The man in the gabardine mac was nowhere to be seen as Voronov paced in front of the windows of his study. The telephone rang. “Thank God. Where have you been? Never mind. Have you got the men organised? Good. Wertheim tells me they are shifting the gold to the bank this evening. We have to be there this afternoon. I suggest you get over to the house now with the men and get the lie of the land. Keep out of sight.” He glanced over at the old Russian clock on the sideboard. “It’s 2.30 now. You should be there in an hour at the latest. I am going to join you. You have a map, of course. There is a road leading away from Tarkowski’s to the right as you look from his house. It’s called Snowdon Drive. I’ll meet you there. Well out of sight of the house, of course. Don’t do anything until I get there!”
He looked out of the window one more time. No one. Perhaps he had been imagining things yesterday. Like most Russians, he lived in a natural state of paranoia, but maybe this time he was wrong.
Voronov put the telephone down and reached into the bottom drawer of his desk. He had two handguns – a Smith and Wesson .357 Magnum, which the man he had bought it from had told him was the most powerful handgun in the world; and the trusty Tokarev TT, which Maksim had cleaned for him the other day and which might not be the most powerful handgun in the world but had done him good service over many years. In the drawer there was also a canvas bag into which he put the guns and plenty of ammunition. The study door was open and he shouted through it. “Maksim. Get your skinny arse up here. We are going out.”
Maksim appeared out of breath. “Where are we going?”
“Take this bag and get the car. Pull it around to the back entrance. I should put a coat on, if I were you. A thick one. I am going to put a little excitement into your dreary life!”
*
Count Tarkowski was sitting at his desk thinking about what de Souza had just told him. It was no surprise, of course. Thank God he had called Jerzy. The front door bell rang and he hurried out of his study to answer it.
“Come on in Jerzy. And who is this you have got with you?” Jerzy made the introduction. “Ah, Miro Kubicki? We met once in Warsaw before the war, I think. Welcome, welcome to my house.”
The Count and his guests exchanged pleasantries in the hallway of his house as several workmen manouevred around them moving what appeared to be very heavy wooden crates. Tarkowski was clearly very nervous and sweat was trickling down his forehead and cheeks into his wing-collar.
“What is the plan, exactly, Adam? How much is to be moved and how?”
The Count inclined his head towards a door on their right and the two pilots followed Tarkowski into his study. When they were seated, Tarkowski opened the bottle of vodka that was on his desk with some glasses. He poured out three full measures and pushed two glasses towards the men now sitting opposite him, raising his own glass in a toast. “To Poland, gentlemen!” They tossed back the drinks and Tarkowski poured refills.