The House of Special Purpose

by Paul Christopher

  According to Sokolov, at this point the photographer was to be brought in but instead, led by Yurovsky, a dozen assassins appeared and began to fire, some with rifles, others with an assortment of pistols and Yurovsky himself emptying the clip of his Colt Automatic as well as his Walther, firing a total of seventeen bullets. Within seconds the entire room was completely filled with smoke and out of the fog Yurovsky and his men could hear the moans and groans of dying men and women.

  Approaching the dying family of the tsar, Yurovsky immediately realised why so few of the shots had been fatal: the brassieres and girdles of all the women had been stuffed with jewellery, and any shots to the body had either been slowed or ricocheted. Reloading both of his weapons, Yurovsky went from one to the other, putting a bullet into their brains while his men stabbed the writhing bodies on the floor with the bayonets of their rifles. It was all over within a few minutes. Yurovsky then had the corpses loaded into a waiting truck, which then disappeared.

  From that point, the rumours began to grow. There were several versions purporting to show evidence that King George had tried to make a last-minute rescue attempt, knowing the lives of his ‘dear’ cousins were truly in danger. There were an equal number of rumours that George conspired with another cousin, the kaiser, to have the tsar and his family killed so that England and Prussia could jointly rule Russia and mount a war against the Bolsheviks and anyone else who got in their way. There was even one extraordinary rumour about an American army officer named Fox who managed to spirit the entire family away before a single shot had been fired. In the end, of course, there was no evidence to substantiate any of it. Some said that George V had stalled in his decision to allow his cousin to spend a life in exile in England, waiting until it was too late to save them. Clearly Robert Bruce Lockhart, now a high-ranking official in the Foreign Office, had been in Russia at the time and was known to have travelled to Yekaterinburg on more than one occasion, supposedly to meet with the British consul there, a man named Thomas Preston. No doubt this is where the rumours had begun.

  Any information regarding the cinematographer alluded to by Wells’s mistress, the mysterious Countess Budberg, was thin on the water. Levitsky existed, that was well enough documented; he had been the cinematographer for a number of films made both prior to and during the war.

  A thin skein of circumstantial evidence connected Levitsky and a man named Alexander Beloborodov. In 1918 the latter was head of the Yekaterinburg Soviet and also close friends with both Lenin and Trotsky. Both Lenin and Trotsky had grandiose plans to have a show trial for the tsar, but a series of telegrams from Beloborodov to Lenin suggested that in the event that there was any chance of the tsar being captured by the Germans or the Whites, he was to be shot and proof made available. In lieu of the tsar’s head in a jar of alcohol, what could be better than a film of the event?

  Liddell had dug as deeply as he dared into both the Public Records Office and the early SIS files from the end of the previous war and had discovered that when the ‘real’ revolution came, Beloborodov was slated to back Trotsky, not Lenin, and it stood to reason that Levitsky was an ally of Trotsky’s as well. There were several reasons to assume this. The first was the fact that the film was never delivered to Lenin as ordered. Second, it transpired that several years later, in 1924, Beloborodov helped Trotsky escape from Stalin’s clutches. The only evidence that the film really existed was a passing reference to it made by Diego Rivera, the Mexican painter, less than a year before Trotsky was assassinated. According to Rivera, the film had been used by Trotsky as a form of blackmail against Stalin and was well hidden at Trotsky’s villa in the Coyoacàn district of Mexico City. According to Rivera and also to his wife, Frida Kahlo, purportedly Trotsky’s lover for a brief time, the conversation took place between Rivera and one of Trotsky’s most trusted bodyguards, the American Joseph Hansen.

  Flipping through the last of the documents as they approached Foynes, Black had spotted what he thought might be the true motive for all this interest in dead kings and assassinated tsars. Both in England and America, Nicholas II had left huge amounts of money and stocks on deposit, money that would lie unclaimed in lieu of incontrovertible evidence that there was no one left alive to claim it, to wit, a reel of film showing the imperial family being gunned down like so many desperadoes in Riders of the Purple Sage.

  The amounts were staggering – more than a hundred million pounds in Barings Bank in London alone and ten times that in the Morgan Guaranty Trust and various other banks in America. According to Liddell’s estimation, the only possible heir to any of the money other than a direct descendant of the tsar was the patriarch of the Russian Orthodox Church, of which Nicholas II had been the putative head – something like saying that the Archbishop of Canterbury could dip into the C of E till whenever the spirit moved him.

  The truth was, with proof like Levitsky’s film, the money would be forfeit to the government of whatever country had it on deposit; in the case of England, a country desperately in need of money to fund a war that could easily go on for years. In America, a secret cache of money could be used to help their allies in a thousand different ways. One man’s famine was another’s feast.

  Black took a last bite of sausage and pushed a rather suspect-looking slice of white pudding aside with his fork. He wiped his mouth with the linen napkin he’d been provided with, then lit a Silk Cut and sat back in his chair.

  ‘It’s the money,’ he said quietly to himself. ‘They’re trying to get the money.’

  ‘Oh, no, sir,’ said Mrs Walsh, the pub keeper, suddenly appearing at his table. She had a paper bag in one hand and a metal thermos jug in the other. ‘That’s all been taken care of.’ She put the bag on the table and the thermos beside it. ‘Now there’s your sandwiches, and a t’ermos of good hot coffee to be getting along with. Just leave the empty jug in the airboat and the boys will bring it to me on the way back.’

  She stood back and smiled as though she’d personally witnessed the miracle of the wine and fishes. Black thanked her and managed to slip a pound note under his plate after she was gone. He picked up the bag and the thermos, bought a packet of Kenilworths on his way out of the pub and headed back down to the wharf.

  * * *

  Chief of NKVD operations in the United States, Vassili Zarubin, also known as Vassili Zubilin and sometimes called Squirrel Cheeks by some of his comrades, although not to his face, sat in the passenger seat of the dark green Chevrolet Coupé. Pavlich Kalugin, his driver and adjutant, was careful to always keep several cars between them and the brown army vehicle up ahead. They had been following it ever since their quarry arrived at Washington National Airport earlier in the day.

  ‘So far we have visited Arlington National Cemetery, the Lincoln Memorial, the Tidal Basin, the Washington Monument, the Library of Congress and Griffith Stadium for three innings of a Yankees versus Senators game in which Mr DiMaggio hit a home run. Commander Fleming ate two hot dogs while the woman with him ate only one. We have also been to the roof of the Washington Hotel for drinks and the commander was overheard on the telephone making a reservation at Harvey’s for dinner. At no time have they gone anywhere near the Apex Building or the old school at Twenty-third and E.’

  Zarubin leaned forward, pushed in the cigarette lighter on the dashboard and took a crumpled package of Spuds out of his suit jacket pocket. The lighter popped out and he lit one of the menthol cigarettes then leaned back against the seat, his eyes dully watching for the brown car a few dozen yards ahead. ‘Do you think, Comrade Kalugin, that our friend Commander Fleming knows that he is being followed?’

  ‘It is possible,’ said the heavyset driver.

  ‘I think we should let the commander and his new friend have a romantic dinner alone,’ said Zarubin. ‘Contact Stowaway as soon as we get back to the embassy. I want to arrange an immediate meeting. Sometime tomorrow afternoon if possible. The usual place and alternates. Perhaps he can throw some light onto the subject of the lady’s id
entity.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Kalugin nodded. He turned down a side street and headed north. Within a few seconds the brown car was lost from view.

  Chapter Four

  Saturday, November 22, 1941

  Washington, D.C.

  Commander Ian Fleming, RNVR and personal assistant to Admiral Sir Charles Godfrey of British Naval Intelligence, was sitting at a small table in the Willard Hotel’s opulent Round Robin Bar drinking mint juleps with Jane Todd when Morris Black appeared at the door and looked around. His eyes lit up when he saw Fleming and a smile twitched across his face briefly. He threaded his way between the tables in the room and crossed over to where Fleming was sitting.

  ‘Fleming! I didn’t expect to see you here!’ He shook the younger man’s hand and then glanced briefly at Jane.

  ‘Morris. This is Jane Todd. Jane, Detective Inspector Morris Black, once of Scotland Yard and now involved in more secret occupations.’

  Jane smiled up at Black. ‘Sit down. Have a mint julep. You’re in the Old South now.’

  ‘I’ll sit but I won’t have a mint julep if you don’t mind. Someone once made me one and I’m afraid it made me rather sick.’ He sat down at the table between Jane and Fleming.

  ‘I really do insist, old man.’ Fleming lifted up a finger and twirled it in the bartender’s direction. ‘I mean, after all, this is the place where the mint julep was invented.’

  ‘Odd you should say that.’ Black smiled. ‘I just stopped at a place where they insisted Irish coffee was invented.’ Black’s drink arrived a few moments later. He pushed aside the jungle of mint leaves standing in the middle of the glass and used the straw to suck up a minuscule amount of the drink.

  ‘Well?’ asked Fleming.

  ‘Not bad,’ said Black. He took another, longer sip. ‘I shall become a drunkard by the time this trip is over. Whiskey-laced coffee across the Atlantic, some filthy brew they gave me in Newfoundland called Screech – and well named too – now this.’

  ‘Maker’s Mark bourbon, mint, sugar and branch water, according to my friend Arnold over there.’ Fleming waved at the bartender and the bartender waved back.

  ‘Let’s get down to business. Ian here tells me I’m going to be a spy.’ Jane gave Black a long, calculating look. ‘And by the way, Detective Inspector, Ian’s told me a great deal about you. I’m impressed.’

  ‘Ian is a great creator of fictions, Miss Todd. I’m afraid he might have misled you.’ Although he hoped not. Against his better judgement, he found her quite attractive.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Jane.

  Black took a long sip of his drink, patted his pocket and brought out the crumpled remains of his pack of cigarettes. ‘Anyone mind?’

  Fleming brought out a flat tin of handmade Morlands, Jane took out her Camels and Fleming plucked the little box of matches from the porcelain holder in the middle of the table and lit everyone’s cigarettes.

  ‘Three out of four doctors recommend Camels,’ said Jane.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Black.

  Jane waved away the cloud of smoke in front of her face. ‘Forget it.’ She shook her head, realising that Black didn’t get the joke. ‘Maybe we should just get down to whatever it is we’re supposed to get down to.’ She glanced at Fleming and then at Black. ‘I don’t even know who’s running this show.’

  ‘I suppose for the time being I am.’ Fleming tapped his ash over the edge of the ashtray with a neat flick of his wrist. ‘Right at the moment I’m acting as liaison between British Security Coordination and the American Coordinator of Information Office. BSC and COI.’

  ‘All I was told was that Donovan and this Bill Stephenson guy who’s in charge of BSC in New York are worried about commies under their respective beds and somehow I’m supposed to find them, I guess along with you two.’

  ‘Just Detective Inspector Black. The two of you will be doing the winkling out from under the beds and it’s only a matter of one commie and one bed really.’

  ‘There’s more to it than that, Ian, and you know it.’

  ‘Do tell,’ said Jane. She saw Black toss a dark little look of inquiry at Fleming and the naval commander nodded back. She was beginning to realise that there was more than one level to the game she’d been asked to play and some of the players knew more than others.

  ‘Am I allowed to bring my toys into the sandbox or is it just you boys?’ she asked, making no attempt to mask her irritation.

  Black turned to her. ‘I’m not entirely sure I understand your reference but in my brief experience with the subject I would say that women make much better spies than men.’ Black paused and took a deep drag of his Kenilworth, swooshing the smoke out through the nostrils of his long thin nose. He was older and not as good-looking as her one-time friend and colleague Thomas Barry but she could feel a dark, almost angry passion under the soft English accent and the proper manners.

  ‘Do you see much of Thomas Barry, Detective Inspector? He mentioned you once or twice.’

  Black’s expression was hard. ‘He resigned from the Yard just after the war broke out. Joined one of the Military Intelligence groups. He went on an assignment into France and never came back. Presumably he’s dead.’ Black noticed the tears forming in the corners of the pretty woman’s eyes. ‘I’m sorry if I was a little blunt but I’m afraid you get used to it after a while, losing friends. Did you know him well?’

  ‘Not as well as I should have,’ Jane answered quietly. She cleared her throat and stubbed her cigarette out. ‘You said there was more to all of this than just sweeping the odd commie out with the dust bunnies.’

  ‘Donovan told you what you needed to hear at the time,’ said Fleming. ‘Taking it all in at once can be a little much,’ the naval spy said patronisingly.

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘I’ve been authorised to tell you this,’ Fleming said. ‘There apparently is a reel of film in existence which shows the assassination of the entire Romanov family. Right down to Princess Anastasia’s cocker spaniel being bludgeoned to death with the butt of a Mosin-Nagant rifle.’

  ‘That was more than twenty years ago.’ Jane shrugged. ‘Water under the bridge. What’s the problem?’

  ‘The problem is the film has been lost and now recently recovered by an NKVD agent working either in COI or BSC. The release of the film to the general public could be disastrous.’

  ‘Why?’ Jane asked. ‘Everybody knows Lenin or Stalin or one of those types had the tsar killed. It’s not like it’s fresh egg on their face or anything.’ She shrugged again. ‘Except for that loony who keeps on saying she’s one of the princesses and managed to escape.’

  ‘Anna Anderson,’ supplied Fleming.

  ‘That’s the one. No Fabergé eggs for her, I guess.’

  ‘That’s exactly the point,’ said Black. ‘There are branches of the Romanov family everywhere. I think one of them owns a restaurant in your Los Angeles.’

  ‘Romanoff’s.’ Jane nodded. ‘Two fs, no v. Ugliest wallpaper in the world, orange, green and yellow. Best place to get a shot of Bogart in L.A.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ said Fleming.

  ‘Cary Grant and Darryl Zanuck are Mike Romanoff’s partners and Mike himself eats with his two bulldogs, Socrates and Confucius.’ Jane batted her eyelashes and took a sip of her drink. ‘Am I a girl spy now?’

  ‘I was trying to make a point,’ said Black.

  Jane sighed. ‘Well, I wish to hell you’d get around to it, Detective.’

  ‘Money,’ said Black flatly. ‘No matter what Stephenson or Donovan has to say about it, I guarantee you the whole thing revolves around money.’

  ‘Slowly,’ said Jane. ‘The julep has clouded my brain a little.’

  Black sighed. ‘I spent three boring hours on the aircraft I came over on reading an enormous file on everything you could ever possibly want to know about the Romanovs. It actually put me to sleep. I would agree that by this point no one really cares very much about who killed them or why. Eve
n the king’s oversight in not seeing to it that they were saved is, as you say, water under the bridge. In a word, the subject of their deaths is moot except for one small item.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘There’s no actual proof. The fact that there is no proof has given rise to dozens of claims on the Romanov fortune, including two dozen supposed heirs who claim that the tiara of the Grand Duchess Vladimir, which was ‘rescued’ from St Petersburg in 1919 and is now owned by the Dowager Queen Mary, the present king’s mother, was in fact stolen and belongs to one of twenty-four people who say it actually belongs to them.

  ‘This Anna Anderson creature seems to know a great deal about the tsar’s fortune but that might easily have something to do with a possible intimate liaison she had with Lord Peter Bark, who before he became a trustee of the Bank of England was Nicholas the Second’s last finance minister and in charge of all the tsar’s personal bank accounts, the gold reserves in the Narodny State Bank and not one but a total of eleven so-called secret funds. From what I can tell, the tsar had accounts in Barings Bank, Coutts Bank, which is the bank the royal family uses, the Bank of England itself, the Bank of France, the Anglo-Austrian Bank, the Bank of New York, the National Bank of San Francisco, the Morgan Trust… the list goes on and on.’

  ‘What’s the total?’ asked Jane.

  Black lifted his shoulders. ‘Impossible to assess. Three or four hundred million pounds all told. Perhaps a great deal more.’

  Jane turned to Fleming. ‘What’s the pound worth these days?’

  ‘About four dollars.’

  ‘Christ on a crutch! That’s a billion and a half dollars.’

  ‘More,’ said Black. ‘A lot of it was in gold and gold certificates. The price of precious metals has gone up considerably since 1918.’