“Oh, yes.”
“Martins Bank was the correspondent bank of a Polish bank, what was its name now?” Charlie shook ash into an ashtray as he tried to remember.
“Yes, I have it. There was a bank called the Polish Commonwealth Trading Bank. I had to oversee the paperwork on some large financial transfers from Poland in 1939. There were a few accounts set up, the names meaning nothing to me, but I understood from the manager of that bank that they were government transfers. He didn’t spell it out, but he hinted that it was some cautious forward thinking by the authorities, in case things turned out as in fact they did.”
“A lot of money?”
“Oh, yes, millions in sterling terms. There was some bullion too, as I recall.”
“You don’t by any chance recall the name of the manager you dealt with?” Charlie stubbed his cigarette out and fumbled for another.
“De something, I think. De Souza, that’s it. Eugene de Souza.”
They heard the front door slamming and Charlie’s young son, Paul, ran into the room and jumped on his uncle. His wife, Beatrice, followed, carrying a large shopping bag. As she put it down, she sighed with relief before walking over to pat Merlin’s hand. “There you are, Frank. You’ll stop for lunch, of course. I managed to get hold of some nice lamb chops.”
*
At the sound of the voice on the other end of the telephone, Grishin’s blood ran cold. Down the line he could somehow sense Beria’s pitiless eyes inspecting his soul through those sinister spectacles of his, while from across the room the relentless eyes in Stalin’s portrait did the same. It was only a few months since Beria had prompted Stalin into ordering the massacre at Katyn. Around 20,000 of Poland’s finest men had perished including nearly all of the Polish military officers taken prisoner by the invading Soviet forces in 1939. A few officers had survived to undergo interrogation in the Lubianka and Beria’s call had been about one of them. Apparently this officer had, as Beria put it, inevitably seen fit to accommodate his interrogators with the answers to their questions, after a little discomfort. Grishin knew well what agonies “a little discomfort” might encompass.
“There has been a development that might interest you, Grishin.” Beria’s wheedling voice always went through Grishin like a fingernail on a blackboard.
“Yes, Comrade Beria.”
“You may recall from your time in Spain that various shipments of bullion were made to us in consideration of the substantial assistance we were giving the ultimately useless Republican forces.”
Grishin shuddered. “Yes, Comrade.”
“By chance a while back, it was discovered that there had been a discrepancy in one of the shipments.”
“Was there, Comrade?”
“You know very well, Grishin. Don’t pretend otherwise. One of your subordinates – a Pole, you can never trust a Pole, of course – stole millions of roubles worth of gold from the Soviet State. Unfortunately, the man died before we tracked him down. You know all this, of course.”
Grishin cleared his throat. “I do not.”
“There, there, Grishin. No need to say anything. The Vozhd is all-seeing and all-knowing and so are his loyal chief lieutenants, such as I.” Grishin could imagine him preening and puffing himself up like a peacock as he sat at his desk in the Lubianka. “Overall you acquitted yourself well in Spain and haven’t put a foot wrong since then. While not forgotten or forgiven, the great leader has chosen, how shall we say, to put your failing concerning the gold in abeyance.”