Golden Eights

by Nigel Seed

  The director picked up the telephone on his desk and dialled a short number. Ivan assumed it was an internal call and when the director spoke that proved to be true as he called in the head of the Numismatic Department. A small silver haired man, with remarkably thick glasses, appeared through the door very shortly afterwards and was shown the photocopy.

  He peered at it then shook his head and looked at the visitors. “We do not have such a coin in the Hermitage although we have examples of the silver versions,” he said in slow English. “But such a special piece leaves a trace for those of us who love the history and magic of coins. There is such a coin in Russia. It was a gift to Stalin from his allies in Spain as a symbol of a special relationship during their difficult time. Because of that it was held in a special display in the Kremlin. It is not normally available to the Russian people or even officials of the Hermitage.”

  Andrei nodded. “Do you know the name of the man in the Kremlin to speak to in order to ensure this coin is still there?”

  The coin specialist looked at his director, who nodded slightly. Then he turned to Andrei. “For access to the special collection you would need to ask the President personally. I doubt even a policeman of your seniority would have such access.”

  Ivan recalled the bear hug that the president and Andrei had shared when they had recovered the gleaming religious icon at the end of the V4 attack on New York. The president had gained a lot of political credit with the Russian people by bringing that home to Moscow and Andrei had stayed in the background to let him. That felt like a favor that could be called in.

  Andrei and Ivan rose to their feet and expressing their thanks, made their exit. Ivan would have liked the chance to visit this superb collection, but his mission was clearly in Moscow as soon as possible. After a surprisingly good meal at the station, they caught the train back to Moscow. Andrei pressed a little to try to find out the significance of the coin, but gave in with good grace when Ivan stonewalled him. Once back in Moscow, it took an hour or so on the phone to finally get through to the president’s personal assistant.

  Ivan listened as Andrei said, “Tell the President that Andrei Popov and one of the others from Florida need to see him for a few minutes only. He will understand the significance.” He paused, listening and then Ivan heard him say, “There is no need for you to understand the significance. This is for the President only. Ring me back on this number when you have passed on my message.”

  He put down the phone and shrugged. ‘Every functionary builds his ego by being as difficult as he can be. It is the curse of bureaucracy. But how they change when they screw up and need a friend in the police.” Andrei went to make coffee, but before they could drink it the phone rang. Andrei picked it up and listened “Agreed,” was all he said. He put the phone down and said to Ivan, “Better grab your jacket. The President’s car will be here in a few minutes. It seems he does not forget a debt of honor.”

  They left the apartment and went down the stairs to the entrance hallway of the building. A large and well-maintained limousine was waiting outside. The driver sat behind the wheel while the escort officer held the rear door open for them. The drive to the Kremlin did not take long and the car swept through the impressive gates without slowing. The escort was out of the car as soon as it stopped and had the door open for them as a tall, slim young man came down the man steps to meet them.

  Andrei nudged Ivan. “And what do you bet our functionary here is much more polite now?”

  “No bet” said Ivan.

  The greetings were brief and the tall man in the excessively tidy suit ushered them inside and led them rapidly through the various corridors and straight into the president’s large and impressive office. The president was sitting behind a massive desk and rose as they came in without any of the customary pretense of signing papers. He stepped to Andrei and clasped his shoulders.

  He then turned to Ivan and held out his hand. “A long way from the sunshine of Florida, Mr. Thomas. How can I help you?”

  Ivan said, “Mr President, your English is better than my Russian as ever. If you will permit us, we would like to take a look at the private museum collection of artifacts concerning the time of Stalin.”

  The president looked surprised. “Is that all? Should I ask why?”

  “I wish you wouldn’t, sir.”

  “Very well, I certainly owe you that much, but one day you must tell me what this is all about over a vodka or two. Come this way,” he said leading them into an adjoining room.

  Around the walls were arrays of display cases with huge impressive paintings in ornate frames on the walls. They walked slowly around the cases until, at the bottom end of the room, they came to the case that contained items from Spain. The gold coin rested in its red silk display setting in the center of the case. Ivan stared for a few seconds. In reality, it was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship. The pictures in the auction brochure did not do it justice.

  Ivan turned to the president. “Thank you sir. That has answered my question. Now if you do not mind I need to get back to London as quickly as possible.”

  The president of Russia was nothing if not a gracious host and showed them back to the limousine himself. As they climbed into the car, he said, “Remember, Mr Thomas one day you owe me an explanation.”

  “One day, sir and I hope your vodka is smoother than Andrei’s.”

  Chapter 7

  Back in London, Jim Wilson had not been idle and had spent hours trawling the Internet for any details he could find about the Auxiliary Units. He had visited the National Army Museum and with the help of the highly knowledgeable staff had trawled through their extensive supply of documents. He had called up and watched the few TV programs that had been made about the Secret Army when their existence had first become public knowledge. Despite his efforts, the information he had come up with was still very thin and did not seem liable to lead them readily to any remaining gold stores. Even the fabled Dark Net had nothing much to offer.

  What he had found was fascinating to a military man. The task of organizing and setting up the Secret Army had been given to Colonel Colin McVean Gubbins and he had selected Coleshill House as his Headquarters. The men had been recruited from many walks of life all over the country. Most had jobs that would give them a reason to be wandering about the countryside at all hours of the day and night. Farmers, game keepers, doctors, vets and clergymen had all been recruited and sent secretly to Coleshill to be trained in the skills of reconnaissance, sabotage and assassination. Training and coordination had been provided by experienced Army personnel. They had been formed into small teams of six or less and had been taught how to construct hidden small team bases in such a way that nobody was likely to stumble across them by accident and they were unlikely to be found, even by a dedicated search. When the invasion came, they were to retire to their hides to allow the attacking forces to pass by, before starting their operations. Their life expectancy once they started to operate was short, very short, but they could have caused considerable disruption behind enemy lines.

  Jim could see why these dedicated people would be the ideal types to have the country’s gold entrusted to them. People with that kind of commitment had to have a certain special mind-set that would make them totally trustworthy and they already had secret hiding places that could be used. But, now that the secret was emerging, surely any of the surviving old men who had been part of the Auxiliary Units, who knew about the gold, would have come forward by now? There was something else here that he was not finding. He needed to speak to any of the survivors he could find before their voices were stilled forever. During his researches he had found that there was a group of amateur historians based around Coleshill House who were researching the Auxiliary Units and gathering any records and artifacts about them that they could find. Even after seventy or more years, the amount they were finding was small; the security need for these units had been intense and had been carefully maintained.

  His vis
it to Coleshill to speak with the researchers was helpful and the bunker they had showed him in the grounds was illuminating. These were no foxholes in the woods. The walls were of concrete and they had been equipped with up to six bunks. Weapon racks were hung on the walls and there was sufficient storage for food to last the six occupants for the three weeks of their expected survival time once operation began. There was an entrance way and an emergency exit, should they be discovered. One of the most amazing things to Jim was that, even after more than seventy years, the base was still dry, with no signs of mold. The location had been selected well and the construction had been careful and competent. Judging by the Coleshill base there was every possibility that the hides he was looking for would still exist and their contents might be undamaged.

  Before he left, the historian guiding him warned him about the booby traps that had been authorized for all of the patrol bases. Surely, after seventy years the explosives would not still be viable?

  Chapter 8

  Jim returned to London and was using the whiteboard in the office to marshal his thoughts when Geordie and Ivan came through the door. They had met in the arrivals hall at Heathrow airport and travelled in to the city together. The constant crowds around them had prevented them speaking about the task in hand so they were delighted to find Jim in the office and working on the problem.

  “Well boss,” started Geordie, “we appear to be out of a job. Raoul and his spooky friends got us the information from the auction house.”

  “Hang on a minute,” Jim said, “how did they do it? Will there be any trace of the query?”

  “No problem there, boss, the people finding the information were even spookier than the SEALs. They didn’t tell me how they got it, but my best guess is that they hacked into the auction house computer system and picked up the name and address of the seller from there. In any case it’s all over. The coin came from Spain so it must be number twenty. The trail has gone cold before we properly got started. Does that mean we can ask to go back to the Army now?”

  Jim sat down feeling deflated. “Well, that’s a shame; I was just starting to enjoy this. Oh well, I suppose I’d better go and tell the Prime Minister he’s still broke. I nearly forgot, Ivan, how was Andrei?”

  Ivan was quietly rubbing his earlobe with a small smile on his face.

  “Oh he was fine, boss, enjoying the authority his new police rank gives him. He seemed to quite enjoy throwing his weight about a little, with the government stiffs, to get us in to see the president.”

  “You saw the president?”

  “Of course,” said Ivan still maintaining his secret smile, “how else would I know that the twentieth coin is still in Russia in a very impressive display case in the Kremlin?”

  Jim sat back in his chair. “Are you sure?” he said. “Sorry, that’s a stupid question. Of course you’re sure. Geordie, let’s have a look at the details you got on our mysterious seller.”

  Geordie fished into his shirt pocket and produced the note he had been handed in Maryland. He handed it across the coffee table to Jim.

  “There you go boss, I was quite looking forward to getting back to something real.”

  Jim looked at the note in his hand. He looked up. “Either of you ever heard of a place called Benidoleig? I know about Benidorm but I’ve never heard of this one.”

  Geordie stood up. “I’ll go and Google Map it.”

  Ivan watched Geordie walk back to his desk and leaned across to Jim. “Not long to his wedding, are we going to chase this lead before or after?”

  “Good thought. We have no idea how long it will take in Spain. It can wait until after the weekend and that will give you all the next day to sleep off your hangover. Do we have the arrival times for Andrei and Raoul? I take it Geordie still doesn’t know they’re coming?”

  “Nah! He’s out of the loop. Only Sam and her Mum know. They’ve booked them rooms in the same hotel we’re staying at. All we have to do is pick them up on Friday morning. Sam made me promise that once they arrive we are not to let Geordie get too ‘happy.’ She wants him vertical and looking presentable at the ceremony.”

  They stopped talking as Geordie came back from his computer. “Turns out there are buckets of villages north of Benidorm that start with ‘Beni.’ I’ve got Benidoleig, Beniarbeig, Benissa and loads more. They must have run out of ideas back in the day. So how many tickets do you want me to book to go and see this guy?”

  Jim smiled. “Just book us two for Monday afternoon, will you? Ivan and I will handle this one.”

  “Are you sure boss? I like Spain, I could show you round.”

  “Geordie, you have other things to do next week,” said Ivan, “or have you forgotten you are getting married on Saturday?”

  Chapter 9

  Friday morning arrived and the two overseas guests for Geordie’s and Samantha’s wedding arrived within half an hour of each other to be met by Jim and Ivan. Getting the car through the crowded roads around Heathrow Terminal 3 was a trial, but once clear they joined the M25 Motorway and it became a little better, although the roads was still extremely crowded with the usual crush of commuters and delivery vans. Eventually they left London’s circular motorway and joined the road network heading for Huntingdon in Cambridgeshire. Ivan turned round to the two guests in the back seat to start pointing out the landmarks of interest as they drove. He could save his breath, they were both fast asleep.

  As they turned off the Great North Road and through the village of Brampton the two visitors woke up and started to look around. They cleared Brampton and turned towards Huntingdon.

  After a little over a mile, they came alongside a tall brick wall and Ivan turned to say, “Behind that wall is Hinchingbrooke House. That’s where we’re having the wedding reception tomorrow. It’s an old manor house that used to be owned by Oliver Cromwell’s family. During the week it’s part of one of the local schools.”

  They carried on past the railway station and into the town. As they joined the ring road they swung into the small car park of the George Hotel.

  “Here you go, gents,” said Jim, “this is where we are staying. It used to be an old coaching inn many years ago and there are stories that Dick Turpin, the famous highwayman, stayed here. And if you have a word with the folk at the reception desk they can tell you the story about the ghost they have in the upstairs ballroom.”

  The four friends retrieved their baggage from the car and walked into the hotel to check in.

  That afternoon Geordie arrived to take up residence for the evening before his marriage. Jim and Ivan met him as he came through from the hotel courtyard. They arranged to meet in the bar at seven o’clock that evening for a quiet dinner in the hotel restaurant and Geordie went off to his room to shower and change. Ivan and Jim took the chance to walk along the high street, remarkable only for the Cromwell Museum, in the old school building that Oliver Cromwell had attended as a child. They took a look at the old church across the road from the George Hotel where the wedding was to take place next morning. It was an interesting building, but lost in amongst the modern shops and buildings around it.

  As Geordie came down the staircase to the bar area that evening he looked to his left and saw four friends sitting at a table by the bar smiling up at him. The last time they had all been together had been at the end of the incident following the attack on New York. Geordie went to the table and shook hands with Andrei and Raoul.

  “Thanks for coming, guys,” he said, “it wouldn’t be the same without you.” He turned to Jim and Ivan who were sitting at the table grinning like two Cheshire Cats “I take it you two set this up? Thanks guys. This is special.”

  “Not just us, mate,” said Ivan, “Sam gave us our instructions two months ago.”

  Geordie turned back to Andrei and Raoul. “So have you two ever tried a proper beer? Not that insect urine they sell in America, the good stuff.”

  It turned out that jet lag and strong English beer are not a good mix and an hou
r or so later Raoul Martinez was on the verge of sleep. Andrei was also finding that long working hours and Russian vodka were not good training for heavy English beer. By a little after ten that night, the party had ground to a halt and the five men decided to head for bed.

  Geordie paused at the top of the staircase. “I guess this means I am getting old. Still capable of walking on the night before my wedding. Promise you won’t tell my mates when we get back to the Army?”

  The wedding ceremony the next morning went smoothly with a full church. Quite a few of the guests on Sam’s side of the church were from the theater world she worked in and the suits and dresses were that little bit over the top. The sensible suits and smattering of military dress uniforms of Geordie’s side of the church made a distinct contrast. Even Andrei had managed to bring his police uniform, though it was a little drab compared to the other uniforms with their shiny buttons and medal ribbons.

  Jim watched Geordie turn as the bride entered the church, noticing his jaw drop just a little. He turned to look at Sam coming down the aisle on her father’s arm. She was an extremely attractive girl, but today she was transformed and looked absolutely gorgeous. For a second or two he let his mind drift back to his own wedding. She had been a vision that day too. Hopefully this marriage would last better than his had done.