Tarkowski emerged from his taxi in one of the numerous ancient alleyways of the City of London. The Bank of England, still intact despite the best efforts of Goering’s bombers, was just a hundred yards away. No longer intact was the building covering one side of the lane. Tarkowski tried to remember the name of the building. He had been a frequent visitor to this little corner of the City since his arrival in London, but for the life of him he could not remember what it was called. Something “Equitable”, wasn’t it? “Yorkshire Equitable House” or “Lancashire Equitable House”. Something like that. Anyway, whatever it was called, it was now a smouldering hole in the ground. Rather amazingly, considering the narrowness of the lane and the proximity of the buildings, the property housing the bank which he was about to visit had as yet suffered no visible damage at the hands of the bombers, although it had suffered some at the hands of a graffiti artist who had daubed an unimaginative but to the point personal message in white paint to the Fuhrer – “Fuck off Adolf ”– on the wall to the right of the entrance.
Tarkowski grasped his old leather briefcase tightly to his chest as he nodded at the uniformed doorman and passed through the heavy oak doors into the building’s reception area. On the left was an ancient lift manned by an equally ancient lift operator. “Third floor, please.”
Tarkowski turned to his right out of the lift and strode purposefully down a dark corridor. At the end was a large, black door on which he knocked sharply. The small bronze nameplate to the right of the door proclaimed this to be the London office of the Polish Commonwealth Trading Bank.
A small, wizened man with a few tufts of grey hair sprouting out at random from an otherwise hairless head greeted the Count warmly. “Your Excellency, your Excellency, welcome again. How good of you to grace us with your honourable presence. May I take your hat?”
The man bounced with excitement as he took the honourable gentleman’s trilby and hung it on a stand in the corner. “Mr de Souza is expecting you. Yes, he’s expecting you. Indeed he is. May I show you through? Perhaps some tea? Yes. Yes. I shall bring it straightaway. Come, your Excellency, please.”
The little clerk knocked quickly at the door behind his desk and with a grand gesture bade the Count enter.
“Ah. Count Tarkowski. A pleasure to see you.” A rotund, heavy-featured, middle-aged man rose from behind a mahogany partners desk. He wore a tail coat, striped trousers and sported a cream silk cravat at his neck. A luxuriant pile of bouffant black hair crowned his large head. As he vigorously shook the Count’s hand, sprinkles of dandruff fell onto the shoulders of his coat. “Come, Count. Please. Take a seat.”
Mr Eugene de Souza indicated two plush leather sofas to the left of his desk. On the wall behind them was a large seventeenth-century map of the Great Polish Commonwealth. The print showed Poland at the peak of its territorial imperium, encompassing not only the ancient traditional Polish lands but also the Grand Duchy of Lithuania and much of the Ukraine. Tarkowski paused a moment to admire this brightly coloured reminder of Poland at its greatest, before taking his seat.
De Souza sat down opposite him. “And so, Count Tarkowski. May I ask to what I owe this pleasure? Is this a private visit or are you here in an official capacity?”
“A little of both, de Souza. On the personal side, you may have heard—”
The office door opened and the clerk Wertheim entered, pushing a small trolley. He glided up to them and set down a tray with two cups and saucers and a teapot on the low table that separated the Count and de Souza. “Will you be needing anything else, sirs?”