“Look at those tyre marks, sir.”
“Yes, Sergeant. A large vehicle brought to a halt by this car. The lorry the man was shouting about presumably. A hijacking?” They inspected the car, which revealed nothing of immediate note. Robinson returned and said that an ambulance and more officers were on their way.
“Look, Constable, you’d better stay here with our injured man and those other poor fellows. Which way do you think they might have taken the lorry, Sergeant?”
“If we keep going in this direction, we’ll get to the Finchley Road. That’s our best bet, I should think.”
As the two men got back into their car they heard more gunfire. “Hurry, Sam!”
*
Kowalski hid behind a tree and paused for breath as the police car rushed past him. He muttered a string of violent Polish curses. That idiot, Miro! If only he could have been a little more patient. He replayed in his mind what had just happened. God, what an idiot!
His first thought when he stopped running was to find the Countess and tell her the terrible news, but the arrival of the police car suggested to him that this might not be wise. If he went back to her, he would have to answer all sorts of awkward questions from the police. And what about Miro? He had seen that the hijackers had left him on the pavement. He should have gone back for him, of course, but the police would no doubt sort his friend out. He was alive and he had a thick skull. As for the hijackers, they were probably well away by now. At least two of them were Russians. Government men probably. Well, they had the gold and there was nothing to be done. He had done his best to help Tarkowski, but he’d better get back to Northolt. His plane should be fixed by now and there would be Germans to kill tomorrow. He was breathing more easily now and his nerves were no longer jangling. He walked calmly away from the tree. It wouldn’t take him too long to get to Marylebone Station.
*
The lorry had not made it to the Finchley Road. As they approached the junction, Merlin and Bridges came across it halted in the road, its path blocked by a long, foreign-looking limousine with diplomatic number plates. Another smart saloon car sat beside it. A stocky, grey-haired and moustachioed man in a grey overcoat and a skinny fellow in a gabardine mackintosh were pointing guns at a large, bearded man and two scruffy heavies. The bearded man was handing over a gun to the man in the overcoat. Merlin got out of his car and shouted, “Please, everyone lower your guns.”
The grey-haired man shouted back, “I am a Russian Embassy Official. Grishin is the name. These men are thieves in possession of Russian government property, which I am requisitioning.”
“That is as may be, but you must lower your gun, sir.”
“Only when you have these crooks under control.”
Merlin told Bridges to stand back and began walking slowly towards the men. A shot rang out and he flattened himself on the road. He was unharmed, but heard one of the Russian officials, the skinny one, cry out before falling to the ground.