The Countess sat in her bedroom, trembling. She did not have a good feeling about things. On the dressing table was a picture of her beautiful boy Karol, sharing a beer with some friends on their old country estate outside Warsaw. She remembered the day the photograph had been taken. There had been a game of tennis in which Karol had excelled, as always. Tennis, riding, shooting, swimming – Karol had been wonderfully good at all these things. A handsome, well-built, young man. Now what sort of shape was he in, assuming he was in any shape at all?
Reaching into one of the dressing table drawers she pulled out one of the ingots. She had kept one back as a memento. It was probably not wise, but… The artistry that had produced the ingots was wonderful. To have such a talent must be a joy. But then, to die with such a talent not properly fulfilled – that was truly tragic. Her beloved Karol had so many talents to fulfil, not just sporting ones but more important ones. In the right world Karol would be a prime minister, a general, a… The Countess’s train of thought was interrupted by a strange noise. She hadn’t heard it for a while, but recalled the familiar sound from the time when they were escaping from Poland. It was the sound of small arms gunfire.
*
The Count stepped carefully down from the cab, still covered by the revolver in Trubetskoi’s hand. Before following him, Kowalski touched Kubicki’s arm and whispered in Polish, “Let’s be careful, Miro. We don’t know how many men we are dealing with.”
When the four men were all out of the cab and gathered in front of the lorry, the Count still with a gun at his head, Trubetskoi made a dismissive gesture with his free hand and shouted “clear off” to the driver, who was cowering in terror beside Kubicki. The man needed no second bidding and ran as fast as his fat legs would carry him until he was around the corner and out of sight. Jake got out from behind the wheel of the Austin and joined Trubetskoi and Billy.
Tarkowski looked with disdain at Trubetskoi as he used his free hand to pat the Count down for weapons. Then the Russian pointed at Kowalski and Kubicki. “Your weapons. Hand them over. Now!” Kowalski hesitated then handed over his gun without resistance. But as Trubetskoi took the pistol, a thin smile of triumph playing on his lips, Kubicki suddenly pulled his revolver from his waistband and raised the muzzle to Trubetskoi’s forehead. “You are not having my gun, you fucker.” As he watched the confidence drain from Trubetskoi’s face, he smiled and pulled the trigger. Trubetskoi stood for a moment, mouth agape and the black hole in the middle of his forehead opening like a third eye, before he slumped to the ground. As he fell, a spasm in his hand caused his finger to pull the trigger of the gun he was holding to the Count’s head and the Count gave a strangulated cry as he too fell to the ground. The two lifeless bodies came to rest only inches from each other, their leaking heads combining to produce a single viscous and expanding pool of red blood.