He thought he heard a sound and the cat’s ears pricked up. Kholtov went again to the window. In the far distance, he saw the lights of a car, turning into the farm track. Was that Eaton? His whole body tensed. In the Soviet Union, he had driven down rural roads, deep into the countryside, to some dacha or farmhouse with a pistol, a pair of colleagues, and a death sentence. A bullet in the head for a general or department director or commissar. All of them traitors, of course. He had no qualms about such matters. They were big boys; they knew what they were doing when they betrayed the revolution. They could have no complaint. No complaint at all.
And yet he did have complaints. He had never betrayed the revolution and he had never said a word against Comrade Stalin nor disobeyed an order. He had done everything required of him, whatever the cost to his own conscience. He had recruited throughout Europe and he had killed traitors in France and in Spain. He had never slandered the Communist Party, nor its leadership. He was guilt-free. But that was not the same as being innocent.
He knew what NKVD director Genrikh Yagoda had planned for him with his summons to return to Moscow. He knew, because he himself had summoned men to their deaths on Yagoda’s orders. But he and Yagoda had been friends, hadn’t they, as far back as the early days of the Cheka? In which case the order must have come from above, from Stalin himself. And now Yagoda was gone, replaced by Nikolai Yezhov. The poisonous one. There would be no mercy there. He turned and spat into the fire.
The hold that Stalin had over him, of course, was his family. If he did not go back to Moscow, what would become of them? Dirty little Yezhov, the new head of the secret service, would kill them without blinking. If he was in a good mood, he might consign them to a labour camp, but that was a very small reprieve. They would have little hope of surviving the winter. Kholtov understood the logic well enough; the families of the condemned tended to harbour resentment against the state.
The car was approaching, its lights bouncing as it bumped slowly along the rutted track. Kholtov thought he could see two men in the front seats. Was there anyone else behind? If they were coming to kill him, how would it be done? Garotte? Bullet in the head? A syringe full of one of the new undetectable poisons from Moscow’s Special Office? Or would they make it look like a suicide by hanging? All things were possible; he had done them all himself, and more.
And now it was too late to get Maria and the children out of Moscow. He should have prepared for this, when he still had the power and influence. He stroked the cat. Predators are so busy hunting, he thought, they never think they will in turn be prey.
*
Philip Eaton came to the door alone. Kholtov opened it cautiously, and Eaton could see that he was afraid. The Englishman smiled and held out a basket of provisions – two bottles of vodka and some food. ‘Yuri, I have good things for you.’
Kholtov’s smile was forced. ‘Vodka? I want a buyer for my gold so I can remove myself from this stinking hole and you bring me vodka?’ He tilted his chin in the direction of the car. ‘Who is in the car with you?’
‘A man who deals in gold. Just as you asked.’
‘What is his name? Does he have the money with him?’
Eaton sighed and stepped inside the room, depositing the basket on the small table. All pretence at civility was gone. ‘You don’t need to know his name. Call him whatever you like. But first, the information. You have held out long enough, Kholtov.’
‘You will have your information when I have a buyer and the deal is sealed.’
‘I have a buyer with me. When a deal is agreed, you will give me the information. Do you understand?’ Eaton’s tone was icy.
Kholtov understood. They had reached the end point. ‘I will tell you,’ he said. ‘Everything.’
‘Good.’ Eaton pulled out a napkin and unwrapped three small glasses. Then grasped the neck of one of the bottles.
‘This dealer, he will pay me a fair price?’
‘He is a professional and extremely wealthy. He is not here to cheat you.’
‘Because a man always has options, Philip. A man can die with dignity or begging.’
‘Well, I don’t have anyone else to offer you.’ Eaton began to pour vodka. ‘I’m sure you will understand why he wishes to be discreet. And he, in turn, will not ask questions of you – such as how you came by all this gold.’
Kholtov hesitated. ‘Is he armed?’
Eaton laughed. ‘You have lived among murderers too long. You think everyone wants to kill you!’
‘Well, is he?’
‘If we wanted you dead, you would already be dead.’
The Russian shrugged. He believed it. He flicked his fingers. ‘Bring him in. Let me hear his price. This is fine gold, eighteen carat, twenty-two carat, and so I want a great deal of money. In dollars.’
*
Eaton went to the door and opened it. ‘Come in. He’s ready for you.’
Peter Slievedonard pushed his bulk through the narrow doorway. In his hand he had the gold coin that Kholtov had given to Eaton at the Bull Hotel in Cambridge. A golden dollar with the head of Liberty on one side and the date and denomination and the words United States of America on the reverse. He held it up between his right thumb and forefinger. ‘This is yours, I believe, Mr Kholtov.’
‘You have tested it, yes?’
‘Genuine US gold dollar, 1861. The year the Civil War began. Twenty-two carat fine gold. I am told you have many of these.’ Slievedonard put the small coin into the Russian’s hand.
Kholtov pocketed the gold and looked at Slievedonard. ‘You have no bag. Where is your testing kit, sir, your nitric acid?’
Slievedonard ignored the question. ‘Is the rest of the gold here?’
‘No, of course not.’
Those who thought they knew Peter Slievedonard well would not have recognised him here in this remote house. His voice was soft, not loud and hectoring, the bombast gone. He was wearing his gold-dealing face; gold men were hard, but quiet and reasonable. The deal was about weight and quality and potential profit, not clever sales techniques.
‘So why would I need a testing kit? Why would I waste my time testing only a portion of it? Anyone can bring me a few coins that are genuine. For all I know the rest of your stock might be base metal. I need to test it all, when you show it to me. Do you think me a fool, Mr Kholtov?’
‘There are thousands of coins – countless thousands. You could not test them all.’
‘Where is the gold?’ Slievedonard repeated.
‘Here, in England. You will not see it until a deal has been agreed. I will bring it to you in stages.’
‘Seven and a half tonnes, I am told.’
Kholtov nodded. For the first time, he gave a genuine smile. ‘Seven and a half. I think it must be worth a lot of money.’
‘Well, Mr Kholtov, I have no idea how you laid your hands on such a quantity of treasure, but I must see it to make a judgement. From what you say, I would like to own it, so let us merely charge our glasses, make a dent in these bottles – and attempt to conclude a deal.’
*
Just before twenty past four, Sawyer picked up the telephone. ‘Sir Norman Hereward’s residence.’ He listened for a couple of seconds, then smiled and handed the receiver over to Dorfen.
‘Sophie?’
‘Midnight, darling. Royal Lodge.’
‘Thank you, Sophie.’
‘My pleasure, liebling.’
Dorfen replaced the telephone receiver carefully. ‘And so it begins,’ he said.
*
Duncan Sawyer stood at the rear of Addenbrooke’s Hospital and looked up to the third floor, counting along until he came to the window of what he had been told was Braithwaite’s room. It was slightly ajar. No untidy ends, Dorfen had said. Simply a matter of good housekeeping. Nothing to tie the operation to Germany.
Sawyer had taken great pleasure bludgeoning Braithwaite’s head with a heavy wrench and sending him sprawling onto the road. His one regret was that he hadn�
��t killed the man outright, but it was better to have it look as if he had fallen from the car. Braithwaite had played the part of being a communist agitator well enough. The police would have no reason to believe he was anything but a Bolshie troublemaker in the pay of the Soviets. This series of killings was Stalin’s work.
Sawyer lit a cigarette, drew deeply and continued to watch the window. A face appeared for a moment, grey and indistinct in the dim glow of an electric lightbulb. It was enough. Sawyer dropped the cigarette, grinding it to a pulp with his heel. One little telephone call had ensured that the way would be clear.
He was wearing a working man’s cap, pulled down over his brow to shade his eyes, and a faded old boiler suit; the arms and legs were slightly on the short side and he couldn’t do up the buttons all the way but no one noticed working men in blue overalls any more than the fixtures and fittings they maintained. He picked up his toolbag and made his way towards a rear entrance, careful not to appear hurried, or unduly keen to do his work.
No one even appeared to notice him. Starched nurses strode briskly past. Doctors with slicked hair and stethoscopes about their necks conferred with serious faces or swapped dark jokes. Sawyer walked unchallenged up to the third floor.
A figure at the end of the corridor paused. Their eyes almost met but then the figure slid away, like a silverfish between the boards, leaving Braithwaite’s room unguarded. Sawyer turned the handle and walked in, closing the door behind him. For a few moments he looked down at the unconscious form on the regulation iron bedstead. The wounded man was no bigger than a twelve-year-old child, far too small for the hospital cot. Apparently he was a good member of the NSDAP and helped run the local Hitler Youth in Möhlau as an adult leader, but Sawyer had no sympathy for him; such creatures were there to be sacrificed for the greater good. Sawyer put the toolbag on the end of the bed.
He slapped Braithwaite’s blue-veined face to see if there was any response. When there was none, he lifted the wounded man’s bandaged head and grabbed his pillow from underneath. Braithwaite’s head slumped back onto the sheet. Sawyer held the pillow over the pinched face, then thrust it down. Hard.
How long did it take a man to die of asphyxiation? After two slow minutes, Sawyer pulled the pillow away. Braithwaite was breathing fitfully, unconscious, but still alive. There had to be a better, quicker way. He took a rag from his toolbag, prised open Braithwaite’s lacerated mouth and stuffed it in, deep into the man’s throat, provoking an involuntary gagging reaction. Then, with his powerful thumb and forefinger he clenched the man’s nostrils shut, while the other hand clamped his jaw.
Braithwaite’s eyes suddenly opened wide and bulged, brimming with instinctive panic. He began to thrash against the straps holding him to the bed. Without releasing his grip, Sawyer climbed onto the bed and knelt on Braithwaite’s scrawny chest, pressing down firmly on his face with his hands. The kicking grew feeble. Then stopped. A minute more, then another. Leslie Braithwaite was dead.
Duncan Sawyer removed the gag from the dead man’s mouth, then wiped the film of sweat from Braithwaite’s face with it. He put the rag back in his toolbag.
Using his fingers as a comb, he untangled the corpse’s ruffled hair where it protruded from the bandages, brushing his fringe back from his forehead. He set the head just so on the pillow and smoothed down the bedding. Sawyer cocked his head to study his handiwork; Braithwaite looked almost serene.
Taking a last look round the room, Sawyer picked up his toolbag, opened the door and walked down the empty corridor. He was even tempted to whistle.
CHAPTER 33
They drank and talked for almost two hours. The coal fire glowed and threw off a good heat. With the fire and the vodka, a man might almost find some cheer in this dank peasant room. Kholtov was becoming steadily drunker but he didn’t care. He could handle himself as well drunk as sober. Every time one of them demanded to see the gold, he stalled. He noted the cold, clever manner of the gross, fur-clad dealer and the silence of Eaton and wondered which of them would first mention a figure. Who would blink first?
Eaton had a dark frown fixed to his sleek, bourgeois face. He was a good agent, Kholtov thought approvingly, gave nothing away and was almost always affable. But not today. Today he was impatient. Today he demanded information, kept trying to move the conversation away from the gold, and made threats.
The vodka was taking its toll. Even Kholtov was beginning to feel it. And it was he, at last, who blinked. ‘You haven’t made me an offer yet,’ he said.
‘Suggest a figure,’ Slievedonard said. ‘A notional figure. Notional until we have sight of the gold.’
‘You don’t trust me? There was more gold in Spain at the end of the war than in any other European country. You and Germany and France and Russia – you all sold your gold to pay for millions of tonnes of iron to throw at each other across the trenches.’
‘I am well aware of that,’ Slievedonard said patiently. ‘And that is why the coin you are offering interests me. That is how I can give you a good price. That is why we need to see it.’
Kholtov drew deeply on a western cigarette. His Russian batch had run out. He turned to Eaton. ‘Who is this dealer? Some capitalist fascist, I suppose?’
‘Just get on with it.’
The Russian laughed. ‘You fascist capitalist swine are all the same. Eaton, you name a price.’
‘Five million dollars.’ Eaton had done his homework; he knew from Slievedonard that the gold should be worth at least that much.
‘Conditional on testing of the gold,’ Slievedonard said.
‘Then we have a deal,’ Kholtov said, grinning.
Eaton stood up. ‘You have wasted our time long enough. I have brought you a gold buyer. You have agreed a deal. Now you will tell me about the White Russians and about what they are planning. I want to know the target and the time – and how they intend getting into England. I am worried that something might be imminent. No one leaves this house until you have told me what I need to know.’
Kholtov shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
‘What do you mean, you don’t know?’
‘The White Russians? I have no idea. I told you everything I had learnt in Barcelona. You must make your own inquiries.’
Eaton was standing over him now. ‘Not good enough, Kholtov.’
‘Forget them. Take your cut of the gold, Philip. We will all be rich – all three of us here in this room. We can even make my friend the cat rich.’
‘I offered you safe passage to England in exchange for this information. God damn you, Kholtov . . .’
Kholtov was not listening. ‘You did say five million?’ He had expected a fight, a stupid offer like a hundred thousand. It never occurred to him that he could truly lay his hands on such a sum. Five million . . .
Slievedonard put out his hand. ‘A deal then. I can’t stay drinking vodka with you all evening. I need to drive down south. I have an appointment at my club. Shake on it – and we will arrange a meeting when you can show me the gold.’
Kholtov stumbled to his feet, his hand outstretched. But Eaton got there first and seized Kholtov by the throat in a powerful grip.
The Russian gasped as he was pushed back against the wall. ‘Now then, you treacherous shit,’ Eaton said, his face in Kholtov’s. ‘You are going to tell me. I know there’s an attack planned. Where and when is it happening?’ His knee came up sharply into the Russian’s balls. Kholtov cried out, a rasping squeal like the sound of a shot hog. He doubled up. In the same movement, Eaton released his grip on the man’s throat and crunched his fist into the side of his head.
Kholtov crumpled to the floor.
‘If you want to be alive to enjoy your gold, then you had better talk. I ask again: when and where are these White Russians landing? Are they already in England?’
‘I don’t know, I tell you I don’t know.’
Eaton took an iron from the fireplace and smacked it with bone-crunching force into Kholtov’s left ankle.
Kholtov screamed, and Eaton hit him again.
Eaton pointed the iron at Slievedonard, its blackened point an inch from the man’s face. ‘And you?’
Slievedonard was shaking in his fur coat. He had never seen such violence and had had to turn away. He was twice the size of Eaton, but he was scared. ‘I promise you, I’ve told you everything I know. I just obey orders. I’m to go south for a few days, to my home in Berkshire, and wait by the telephone.’
‘And then what?’
‘I don’t damn well know, Eaton. If a call comes through in the next day or two, then I do what I’m told.’
‘Then you’d better go, hadn’t you?’
*
Cornflowers was in darkness, but the door was unlocked. Typical of Lydia. No one was at home. Tom Wilde switched on the lights, looked in all of the rooms, then went to Lydia’s drinks cabinet and poured himself a whisky. Despite the cold, he was sweating. He had searched the woods again and had ridden the motorbike along the roads in all directions from St Wilfred’s Priory. He was frantic.
He raised the glass to his lips, but put the glass down again without drinking. His hand was shaking. He needed to keep a clear head this evening. Lydia might indeed have returned to Cambridge safely, but if it had been her the young pilot had spotted in the red sports car, she might have left St Wilfred’s Priory against her will.
He would look in at her office in Bene’t Street. It wasn’t far from Addenbrooke’s. Then, if he had still heard nothing, he would have to bring in the police.
Wilde wrote a hurried note outlining his plans in case she came home before he had found her, and left it by the telephone. Call the police station. Leave a message.
Ten minutes later, he ran past her office and saw that it was in darkness, so he carried on to the hospital. The policeman outside Braithwaite’s room had been changed, and he looked nervous.
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