Stalin's Gold (32 page)

He flipped open a folder Bridges had put on the desk and was giving it a cursory glance when the telephone rang. “Oh, yes. He wants to see me? Yes, I think I know who he is. Bring him on up.”

* * *

“And you are?”

“Ryabov. Maksim Ryabov.”

“And you were the late Mr Voronov’s servant at his Berkeley Square residence where my officers just detained you?”

“Da.”

“And would it have been you I saw, amongst others, firing a gun in Hampstead the other day?”

“Da.” Maksim was wearing a thick overcoat, which he had taken from Voronov’s wardrobe, but was nevertheless shivering.

“You understand that I shall have to arrest you for that?”

“Da. Da. Arrest me. Put me in prison. That is what I want. I want to be away from guns, bombs, loud voices, loud bangs. I need peace.”

“We can arrange that. The officer downstairs said you have something to tell me about your dead employer.”

Maksim looked around the room nervously. “May I sit down?”

Bridges stood up and offered his seat.

“Thank you, sir. Most kind. Kindness is not something I was accustomed to with Mr Voronov.” As he sat down, he looked across appreciatively at Constable Robinson’s legs. “You have such nice-looking lady policemen in this country. So unlike Russia.”

“I am sure the Constable appreciates the compliment, Mr Ryabov. Now, just a moment, there’s something we must do.” Merlin signalled to Bridges who cautioned Ryabov and warned him that anything he said might be used against him in court. “Do you understand? Yes? Then if you are happy, what have you to tell us?”

“You know about Mr Voronov and his desire for the gold in Count Tarkowski’s possession? Stalin’s gold as he called it.”

“We do.”

“And you know that there was a Polish pilot who got involved with him?”

“Ziggy Kilinski, yes.”

“Do you know who killed him?”

“We believe that it was one of his fellow pilots. Jerzy Kowalski.”

Maksim smiled to himself. He had stopped shivering now. “It came to Kyril Ivanovitch’s attention that Kilinski was paying close attention to the activities of Count Tarkowski. He arranged to meet him. Voronov pumped him for information but Kilinski would not tell everything. Voronov was very angry with him. They met again and Kilinski was more helpful. They shared some more of the things they knew, but Voronov still felt that Kilinski was holding things back about the gold. He decided Kilinski was an irritant who might get in his way. Kyril Ivanovitch did not care for irritants.”

Merlin leaned forward over his desk. “Are you saying—?”

“Patience, Chief Inspector. Mr Voronov had many useful friends. He had Kilinski followed. One night, Monday of last week, I believe, Kilinski went to Tarkowski’s place. Some hours later, Kilinski was driven away in a car by an air force officer. He was followed to Euston Road. The car stopped, there seemed to be a fight, the officer got knocked down and Kilinski ran off. After a few minutes, the car drove away.”

“How do you know all this, by the way?”

“I hear everything in Voronov’s house. All is known to me.”

“Then what happened?”

“Voronov’s follower went over to Kilinski, who had stopped not far from Tarkowski’s building, and offered him a drink.”

“They knew each other?”

“They had met before, yes. Kilinski was already drunk but he drank some more. In the drink was poison and Kilinski died.”

“And who was the follower?”

“Misha Trubetskoi. Since long ago, Misha has always carried a, how do you say, flask that has vodka laced with rat poison. Misha lived a dangerous life with many enemies. He was always well armed. This flask was part of his armour.”

“So, put simply, Voronov arranged for Trubetskoi to kill Kilinski?”

“That is so. Trubetskoi even bragged to me about it the other day, waving his flask, as he often did, in front of my nose. Kilinski was just one in a long list of victims of Kyril Ivanovitch and his cronies.”

* * *

“So there you have the whole sorry story, my darling. We thought we had a Polish killer, then found out it was a Russian. Both, however, are dead and beyond the reach of the law.”

They were lying in the warmth of Sonia’s bed. She had been fast asleep when Merlin climbed in just before midnight, but had roused at the first touch of his leg. After they had made love, she had nestled into him and insisted on hearing everything before they went back to sleep. “Poor Ziggy.” She reached out and hugged him closer.

“Is Jan out of hospital yet?”

“Tomorrow morning apparently. He’ll be alright. And how about your constable, Tommy Cole?”

“Bursting to get back on the job with Johnson. Johnson’s out with Jack. Doesn’t seem to be that busy, though, does it?” They hadn’t heard any planes or guns since Merlin had arrived.

“Perhaps the Germans are getting bored with bombing us.”

“Perhaps, darling. Oh. Wait. There’s something I want to show you.” He jumped out of the bed, went over to the chair on which he had hung his jacket and reached into a pocket. “What do you think of this? I should have put in it the Yard strong room before I left tonight, but I forgot.” The amulet gleamed in the soft ray of Sonia’s bedside lamp. Sonia drew in her breath as Merlin handed it to her. “Try it on, why don’t you? It’s about 400 years old. First worn by an Aztec emperor, perhaps later by some dark Spanish aristocrat. Whoever wore it before, none will have been as beautiful as you.”

Sonia punched Merlin’s shoulder. “Idiot!” Merlin winced. “Oh, darling Frank, I am so sorry. I forgot for a moment. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine Sonia. Please, go on.”

She raised herself in the bed and was about to put the amulet on when she suddenly stopped. “I think not.”

“Why not?”

“Think about all the bad luck this gold brought to the Countess and her family. And to Ziggy.”

“Are you superstitious, my dear?”

“All Poles are very superstitious, Frank. No, put it away. Thanks for showing it to me, but you get it back where it belongs.”

Merlin looked disappointed. “It has to go back tomorrow, though by all rights it should really be going back to Spain. I thought it would be fun to see it on you one time.”

“No, darling. Put it away, please. You will have to make do with me as I am, without gold or other adornment.” Sonia smiled shyly before slowly removing the bedcover. Merlin forgot his disappointment.

Epilogue

“Ah, Lavrentiy, there you are. Come! Come in.” Lavrentiy Beria approached Stalin’s desk, a stiff smile planted on his face.

“Sit down, sit down. Please.” Stalin waved an imperious hand in which he held some papers. Beria sat in the chair facing the Vozhd across his desk. The chair, as always, was a few inches shorter than that of his boss; an obvious but useful technique for establishing dominance, which Beria himself employed in his own office. “I have just been reading this report from one of our men in Mexico. I know, I’ve read the details several times and this report contains nothing new, but I do so enjoy the story.”

Stalin, as Beria knew, was referring to the assassination of Leon Trotsky, formerly Stalin’s partner and then his adversary in the Russian leadership battles after Lenin’s death. Trotsky had been killed in the summer by an ice pick in the head, wielded by an agent of Beria’s.

Stalin chuckled then set down the report. “Poskrebyshev behaving himself, is he? No ill manners?”

“No, Comrade Stalin. He is as affable as always. He told me a good joke as I was on my way in.” Poskrebyshev was Stalin’s private secretary and ran his office. The year before, Beria, naturally with his boss’ approval, had ordered the arrest of Poskrebyshev’s wife, Bronislava, for crimes against the state. She was still languishing in the Lubianka, her fate all but sealed.

“Yes, he always has a new joke to tell.” Stalin paused and gazed thoughtfully out of the window, where autumn was already taking a severe toll on the tree leaves in the courtyard. He idly picked up his pipe, which was unlit, and sucked it for a moment before turning his relentless gaze on Beria. “And so, Lavrentiy, we have the gold back now?”

“Yes, indeed, Comrade Stalin. The gold that Grishin found was released by the British authorities to Grishin yesterday. It is in the embassy vault.”

“I hope you and Grishin will take more care about its transport back to us than Grishin did in Spain those few years ago.”

“Of course, Comrade.” Beria could feel the odd bead of perspiration moistening the collar of his tunic.

“And, as I understand it, all the principal criminals in the theft of the gold are now dead?”

“Yes, all.”

Stalin reached for his tobacco pouch and started filling the bowl of his pipe. Beria could not stand the smell of Stalin’s tobacco and his nostrils twitched involuntarily. Stalin lit a match with a flick of his finger and applied the flame. “Anything wrong, Lavrentiy? Not sickening for anything, I hope?”

“No, Comrade. Just had a heavy day. A very busy time, as you know.”

Stalin leaned back in his chair, a deadly twinkle in his eyes, and puffed away. “Busy, yes, busy. You and I are always busy – vigilant as always for the treachery that is ever around us.” Stalin abruptly put his pipe down in an ashtray and his elbows on the desk.

“So, there was Alexander Stanislawicki – Sasha, wasn’t it?”

Beria nodded.

“So, Sasha stole this gold from under our noses at Odessa. There was some mistake in the paperwork for the gold, which he exploited. With the help of his brother Karol, who in fact turned out to be his nephew, and another nephew…” Stalin briefly consulted a folder on his desk. “Kowalski, the gold was transported to Warsaw.”

Beria nodded again.

“Remind me what happened to Sasha after that?”

“Having been attached to the NKVD he fell under suspicion for holding inappropriate Polish nationalist tendencies. He was suspended from his duties and returned to Poland. After the collapse of Poland and our accommodation with Germany, most of the Polish officer corps and intelligentsia were arrested and handed over to us. Sasha was one of those arrested. You will recall that most of those enemies of Russia were liquidated at Katyn in the spring.”

“At your suggestion, of course, Beria.”

“It was the right thing to do, Comrade.” A flash of irritation crossed Beria’s face. Fortunately, Stalin had just reached down to spit into a receptacle under the desk. All key members of the Politburo had signed the execution orders, but the Vozhd liked to pretend that he had had nothing to do with the massacre.

“So, this Sasha was killed at Katyn?”

“Yes, Comrade. It is in the report I gave you.”

“But at this point you had no suspicions against him regarding the gold?”

“On the contrary, I had identified Sasha as the person in charge of the gold transportation not long after you had charged me with the investigation of the matter. We found out that Sasha had been aware of the documentary discrepancy concerning the shipment and I put two and two together. Unfortunately, by the time I realised that we needed to interrogate Sasha, it was 1939; he had gone back to Poland, Hitler had invaded and we could not easily get hold of him. Then in the confusion of the invasion’s aftermath, his arrest and removal to Katyn were not notified to me.”

“Excuses never satisfy me, Lavrentiy. You should have got hold of him before the Nazis invaded. Then again, you should have identified him as one of our prisoners.”

“With respect, Comrade, although we lost Sasha, I did manage to identify Karol as one of our prisoners and it was through him that we in due course found the gold.”

Stalin grunted and spat again. “Very well. And so the two Stanislawicki boys both perished one way or another, as did the Count and Countess and the nephew Kowalski? And my old friend Voronov, who tried to piss me off one time too many?”

“Yes, Comrade.”

“And so this is all the gold we were missing?”

Beria could feel his neck getting wetter. “Not quite, Comrade. There remains a balance lodged in a vault in a London bank, which, pursuant to the Count’s will, is credited to the Polish government in exile.”

Stalin’s face darkened. “Polish government in exile! Ha! What a joke. And how much of the missing gold do they hold?”

“About a third.”

“A third.” Stalin screamed. “A fucking third! And what are the prospects of its return, Comrade Beria?”

“We have initiated proceedings in the London courts. The lawyers tell us that we have a reasonably strong case. I am hopeful…”

Stalin stood up and strode to the window. He opened it and they could hear the sound of a distant factory whistle.

Beria also rose and stood nervously by his chair.

“I am sure you are hopeful, Lavrentiy. I would be, if I were you.”

Beria shuffled his feet and coughed.

“When I understood that all the principal criminals, all those who had connived to deprive me of my gold, were dead, I was not correct, was I?”

“You were, of course, Comrade Stalin.”

“What about Grishin?”

“Well, it—”

“It was his negligence that led to the theft in the first place, was it not?”

“Well, yes, I suppose.”

“Not suppose, Lavrentiy. It is fact. Recall him and then deal with him as I would expect.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what about the other conniver?”

“Who is that, Comrade?”

“You, Lavrentiy, of course. You have connived to deprive me of my gold by your inefficiency.”

“But, but, Comrade—”

“But me no buts, Comrade Beria. I remember everything, as you know. And I shall remember this. Now you may go. You are very busy, as you say.”

Lavrentiy Beria paused, thinking whether there was anything he could say to his advantage. From long experience, when the Vozhd was in this mood, he knew it was best to withdraw.

As he opened the door, Stalin spoke again, his voice a little mellower. “And Lavrentiy, please arrange some flowers.”

“For whom, sir?”

“Why for Voronov’s widow, of course. In memory of some good times together. He used to make fun of my Georgian accent, you know.” Stalin smiled sweetly at his colleague. “He was not the first, but he was certainly the last!”