Wilde shrugged. There was more than one side to Philip Eaton. ‘So why don’t you tell me what’s been happening, Mr Kholtov? I’m afraid I have no vodka, but I can give you a glass of Scotch.’
‘I kept my side of the bargain. I told him all I knew.’ Kholtov touched the bruises on his face. ‘He tried to kill me.’
‘Oh, I doubt very much that he tried to kill you. Why would he want to?’
‘Because I had no more information to give him. You know he is a spy? British Secret Service. MI6.’
Wilde handed the Russian a tumbler of whisky. ‘Here, drink this.’
Kholtov drank it down in one swallow. ‘That is good.’ He held out the glass. ‘One more, yes? Thank you.’ He sipped this one. ‘Mr Wilde, if you help me, I promise it will be worth your while. I will make you a very rich man.’
‘Now why would a communist wish to give money to a filthy bourgeois enemy of the masses?’
‘In exchange for your help. I think you are honest. I need you to drive me.’
‘I don’t have a car.’
‘Don’t worry about the car.’
‘And where precisely do you want me to take you?’
‘A river inlet. It is on the coast of Suffolk. You know of it?’
Know it? Oh, he knew the Suffolk coast as well as he knew these rooms. ‘What do you want to do there?’
‘We will find a boat, laden with treasure like a Spanish galleon. Spoils of war. You will share it with me.’
‘My inclination right now, Kholtov, is to call the police, who will probably want to hand you over to Mr Eaton who, I am sure, will know exactly what to do with you.’
Kholtov put his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a pistol. ‘This is a Tokarev TT-33,’ he said. ‘She is a fine weapon. I do not wish you harm, but she has no safety catch, so please do not try to take her from me. I would hate her to go off unintentionally.’
‘I’ll take that as a threat.’
‘Persuasion. To concentrate your mind.’ Kholtov waved his left hand. ‘I have her because I want you to be clear that you will help me – and there must be no Eaton. If he finds me he will kill me. I am not ready to die.’
‘What nonsense. He doesn’t go around killing people.’
‘You think not? You have spent too much time with your nose in old books, Professor Wilde. You are looking for a murderer? Look twice at Philip Eaton.’
‘If he wanted you dead, how is it that you are still alive?’
‘He thought he had me trapped and he still has hopes of getting information from me. He believes I will work for him.’ Kholtov sighed. ‘Listen. I met him in Spain. We did a deal. I told him that I had heard that Germany was planning an attack in England, using Russian exiles. I even gave him a name.’
‘A name?’
‘Harwood . . .’
‘Hereward?’
‘Hereward, then, however you say it.’
So that was Eaton’s link to Cambridge.
Wilde looked down at the Tokarev and then back at Kholtov. ‘If your ankle is broken, you should go to hospital.’
‘That is the same as handing me over to police. I will be charged with killing the girl, a crime I did not commit and of which I know nothing.’
It occurred to Wilde that the official view on Nancy Hereward’s death might have changed in the light of recent events. But the Russian would be arrested regardless. And why not? He had plenty to answer for, in this country as well as abroad.
And yet . . .
‘Let’s find a splint for your ankle then you can tell me precisely where we are going.’
‘If you help me, Mr Wilde, it will be to the advantage of us both, but,’ Kholtov waved the pistol, ‘I will not hesitate to kill you if you move against me.’
From a drawer in his desk, Wilde pulled out a long shoehorn. Then he went to the corner cupboard and pulled out a spare shirt and ripped it into strips. He knelt on the floor beside the sofa and examined the Russian’s ankle.
Kholtov leant forward, the pistol at Wilde’s head. ‘Be careful,’ he warned.
‘More whisky?’ Wilde asked. ‘This is going to hurt.’
‘Just do what you need to do.’
Slowly, Wilde manipulated the broken ankle back into something like its normal position. He placed the shoehorn along the outside of the ankle, down to the heel, and secured it with cloth ties. Kholtov gasped with pain, swearing in English and Russian.
Wilde stood up. ‘Best I can do, I’m afraid.’
‘Good. Now we wait until the early hours.’
‘And the car? I imagine you will have to steal one.’
Kholtov grinned and pulled a coil of wire out of his pocket. ‘Borrow, Mr Wilde. Not steal, borrow. Remember, property is theft.’
MONDAY DECEMBER 7, 1936
CHAPTER 41
The car was parked on Trumpington Street. In the event, they didn’t need the wire because the key had been left in the ignition. ‘The English are trusting people, professor,’ Kholtov said as he climbed into the passenger seat, his pistol trained on Wilde. Wilde fired up the engine, put the car into gear and they drove out of Cambridge towards the gathering dawn.
It was a long, difficult route, first due eastwards towards Bury St Edmunds, then on a winding series of small roads, most of them single track, some little more than bridleways or farm trails.
‘Why am I doing this?’ Wilde’s eyes were heavy. The road was difficult to follow.
‘Maybe you are afraid I will shoot you.’
‘Do I seem afraid?’
Kholtov laughed. ‘No. Death is nothing. It is the same as the time before we were born – and we have no fear of that, for it too is nothingness. Anyway, I will not kill you. Why would I?’
Wilde laughed, too. Kholtov would kill him without blinking if he felt it necessary. There would be nothing personal. There never was with men like Kholtov.
‘Keep on talking, Kholtov. Keep me awake, otherwise I’ll wrap this thing round a tree.’
It was curiosity that motivated him. He had come this far, seen so much death and horror. He needed to know how this piece slotted into the jigsaw. ‘Tell me about your love for Lenin and Stalin and all that Marxist tosh. You don’t really believe any of it, do you?’
‘Tosh? Why do you call it tosh? It is man’s best hope. If you ask me whether it is working perfectly, then I would have to say not yet. But give it fifty years, a hundred years, and you will see it achieve its goal.’
‘And in the meantime, countless people must starve, be worked to death or shot on the vague promise that their children or grandchildren might one day find Utopia. By which time, someone will probably have come up with some other crazy idea anyway. It’s all bullshit – and you know it.’
Kholtov snorted. ‘We must try to do better. This is for the good of the human species. This is enlightenment.’
‘Darkness for those who cross you.’
‘I have never intentionally caused pain to any man.’
‘Just killed them.’
‘Anything I have done I have done for the many, for the poor and dispossessed. And think on this: when you kill a man with a bullet to the head it is quicker and less painful than any death your God doles out. No gasping for breath, no foaming and vomiting, no lingering paralysis . . .’
*
Eaton tapped his finger on the table in the empty reception lobby of the Bull, the telephone receiver clamped to his ear. The early morning concierge brought him coffee and Eaton nodded his thanks. What he really needed was to plunge into cold water to wake himself. But he didn’t have time. At last, the receiver was picked up.
‘Carstairs?’
‘I think I’ve found it, Mr Eaton.’
Eaton allowed himself a long breath. ‘Go on.’
‘As you said, there must have been some record of a Spanish vessel arriving in British waters.’
‘And?’ Impatient now.
‘No mention of a Spanish vesse
l, but the shipping reports did mention a French trawler that came in at Orford Ness and then disappeared. The skipper told the harbourmaster they were resting up before making for Yarmouth. But Yarmouth had no record of it arriving.’
‘What makes you think this was our Spanish boat?’
‘Its name was Gaviota, Mr Eaton. That’s Spanish for seagull.’
‘Carstairs, you’re a genius. Go home and sleep until Christmas.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
*
When dawn broke, they were still a few miles from the coast. Kholtov had a scrappy map. As they crossed the flatlands down to the sea, he followed their progress with his finger.
‘There is a byway to your left, professor. It is like a farm track, but it is not a farm. A house for summer holidays, for boating and swimming and watching the birds. No one will be there.’
‘How do you know of it?’
Kholtov smiled, but did not reply. Wilde did not need to know that it had been bought in Horace Dill’s name in the late twenties. Useful for bringing illegals into the country from the sea.
The track to the house was pitted and muddy, but led, finally, to a screen of leafless trees, partially shading a shabby blue and white clapboard house.
‘A nice place, don’t you think? Come, let us find my friends. Then together we will make a fire, you can sleep and I can rest my ankle a while. Maybe they have some Spanish brandy to ease the pain.’
Kholtov had told Wilde something of the gold, but not the whole truth. ‘If I can sell it, I can buy arms. Eaton was supposed to bring me the gold buyer and then an arms dealer.’
‘And he failed?’
‘He brought a man about the gold, but it soon became clear to me that there was no deal because they could give no guarantees. They would have cheated me. When I saw this, that is when I was beaten. Eaton was impatient and short-sighted and so was his fat rich friend in furs, for in time I could have brought much more Spanish gold to them – hundreds of tonnes. Better to change it into dollars and guns than allow it to fall into the hands of Franco and the Nazis. Five hundred tonnes of pure gold. Think of it, professor. Enough to buy an army.’
‘So this is nothing to do with enriching yourself or fleeing Stalin’s death squads?’
‘I am a revolutionary and must do whatever it takes to further the cause. I must even do deals with capitalist pigs. And you will help me. You will find a way to change the gold into currency, won’t you, professor?’
Wilde had noted the description of the gold dealer: Fat rich friend in furs. One name sprang to mind: Slievedonard. And he had no illusions. He hadn’t been brought here because of his ability to find a gold buyer. Kholtov needed someone to drive him. A bullet would be his lot, so the longer he could play along with the Russian’s game, the better. Most likely he was still alive as insurance – in case Kholtov needed to get away in a hurry.
The house was open and empty, save for three thin roll-up mattresses, some tangled blankets and a telephone. It was dusty and cold. In summer, thought Wilde, it would indeed be a fine retreat, but no one would come here at this time of year, except to look out across the marshlands to the mud-grey sea. He would, though. He’d come at any time of year to watch the birds. In the distance, he could see a lighthouse, red and white striped, which he knew to be the one near the town and port of Orford, guarding the shingle spit that presented such a hazard to shipping and provided such a rich refuge for the waders and gulls.
Kholtov was watching him. The Tokarev was loose in his hand, but Wilde was well aware that the Russian’s languid indifference was a front; Kholtov was alert behind the easy-going exterior. Why would he need to exude menace when he had total control? His finger never left the trigger.
As they left the house, they did not bother to shut the door behind them. Stepping down through the ill-kept gardens to the marshy farmland beyond, Wilde could hear the wind banging it shut, then open, then shut again. They walked slowly, Kholtov leaning heavily on the walking stick he had taken from Wilde’s rooms, groaning with every yard he advanced.
The Gaviota was well concealed at a mooring in a small turbid broad, hardly bigger than a decent city lido. No one was on deck, but a thin trail of smoke from the cabin door and the smell of burning tobacco told them that the crew was aboard the vessel.
Kholtov called from the bank. ‘Juan, are you there?’
A noise from within. In seconds, the Spanish skipper appeared from the wheelhouse.
‘Yuri, you have come.’
‘Indeed. Did you not expect me?’
The Spaniard looked ill at ease. His eyes darted from Kholtov to Wilde.
Kholtov gave him a hard stare. ‘Where is your crew?’
‘They – they are in the cabin.’
‘Things are very hot, Juan. Very hot. England will not work for us. We need to move on. I will come with you.’
‘Where can we go?’
‘Norway. We have friends in Norway. There are fjords where our little boat can more easily be concealed.’
Ferreira laughed nervously. ‘No chance! We are stuck fast. Even if we can lose ballast and somehow make our way to the sea, I do not believe we can get this wreck across the North Sea in the middle of winter.’
‘We have no alternative.’
‘We will sink.’
‘It is a risk we must take. Make preparations.’
Kholtov turned to Wilde, smiling apologetically. ‘Forgive me, professor.’
So this was it. The death bullet from Stalin’s man, where Hitler’s had failed. Was this the way the world would end? He looked away from Kholtov, didn’t want to see the gun raised. A gull soared lazily south across the horizon, buoyed by the winter wind.
The bird flew on. Perhaps Kholtov wanted him to go down on his knees and kiss his feet in supplication? He wouldn’t do it. Better to die on your feet than live on your knees, as someone once said.
A blast of cold air made him shiver, and then he heard a familiar voice. He turned back to see Eaton standing next to the Spaniard on the deck of the fishing vessel. He was carrying a Thompson sub-machine gun.
Kholtov shrugged, dropped his pistol and held up his hands in surrender.
‘So the gold is all yours, Mr Eaton,’ Kholtov said.
‘The gold, as I understand it, is the property of the Spanish government. It will be returned to them.’
‘And me?’
‘That all depends how useful you prove yourself to be, Mr Kholtov.’
*
Even at the worst moments of the war, Harold Middlemass had shaved each day. When they went over the top into the enemy fire that was likely to kill him, he was clean-shaven. On this Monday morning, he was not. His eyes were haggard and tired, the lines of his cheeks were heavy, his mouth set, his jowls stubbly. But his infernal tic, mysteriously, had gone.
He had been awake for the best part of two days. No one had slept properly at Royal Lodge except His Royal Highness the Duke of York. There had been much clearing up to do outside. Most of it was down to the army, but they had made an unholy mess of the removal of the bodies and other evidence of the firefight and it had fallen on the major to organise the restoration of the gardens.
‘No one wants the duchess and the princesses to come home to this,’ the duke had said. ‘In fact it would suit me if she was never to know that it happened.’
Middlemass had bowed. He had understood implicitly. He and the other royal aides and servants would be sworn to secrecy.
Now, in the Dorchester Hotel, Middlemass was beyond exhaustion. Surely it was only a matter of time before the trail of evidence led to his door? Perhaps they were watching him now, looking to see where he led them. He was resigned. Whatever happened, his reputation was surely done for.
The butler opened the door to the Gräfin’s apartment. ‘Major Middlemass,’ he said, eyebrows raised. ‘I didn’t know you were expected.’
‘I was on my way to my club. Wanted to pay my respects to Sophie.’
‘Wait here if you would, sir. I shall see if this is convenient.’
‘Oh, it’s convenient enough.’ Middlemass pushed past him and opened the door to Sophie von Isarbeck’s office. She was at her desk on the telephone. She immediately put her hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Harold, what are you doing here? It is too dangerous.’
‘I’ve come to see you, Sophie.’
‘I’m in the middle of a rather important call.’ Her voice was cold. ‘Give me ten minutes, would you?’ She nodded to her butler. ‘Hansi, offer Major Middlemass some refreshment.’
Harold Middlemass, a large and powerful man, turned round and pushed the butler out of the door, slammed it shut and locked it. ‘You’re always on the damned telephone,’ he said. He went over to the desk, took the receiver from the Gräfin’s hand and hung up.
‘Harold, you can’t do this!’
‘You know what I want, Sophie. Hand it over.’
‘You can have the picture. I don’t have the negative yet.’ She pulled an envelope from her top drawer. ‘Here, take it.’
He slid out the photograph and took out his lighter. As the flame reached his fingers, he dropped the hateful picture, still burning, to the carpeted floor.
‘Does that make you feel better, Harold?’
‘No.’ He took the Webley .455 from his coat pocket. ‘But this will, Sophie.’
Before she had even registered what he was doing, she had slammed back in her chair, staring stupidly down at the bullet hole in her chest and the blood that pumped from her ruptured heart.
The sound of the gunshot in the enclosed space of the apartment was deafening. Major Harold Middlemass heard the sound of hammering at the door outside and then the cracking of wood as something heavy was slammed against it.
He put the muzzle of the revolver between his parted lips, pointing the cold metal upwards into the roof of his mouth to ensure a clear passage to the brain. This time he would do it. This time he had the courage. His last thought was that he should have done it long ago. If only a German sniper had saved him the trouble at Passchendaele.
Then he pulled the trigger.
*
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