sat down. “Yes, you are a survivor, aren’t you? I must commend you on your bravery. I understand from the nurses that you were injured while searching for an ambulance for a police colleague in the midst of a bombing raid. I must admit that physical courage is not a trait I believe I have, though I do believe I have some moral courage.”

Evans raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, indeed, Francis, that was somewhat lacking when you suffered your little problem, I concede. I am sorry for my lack of support, although my response was coloured by some anger and jealousy that you could seek gratification with another man.”

Evans opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“Don’t trouble yourself to talk, dear chap. I can see it is painful.”

“Trubetskoi.” Evans managed to spit the word out.

“Ah, yes, Trubetskoi and his senior partner Voronov. I understand from certain friends that they were involved in various nefarious activities and finally came something of a cropper. I apologise if my involving you with him caused you any embarrassment. I just heard that he was looking for someone like you and thought you would appreciate the money. I had some dealings with Voronov over the years. Odd fellows, he and his amanuensis.”

Evans waved an admonishing finger.

“Yes, I know, Francis. I shall be careful with whom I deal. Now, I have bought you a present.” Blunt produced a slim volume. “This is a monograph I just had published on Poussin’s early work. I am sure you will enjoy it.” His friend managed a weak smile. “And once you are out of here, you are welcome to come to the country for some recuperation. I intend to make amends, dear fellow, to make amends!”

* * *

It was just after four and at the Chelsea AFS station Stewart’s team were preparing for another night’s hazardous duty when Sir Archie Steele strode through the door. “Ah, Jack, there you are, laddie.”

Stewart rose to shake Steele’s outstretched hand. “And Peter. How do. Where’s your young constable?” Johnson gratefully withdrew his hand from Steele’s iron grip. “Cole got injured, Sir Archibald. Took a bullet in the shoulder from a looter. He’s desperate to get back out there, but the docs say it will be a few days yet.”

The three men sat down at the communal table and Elsie poured out tea. Johnson brought Steele up to date with the events at the Burlington Arcade and with Evans’ information on the looters. “Maybe they’ll be out of the picture now, if this Russian boss of theirs has copped it.”

“Plenty more fish in the sea, I should think, Inspector, eh, Jack?” Sir Archibald reached out for the plate of biscuits Elsie had just laid on the table.

“Aye, sir, though I think it should be rats not fish. ‘Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats’.”

Steele frowned. “I’m not your friend Merlin, you know, Jack. If you want me to name the author, I haven’t a clue.”

Johnson smiled. “It’s Browning.
The Pied Piper of Hamelin
.”

Stewart smiled. “Well done, Peter! I can see we’ll have to make a space for you in our competitions. I’ll tell Frank next time I see him.”

Stewart paused and looked up, thinking he could hear the distant rumble of aircraft. “I was just wondering, sir, if you had any information about the bigger picture?”

“How do you mean, Jack?”

“Well, sir, the intensity of the raids seems to be easing.”

Steele pulled out a pipe and tapped it on the table. “The feeling is that if the Germans are to invade, they need to get their skates on as autumn rolls in. The great job our pilots have done may have caught them by surprise. I doubt the air raids are going to stop, but we may well have put off the invasion until next year.”

As Steele began to fill his pipe with tobacco, a siren went off. In the back of the room, a phone rang. One of Stewart’s men answered it, then shouted out, “Knightsbridge, sir. We’re to hook up with the others behind Harrods.”

Steele rose to his feet. “Good luck, gentlemen. Take care. There’s a long way to go yet in this war, but we shall overcome, no doubt.” He lit his pipe and beamed.

* * *

“Where to, Herr Generalfeldmarschall?”

As the car edged away from the Berlin Reichkanzleri, Hermann Goering, the Fuhrer’s right-hand man and Commander-in-Chief of the Luftwaffe, simmered. “Anywhere, Gunther, I don’t give a shit. Just drive. No, on second thoughts, drive out into the country. I need to see trees and grass.”

Goering loved the countryside. He had several beautiful country homes, adorned in most cases with the heads of the herds of animals he had hunted and shot. Perhaps, he thought, he should go for a few days’ hunting to get things out of his system.

He and General von Rundstedt had been summoned to the Fuhrer’s office that afternoon. After a long tirade about the incompetence of the Luftwaffe in particular and all his commanders in general, Adolf Hitler had informed them that Operation Sealion, the plan for the invasion of England, was being postponed indefinitely. “You have let me down, Hermann. Your pilots are cowards, are they not? The English are on their last legs, you told me. ‘They will not be able to resist our glorious Luftwaffe!’ Well, they have resisted, haven’t they? With their inferior aeroplanes they have defied the might of Germany – and me!”

“But, mein Fuhrer—”

“Hah! Do not make excuses. It is time to move on. We must turn our attention to the east and that Georgian lout, Stalin. You must both concentrate on that now.”

How had the British survived and overcome them? Luftwaffe losses over the weekend had been huge. Goering had never been as dismissive of the British military capabilities as the Fuhrer, but still he had thought his pilots would prevail.

The car had reached the countryside and as the trees and fields flashed by in the growing dusk, the Field Marshall loosened the belt on his uniform and helped himself to a glass of the Macallan Scotch Whisky he kept in the bar compartment in his door. He had looked forward to taking personal possession of some Scottish distilleries after the invasion, but that was not to be, at least not for a while. Perhaps Operation Sealion could be revived in the spring? He sighed and gazed out at a herd of Friesian cattle being chased through a field by some small boys. He drank and felt the warm golden liquid trickle down his throat. He swirled the remainder of the whisky around in the large balloon glass which was engraved on the side with his initials. He closed his eyes and chuckled at the thought of the buxom all-Nordic athlete he had bedded the previous evening. A little more of Greta tonight would help to put the Fuhrer’s tirade behind him. Those legs, those eyes…

* * *

Merlin reached up behind the cuckoo clock where he always kept a medicinal bottle of Bells whisky. Bridges had brought a couple of glasses from the cubby-hole and Merlin poured out a healthy shot in each. Robinson insisted on sticking to her glass of water.

“Cheers.” The men clinked glasses.

“Well, it’s a relief to have got the Kilinski case tied up, sir.”

“So it is, Sam, assuming, that is, that we have got it tied up.” Merlin swirled the whisky around in his glass. “Because, I have to say, it all seems a little too neat for me. And there is that niggling little gap.”

“Sir?”

“Well, Constable, in her letter, the Countess presumes and indeed is convinced that Jerzy bumped Kilinski off, but she didn’t confirm this with him, did she? Do we share her view that Kowalski was up to poisoning a fellow officer?”

“He doesn’t appear to have been a very nice man. Look at the way he legged it from the Hampstead shoot-up.”

“No, Sergeant, perhaps not a nice man, but a killer?” Merlin finished his drink and shook his head. “Sorry, Sam, you know what I’m like. Never happy with loose ends. But the A.C. is, however, happy with the Countess’s presumption of Kowalski’s guilt and is delighted to have the case wrapped up, so I’d better stop griping and move on.”