“Of course, Kyril, what do you take me for?”
Trubetskoi guided Voronov to a gap in the bushes at the end of the road from where they could get a good view of the loading operation in process. “Ah, there, I see that Polish bastard.” Voronov sighed. “And is that the lovely Countess I can see? Yes, such a fragrant beauty. Will I taste of it again? Probably not after today.”
“What was that, Kyril?”
“Nothing, Misha. Nothing. And where are these RAF men you mentioned? Ah, there they are. Fine strapping men, no doubt, but no match for us, I think.” Voronov slapped the shoulders of their two cockney accomplices. “Now, let us all get in my car. There is room for all. We shall go over the plan one more time. Where is the vehicle you stole earlier and came in? Ah, yes, over there, good.”
*
The Countess appeared and walked towards her husband and the two pilots who were talking on the pavement in front of their house. She embraced Kowalski and kissed him on the cheek, shook Kubicki’s hand then turned to her husband. “My darling, why don’t you take this? It might come in useful.”
The Countess produced a small Colt revolver from her handbag. The Count made a sign to indicate that her offer was unnecessary, but Kubicki grasped his arm. “Take it, Count. I’ll have it and Jerzy can have your service pistol. I know you said it was old, but we might as well. I dare say we have had more practice with firearms than you recently. Any more ammunition?”
The Count smiled wanly at his wife. “My darling. Could you get the bullets from my drawer in the bureau?”
Twenty minutes later, the loading of the gold was complete. The afternoon light softened as the sun moved behind some clouds. The Count looked up and down the apparently empty street. “I can’t see anything untoward, can you, gentlemen?”
Nothing disturbed the peace of the Hampstead afternoon save for the gentle chugging of the lorry engine, which the driver had just restarted. The three Poles got into the cab alongside the driver, a heavyset man with a sour face. It was a tight fit. The gears were engaged and the vehicle moved off and turned down Snowdon Drive, heading for the Finchley Road.
In his car, Voronov sat up. “Here comes the lorry, Maksim. Trubetskoi and the two Englishmen will be following it in their Austin and you follow them. There, they are turning right.”
Voronov was stating the obvious, but Maksim did as he was told. As he turned the Packard saloon into another leafy suburban street, there was a heavy revving engine sound and then fifty yards ahead they saw the Austin driven by Jake accelerate past Tarkowski’s truck and pull in front of it. With a screech of brakes, the lorry came to a halt, its cargo shifting noisily on its flat-bed but remaining in position. A mixture of Russian and English curses filled the air as Misha Trubetskoi and Billy jumped out of the Austin and ran up to level their guns at the driver’s cabin.
Voronov put a hand on his servant’s arm. “Stop here, Maksim. Let’s keep our distance.”
The abrupt halt had thrown the lorry driver, the Count and the two Polish officers hard against the windscreen. The Count was at the open passenger side window, looking dazed and Trubetskoi hurried to place his revolver against the Count’s forehead.
“You know why we are here, my Polish friend. I have many men with me. Slowly does it. Get out with your hands up and you…” He addressed himself to Kowalski, who was sitting next to the Count. “No funny business or the Count will be joining his ancestors.” As Billy covered the driver and Kubicki on the other side of the cab, Trubetskoi grasped the door handle and pulled.
*