Miro Kubicki sat in the cockpit of his Hurricane, his dark head throbbing in time with the engine. He had drunk a little too much vodka with his friends last night to mourn Kilinski. Jan had clearly been very upset and Jerzy very gloomy. As far as he was concerned, the pushy little Jewish prick had got what was coming to him. Kilinski had pretended not to be a Jew, but Miro could always tell. His father had educated him well about how to treat Jews. When out hunting once with his father and grandfather in their estate near Krakow, they had come across a small caravan containing a family of proverbial wandering Jews – a father, mother and two teenage boys. Such sport they had had – his father had told the males they had a ten-minute start; they ran off into the woods and then they were mercilessly run down and hacked to death. Returning to the caravan, his grandfather had insisted on Miro having the wailing mother, a woman who would have been quite attractive were it not for the tears rolling down her cheeks and the shrieking of her distorted mouth. After he had done his business, for what was only the second time in his young life, his father had pulled out his revolver and shot her neatly in the middle of her forehead. The caravan had been torched and the hunting party had happily made its way home. The estate and his family’s wealth had disappeared several years ago now, of course. All thanks to Jewish bankers and his father’s profligacy. God, he hated Jews.
He knew, of course, that Jan had some Jewish blood in him. Perhaps that’s why he was so upset about Kilinski – these people always bonded together, didn’t they? He had a soft spot for Jan though – he didn’t look Jewish and he had such charm. His sister was a bit of a looker too, as he had noticed on her recent trip to the base. Jerzy had said something about the policeman walking out with her. That was a pity, but things might change. Many things changed overnight in this war.
One of the ground crew waved at him. The blocks were away. He saw Jan manoeuvring his plane in front of him and then accelerating into the sky. They were heading southeast towards Dover and the Channel. The concentration required for flying his Hurricane soon drove away his headache. How many kills could he add to his tally today?
*
Merlin had arranged to meet Sonia at 11am by the main kiosk in St James’s Park. They bought some currant-buns and cups of tea and sat by the lake, watching a group of ducks dive-bombing the water.
“So, it is sad about Jan’s friend, Frank. Do you know how he died?”
“No. He was in the rubble of a bombed building so the obvious cause is being crushed by debris. I just feel that’s not the answer. It appears that he was on some sort of personal mission and I can’t believe that he was just a mundane bombing casualty. There should be a post-mortem going on now.”
Sonia idly tore off a piece of bun and threw it towards the ducks. “Any idea at all about this ‘mission’ he was on?”
“Not really. There are just a few scattered clues. We found some gold on him. It has the stamp of some ancient Polish family on it.”
“Which family?”
“Stanislawicki. Did I pronounce that right?”
Sonia threw the rest of her bun towards the ducks. “Very good, Frank. I have heard the name. I think they have been around a long time, yes?”
“Apparently so. We also found a picture of an ancient Aztec necklace or amulet or whatever it’s called. Kilinski also paid a visit to a leading member of the Polish delegation here in London, a Count Tarkowski.”
“Again, I recognise the name. Why was he visiting this man? What had Ziggy to do with the Polish delegation?”