Moura Budberg solved the mystery. ‘It was discovered later that the three sisters and the maid had stuffed their collection of jewels into their corsets, acting like crude bulletproof vests.’
The people in the dining room watched the small screen as Yurovsky stepped forward and stood over Alexei, who had crawled to his father and was clutching the tsar’s bloody shirt. Blood was running out of the boy’s mouth and there was clearly at least one wound in his belly. The boy was so close to the camera that Jane could see him shivering and his eyes blinking rapidly and spasmodically as though he was rapidly losing his sight. The bearded, dark-haired man kicked the thirteen-year-old boy in the head with the toe of his heavy boot and the tsarevitch’s temple caved in under the lethal blow. Still not satisfied, Yurovsky pulled his second gun, a short-barrel Mauser, out of his jacket and pumped two shots directly into the boy’s ear. Alexei’s head exploded. The boy’s heels drummed against the floor for a few seconds and then he was still. Twenty-three years had passed since the pale, thin little prince had died but Jane still felt tears welling up in her eyes.
Yurovsky, wreathed in smoke, surveyed the room. The pall had begun to lift off the floor and the bodies and the bloodbath became visible, gleaming darkly in the harsh lights Levitsky had supplied. The blood was everywhere, on the walls, the ceiling, pooling around bodies and streaming out from under them. Methodically Yurovsky went from corpse to bloody corpse, checking pulses and occasionally firing the Mauser in a coup de grâce.
He pried Jemmy the dog out from under the body of her mistress then tossed the little spaniel aside like a rag. He put away the Mauser and the Colt, then waved the others forward. The eleven men began to lift the bodies and carry them back out through the doors and up the twenty-three steps that led from the basement room.
The film went dark and ended, the tail spinning around and around on the projector, flapping noisily. Moura Budberg switched off the projector and Axel Wenner-Gren switched on the lights. Their guests blinked in the sudden illumination. Faintly, from somewhere outside, came the tinkling of someone plucking at a ukulele – badly.
‘Nine minutes and forty-four seconds,’ said the Budberg woman. ‘That’s how long it took to end a dynasty and change the world.’
A sudden prattle of conversation and questioning erupted from around the table, everyone speaking at once with the exception of Jane, Morris Black and her dubious majesty, the Duchess of Windsor. Wenner-Gren put a stop to the babbling with a single clap of his large, meaty hands.
‘If you wish to discuss what you have just seen you may do so in the drawing room in the aft section of the ship or you may return to your staterooms. There is a steward outside who will guide you.’ He paused. ‘Mr Black and Miss Todd, if you would remain where you are for a moment.’ Jane noted the fact that the Swede had called Morris ‘Mr’ instead of Detective Inspector. Clearly they were to remain as anonymous as possible.
‘Dinner will be served here in approximately an hour,’ said Moura Budberg. ‘You will be notified by one of the staff. Under the circumstances, dress will be informal.’
Everyone stood up and began to file out of the room. The duchess remained where she was, her eyes on Wenner-Gren and the woman beside her. Jane and Morris Black might as well have not existed. Outside, the sound of the off-key ukulele had stopped.
Like a mongoose on the alert for prey, the duchess swivelled her head towards Morris Black. ‘Presumably you’re the man from Scotland Yard. The policeman I’ve heard Moura talking about.’
‘Detective inspector, actually,’ said Morris, smiling thinly, ‘although I’d say the rank is irrelevant at the moment.’
The duchess swivelled a second time and stared at Jane. ‘Which would make you the Hollywood photographer.’ The duchess smiled and Jane realised she wasn’t a mongoose at all. She was a cobra, probably the kind that spit its venom.
‘I suppose you could describe me that way. I prefer to think of myself as Kodak queen to the stars.’
At the use of the word ‘queen’ the Duchess of Windsor’s already thin lips thinned even more, the small eyes staring intently at Jane to see if any sarcasm was intended. Jane smiled back at the duchess blandly. This was the illegitimate daughter of a dirt-poor Virginian and a Baltimore banker, a woman who had clawed her way up the social ladder, rung by rung, until she’d married a man who had briefly been the king of England. Not someone to be idly slighted, even now, banished to near exile in the Bahamas for the duration of the war.
‘We seem to be under some sort of house arrest,’ said Black, addressing Moura Budberg, intending to break up the staring match between Jane and the duchess. ‘We were locked in our stateroom.’
‘Do not think of it as house arrest,’ said Wenner-Gren, his elbow on the sideboard. ‘Think of it instead as well-disciplined hospitality on my part.’
‘It doesn’t seem to apply to anyone else on board,’ said Jane.
‘That is because they are all who they say they are,’ Budberg answered. She sat down in the chair at the end of the table. ‘While you are otherwise. Mr Black is not a detective inspector or at least not any more. According to our information, he works for the Special Operations Executive at Beaulieu Abbey in Hampshire, seconded to the Secret Intelligence Service as he was a year and a half ago in an effort to track down an especially dangerous German spy.’
‘Not quite, but that will do,’ Black answered flatly.
‘And you, Miss Todd, have recently been hired by Colonel William Donovan, your president’s personal spymaster, the man known as Wild Bill.’
‘Beats me,’ Jane answered, shrugging and trying not to show her surprise at the extent of the woman’s knowledge.
‘There’s no need to be coy, Miss Todd. I am merely explaining why we are being very careful about our handling of both you and Mr Black. When the fox is in the henhouse, it is important for the hens to take precautions, govorit pravdu, da? This is the truth, yes?’
‘What’s truth to one can be a lie to another,’ said Jane.
‘A philosopher among us. How refreshing,’ the duchess put in.
‘You’ve kept us here for a reason,’ Black said. ‘What is it?’
‘You will be given your dinner in your stateroom. You will then be returned here at ten o’clock for a special viewing of the film.’
‘We don’t need to see it again,’ said Black. ‘You’ve proved your point.’
‘I think you should listen to the woman,’ Jane put in quickly. ‘I’ve been living in Hollywood, remember, the place where illusions are created and not everything is quite what it seems.’
‘And I suggest you listen to Miss Todd, Gospodin Black. She is speaking sense. I’m sure you can find your own way back to your cabin.’
Jane and Morris stepped out onto the deck, surprised by the freedom Moura Budberg seemed to be giving. A moment later they saw the beefy figure of Arthur, their jailer, standing only a few yards away. They were on the seaward side of the yacht and both Jane and Morris knew that there would be more guards on the landward side, clustered around the companionway down to the pier. The freedom they had been given was illusory. They turned in the other direction and saw Emil Haas leaning over the rail, smoking a cigarette and looking out to sea. Black gave Jane a look. She shrugged, raised her eyebrows slightly and finally nodded. They joined Haas at the rail and lit cigarettes for themselves.
‘Herr Haas,’ said Black.
‘Mister will do just fine,’ said the German agent. ‘You are Morris Black, the famous detective.’
‘That’s a bit much.’
Haas turned to Jane. ‘And you are Jane Todd, the woman who foiled the infamous assassin John Bone.’
‘You seem to know a lot,’ said Jane.
‘Bone worked for us at one time.’
‘I see,’ Jane answered.
‘Rather a lot of strange bedfellows on board, don’t you think?’ said Black quietly.
‘Quite so. Half of them quite mad.’ He offered a smal
l bleak smile. ‘Of course that applies to much of the world in these unhappy times.’
‘I’m surprised to find you here,’ said Black.
‘And I you,’ said Haas briefly. ‘Although I think our purpose is the same.’
‘The film?’ put in Jane.
‘The film is only part of the game,’ said Haas. ‘The real game lies in who the players are.’
‘You’re being suitably obscure for an intelligence officer,’ said Black.
‘You pay me too high a compliment, Detective Inspector. I am just as much a pawn as you and your companion, toiling for my master on the board.’ He smiled again. ‘In your case, of course, your master truly is a king, while Miss Todd’s is, what shall we call him, a knight-errant?’ He took a last puff on his cigarette and shredded it over the side, field stripping it like a hunter or a man who knew what it was to be hunted.
‘You really are being obscure,’ said Jane.
Haas turned to her, his expression blank and infinitely dangerous. ‘I can be very direct as well, Miss Todd. In the game of chess, pawns are the first to be sacrificed so the more important pieces can press the attack. They are also placed on the board in an effort to confuse an otherwise obvious ploy or gambit. I would advise you and your policeman friend to make your greatest efforts to leave this vessel before it is too late.’ With that, the small grey man pushed himself away from the rail, turned his back on them and walked away down the open deck.
‘What the hell was all that about?’ Jane asked.
‘We were being warned,’ Black responded grimly.
‘About what?’
‘Haas is an assassin. He kills people. That’s his profession and that’s why he’s here.’ Black paused as the small man disappeared through a doorway at the far end of the yacht. ‘And that’s what he intends to do.’
Chapter Thirty-Three
Saturday, December 6, 1941
Kewalo Basin
They each sat on one of the beds, with a folding table brought by the steward between them. The meal had been excellent: macadamia nut salad with papaya seed dressing, steak and crab legs with mashed Hawaiian sweet potatoes and other island vegetables, finished off with pineapple cake, Portuguese sweet roll and more of the wonderful Kona coffee.
Morris Black poured them each another cup of coffee from the thermos jug on the tray and they both lit cigarettes. Black looked at his wristwatch.
‘Ten to ten,’ he said. ‘Our dear friend Arthur will be coming for us soon.’
‘Good,’ Jane replied. ‘Maybe we’ll get to the bottom of all of this.’
‘By seeing that wretched piece of film again? I don’t quite see the point.’
‘Well, for one thing, it was in black and white.’
‘Most films are in black and white. They certainly didn’t have colour film in 1918.’
‘They didn’t have black and white either,’ Jane informed him. ‘It was called orthochromatic, which means it was only sensitive to blue or green. They made people up and lit sets to make it look like black and white but the actual film stock was usually green. What we saw is a copy done sometime in the mid-twenties or maybe even later.’
‘Could it have been staged? You said something about illusions.’
‘Maybe, but it looked pretty real to me.’ Jane shook her head and took another sip of coffee. ‘No, I think it’s the real thing, all right, but it’s not the original film. And that’s not the whole story.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We didn’t see everything that this Levitsky guy shot.’
‘How can you tell that?’
‘The way the film started with all that flutter and so abruptly. Levitsky was used to shooting full-length movies.’ She shook her head again. ‘No, I think the countess just took a pair of scissors and cut off the head end of the film.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I think we’re going to find out in a few minutes. I think that’s what this whole thing’s been about right from the beginning and none of the others know about it.’
‘Including Mrs Simpson?’
‘Who?’ said Jane. Then she grinned. ‘You mean the duchess?’
‘Yes,’ said Black. ‘After all, she and her husband have the most to gain. Even without this mysterious “head end,” as you call it, if he had the film he could blackmail his own brother with it. The film might not put him back on the throne but it might get him a better job than being governor of the Bahamas.’
‘The countess isn’t treating her the same as the others – that’s for sure,’ said Jane. ‘And it fits. This yacht is registered in the Bahamas. It says so right on the back end. She probably sneaked on board and hitched a ride with Wenner-Gren. The duke couldn’t just buzz off like that but that skinny bitch he married could.’
‘He’d have to be in on it, though,’ said Black. ‘He’s part of this whole bloody mess and we’re right in the middle of it.’
‘You think the countess and Wenner-Gren have nasty plans for us?’
‘I don’t think it bloody matters a jot,’ said Morris Black harshly.
This time there wasn’t even a knock on the door. It simply opened and Arthur the thug appeared. He stood aside without saying a word. Jane stubbed out her cigarette in her saucer and went out the door, Morris Black close behind her.
* * *
Vassili Zarubin, Washington, D.C. and New York Rezident station chief for the NKVD, lay hidden in the low brush that covered the rising waste ground directly across Ala Moana Boulevard. Using his favourite British ‘Heath’ binoculars, he could put himself on the main deck of the Southern Cross with ease. His people in both Los Angeles and San Francisco had tracked both the British policeman and his woman friend easily enough once they’d met with the countess and had continued to follow them. The trail eventually had led back to the countess and her Nazi friend, Axel Wenner-Gren.
Over the two days he’d stayed in his hiding place in the brush, using his binoculars, he’d seen an extraordinary assortment of people both on and getting aboard the Southern Cross. In addition to Black and his companion, who seemed to have been brought on board with some element of force involved, he’d seen Vonsiatsky, the kruglyj durak drivelling idiot who’d married a pig heiress and played at being Stalin and Hitler on his Connecticut farm. At one point, focusing on the rectangular windows of the main cabin forward, he was almost sure he’d seen none other than the Duchess of Windsor, which had seemed like utter madness until he’d thought about it for a while.
It was common knowledge that the American would do virtually anything to become queen of England and if the film was all it was purported to be, it might take her a few steps closer to her dream, regardless of the fact that the England in question was under virtual siege by the most powerful army ever known on the planet, its leader a babbling, comically moustached idiot. He smiled at that, suddenly realising almost exactly the same thing could be said about his own country.
Beside him, hidden in the scruffy grass and in its own custom-built case, was a Beretta Model 31 semi-automatic rifle with a nine-shot clip fitted with a British Par-Hale silencer and an Enfield telescopic sight. Between the Beretta and the Tokarev TT-33 pistol slung under his jacket he knew he could wipe out the entire crew and guest list of the Southern Cross in a matter of seconds.
The Russian picked up a pinch of dirt from the ground and let it dribble from his fingers. Not so different from the soil of the Rodina, his homeland. Dirt had no patriotism or pride and ideology was something you hid behind; no, the only thing separating the nations of the earth was their fear and their hate and their secrets.
This secret had remained just that, a secret, for almost twenty-five years and Zarubin wasn’t about to have it revealed now. Everyone who could have been a problem had been eradicated, all but one. He took a deep breath of the perfumed night air. It was a shame, really. He’d enjoyed his short time here and would be sorry to see it come to an end, not to mention the fact that he abhorred Washingto
n winters. Zarubin lifted his wrist and checked the luminous dial of his watch. Only another few hours to wait and the end could begin.
* * *
As before Morris Black and Jane Todd were taken forward to the dining room. The table had been cleared of any food but a silver tray was set up on the sideboard beside the motion picture projector. On the tray were two bottles of vintage port, one Graham’s, the other Smith-Woodhouse. Both were 1935 vintage, which Black knew would make them very expensive indeed.
As before the duchess was sitting on the starboard side of the table, while Moura Budberg was seated at the far end, the imposing figure of Axel Wenner-Gren standing behind her, ready at the projector. An ashtray, a large, ornate gold table lighter in the shape of a swan and a gold cigarette case on the table were centred in front of the duchess, who was already smoking.
Sitting down across from her, both Jane and Morris Black took cigarettes from the case. Morris lit both of them with the swan lighter. Jane sat back in her chair and so did Black, both of them putting on an air of nonchalance that neither of them felt. The arms of their chairs were almost touching, and Jane stretched out her baby finger slightly, just managing to touch the side of Black’s right hand for an instant. He looked startled for an instant then regained his composure, turning a little towards her and smiling.
‘Do we get to drink the booze after the show or before?’ Jane asked, keeping her eyes on the duchess.
‘It can hardly be called booze, my dear. It comes from His Royal Majesty’s private cellar.’
‘The duke, that would be?’ said Jane brightly.
‘Do you make a habit of being obnoxious?’
‘Depends entirely on the company.’
‘It’s getting late,’ Moura Budberg interjected. ‘Her Royal Highness has already seen the film but she said she was interested in finding out what your impressions would be.’
The House of Special Purpose Page 33