Mask of the Verdoy

by Lecomber, Phil

  Back on the ground floor Harley rooted out Rosen, who was propped up against the bar.

  ‘There you go, George,’ said Rosen, sliding a pint towards his friend. ‘How did you get on upstairs with the lavenders? Any luck?’

  ‘Nah—too late. He was long-gone. I’ve put the feelers out, though; you never know, might get lucky … Cheers!’ Harley downed a third of the pint and smacked his lips. ‘Needed that!’

  ‘I’m not surprised, after yer little run-in with Mori.’

  ‘Oh, that reminds me, Sol—what’s all this about the BBF rally on Saturday?’

  ‘Yeah, ’course—that was the other thing I was meant to tell yer about.’

  ‘All those clouts to the knowledge box finally taking their toll, eh?’

  ‘Very funny! It’s at the Albert Hall. We’re organizing a right strong crew. Mori’s pulling in a few favours; all sorts are showing up for it, apparently—anyone that’s got a beef with these Blackshirt bastards. The plan is we’ll slip in as normal punters and then, on a signal, we’ll give it to ’em proper. We’ll be raising Cain inside the joint itself. We’ll show that bastard Saint Clair what’s for. It’s been a long time coming, if you ask me … You in?’

  ‘Mori’s already decided that for me—I’ve been summoned. But I don’t reckon we’ll get within spitting distance of the Hall itself. The place will be crawling with coppers and these BBF rallies are notorious for their strong-arm stewarding, it’s been all over the papers. I know you don’t have to be a party member to get in, but it’s a ticketed event, ain’t it?’

  ‘Don’t you worry about that, sunshine,’ said Rosen, producing a wad of yellow tickets from his inside pocket. ‘One of the lads in the print shop that’s got the job owes Mori a favour.’ He peeled off a ticket and handed it to Harley. ‘But dress down, mind—we don’t want you looking too wide, you know?’

  ‘You cheeky bugger! When have you known me to dress wide?’

  Rosen gave a big grin.

  ‘Will the boys be pouching?’ asked Harley.

  ‘There’s a stack of Corporal Dunlops for whoever wants them. I’d bring along your trusty knuckles if I were you … I’ll be sticking to me dukes, myself. Why?’

  ‘Well, I reckon if anyone gets pinched with a bright’un, or a chife, they’re gonna be made an example of. They’ll end up doing time—that’s stone-ginger.’

  ‘Well, that won’t stop some of the lads—the likes of Benny, Big Lampton …’

  ‘Just saying.’

  ‘You’re in though, George—right?’

  ‘Blimey, you’re keen, ain’t yer?’

  ‘It’s these dirty Fascists, ain’t it? Especially that cowson Saint Clair. I don’t have to tell you, I’ve spent my whole life dealing with yiddified idiots. With most of ’em it’s just a habit, right? Water off a duck’s back, all that. But this lot? I dunno, there’s summit evil about ’em … And I stand by what I said to Uncle Nate the other day, an’ all—our lot have spent too long sitting round with our noses in books while the rest of the world kicks our arses on a daily basis. Someone’s gotta stand up to ’em … So, you in or not?’

  ‘I need to watch meself—if I get pinched it’ll put the kibosh on this case I’m on.’

  ‘Alright, so you need to tread careful, so what’s new? But are you in, George?’

  Harley smiled at his old friend and nodded.

  ‘I’m in, Sol.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Rosen, finishing his pint. ‘Right, I’m just nipping off to ease my mind and then we better shoot to Uncle Nate’s.’

  ‘Right-you-are,’ said Harley, reaching for his beer.

  ***

  ‘Nu, George,’ said Uncle Nate, pouring out three small glasses of slivovitz in the little back room of his bookshop in Whitechapel. ‘You want I should tell you what I’ve discovered about the tattoo?’

  ‘If you would, Nate—I could do with a bit of good news.’

  ‘Well now, I’m not so sure this is exactly what you would call good news—but it should help you identify the tattoo’s owner, for sure … L’chaim!’ Uncle Nate held up his glass to Harley and Rosen and then took a mouthful of the clear spirit.

  They both followed suit, with Rosen finishing his drink off in one go and reaching for a refill. The bookseller peered over his glasses at his nephew and shook his head in mock despair, then turned his attention back to Harley.

  ‘Well, now—what do we have?’ he said, placing on the desk the fragment of the photo showing the Russian’s tattoo. ‘The tryzub—the national symbol of the Ukraine … above a wolf’s head … with a Cyrillic caption which reads “Gerovit’s Horde”. And Gerovit is, Solomon?’

  ‘God of War, ain’t he?’

  ‘Very good—yes, a Slavic god of war. All this we learnt on your last visit. But since then I have shown the photograph to my good friend Dov—Dov from Ivankiv, in the Ukraine … Poor Dov! It brought great sorrow to his heart, I’m sorry to say.’

  Uncle Nate now sat at his desk and took a thoughtful sip of his slivovitz, shaking his head slowly, seeming to withdraw into himself for a moment. Although intrigued, Harley resisted the urge to try to rush the old man with his story. His nephew, however, was less patient.

  ‘So, come on then Uncle—are you saying your mate recognized the tattoo, or not?’

  Uncle Nate removed his glasses, polished them with his handkerchief and replaced them on his nose before laying his hands flat on the desk.

  ‘Yes, Solomon … Dov recognized this mark. How could he not? You see the Gerovit’s Horde were a band of Cossacks, a ruthless, marauding troop of heartless killers. Amongst their company were some of the main perpetrators of the Kiev pogroms of nineteen-nineteen.’ Nate looked down now and shook his head again. ‘Such cruelty … Just imagine these men—more butchers than soldiers, really—on their huge horses, thundering into the shtetle. All those homes pillaged, the women raped, and the men … oy vey ist mir!’

  ‘What, Uncle? What did they do?’

  Uncle Nate held up a slightly shaking hand and took another sip of drink before proceeding.

  ‘They took them—the men, and the boys of a certain age—and made them line up … Then the Cossack leader, the cruellest of the lot—a man they called The Wolf of Kiev—a big man, you understand, towering above all … as strong as an ox. This man then walked the line, staring into the eyes of these poor petrified fellows—these fathers, husbands, sons and grandfathers of the shtetle—searching deep into their souls … And, depending on what he found there, he would either tap them on the shoulder with his sword, or move on to the next man … What was he looking for, you ask. How could we know? Was it defiance? Terror, maybe? Was he looking for that which he lacked himself, this dybbuk? Maybe peace … love? None can say … But those that were chosen were pushed forward, and when he was finished they were forced to kneel down in the mud churned by the hooves of the Cossack horses, there in the village where they had raised their families, eaten their meals, laughed with their friends, worshipped their God. There in front of their wives, mothers, daughters, grandchildren … there they knelt. And as they knelt, the Wolf of Kiev, with his arm made strong by rich food and vodka and wrapped warm in expensive furs, walked the line once more … and took off their heads one at a time with his vicious sword. May they find peace in Paradise!’

  Rosen grabbed for the bottle again.

  ‘And they just knelt there, waiting for it to happen?’

  ‘Not at first, nephew. At first some struggled, pleaded … others ran, of course. But these unfortunate souls were shot, and for each that was shot another took his place to step forward and kneel.’

  ‘Bastards!’

  Harley now sat forward in his chair.

  ‘So the tattoo belongs to one of these Cossacks, Nate?’

  ‘Not just any of them, George—this is the mark of their leader, the man whose hand delivered such cruelty and despair to the Jews of Kiev. You see, the hand that bears this tattoo is the hand of the Wolf
of Kiev himself.’

  ‘And your friend—Dov—he’s sure it’s the exact same tattoo? After all, it’s some years ago now.’

  ‘Imagine that you had to stand and watch your father, your uncle and two of your brothers beheaded before your eyes … had to stand there without the power to stop it, or to help them in any way … then, my friend, you would certainly remember a tattoo on the hand that took their heads. Would you not? This you would never forget.’

  Harley took out his notepad.

  ‘Do we have a name, Nate?’

  ‘The Cossack leader’s name was Colonel Kosevich. But Dov tells me that until he saw your photograph he believed the stories that the Wolf had been killed in the Revolution, fighting for the White Army against the Bolsheviks. Sadly, this would appear to be untrue. Tell me—was the photograph taken in England?’

  Rosen slammed his glass on the table and grabbed the photograph from the table, waving it in the air.

  ‘Is he over here, George? Is he here? I need to know where I can find this bastard … And, no—I don’t care what it’ll do to your precious case!’

  ‘He’s dead, Sol.’

  ‘Shit! Really?’

  ‘You can be sure of this, George?’ added Nate.

  ‘If the hand in the photograph belongs to Kosevich, then yes—one hundred per cent. I saw it with my own eyes.’

  ‘How?’ asked Rosen.

  ‘I can’t tell you that, Sol.’

  ‘Did he suffer? Was it long and drawn out, a bullet to the gut, maybe? Some horrible disease, please God?’

  Nate looked over at his nephew with some concern.

  ‘Solomon,’ he said, gently. ‘You fancy this will bring you peace in your heart—such hatred, such poison?’

  Rosen ignored his uncle and cracked his knuckles.

  ‘Tell me, George—did he suffer?’

  ‘Honestly? No—it was quick, probably didn’t know a thing about it.’

  ‘Did you do it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you can’t tell us any more than that?’

  ‘Not at the moment. I’ll explain everything in good time. To be honest I’m still not sure myself just how this Kosevich fits into it all.’

  ‘But this photograph, this man’s death—it happened in England, George?’ asked Uncle Nate.

  ‘Yes, Nate. Here in London … Tell me—is it possible that Kosevich could have been working for an extremist anarchist group?’

  ‘The Wolf of Kiev? Highly improbable, I’d say. Kosevich was a Colonel in the White Army—a pro-monarchist. He was fighting to retain the Tsarist state. No, no, it is not possible that he was in league with such people.’

  ‘Anarchists? Hold on—has this got summit to do with the bombings then?’

  ‘I can’t say, Sol. I’ve told you, I’ve only just started to piece this thing together myself. I can’t tell you anything more at the moment.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I don’t even know if it’s true myself! It’s all just guesswork at this stage.’

  ‘Solomon,’ said Uncle Nate. ‘It is obvious George has said as much as is possible. When the time is right I’m sure he will tell us the full story … Patience is a virtue.’

  ‘Why did you cut the rest of it away, George? What else is in the photograph?’

  Harley put his notepad back in his pocket and held his hands up to indicate that he couldn’t answer the question.

  Rosen slapped the photograph down on the table and stood up.

  ‘I’ve had enough of this bollocks! Are you gonna tell us what this is all about, or what?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Sol, I really can’t—not at the moment.’

  ‘You need to get your priorities right! Sort out whose side you’re on!’

  With that Rosen plucked his hat from the back of his chair and stormed out of the shop.

  ‘Such a hothead, that one … I’m sorry, George.’

  ‘Listen, I’ve been dealing with Solly’s little temper tantrums all my life, Nate—it’s nothing, really.’

  ‘I know, George. But the way he’s reacting to this Blackshirt meshugaas—I have a bad feeling about it. Something tells me it will end badly … Ah, it’s probably just an old man worrying about nothing … but, well, maybe you could keep an eye on the situation a little? Make sure Solomon doesn’t do anything foolish?’

  ‘Well, I’ll try my best, Nate. But frankly, with Solly Rosen that’s gonna be like trying to plait jam.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Ludovico Girardi stood for a moment in the private box at the Albert Hall to survey the packed stalls in the arena below, before turning with a smile to take his seat again beside Earl Daubeney.

  ‘I notice you are not wearing your uniform, my Lord,’ he said, above the excited buzz of the crowd. ‘Why is this? Are you not proud to be a part of … of all this?’ The Italian raised his hand to the vast auditorium, adorned with fascist banners, the criss-crossing blades of a dozen searchlights sweeping over the amassed ranks of the audience below.

  ‘Of course one’s proud—who wouldn’t be? Why, the turn-out alone is staggering. There must be at least five thousand here, wouldn’t you say? I mean, the spectacle of the thing—pure theatre! And, of course, Sir Pelham will be in his element here. The man’s oratorical skills go unrivalled.’

  ‘And then—why aren’t you in your uniform, Lord Daubeney? Why aren’t you down there with your comrades?’

  Girardi pointed to the podium flanked by two large British Brotherhood of Fascists standards.

  ‘Well, Ludovico … You see, the timing is crucial with these things. One mustn’t lay all of ones cards on the table immediately.’

  ‘Ah yes—this is the English way, of course. I was forgetting,’ said Girardi, with a little sardonic smile and a nod.

  ‘Your man Boyd there, for example,’ said Daubeney, raising his opera glasses and scrutinizing the line of uniformed men standing to attention on the stage. ‘Do you really think it’s wise to expose him to such scrutiny?’

  ‘He was keen to be a part of it—to feel really involved. It is good for his loyalty, I think.’

  ‘Maybe so. But if he’s recognized later?’

  ‘Let me worry about that, my Lord.’

  Daubeney lowered the opera glasses and regarded the Italian.

  ‘We have a considerable amount riding on your little endeavour, Ludovico; I sincerely hope you fully appreciate that.’

  Girardi’s scarred face offered back a lopsided grin.

  ‘Don’t worry, Lord Daubeney, I am, how you say, up to the job.’

  The Earl gave a sigh and refilled their champagne glasses from the bottle resting in the ice bucket.

  ‘And Boyd? Is he up to the job? Do you still insist that you require no other manpower on the night? You really think it can be done with just the two of you?’

  ‘Boyd is more than capable. He has the heart of a lion and the body of an ox. Besides, our particular role in the Correction depends upon an element of surprise. It would be foolish to let too many people in on the exact details of the plan. Of course, you are correct—now that we have lost Kosevich we will need a third man for the night itself. But I have someone in mind for a replacement; a fellow countryman, someone I have worked with in the past. This man is a professional, you understand—reliable, resourceful … I have already wired Rome to see if he is available—’

  ‘I’m afraid Sir Pelham has other ideas, old man.’

  ‘Scusi? I don’t understand.’

  ‘He came to see me this morning over the matter, Ludovico. He sees appointing Kosevich’s replacement as an opportunity to begin to forge a certain legacy for the party.’

  ‘Please explain.’

  ‘Sir Pelham insists on having one of his own with you on the fifteenth. He thinks it will be useful in the future. It would appear that he is already composing the legend of the Correction for future generations. He means to ensure that he is intrinsically linked with all aspects of the found
ing of the new state. Damned clever really. You must admit—he has a certain knack for such things.’

  ‘And do I get to have a say in this matter?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  Girardi’s face darkened. He stood and leant on the balcony, his back to the Earl.

  ‘Who is this new man?’

  ‘Sir Pelham’s cousin—Hugo Carstairs. I must admit he’s a game sort of bird; always up for a challenge. Damn good shot, races cars at Brooklands … I believe he flies as well. He’ll have the pluck for it, I’m sure. Young though—just turned twenty-two … Still, there’s been many a hero through the ages younger than that. Richard the Lionheart was just sixteen when he took command of his first army, you know.’

  ‘It is not a lion that I need, my Lord, but a wolf—cunning and loyal. You understand the difference?’

  ‘Well, I’m sure he’s a fast learner. I’m afraid the decision has already been made for you, Ludovico. I’ll organize a meeting soon, so as you can get the measure of the man. Don’t worry—I’m sure he’ll perform admirably on the night. After all, he’s from good stock.’

  ‘Let us hope so—for all our sakes.’

  ‘Is there anything else you need for the big day?’

  ‘Oh, we may have need of a little more money,’ said the Italian, taking his seat again, still mulling over Daubeney’s revelation. ‘Yes, perhaps a few more things, some weapons—but I will contact you if this is necessary.’

  Girardi now stood again and held up his glass as the band played the opening bars of a stirring anthem.

  ‘You know this one, Ludovico?’

  ‘Of course! “La Giovinezza”—Il Duce’s anthem!’

  ***

  Down in the stalls the members of Harley’s row were also standing—not to show respect to the Italian Fascist anthem (which of course none of them recognized), but to allow Solly Rosen to make his way to his seat.

  ‘Alright, George.’

  ‘Oh—so you’re talking to me again, are yer?’

  ‘’Course!’ said Rosen, sitting down and pulling his flat cap down over his eyes.

  ‘Nice disguise,’ said Harley, earning himself a nudge in the ribs.

  ‘Shush! You don’t know who’s earwigging, do yer?’