by Mark Ellis
“That’s what we’d like to find out. Do you have much knowledge of the Polish community in London?”
The cat made an unpleasant screeching sound as Wyczinski withdrew his hand from its back. “No, I’m afraid not. I am – what is the word – an integrated Pole. I have been here for over thirty years. In that time I think I have met only four or five other Poles. My wife is English, Chief Inspector, and in the way of things we mostly socialise with her friends. Of course, now that there has been such a wave of Poles coming here, perhaps I shall meet more – especially if they have items such as this.”
“Do you know anything of what happened to the Stanislawicki family? Are they still around?”
Wyczinski leaned back in his chair and smoothed his tie. “I believe that the line has continued. On infrequent occasions I read Polish newspapers and I do recall reading about people of that name in the years before the war. I think there was a Count Stanislawicki I read about in the business pages, but in what context I cannot recall. I presume he is part of that same noble family. Of course, with the German invasion, who knows what has happened to the man and the rest of his family.”
Merlin rose to his feet. “Well, you have been most wonderfully helpful, sir. Is it possible for us to borrow that book for a short while?”
“Of course. Would you like me to wrap it up for you?”
“Please.” Wyczinski bound the book in some cloth and passed it to Merlin who turned for the door.
“Don’t forget this.” Wyczinski handed Merlin the gold bar.
“Of course, thank you. One last question. What is something like this worth?”
“I’d probably buy it from you for £2002 or so and there would probably be a collector who’d give me £250 or perhaps £300. Give or take, its gold content is probably worth that.”
* * *
Evans’ feelings of discomfort had grown more acute. He was standing outside a rather grubby lock-up in Shepherd’s Bush. He had been the first to arrive, but then had been joined by two rough and ready fellows who’d grunted a greeting to him. Now one of them was unlocking the double-padlock on the door, while the other was blowing a particularly foul-smelling tobacco smoke in his face. “Where’s your mate then?”
“Mate?”
“You know. The ginger geezer. Funny accent. Smooth bugger.”
“Oh, Mr Trubetskoi. Well, I’m sure he’ll be here any minute.”
Jake swore. “This bloody padlock needs a good oiling. I can’t…”
“Let me do it. Here. See, easy as clockwork.”
“Thanks, Billy.”
As they were beckoning Evans through the doors, a car pulled up and Trubetskoi emerged from the rear. “Alright, Maksim, you wait around the corner on the main street. I’ll be half an hour, maybe longer. If anyone noses around, just drive off for a while. Mr Evans? You made it. Very good. Ah, I see the other gentlemen are here also. Is everything unpacked and on display? Very well, shall we proceed to business?”
Billy switched a light on to reveal a small treasure trove of paintings, antique furniture and other valuables.
“So, Mr Evans. You see here the goods that my partners and I have in storage. Some beautiful stuff, is it not?”
Evans nodded. “Is this really the best place in which to keep these items? Surely you could warehouse them more appropriately in town.”
Trubetskoi raised a bushy red eyebrow – surely he doesn’t dye those, Evans thought. “In town, you say, Mr Evans. With Goering’s bombardment going on, you think one of those nice, big warehouses by the river would be appropriate?”
“Why, of course not, but surely you could get somewhere just out of London that’s better than this?”
“Well, Mr Evans. Once you have assisted us in our valuation of these items, all of which have been purchased in the past eighteen months…” Billy and Jake sniggered. “As I say, once we have valued them properly, we may remove them to safer ground.”
Evans scratched his head. “But, surely, if you purchased these items in auction or however, you must have a reasonable idea as to their value?” A ripple of irritation moved over Trubetskoi’s face. He had a black cane with a silver top in his right hand and he raised it in the air and pointed it at Evans.
“Your friend in Cambridge recommended you to us as an expert in art, Mr Evans, not as an expert in asking questions. For whatever reasons, which are frankly none of your business, we wish to have your views on these items. For this advice, you will be paid well. I understand that money is of some importance to you as you have none. Now, may we proceed?”
Evans could feel himself blushing. Trubetskoi’s two associates continued to snigger. Well, he thought, I need the money and beggars can’t be choosers. He’d just have to swallow his pride and banish the discomfort he was feeling and get on with it. “Very well. I’ll go through the pictures. As to the furniture, I can also give you a view, but it will be less reliable than as regards the paintings.”
Trubetskoi tapped one of his shiny black shoes with his cane and smiled. “Please, go ahead.” Jake walked to the back of the lock-up and removed the tarpaulin covering the crates. Evans followed him, pulling out a notebook from his trouser pocket. From the first crate he removed a delicate nineteenth-century watercolour and started to write.
Chapter 11
Cartagena, Spain 1937
Rain drifted in from the west in intermittent squalls. The wind ruffled the papers of the manifest and occasionally dislodged one from the Colonel’s clipboard, requiring one or other of his guards to hurry and retrieve it. He sat under a dripping awning on the quayside watching the sodden sailors working away at their task. Grishin cleaned his spectacles for what seemed like the hundredth time. It was gone midnight and he was desperate for his bed, but he had to see the job through. He thought with irritation of Orlov, his superior, who had dumped this job on him. Orlov would get all the credit for it, of course. No doubt he was enjoying the comforts of his beautiful Spanish mistress’ bed at this moment. Grishin stroked his greying moustache then waved at one of the naval officers supervising the loading. “How much longer do you think?”
“Another four hours I should think, senõr. We are on the last ship now. Another twenty lorry loads or thereabouts?”
“Thank you, Captain. Carry on.” Grishin took out a hipflask from inside his greatcoat and took a swig. This Spanish brandy wasn’t so bad when you got used to it. “Hey, Sasha. Want a drop?”
Grishin’s second-in-command emerged from the gloom to his left. “No, thank you, Colonel. My stomach is playing me up tonight.”
“Must be that paella you had for dinner. I warned you to keep to the ham.”
“Yes, Colonel. You were no doubt right, as always.” Sasha settled back into his canvas chair and pulled his hat down over his forehead.
At 5.30am, the captain reported that loading was complete. Three hours later, as the first glimmer of light illuminated the cloudbanks to the east, a black government vehicle pulled up to Grishin’s station. Two men got out of the back and walked over to the Russian group.
“I thought you were aiming to be here at six, Senõr Mendez Aspe? Sasha and my boys have been sitting in this god-awful place since yesterday lunchtime. I would have thought you might have the decency to keep to your appointments!”
Mendez Aspe, a tall, skeletal man from the Spanish Treasury turned to his companion, a similar physical specimen but even taller than he, and shrugged. “My apologies, Colonel. The road was not in the best condition because of the weather. It’s a good job we had got the gold down here already. If we had been transporting it by road from Madrid this week I think it would never have got here.”
Grishin grunted, drank again from the brandy flask and rose to his feet. “Very well, gentlemen. Let’s get to business. My assistant, Sasha here, whom you both know, has had a couple of our accountants making a physical audit of the material now loaded onto our vessels. At the same time, your treasury officials have been doing the same. I have here the manifest of
your people responsible for the material in the caves where it was stored. This shows a total of 7,800 boxes in the consignment. Sasha, go and get your men and Senõr Mendez Aspe’s people and let’s see if everything tallies. Then I can go and have a long soak in a bath, a good breakfast and twelve hours’ sleep! Off you go.”
Sasha headed off in the direction of the nearest lorries while Grishin accepted the invitation of the Spanish officials to join them in the drier and warmer comfort of the Hispano-Suiza limousine they had travelled in. Feeling a little more benign, Grishin offered his flask around.
Mendez Aspe and his colleague shook their heads and declined. “So, Colonel. You will not be travelling with the consignment yourself?”
“No. Sasha and several others from my NKVD team will be going on board.”
“In the circumstances, do you not think it wise to accompany the goods yourself? This is, after all, the largest part of our transfer to you. Soon, in Moscow and in your banks in France, you will hold safe for us our entire gold resources – the fourth largest gold reserves in the world.”
“Just so, senõr, but I am quite happy that Sasha and his men, together with our comrades of the merchant marine and security party aboard, will be able to get the gold safely to its destination.”
Mendez Aspe’s colleague angrily spat something out in Spanish, which Grishin failed to follow. Mendez Aspe patted his colleague’s shoulder soothingly. “My colleague is not happy about this transfer, Colonel. Nor are many other of our colleagues in government circles. But then, as I have told him many times, what choice do we have? Your great Generalissimo Stalin is the only one who is prepared to arm us in our struggle with the vile Generalissimo we ourselves have spawned and who threatens our democracy and lifeblood with his fascistic plans. Naturally, your Senõr Stalin wants payment for this help and if the Spanish gold reserves represent our only viable security for credit, it is only natural that such security be provided. Is that not so?”
Grishin licked the sticky remnants of brandy from his moustache. “High finance is not my thing, Senõr. All I know is that your government authorised the transfer and my superiors asked me to handle the shipment. Anything else is above me.”
“Come now, Colonel. You are one of the two top NKVD men in Spain. I think you are being far too modest. In any event, the decision has been made and it is pointless for us now to second-guess the decisions of our superiors. Let us hope that our Republican cause is soon victorious and these treasures of Spain can be returned swiftly to their home, after deduction, of course, of the relevant consideration payable to your government.” Mendez Aspe leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes for a moment. “Wonderful treasures there are too. You, I believe, have seen nothing but the boxes, but I had the chance to view some of these magnificent items before they were shipped out of Madrid. There are not just boring nuggets of gold and silver, but marvellous treasures of Spain’s truly golden age. Not just coins, but artefacts of surpassing beauty. Aztec and Inca jewellery and ornaments whose artistry defies belief.” He opened his eyes and his cheeks flushed. “The permanent removal of such pieces would be a crime beyond… beyond…” His words trailed away as someone knocked at the car door window.
Grishin wiped the condensation from the glass. “Here’s Sasha. We’d better get out.”
Sasha introduced the two Russian auditors and their three Spanish counterparts. For several minutes these men compared their paperwork, while Grishin and the two civil servants stood aside and made small talk. It had at last stopped raining and there was a patch of bright blue sky above them. Grishin noticed that the auditors’ voices were becoming louder though he couldn’t hear what they were saying. Eventually, Sasha rejoined them. “There’s a small discrepancy, sir.”
Grishin raised an eyebrow.
“Our people say that we have loaded 7,900 cases, but the Spaniards say that it’s 7,800 cases.”
“That’s the figure that tallies with my manifest, is it not?”
“Yes, sir.” Sasha handed Grishin the manifest so that he could check for himself.
“So, senõrs. My manifest and your auditors say that we are shipping 7,800 cases, while my people say the actual figure is 7,900. What shall we do? We have no time for a recount if we are to make the tide and my instructions are to do that.”
“One moment, Colonel.” Mendez Aspe walked away a few yards with his colleague and exchanged words. When they returned, Mendez Aspe raised his arms and shrugged. “Colonel. Our storage manifest and our auditors here say it’s 7,800 cases. Perhaps we Spaniards are a little more advanced at arithmetic than you Russians. We are happy to sign off on 7,800 cases.”
Grishin ignored the slur and smiled politely. “You will allow me a moment, senõrs?”
“Of course.”
He beckoned to Sasha and the two men walked off towards the sea. “I don’t know how to explain it, Colonel. These two are very good, thorough men.”
“I’m sure, Sasha. And I’d put money on their being right. In any event, there is only one path for us. If we insist that we are right and in fact we are not, we shall have to explain the absence of 100 cases to Comrade Stalin. What’s that at current values, do you think?”
“I’d guess around $6 to $7 million.”
Grishin sucked his breath in sharply. “I do not care to think of the pleasures that would await us in the Lubianka in such circumstances. So as I say, our path is clear, is it not? If by following it, Moscow ends up with a surplus of 100 cases, so be it. They won’t give us any medals, but at least we’ll be alive.”
They returned to the Spaniards. Grishin bowed his head to Mendez Aspe. “We shall defer to the advanced Spanish intellect. The number of cases counted is 7,800 and that will be the figure on the ship manifest. Are we in accord?” The Spaniards nodded and all shook hands.
“The cargo will reach Odessa when, Colonel?”
“It’s a voyage of seven days, senõr. Not too long. Now if you will forgive me, my bed awaits. Come on, Sasha, let’s get back into town. You have a couple of hours until the tide. You can at least wash the cold out in a nice hot bath before leaving.”
Sasha lay back in the water. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. Gold worth over $6 million. He knew in his bones that his people had got the count right. Perhaps more than $7million. That gold no longer existed, on paper. Would its loss be noticed? The Spanish wouldn’t miss it and his government wouldn’t know. Physically it was two normal lorry loads, fifty cases each. When they unloaded in Odessa, 160 lorries would be required to move the cargo from the ships to the Odessa railway cargo area for onward transfer to Moscow. Who was to be in overall charge of the transhipment? He, Sasha, was. A detachment of 173 NKVD Rifle Regiment would be meeting the ships, but again they would be under his command. Four ships, 160 lorries, or should that be 162 to include the non-existent gold? And was it definitely to be transhipped by rail? These details had not yet been confirmed. He had been told to await final orders when en route. Despite the warmth of the bath, he shivered. $6 or $7million? 160 or 162 lorries? Rail or road? He had a lot of thinking to do.
* * *
Thursday, September 12, 1940
Colonel Valery Grishin looked gloomily across his desk at the picture of Stalin, the “Vozhd” 3, on the opposite wall. He stood up and strolled around his large, comfortable office at the back of the Russian embassy. He could swear as always that the Chief’s eyes were following him around the room. That might be an illusion, but the fact that Stalin’s eyes penetrated everywhere and everyone was indisputable.
He looked out of the window at the Kensington Palace Gardens behind the embassy and then over at the palace itself on his right. He understood that the building had been cleared of the minor royalty and retainers who normally lived there. No doubt they had all decamped to safe luxury in the country.
In many ways this was not a bad posting. After the difficult years in Spain he had gone back to Moscow for a while. The Chief had been going through a particularly p
aranoid period – but then when was he not going through a paranoid period? Grishin had been lucky to survive that. Scores of his colleagues in the military and many other friends and associates had fallen victim to one or other of Stalin’s purges, but he had come out yet again with his career, family and life intact. Yes, he was a lucky sod, just like that bastard Voronov, who he kept on seeing out and about in London. Given Voronov’s past history with the Chief he was very surprised that he had not received instructions to liquidate him. Amazingly, it seemed as if Stalin had a soft spot for him! To think of Stalin having a soft spot for anyone was, of course, absurd. He was spluttering with laughter at this mad thought as his secretary, Ania, entered the room with the cup of Turkish coffee he had asked for minutes before.
“Thank you, my dear. Is the ambassador back yet?”
“No, Valery Stepanovich, not yet.”
The ambassador, Ivan Maisky, had an impossible job. Just before the outbreak of war, Stalin had agreed to the signing of the Molotov–Ribbentrop Pact. Dressed up as a mutual “non-aggression” treaty, it allowed for the division of the spoils of Eastern Europe between the two countries, which rapidly succeeded Hitler’s invasion of Poland in September 1939. Britain went to war to save Poland. Russia took advantage of the German invasion of Poland to share in carving it up. Didn’t that mean that Britain and Russia were at war? Not according to the niceties of diplomacy and Maisky was doing his very best to maintain the niceties. Grishin sat down at his desk and knocked the coffee back.
“Thank you, my dear, that will be all.” Grishin watched Ania’s pert bottom, tightly encased in a green dress, as it moved with a life of its own to the door and out of the room. He might have to pay his respects to that bottom again soon. It had been too long.
Grishin’s office title was Deputy Military Attaché, but he was in effect the embassy’s Chief Spy. The Deputy Commercial Secretary had until three months ago performed that role, but some unpleasantness back home had led to his recall and, so far as Grishin could tell, although it had not been officially confirmed, his liquidation. He had had to pick up the pieces and there were a lot of pieces to pick up. The Soviet spy network in Britain was extensive and ranged high and low. Aristocrats, politicians, professors, scientists, MI5 and MI6 officers, journalists, trade unionists, secretaries, coal miners – he had the lot. Keeping them under control and keeping his masters in Moscow happy was a big, big job. That’s why he had no time for distractions. Voronov was a distraction. He picked up a report on Kyril Ivanovitch Voronov, prepared by one of his men a while ago. It was attached to a thick file on the man who had a network of expatriates in London, which often intersected with his own. He was a liability and he knew the best way to remove a liability. However, what about the “soft spot”? If he took matters into his own hands, what repercussions might there be with the Chief?