Wilde went through the morning’s events. ‘Sawyer and Dorfen cosying up to each other like best buddies. Apparently they met at the Ludwig Maximilian University in Munich.’
‘Sounds plausible.’
‘It also seems conceivable that they might have met in some Munich beer cellar frequented by the National Socialists. Dorfen claimed he knew no one at the funeral – apart from Sawyer, Sir Norman and Horace Dill – yet he was clearly very much at home there. And why is he not telling the truth about his position in the SS? I think you should get Bower to bring him in for questioning.’
‘Won’t happen, old boy. Kholtov’s the man they want.’
Wilde looked at his wristwatch; time to pick up Lydia at their appointed rendezvous. He threw down the last half inch of his Scotch. ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘I’ll go to see Bower, try to get the guard on Addenbrooke’s ramped up, then I’m going to talk to a man about a great deal of gold.’
CHAPTER 31
Vladimir Rybakov smoked another cigarette. It was mid-afternoon. It looked as if, at last, things were moving.
They called themselves the SS Romanov Division. He smiled to himself; it was a grandiose name that had more to do with ambition than reality, for with fewer than fifty men – and only twelve of them here at Bremen – they were not even a company, let alone a battalion, regiment or division. ‘We will grow!’ Rybakov declared. He had been appointed captain, his old rank in the Kornilov Battalion, and had been granted the honour of a face-to-face interview with Himmler in his offices at Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse in Berlin before they were flown to Spain. That had been a stiff encounter; Himmler was a difficult man to warm to.
So far, they had seen only one small action – a skirmish with republican forces along the line to the north-east of Zaragoza, where the nationalist advance had become bogged down. Their taste of warfare had not lasted long. Shortly after they arrived in the line, they were visited by an SS officer. Sturmbannführer Dorfen told them they would be given work of far greater importance than shooting at a ragtag army of Trotskyites, anarchists and Stalinists. He said their valour had been much admired; now he was offering them the chance to strike a blow for God and monarchy.
‘Who could have admired our valour? We have done nothing.’ Rybakov was suspicious.
‘You did enough. More than enough. Now you will perform an even greater feat. Your task will be to preserve England from the Bolsheviks.’
Dorfen pulled the SS Romanov Division out of Spain and had them flown back to Germany, to the Lichterfelde academy, south of Berlin, where they were allotted barracks in a corner unused by the Leibstandarte-SS Adolf Hitler, whose home this was. For the next few weeks, they received guerrilla training in the use of specialist weapons and explosives from Dorfen and SS instructors.
Rybakov had been taken aside shortly after he arrived in Berlin. ‘The King of England is in grave danger,’ Dorfen said. ‘There is no one more suited to the task of saving him, no one more motivated than a group of men whose own royal family was slaughtered without mercy.’
‘But I know nothing of this king,’ the Russian said.
‘But you know of his close cousin, Alexandra, wife to Tsar Nicholas II, last Empress of the Russias.’
It was the overthrow of the Tsar and Tsarina in 1917 that had opened the door for the communists in Russia. It was the exile of King Alfonso XIII fourteen years later that had heralded the Republic in Spain and the ascendancy of the socialists and communists. Every blow to a monarchy, whether in Russia or Spain or England, was a blow to the Church of Christ. God forbid the same should happen in England. Rybakov was exhilarated. However sketchy the details of the operation were, he knew it would involve the destruction of those who threatened the British King. In God’s name, they were doing something at last. This was a thousand times better than Paris, taxi driving and the twice-daily tolling of the Renault factory bell.
The training was more intensive than anything they had so far experienced. They worked with pistols, sub-machine guns, mortars and hand grenades. They learned stealth and speed. This was a commando attack. Fast in, fast out. This was nothing like the trenches and rocky redoubts of Huesca. Their tactics in England would be overwhelming might, sudden strikes and ruthlessness. The SS instructors were harsh and unforgiving, but Rybakov’s small band emerged from their training lean in body and expert as fighting men.
They had been transported to Bremen to this grim messroom where they ate, smoked and drank shit-like coffee, waiting for the order to collect their arms and board a Junkers JU-52. So here they were, still waiting, but at least the pilot had arrived and they had an aeroplane.
Only Rybakov had any idea what they might expect in England, and even he was uncertain of the actual target or targets. Dorfen would be in charge. All that the other eleven men selected from the SS Romanov Division knew was that they would be using Soviet weapons, and, if captured, would claim that they had been sent by order of the Kremlin. Stalin could take the blame.
*
Wilde parked the Rudge in the trees, twenty yards from the road, then walked along the path to the rendezvous point and waited for Lydia. He checked his watch. It was nearly half-past three. He was a little late; she should be here by now. He cursed. What was she doing? They had agreed she would watch for two hours. He was no more than five minutes late. She should be here.
Above him, he heard the buzz of an aircraft. He looked up through the bare branches and saw the bright yellow biplane he had seen on his previous visit, circling, playing in the cold winter air.
After ten minutes, Wilde walked further into the woods along the path he thought Lydia would have taken. He trod softly, ever watchful for gamekeepers, until he came to a place at the edge of the woods with a good view of the back of the house, including Sir Norman’s study. A small area of undergrowth was pressed down: this was where she had lain to watch.
He peered through the bushes. Whatever there was to be seen, there was now no discernible activity up at the house. Not even any servants in evidence. He stayed for a few minutes but saw no movement.
With care, he moved westwards along the north side of the park, circling towards the front of the house but remaining under the cover of the trees. Now he had clear sight of the gravel forecourt. The only car was Hereward’s Rolls Royce. So all the funeral guests had gone.
Wilde was angry with himself. He should never have left her watching the house on her own. She had been so bloody sure of herself, so insistent that she was smaller and quieter, could more effectively find a hiding place to observe. Where the hell was she?
Above him, the sky was grey and gloomy. In places, the sleet of last night lay as isolated patches of white, but mostly the land was a scrubby brown. It was mid-afternoon and darkness would fall soon. He moved further round the house, keeping to the trees wherever possible, looking for any signs of Lydia’s presence, but there was nothing. He retraced his steps back to the place where they had been supposed to meet, and waited a few more minutes. Then he returned to the Rudge in case she had gone straight there. Nothing.
Wilde stopped to gather his thoughts again. He was moving in ever increasing circles further from the house, deeper into the woodland – bare branches of ancient oak and ash and sycamore and birch, the promise of broadleafed English splendour, buried deep in winter nakedness. By now he guessed he had strayed at least a mile, probably more, from the priory. The only focal point was the biplane buzzing and swooping overhead, its yellow wings and fuselage stark and bright against the gathering dusk. For a moment he thought its single engine was about to stall, but he saw that it was, in fact, preparing to land, somewhere beyond the trees.
He followed its trajectory and came to the edge of the woodland where an open, flat space of grassland ranged before him, with two rows of white pegs marking out a landing strip. The biplane was coming in slowly against the northerly breeze, touching down to a smooth and balanced landing, then bouncing and wobbling as it turned left, off
the runway, braked and drew to a halt.
The pilot clambered out of the cockpit: a small, slender man in a battered leather cap and jacket, goggles pulled up on to his forehead.
Wilde walked across the greensward towards him and noticed a green car parked in the shadow of the woods, near the road at the northern edge of the clearing.
When they were about twenty yards apart, the man turned and saw Wilde approach. He smiled and raised a hand in greeting.
‘Hello?’
‘I was having a stroll and noticed your plane. Well, I couldn’t really miss it – daffodil yellow, I’d call it.’
‘Buttercup, actually. Not a bad kite. An old Sopwith fighter from the war. Good for tricks and shooting down the Hun. I’d have stayed up but the light and cloud beat me.’
‘I’m looking for a friend. We were walking together and somehow got split up. I think I was too slow for her. She likes a brisk walk. Don’t suppose you spotted her?’
The young man had started fixing a tarpaulin over the cockpit. He turned to Wilde. ‘I saw a girl up near the priory, but that must have been over an hour ago. I rather thought she must have been playing some sort of game. You know, hide-and-seek or sardines or something.’
‘Where did she go?’
‘Couldn’t tell you. Perhaps you’d better ask up at the house. It’s Sir Norman Hereward’s place. Do you know him? He allows me to use his airstrip and park my kite here. Help me with the tarp, would you?’
Wilde took the other end of the tarpaulin and together they secured it. He put out his hand. ‘I’m Thomas Wilde. I teach history at Cambridge.’
The young pilot took off his right gauntlet and they shook hands. ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Geoffrey Lancing, physicist, St John’s.’
Wilde estimated the young man’s age at twenty-five or twenty-six; probably a research graduate.
‘I believe there was a funeral up at the priory today,’ Wilde said.
‘Sir Norman’s girl, Nancy. I didn’t know her, but I knew of her. Ghastly business. Overdose of something, I believe. Should have taken up flying. A spin in the blue will lift your spirits better than any dope.’ He seemed to be sizing Wilde up. ‘Look, I’ve got my motor car just over there. Can I give you a lift somewhere? I’m going back to town. Your friend’s probably made her own way home by now.’
‘No, thank you. I have transport.’
He turned to go, but the young man stopped him. ‘Actually, there was something, Mr Wilde.’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s probably nothing, but on one of my turns, I saw a couple of people climb into a little red two-seater parked in front of the priory and then scoot off down the drive. Didn’t see where they went after that.’
‘Could one of them have been a woman?’
‘No idea, I’m afraid.’
*
Harold Middlemass sat in his office at Royal Lodge. He felt a sense of calm. He knew what he had to do.
It was late afternoon. There were no sounds to intrude on his thoughts, none of the squeals and laughter of his children at play. The boys had broken up for Christmas and had gone off to the family home in Herefordshire. The plan was that he would join them in a week’s time.
He had locked the door to the office. There was a note, of course, but it did not speak the whole truth, nor anywhere near it. It spoke in general terms about his unhappiness, his failure to recover after the war. No mention of Sophie or the photograph.
He was calm because there was nothing left. He was as immune to sadness as to joy.
On the old desk, his grey-black service revolver, a Webley .455, glared at him. Its harsh, functional metal edges offered no comfort, but the nicely rounded bullets within contained the promise of warm oblivion. Six of them, though he would need only one.
Surely the bitch would not send the photograph to the family or friends of a dead man? How could you take revenge on a corpse? There was no point in piling extra misery onto the grieving widow and children. Even Sophie, blackhearted Sophie, would not stoop to that. He had convinced himself that she would spare them the ignominy. And yet . . .
He reached out for the gun, but his hand did not obey his brain and he picked up the telephone receiver instead. He held it for a few moments in his right hand but then he put it to his ear and, with his left hand, dialled the Mayfair number of the Dorchester Hotel and asked to be put through to the apartment of the Gräfin von Isarbeck.
‘Hello?’
‘Sophie, it’s me.’
‘Hello, Harold. I was hoping you would call. Do you have the final details?’
‘When will you give me the photograph?’
‘As soon as the information is confirmed, the photograph will be yours. Come and pick it up any time. Or I could send it to you in the post.’
‘No, no, I’ll pick it up.’
‘So, tell me what you know.’
‘I . . . explain to me again why you want this information.’
‘Silly boy, I told you, it is not me. It is Wally Simpson. She’s mad with panic that the King is going to give up his throne for her. She is desperate for information. All she wants is to know what’s going on, so that she can warn Edward and try to persuade him to stand firm. But look, Harold, I really don’t think we should be talking about this on the telephone. Just give me the time and the place – and then our deal is done.’
‘And you swear that I will have the original photograph, that you will give me the negative to destroy and that there are no copies?’
‘I swear it. You know, I hate doing this to you – but Wally is my friend. I must help her.’ There was a silence. Then, ‘Harold? Are you there?’ The soft voice had begun to harden.
Middlemass closed his eyes. ‘I have been told that the King has made his decision. He is to abdicate early next week. Baldwin will be here to meet the duke this evening.’
‘The time, Harold, the time.’
‘Midnight.’
‘And here?’
‘Royal Lodge. Privately. The hope is that the press will be drunk or asleep.’
In the comfort of her hotel apartment, Sophie von Isarbeck felt a warm glow of pleasure. Royal Lodge. Just as they had thought. Ministers of the crown went to princes, not the other way round. Royal Lodge, home to the Duke and Duchess of York, was one of the most isolated and private of the royal houses and palaces. But it was well known to those who mattered in Sophie’s circle. ‘And this is tonight. Midnight? You are absolutely certain?’
‘Midnight. I am staking my family’s happiness on it, Sophie. Do nothing to harm them, I beg you.’
‘Harold?’ Her voice was soft again. She had what she wanted.
He was silent.
‘Harold, I know you feel as though you are somehow betraying your master, the Duke of York, but your first loyalty must be to your King. This is every Englishman’s duty, is it not? If Wally has asked for this information on his behalf, then it is your duty to provide it.’
‘Goodbye, Sophie.’
He hung up the telephone and picked up the Webley, pushing the sharp-edged hexagonal muzzle into his mouth. He thought better of it, put the gun down and took off his jacket. Wrapping a sleeve around the barrel to deaden the sound, he held the weapon to his right temple. His finger trembled on the trigger, but he couldn’t pull. Disgusted with himself, he threw the gun to the floor, put his head in his hands, and wept.
CHAPTER 32
Kholtov kept the curtains closed. They were dirty yellow, blotched with mould. The house was remote, down a farm track deep in the Fens, the sort of place where you could see for miles in all directions, but only on days when there was no mist to obstruct your vision. And only if you cared to gaze on such a desolate landscape.
Today, before dusk set in, the visibility had been dull but clear, with an icy northerly. Kholtov put more coal on the fire and sat on his haunches in front of the small hearth, warming his hands. The cat who had been keeping him company these past hours rolled over and he r
ubbed her belly.
The little house was single-storey and riddled with damp. A poor farm cottage, poorly built for a poor labourer by a grasping landlord, just as the kulaks sucked the blood of the peasants in Russia. At some stage, perhaps a hundred years ago, the house had been rendered and painted white, but now much of the mortar had fallen away, exposing soft, crumbling brickwork. Beneath his feet, the floor was nothing but packed mud and stone. What a place to come back to after digging the fields twelve hours in the day; it was bad enough just hiding out here. The damp drained into his bones.
Eaton had been apologetic. ‘It’s the best I can do at short notice. Every police force and port official in the country is after you.’ Kholtov began to protest but Eaton had shrugged. ‘Your innocence or guilt is entirely irrelevant at the moment. They want your blood.’
Every so often during the day, Kholtov had gone to the window and looked out along the mile-long farm track that cut through dark, ploughed acres of thick, rich soil. When he saw that it was clear, he went outside and looked across the fields in other directions. The only signs of life were gulls and crows and the occasional buzzard or harrier. He shook his head. The Russian countryside in midwinter had a stark beauty; this was desolate and ugly. Now, at least, it was shrouded in darkness.
The fire, the cat, his coat and his bedclothes were his sources of warmth. He huddled close to the glowing coals. There was plenty of coal, enough to last weeks. Not that he had any intention of being here more than a few days at the most. If the worst came to the worst, he would steal a car and make his way back to the coast and hope that the Gaviota and Ferreira were still there, their cargo undiscovered. Cut and run. Make another plan.
The cat had appeared late in the night. In the early hours, this house was the loneliest, most forsaken place on earth, but he had heard scratching and mewing from outside. Tentatively, he had unlocked and opened the door and a little black and white cat had slunk in, snaking her way past his legs as she headed for the embers of the fire. He had given her water and a little meat and she had found a bed in his lap and, later, on the pillow beside his head. In the morning, he had opened the door for her, but she hadn’t left.
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