Merlin looked out of the car window at another collapsed building and remembered that the date matched his bleak mood. “Do you realise it’s Friday the 13th today, Sergeant?”
Merlin and Bridges were driving back from St Pancras Mortuary, where Jan Sieczko had been able to confirm Kilinski’s identity despite the mess the rats had made of his face. Height, hair, the uniform and the gold had all been indicative, but the clincher was Kilinski’s right hand. Kilinski had lost part of his little finger in a crash-landing when defending his homeland from the Nazi invasion. Jan recognised the stump on Kilinski’s hand. Jan had assumed that Kilinski had been killed in the raid and his assumption had been allowed to stand. Merlin looked forward to hearing the results of the post-mortem.
Bridges eased their car past some heavy masonry that had tumbled into Charing Cross Road from a damaged office building. “Unlucky day for quite a few people, I’d say, sir.”
“Certainly for Kilinski.”
“Wouldn’t that have been the day he bought it?”
“I suppose so if you want to be pedantic, Sergeant.”
They passed St Martin in the Fields, which had so far escaped damage and was in fact being used as an air raid shelter. They were still having lunchtime classical concerts there and a sign advertised a performance of Handel’s Water Music for the coming Sunday. Perhaps he would take Sonia if he had time.
*
The Count summoned the waiter and ordered a bottle of Krug. He had brought his wife to Claridges for dinner to see if he could cheer her up and take her mind off things. He had also made some attempt during the day to see whether some further enquiries could be made about Karol. Voronov had told Maria that Karol was still alive in the Lubianka. The use of the word “alive” for an inhabitant of the Lubianka was, Tarkowski guessed, something of an exaggeration. In any event, one of Sikorski’s adjutants, Tomaczewski, a Pole of noble ancestry like himself, was a family friend of Sir Stafford Cripps, who in May had taken up the thankless position of British Ambassador to Soviet Russia. Thanks to the Ribbentrop–Molotov Treaty, under which Russia and Germany had agreed a non-aggression pact, Russia had joined Germany in carving up Poland and various other countries in Eastern Europe. Cripps had been given the herculean task of extracting Russia from this agreement and bringing Stalin into the fold. This seemed to the Count to be a very long shot and he doubted Cripps had any influence to wield in Moscow at all. However, Tomaczewski had promised to get word to Cripps to enquire about Karol’s current status. Any real news would be good news to Maria, he hoped. He told her of his efforts over the second glass of champagne, but she seemed little impressed.
“I know he is in prison and is alive. How can this Cripps person get him out? I don’t think Stalin and his cronies will give a fig for Mr Cripps.”
“Sir Stafford, my love. Sir Stafford Cripps.”
“You think Stalin will be impressed with this knighthood, Adam? Pfft.” She clicked her fingers in disgust. “We must deal with Voronov. It is a crook like him that Stalin will respect.”
Tarkowski finished off his champagne glass. “Are we not at risk of overstating Karol’s importance here? Perhaps the great leader is unaware of Karol’s existence. It is a case of dealing with lesser creatures.”
Maria laughed disdainfully. “I am sure Stalin knows of Karol. I should think that Stalin’s favourite bedside reading is a list of all his prisoners at the Lubianka and a record of their daily tortures.”
“Hmm.” Tarkowski was aware of several pairs of eyes looking over at the sound of Maria’s raised voice. “Perhaps we should order, dear.”
As he called for the menu, a tall, forbidding man in evening wear passed by his table in the company of an equally tall and forbidding female. The man caught the Count’s eye. “Ah, Count. Good evening to you. My sister Maud. This is Count Tarkowski, dear. A leading member of the Polish government in exile.”