Stalin's Gold

by Mark Ellis

  “Of course, my dear fellow. Who better?”

  * * *

  Miro Kubicki sat in the cockpit of his Hurricane, his dark head throbbing in time with the engine. He had drunk a little too much vodka with his friends last night to mourn Kilinski. Jan had clearly been very upset and Jerzy very gloomy. As far as he was concerned, the pushy little Jewish prick had got what was coming to him. Kilinski had pretended not to be a Jew, but Miro could always tell. His father had educated him well about how to treat Jews. When out hunting once with his father and grandfather in their estate near Krakow, they had come across a small caravan containing a family of proverbial wandering Jews – a father, mother and two teenage boys. Such sport they had had – his father had told the males they had a ten-minute start; they ran off into the woods and then they were mercilessly run down and hacked to death. Returning to the caravan, his grandfather had insisted on Miro having the wailing mother, a woman who would have been quite attractive were it not for the tears rolling down her cheeks and the shrieking of her distorted mouth. After he had done his business, for what was only the second time in his young life, his father had pulled out his revolver and shot her neatly in the middle of her forehead. The caravan had been torched and the hunting party had happily made its way home. The estate and his family’s wealth had disappeared several years ago now, of course. All thanks to Jewish bankers and his father’s profligacy. God, he hated Jews.

  He knew, of course, that Jan had some Jewish blood in him. Perhaps that’s why he was so upset about Kilinski – these people always bonded together, didn’t they? He had a soft spot for Jan though – he didn’t look Jewish and he had such charm. His sister was a bit of a looker too, as he had noticed on her recent trip to the base. Jerzy had said something about the policeman walking out with her. That was a pity, but things might change. Many things changed overnight in this war.

  One of the ground crew waved at him. The blocks were away. He saw Jan manoeuvring his plane in front of him and then accelerating into the sky. They were heading southeast towards Dover and the Channel. The concentration required for flying his Hurricane soon drove away his headache. How many kills could he add to his tally today?

  * * *

  Merlin had arranged to meet Sonia at 11am by the main kiosk in St James’s Park. They bought some currant-buns and cups of tea and sat by the lake, watching a group of ducks dive-bombing the water.

  “So, it is sad about Jan’s friend, Frank. Do you know how he died?”

  “No. He was in the rubble of a bombed building so the obvious cause is being crushed by debris. I just feel that’s not the answer. It appears that he was on some sort of personal mission and I can’t believe that he was just a mundane bombing casualty. There should be a post-mortem going on now.”

  Sonia idly tore off a piece of bun and threw it towards the ducks. “Any idea at all about this ‘mission’ he was on?”

  “Not really. There are just a few scattered clues. We found some gold on him. It has the stamp of some ancient Polish family on it.”

  “Which family?”

  “Stanislawicki. Did I pronounce that right?”

  Sonia threw the rest of her bun towards the ducks. “Very good, Frank. I have heard the name. I think they have been around a long time, yes?”

  “Apparently so. We also found a picture of an ancient Aztec necklace or amulet or whatever it’s called. Kilinski also paid a visit to a leading member of the Polish delegation here in London, a Count Tarkowski.”

  “Again, I recognise the name. Why was he visiting this man? What had Ziggy to do with the Polish delegation?”

  “I don’t know. Tarkowski was not very forthcoming. He said Ziggy had asked a question about the finances of the Polish government in exile.”

  Some of the ducks were now wandering up to Sonia in hope of further food. “I only met Ziggy once or twice. A gloomy fellow. Jan said he was good fun, but I couldn’t see it myself.”

  “There was a family picture in his room. He had a brother who Jan said he wouldn’t talk about.”

  “Yes, I remember him mentioning that. Some sort of craftsman, he said.”

  “Looks like he told you more than Jan. Must be that pretty face that loosened his mouth.”

  Merlin reached up to stroke Sonia’s cheek and smiled. Sonia pulled her head away sharply. “Don’t, Frank. The poor man’s dead.”

  “Sorry, my dear.”

  Sonia turned back to him and put her arms around his shoulders. “No, I am sorry, my darling. I don’t know why I reacted like that. It just seems that death is everywhere around us. I try to keep your English stiff upper lip, but sometimes…”

  Merlin hugged her tight then planted his lips on hers. They held their embrace until a park warden approached them, making loud tutting noises.

  Merlin stood up and pulled her to her feet. “I have to go and see my miserable brother now, Sonia. You are welcome to come, but it’s not going to help cheer you up.”

  Sonia withdrew a handkerchief from her handbag and wiped her nose. “No, darling. Thank you, but I said I’d do the afternoon shift at the shop today. Will I see you tonight?”

  “I am not sure. I am going to pop into the Yard after I’ve seen Charlie – I’ll call you from there. Oh, by the way, there’s a classical concert on at St Martin’s Lane tomorrow. Handel, I think. Shall we?”

  Sonia nodded enthusiastically before kissing him on the cheek and hurrying away towards the park gate.

  * * *

  “Como te va, Carlos?” Charlie Merlin, or Carlos Merino as he had been christened, glanced at his brother from the wheelchair in a corner of the room by the fireplace. The brothers shook hands and Frank took the chair on the other side of the fireplace and attempted a hearty cheerfulness he did not feel.

  “Where are Beatrice and the boy?”

  “They just nipped out to the local shop to get something. Biscuits for you, I should think.”

  “Ah. Do you need anything while we are waiting?”

  “A spare leg would come in handy.”

  Merlin sighed. He hoped that his sister-in-law and nephew’s trip was a brief one.

  “Sorry, Frank. I just can’t help myself.” A small tear tracked its way down his left cheek.

  “Oh, Charlie.” A squall of rain thumped suddenly against the back window and they both held their breath for a moment, then smiled.

  “I guess if the weather’s bad our German friends might find the Channel a bit of a handful. Any insights at the Yard as to Hitler’s plans?”

  “Nothing that you don’t know or guess, I should think. He and Goering hope to pummel us into submission in the air, then sweep in and take over. There are reports everywhere of troops and ships massing off France. As far as I can see, the RAF are doing a great job, but how long can they keep it up?”

  “Just so. Not much longer, I’d say, but then my outlook on everything is pessimistic now. Let’s change the subject.” Charlie raised his good leg in front of him and moved it from side to side.

  “You know the annoying thing is that sometimes when I wake up in the morning, I can feel the leg that’s missing. I begin to think for a moment that by some miracle its grown back.” He lowered his leg and helped himself to a cigarette from a packet on a small table by his side.

  “Still off the weed, are you Frank?”

  “Yes.”

  Charlie lit up and blew a cigarette circle in the air. “Any interesting jobs on?”

  “I’m on one concerning a missing Polish pilot at the moment.” Merlin proceeded to summarise the case to his brother, ending with the enquiries made of Tarkowski about Polish government finances.

  “I had some dealings regarding Poland when I was working at the bank before the war.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Martins Bank was the correspondent bank of a Polish bank, what was its name now?” Charlie shook ash into an ashtray as he tried to remember.

  “Yes, I have it. There was a bank called the Polish Commonwealt
h Trading Bank. I had to oversee the paperwork on some large financial transfers from Poland in 1939. There were a few accounts set up, the names meaning nothing to me, but I understood from the manager of that bank that they were government transfers. He didn’t spell it out, but he hinted that it was some cautious forward thinking by the authorities, in case things turned out as in fact they did.”

  “A lot of money?”

  “Oh, yes, millions in sterling terms. There was some bullion too, as I recall.”

  “You don’t by any chance recall the name of the manager you dealt with?” Charlie stubbed his cigarette out and fumbled for another.

  “De something, I think. De Souza, that’s it. Eugene de Souza.”

  They heard the front door slamming and Charlie’s young son, Paul, ran into the room and jumped on his uncle. His wife, Beatrice, followed, carrying a large shopping bag. As she put it down, she sighed with relief before walking over to pat Merlin’s hand. “There you are, Frank. You’ll stop for lunch, of course. I managed to get hold of some nice lamb chops.”

  * * *

  At the sound of the voice on the other end of the telephone, Grishin’s blood ran cold. Down the line he could somehow sense Beria’s pitiless eyes inspecting his soul through those sinister spectacles of his, while from across the room the relentless eyes in Stalin’s portrait did the same. It was only a few months since Beria had prompted Stalin into ordering the massacre at Katyn. Around 20,000 of Poland’s finest men had perished including nearly all of the Polish military officers taken prisoner by the invading Soviet forces in 1939. A few officers had survived to undergo interrogation in the Lubianka and Beria’s call had been about one of them. Apparently this officer had, as Beria put it, inevitably seen fit to accommodate his interrogators with the answers to their questions, after a little discomfort. Grishin knew well what agonies “a little discomfort” might encompass.

  “There has been a development that might interest you, Grishin.” Beria’s wheedling voice always went through Grishin like a fingernail on a blackboard.

  “Yes, Comrade Beria.”

  “You may recall from your time in Spain that various shipments of bullion were made to us in consideration of the substantial assistance we were giving the ultimately useless Republican forces.”

  Grishin shuddered. “Yes, Comrade.”

  “By chance a while back, it was discovered that there had been a discrepancy in one of the shipments.”

  “Was there, Comrade?”

  “You know very well, Grishin. Don’t pretend otherwise. One of your subordinates – a Pole, you can never trust a Pole, of course – stole millions of roubles worth of gold from the Soviet State. Unfortunately, the man died before we tracked him down. You know all this, of course.”

  Grishin cleared his throat. “I do not.”

  “There, there, Grishin. No need to say anything. The Vozhd is all-seeing and all-knowing and so are his loyal chief lieutenants, such as I.” Grishin could imagine him preening and puffing himself up like a peacock as he sat at his desk in the Lubianka. “Overall you acquitted yourself well in Spain and haven’t put a foot wrong since then. While not forgotten or forgiven, the great leader has chosen, how shall we say, to put your failing concerning the gold in abeyance.”

  “But I had nothing to do with any theft! I—”

  “That is enough, Grishin. Just be grateful. In any event, as I said, there has been a development. We have been unable to find the missing gold. There was a view that it had ended up with some of your assistant’s friends in Krakow, who had transported it to America. Another line of enquiry pointed to its having ended up in France. Our German friends have been accommodating in affording assistance to our agents in Paris, but to no avail. Now, however, we have other testimony from this Polish officer.”

  “Which is, Comrade?”

  “That the gold was melted down and transferred via Brussels to London.”

  “To where in London?”

  “Unfortunately, the witness in question has not yet revealed that, but we shall get it out of him, I am sure.”

  “And the gold? What form does it now take?”

  “I’ll send you a copy of the witness’ testimony when we’ve finished with him. Then I shall expect you to act!”

  * * *

  The squadron was scrambled just after half past two and they were in the thick of it an hour later. The German bombers were back in force and there were hundreds of aircraft in the sky above London. The Spitfires were targeting the Messerschmitt fighter escorts while the Hurricanes’ focus was the bombers themselves. Jan and Jerzy found themselves chasing two Heinkel bombers, which had somehow become detached from their escorts somewhere over east London. As they closed in on their prey, a spray of bullets suddenly ripped across Jan’s windscreen and a trickle of blood blinded his left eye. He also felt a dull pain in his left shoulder. The Hurricane’s handling seemed to be unaffected, but visibility was seriously impaired. Looking to his right he could see Jerzy’s plane banking above him and he saw a line of tracers aimed at a target he couldn’t see. He decided to pull away to the left. There was no hope of him tracking down the bombers now and the best he could do was to get safely home. As he couldn’t see the plane that attacked him, he didn’t rate his chances very highly.

  As he flew the plane onto a westerly course, he was able to see the great River Thames meandering between the dockland below. It had been cloudy for most of the day, but now the sun found its way through briefly and the water sparkled in the momentary rays.

  A loud explosion sounded close above him and he twisted the aeroplane onto a northerly course. Out of the corner of his eye he could see a trail of black smoke and then, as he steadied, he was able to look down and see an aircraft plummeting towards the glittering mass of water. He couldn’t tell if it was Jerzy’s Hurricane or the assailant’s Messerschmitt. Gripping the control firmly, he mumbled an old Jewish prayer he remembered from his childhood. As the last word escaped his mouth, a plane appeared high above him and waggled its wings before diving down, turning beneath him and pulling up on his right side. Jerzy was sticking his thumb in the air and Jan nodded back. They would both live to fight another day.

  * * *

  Merlin sat at his desk, oblivious to the sound of the anti-aircraft guns on the other side of the river and the steady drone of bombers above. It’s amazing what you can get used to, he thought. There was some paperwork on his desk, which he couldn’t get his head around. He had managed to absorb a couple of notes; one message from Johnson to say that he and Cole had survived the night, but, for reasons he would explain in person, had made no progress with their task. The second note was from Bridges mentioning that he had remembered he had a friend whose wife was Polish and did some work for the Polish government in exile.

  Removing his new glasses, he attempted to read a new security leaflet someone, no doubt Bridges, had left on his desk. He held it at a distance and then close up, but it was no good either way and he put the spectacles back on. Merlin had been a good sportsman in his time, nearly playing football at a professional level. That was how he had met Jack Stewart. He remained very fit and could handle himself well in a fight as had already been proven several times in the past year. If he needed glasses, so be it. Perhaps he would have to wear glasses all the time soon. Most other parts of the Merlin machine were functioning well. The undercarriage area appeared to be in particularly good nick, after a few years under wraps. He blushed at the thought of Sonia’s perfect naked body and her bewitching face. They had not shared a bed now for a few nights. Perhaps tonight…?

  The phone rang. A clipped voice at the other line introduced the caller. “Spilsbury here. Gather you are the chap interested in one of my corpses. The pilot.”

  “Ah, yes. Sir Bernard. Thank you very much for calling. Should I come out to St Pancras?”

  “I can tell you my findings over the phone or you can meet me at my club, the Junior Carlton Club of Pall Mall. Do you know it? It’s
number thirty.”

  Merlin knew he would regret foregoing a second encounter with the founder of modern forensic medicine. “I shall be happy to learn what you have to say in person, Sir Bernard. What time?”

  “In forty-five minutes at 5pm. It is my habit to have a glass of sherry at that hour. Perhaps you can join me for a glass.”

  “Indeed, a pleasure, sir.”

  The connection was broken and Merlin sat back for a moment in contemplation of his forthcoming meeting. Then he leaned forward and, reaching past the Eiffel Tower paperweight, he grabbed his favourite pen and a piece of notepaper. Once he knew the cause of death, he wanted to interview Tarkowski again. It would be worth interviewing the Count’s wife too. Then there was this chap Charlie had mentioned, de Souza. It might be useful to see him – in fact, he would arrange to see him before seeing the Tarkowskis. Perhaps he should also try and see someone else at the Polish legation, again depending on what he might learn from de Souza. Then again he was sure he could get more from the pilots and the base. He scribbled notes down and then picked up the telephone and dialled Sonia’s number. There was no answer and Merlin then remembered she was working the afternoon. She wouldn’t be home until six or seven, he thought. He could surprise her. They could go to that cosy Italian place around the corner from her place. By rights he shouldn’t have much of an appetite after the hearty lunch that Beatrice had given him, but he felt that by 7pm he would be voracious again. He wondered whether it might have something to do with love.