by Mark Ellis
The mottled teeth reappeared. “My very heartiest congratulations, Frank. I’m sure you’ll make a superb father! What excellent news!”
Merlin hadn’t quite known what reaction to expect from the AC but this effusive one was a surprise. “Th… thank you, sir. I thought you might be… erm… a little…”
“A little what, Frank? Put out, censorious, disappointed? Goodness, I may have my faults but small-mindedness is not one of them. Mrs Gatehouse likewise. She liked Sonia very, very much. Told me she would be delighted to see you settle down with such a fine woman.” He clasped Merlin’s hand and shook it vigorously.
“Thank you, sir.” There was a moment’s awkward silence during which Merlin managed to extricate his hand from Gatehouse’s firm grip. “It’s just that, our not being married, I thought you might see as an embarrassment to you or to the service.”
“Poppycock, Frank. You must do as you see fit. I assume naturally that you are standing by the young lady?”
“Of course, sir. I… I… love her.”
“Good! Very good! May I be so presumptuous as to enquire if you plan to make her your wife?”
“I hope to but, er… we haven’t discussed it properly yet.”
“Well, you better had, hadn’t you?”
* * *
Vichy
Admiral Darlan and Pierre Laval sat beside the open French doors in Laval’s suite. In the distance a church clock was striking midnight.
“I saw your light on as I was passing along the corridor. I hope you don’t mind being disturbed at this late hour.”
“Not at all, François.” Laval gestured towards the pile of papers on his nearby desk. “I was working, as you can see. The interruption was welcome. I’m sorry I have nothing to offer you by way of refreshment. We could call down but experience tells me that room service is not very responsive after 11 o’clock.”
Darlan sank back into the plush leather padding of his chair. “Do not concern yourself, Pierre. I just thought I’d pop in to hear your views on today’s news from London.”
“What news in particular?”
“Come now, my friend. You know very well. The MI5 arrest and detention of two of our officers. They were your men, weren’t they?”
Laval pursed his lips. “They were part of my team, yes.” He sighed and shook his head. “They will be missed but there are others.”
“Very embarrassing, though. What does the marshal say?”
“He doesn’t know about it. Probably best kept that way.”
“I’ll not tell him, my friend, but there are plenty who will be happy to do so, with the appropriate dollop of poison. You are not short of enemies.”
Laval stroked his moustache. “These things are bound to happen from time to time, François. One cannot expect all wartime operations to go smoothly.”
“And what of the Germans? What have they to say?”
“Herr Abetz rang to commiserate. He said he was confident that we would be able to find alternative new sources soon and I do indeed have other irons in the fire. He said his SS man Schmidt was particularly grateful for the contribution of our fallen countrymen in London.”
“By ‘fallen’, Pierre, do you mean to say that they have already been executed?”
“I don’t know that for a fact but if it hasn’t yet happened, it will soon enough.” Laval loosened his shirt collar. “Of course, one or other of the men must have become sloppy. If I had to put money on it, I’d say Aubertin. Dumont was a real professional.” Laval closed his eyes for a second. “Whether it is worthwhile to carry on protecting his wife now, I really don’t know.”
Darlan rose. “I don’t know what you are talking about, Pierre, and I don’t think I want to. I can see that you are tired and I am too. I’ll bid you goodnight.”
“Anything further on the fall of Damascus?”
“No, Dentz has not been in communication.”
Laval creaked to his feet. “What hope Beirut now, eh? I suppose it’s too much to hope that de Gaulle won’t fly in to Syria to gloat.” The admiral shrugged wearily as Laval escorted him to the door.
CHAPTER 18
Thursday 26 June
London
“Here is the latest report on German progress, Prime Minister.” “Thank you, Jock.” Churchill set down his pen – he had been heavily annotating a paper on munitions sent by Commander-in-Chief Sir Alan Brooke – and took the file from his private secretary, Jock Colville. A smile appeared on the PM’s face as he began to read. After battering Britain from the air for more than nine months, Hitler had apparently postponed his UK invasion plans and turned his military offensive eastwards.
Four days earlier, Germany had attacked Russia, its erstwhile ally. Of course, if Hitler defeated Russia there wouldn’t be much to smile about. Most of Churchill’s senior officers were pessimistic about Russia’s chances. One or two thought Stalin wouldn’t last more than three weeks. However, whatever the outcome, Hitler’s change of direction had, at the very least, given Britain some breathing space.
The report told Churchill that the Germans were making strong progress everywhere. Hitler’s forces had launched their attack on several fronts along the length of Russia’s western border and were rolling rapidly through the Baltic states, Byelorussia, the Soviet sector of Poland and the Ukraine. The Luftwaffe had already destroyed thousands of Russian aircraft before they’d even got off the ground. The prime minister got to the end of the report and set down the file, his smile now replaced by the familiar bulldog jut of the chin.
“All seems to be going well for Herr Hitler. So far, at least.”
“Yes, sir. But it is a huge undertaking.”
“Operation Barbarossa, Hitler has called it, apparently. Redbeard is presumably a reference to the Holy Roman Emperor of that name. Brooke gives the Russians greater credit than some of his colleagues. He still thinks Hitler will win but that it will take him three or four months. If he’s right, that’s three or four valuable months for us to continue building up our defences against the Nazis’ return.”
“Or three or four months to persuade Roosevelt to get America into the war.”
“Quite so, Jock. Then again, perhaps the Russian soldiers will surprise the Nazis yet, as they did Napoleon. I wonder how Mr Stalin is taking this turn of events? He must now regret executing all those talented generals of his in recent years.”
“It is somewhat ironic, isn’t it, sir, after the Russians cobbled together their disgraceful Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact with the Germans?”
“Indeed it is, Jock.” Churchill consulted his watch. Lunchtime soon. That was why his stomach was rumbling. “Sit down for a minute, why don’t you? These papers can wait for a moment.” Colville did as he was bid. “What other news?”
“Arrangements are well in hand for the changeover in the Middle East. Auchinleck will take charge in Cairo next month and Wavell will transfer to Delhi as per your orders, sir.”
Churchill gazed off towards the windows at the end of the room. “I still feel a little bad about Archie Wavell but things out there need a shake-up. Claude Auchinleck is a good man.”
“A friend, recently in Cairo, told me that while Wavell is sorry to go there’s one part of his job he says he won’t miss.”
“And what is that?”
“Having to babysit de Gaulle.”
Churchill snorted with laughter. “He’s still out there, isn’t he? No doubt scheming to organise a triumphal march for himself through Damascus. Well, at least it keeps him out of my hair. And this Aubertin case must be causing him some grief.”
Colville looked perplexed. “What case is that, sir?”
“Sorry, Jock. Forgot you didn’t know about it. It’s meant to be hush-hush. I’d better keep it under my hat or I’ll be in MI5’s bad books. Let’s just say something very embarrassing to the general occurred. Mr Merlin at the Yard was involved. He and Swanton did a good job.”
Churchill’s eyes wandered to the paper he had be
en working on earlier. Colville took his cue and got to his feet. “Are you planning a trip to Ditchley Park again this weekend, sir?”
“I think so. Ronald told me they were hoping to have a showing of Korda’s new picture about Nelson – That Hamilton Woman I think it’s called. Laurence Olivier and his pretty new wife, Vivien Leigh. Sounds just my cup of cocoa.”
* * *
Buenos Aires
Pulos listened as Victor gave the cleaning woman her instructions on the other side of the door. He had made it clear to his valet that he wanted a particularly thorough job done today. His wife was returning from Bariloche later and no evidence must remain of his dalliance with the two charming chicas Pulos had brought home from the Club Atlantico in the early hours of the morning.
The office could wait a while today. Pulos would stay at home until the woman was finished so he could check her work personally. His wife had a very sharp nose for this sort of thing. Although he knew very well about the fun and games she got up to on her trips away, he did not want to start their next period of cohabitation on the back foot.
He finished dressing and went into the drawing room. He had told Victor he didn’t want any breakfast but Pulos was pleased to see his valet setting down a cup of steaming coffee on the table beside his favourite chair. The businessman sat down and drank with a sigh of pleasure. The moment he replaced the empty cup on its saucer, his desk telephone rang. He rose and went to take the call. It was his secretary.
“Señor, another cable has arrived. From Mr Arbuthnot again. Shall I read it to you?”
Pulos groaned. “If you must, my dear.”
“As per previous wires bank in very difficult situation. Please transfer funds requested. Also still most urgent you return to London. Please arrange immediate passage. PS Fleming reported en route to BA.”
Pulos groaned again. This was the fourth cable this week asking him to send money and to return to London. He had also been informed of Fleming’s resignation and Philip’s assumption of the chairmanship and knew that Sackville was overrun with policemen and Bank of England officials. He had been told about Simon Arbuthnot’s will and of the discovery of the bearer shares, which were now in police custody. In the circumstances, surely Philip and the board must be aware that his return to London was as likely as Hitler agreeing to take tea with the Chief Rabbi of Argentina?
Pulos returned to his chair and pondered the one new item of information in the cable – Sidney Fleming was on his way to Argentina. Pulos could hardly blame the man for clearing out. The difficult question was whether Pulos should welcome him as a potentially useful ally or as an unwanted ship-boarder to be repelled. The Greek had considered his position at length and continued to feel it was a strong one – no, he didn’t have the bearer shares in his possession and was unlikely to ever enjoy such possession, but he did have physical control of the businesses. That was the crucial thing.
Pulos called out for another coffee. The shares came to mind again – and then Marco. He realised now that it was a good thing Marco had failed in the task Pulos had given him in London. If Marco hadn’t held back and allowed someone else to muscle in, his bodyguard might have been Powell’s murderer. And from what he now understood, possession of Powell’s message wouldn’t have led Pulos to the shares. He had heard there was some complex code involved, which he doubted he’d have been able to crack. So it was good that Marco hadn’t got blood on his hands. Good that he had walked away from Flood Street. Pulos resolved to be a little nicer to Marco than he had been since that night.
Victor appeared with fresh coffee and a plate of biscuits. The Greek picked up a chocolate confection and munched it thoughtfully. What could the people in London really do? Would Philip travel out to see him? Would the police or the Bank of England officials make the journey? He couldn’t really see it, given the wartime situation. If Philip did come, Pulos was confident he could make mincemeat of him. Would the British authorities try to intervene somehow in the Meyer litigation? Surely that would be counterproductive to any assertion of ownership of Enterprisas Simal by Sackville or the Arbuthnots? If the Meyers were in the right, then the shares and underlying business were theirs and theirs alone.
He picked up another biscuit, a coconut one this time. Perhaps Fleming’s keen intellect would be of use? But if Pulos had to make room to accommodate him, it would cost him money. A lot of money. That thought reminded him that there were more transfers to arrange today. Whatever happened, he was going to make sure his personal cash reserves were significantly boosted through the siphoning of company funds. He had some loyal, malleable accountants who would cover his tracks.
Second coffee finished, he rose and went over to his desk. Among the pile of papers was yesterday’s letter from the company lawyers appraising him of the disturbing news that Manuel Lopez, the second judge in the Meyer case, had suffered a serious heart attack. Pulos’s lawyers had only just managed to get him onside a few days before. For the right amount of money, he too had been for sale. Now they would have to work hard again to ensure his replacement was similarly amenable.
Pulos sighed. There was a lot on his plate but first things first. He would go and see how the cleaning was coming along. Some ladies’ undergarments were bound to have lodged themselves in hidden crannies and his help might be required.
* * *
London
“Hello, darling. You managed to get home early as you promised. How wonderful. I’ve made us a stew. Rabbit stew.”
Merlin closed the door. “One of my favourites.”
“I knew that would please you. And there’s a nice bottle of red wine. But first I have a bottle of beer for you. A light ale. I’ll just go and get it.”
Merlin went to sit in the living room. He had walked back from work on what was a very warm night and was perspiring. The windows were open and he was happy to feel the caress of a light breeze. Sonia reappeared with his beer. He took the drink then reached out with his free hand to grasp her hand and pull her gently on to his lap. “And how was your day, darling?”
“Oh, you know, the usual. Very busy. Some nice customers. Some horrible ones. An argument about clothing coupons. The usual. How was yours?”
“All right. No, sorry. Better than all right. The investigation into Hess is going nowhere so Peter Johnson has been sent back to us and the AC has finally relented about Tommy Cole and allowed his return from Portsmouth. Both look fit and well. I was able to fill them in on all they’ve been missing.”
Sonia stroked his cheek then gave it a peck. “Perhaps you could do the same for me later. You’ve been so busy and I’ve lost track.”
“I’ll tell all over dinner. How long will that be?”
“Another 20 minutes or so.”
“Are you not having a drink?”
“I’ll just have a small glass of wine with the food.”
Merlin set down his beer and hugged Sonia close. “Darling, we really need to talk about things.”
Sonia pulled back and smiled coquettishly. “Things? What things?”
“You know very well, Sonia. We need to discuss what to do regarding the baby and us.”
“And what is it you propose regarding the baby and us, Frank?”
“Well, I suppose that’s the key word, isn’t it? Propose, I mean.”
Sonia extricated herself from Merlin’s arms, stood up and moved to the armchair opposite. She arched an eyebrow at Merlin. “Very well, Frank. I believe there is a traditional way of doing this in England and you know that I am a traditional kind of girl.”
Merlin couldn’t help but splutter with laughter as he got up and walked over to Sonia, arms outstretched. Sonia took his hands in hers. He dropped to his knee. “My dear darling Sonia, would you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”
Sonia looked very serious for a moment. Then her eyes began to well up. She stood and pulled Merlin to his feet. Putting her arms around him, she buried her head in his shoulder. Merlin could feel her heart pound
ing hard against him.
She kept him waiting but finally raised her head and spoke. “Of course, my darling. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to become Mrs Frank Merlin. Kocham cię. I love you. I love you very much.” They kissed. Then they kissed again. As he pulled her tightly against him, they could hear the roar of fighter engines above and the wailing of a siren starting up somewhere nearby. Timely reminders, at this moment of sublime personal happiness, that the world into which their child was to be born was a dark and perilous one.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mark Ellis is a thriller writer from Swansea and a former barrister and entrepreneur.
Mark grew up under the shadow of his parents’ experience of the Second World War. His father served in the wartime navy and died a young man. His mother told him stories of watching the heavy bombardment of Swansea from the safe vantage point of a hill in Llanelli, and of attending tea dances in wartime London under the bombs and doodlebugs.
In consequence, Mark has always been fascinated by World War II and, in particular, the Home Front and the fact that while the nation was engaged in a heroic endeavour, crime flourished. Murder, robbery, theft and rape were rife. This was an intriguing, harsh and cruel world – the world of DCI Frank Merlin.
Mark Ellis is also the author of Princes Gate and Stalin’s Gold, the first two titles in the DCI Frank Merlin series, and is a member of the Crime Writers’ Association.
He divides his time between homes in London and Oxford.
markellisauthor.com Facebook.com/MarkEllisAuthor @MarkEllis15
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