“Naw, they just wanted a’nuther towel,” Martina said in a practiced East Ender accent. She pointed to the towel in her bucket and made for the door, slipping past the night housekeeper and walking briskly down the hall. She didn’t look back until she had left the hotel and walked two blocks south.
Satisfied she had drawn no further interest, Martina circled around the neighborhood to Mansfield’s hotel and knocked on the door of his street-view room. He pushed aside a room service table topped with a half-eaten steak and a bottle of Montepulciano and invited her in.
“Any trouble?” He poured her a glass of wine.
“No.” She took the glass and set it down without drinking. “The listening devices are in place and activated.”
She reached into her bucket and handed him a disposable cell phone. “The van will record all conversations and notify you of any potential transmissions. You are welcome to join the technicians for eavesdropping.”
“I’ll just wait for the call.” He gave a smug grin. “Were you able to arrange a meeting with the financial expert?”
“Yes. Ten o’clock tomorrow.” She handed him a folded note with an address.
“Joining me?”
“No, I will be on surveillance duty at that time.”
“A pity. You sure you won’t stay for a drink?”
Martina shook her head. “I wouldn’t want to disrupt your studies.” She handed him the tablet. “I downloaded the contents of a flash drive the woman had stored in her room safe. You’ll also want to check the photographs I took of another object I found in the safe. Good night.”
Martina turned on her heels and let herself out the door. Mansfield activated the tablet and pulled up the file copied from Summer’s flash drive. It was her underwater video footage of the Canterbury. Mansfield watched the sixty-minute recording of the shipwreck, which concluded with a surface shot of the Tavda at dusk near the wreck site.
He started to set aside the tablet, then remembered Martina’s parting comments. He opened the digital folder marked PHOTOGRAPHS, and out sprang a half dozen images of the gold bar. With eyes wide, he stared at the Russian Imperial Seal engraved on it, then reached over and picked up the in-house telephone.
“Room service? I’m going to need another bottle of wine, please.”
39
At precisely eight in the morning, Perlmutter collected Dirk and Summer in his rented Rolls-Royce. It was only a short drive to the hospital, where they caught Jack Dahlgren a few minutes before he was wheeled into surgery. They waited in the cafeteria drinking coffee until Dahlgren cleared the recovery room a few hours later. Groggy from the medication, he laughed with his friends after being told he would make a full recovery. Dirk promised to smuggle him a beer on their next visit, and they left him in the watchful care of a nurse who resembled the singer Adele.
The Rolls was soon on the move again, tailed discreetly by a silver Audi sedan. Their destination was Churchill Gardens and a penthouse flat in a large gray stone building that fronted the Thames River. A cramped elevator carried them to the top floor, where Perlmutter rapped a miniature anchor knocker affixed to a polished hall-end door. A large sandy-haired man holding a pot of tea welcomed them in.
“Just off the boil,” Charles Trehorne said in a soft, upper-schooled accent. “My wife Rosella set it just before slipping out to run some errands. Please do come in.”
The flat resembled a private library. Walnut shelves stuffed with nautical books filled the open floor plan, accented with oriental carpets, antique ship prints, and modern leather furniture. Dirk and Summer looked at each other and smiled.
“Your residence bears a striking resemblance to St. Julien’s home in Washington,” Summer said.
“Yes, the books,” Trehorne said. “An occupational hazard. But I believe Julien has a more exquisite collection.”
“Only in numbers,” Perlmutter said. “We’d make a formidable maritime repository if we consolidated resources.”
“Best in the English-speaking world, I daresay. Please sit down.” He ushered them to a round table beside a glass wall that overlooked the river.
Summer watched a small dredge move by. “Stunning view of the Thames.”
“Inspiring and distracting at the same time,” Trehorne said. He poured tea while Perlmutter helped himself to a plate of scones. Trehorne reached into a nearby book cabinet and produced a bottle of Balvenie single malt Scotch hidden in back. He poured a stiff shot into his cup of tea and passed the bottle to Perlmutter. “A pleasant fortifier, if you like.” Trehorne sampled the results with satisfaction and set his cup back on the table. “So, tell me about this Yankee interest in a Royal Navy C-class cruiser.”
“We located the Canterbury by chance off the coast of Norway,” Dirk said, “then found we weren’t the only ones interested in her.”
“Julien told me about your scrape with the Russians. It leads me to believe there was more to her last voyage than meets the eye.”
“What can you tell us about the Canterbury?” Summer asked.
Trehorne opened a file that he had prepared. “The Canterbury was commissioned in October 1914, the second in the Cambrian class of light cruisers built by John Brown and Company. She was assigned to the Harwich Force early in her career, defending the eastern approaches to the English Channel. She saw light action in the Mediterranean in 1916, then was assigned convoy duty near the end of the year. She was lost off the coast of Norway in February 1917, later determined to have been sunk by the German U-boat UC-29.”
“Nothing out of the ordinary there,” Perlmutter said. “What do you know of her last voyages?”
“Convoy duty.” Trehorne dug deeper into the file. “She made a convoy run to Archangel in November 1916, accompanying a munitions shipment, and returned to Scapa Flow for minor repairs a few weeks later. In the middle of February, she helped escort a second convoy, arriving in Archangel on the eighteenth. But that’s where things turn interesting.” He looked up at Perlmutter and smiled. “She sailed on convoy with three other Royal Navy ships: the Concord, the Marksman, and the Trident. Those vessels returned with the convoy, arriving in Scapa Flow on February twenty-fifth. The Canterbury wasn’t among them, but German records indicate she was sunk by the UC-29 on February twenty-sixth.”
“A day after the convoy had returned to England?” Perlmutter’s lips drooped in skepticism.
“Exactly. It doesn’t make any sense. Of course, the Germans could have been off on their dates, but I did some digging at the National Archives and found this.” He handed Perlmutter a photocopy of a typewritten order from the Office of the British Admiralty to the captain of the Canterbury. Buried within the sailing and refueling orders, Perlmutter found directions for the captain to hold his ship in port for the return of Special Envoy Sir Leigh Hunt.
“Who’s Hunt?” Perlmutter asked.
“At the time of his death, he was Special Envoy to Prime Minister Lloyd George. Up until 1916, he had served as Consul General to the British Embassy in St. Petersburg. His biography indicates he had a strong personal relationship with the Tsar.”
Dirk turned to Trehorne. “So he returned to St. Petersburg in the waning days of the monarchy and held up the Canterbury for a ride home?”
“It would seem so. But I find it unusual that the Canterbury abandoned the return convoy to wait for Hunt and make the voyage alone.”
“You’re certain the ship did in fact wait for Hunt?” Perlmutter asked.
“Yes. He is listed as having perished aboard the Canterbury. I made some inquiries and found that Hunt’s personal papers are stored at the National Archives. They may shed some light on what he was doing back in Russia. But for the moment, it is all a bit of a puzzle.”
“Dr. Trehorne,” Summer said, “I have an additional clue to the mystery.” She reached into her handbag and retrieved the gold bar, which she clunked on
the table.
Trehorne regarded it with mild curiosity. “An attractive girl like yourself shouldn’t be prancing around Westminster with such a treasure.”
Dirk smiled. “I’d pity the fool who would try to take it from her.”
“I will be more than happy to be rid of it,” she said, “if you can advise an appropriate recipient.”
“I have plenty of contacts in the Royal Navy who would be thrilled to have it. It will probably end up in their fine museum in Portsmouth.” He slipped on a pair of reading glasses and studied the bar. “The Romanov crown markings, if I’m not mistaken.”
“That’s our interpretation,” Summer said. “Do you think the Canterbury might have been carrying a large shipment of gold from Russia?”
Trehorne set down the bar and stroked his chin. “Anything is possible, but I would be skeptical. Gold shipments, even in World War I, were very well documented. There’s nothing in the ship’s record that suggests as much. By that time, Russian gold shipments to the Bank of England for munition purchases had already been rerouted to the Pacific.” He shook his head. “Perhaps the Russians know something we don’t. Where exactly aboard ship did you locate this sample?” He passed across the table a black and white photo of the Canterbury.
Dirk pointed to the squat cabin deck beneath the bridge. “The first cabin there on the starboard side.”
“A likely accommodation for a diplomat such as Hunt,” Trehorne said.
Summer frowned. “Destroyed now, thanks to the Tavda.”
“Perhaps by design.” Trehorne’s voice trailed off. He stood and carried the whiskey bottle to the cabinet. “Well, Julien, you best dispose of that gold bar before every Artful Dodger in London gets on your tail. In the meantime, I’ll make an appointment with the National Archives to take a look at Sir Hunt’s papers.”
“Very kind of you to help us,” Summer said. “Is there anything we can do to repay you?”
“There most certainly is.” He glanced about the room, then stuffed the bottle back into its hiding place. “You can kindly not inform my wife how I took my tea.”
40
Across London in the East End neighborhood of Whitechapel, Viktor Mansfield stepped into a dark pub called the Boar’s Head. Wearing a navy Prada sport coat, he was notably overdressed among the sparse crowd drinking at the bar before noon. Only a gray man in a gray suit, seated at a rear booth, appeared similarly out of place. Mansfield ordered two pints of Guinness at the bar and took them to the man’s table.
“Mr. Bainbridge?” he asked.
“Yes.” The single syllable was uttered in the dry monotone of a banker reviewing a loan application. He gave the beers a derisive look. “A bit early for me, I’m afraid.”
“No worries.” Mansfield took a long draw on one of the pints, set the glass aside, and leaned forward. “I need information on a gold shipment from Russia to Britain in early 1917.”
“Yes, that is what I was told,” Bainbridge said. “The Bank of England archives, to which I have full access, are quite clear on the matter. There was a single recorded transfer of twenty million pounds placed into the Bank of England repository in Ottawa in April 1917.”
“Ottawa, Canada?”
“Between 1914 and 1917, there were four major shipments of gold to Britain on agreement for war material. The first occurred in October 1914, when two British warships, the HMS Drake and the HMS Mantois, received a nighttime transfer of eight million pounds’ worth of gold at a rendezvous point thirty miles off Archangel. Despite the attempted secrecy, the Germans learned of the shipment and nearly sank the vessels before they could safely reach Liverpool. Subsequent shipments were sent overland to Vladivostok, where Japanese warships carried the gold to Vancouver. The bullion was transferred to a Bank of England emergency repository in Ottawa, where it was held for safekeeping. There were shipments of ten million in 1915, thirty million in 1916, and the twenty million mentioned in 1917.”
As the banker spoke, Mansfield found the bottom of his Guinness and set the empty glass down. “It doesn’t sound like a substantial amount of gold was actually transferred,” he said, reaching for the second beer.
“Well, sixty-eight million doesn’t sound like a great deal today, but that represents almost thirteen billion in today’s gold and currency values.”
“Thirteen billion?”
Bainbridge nodded indifferently.
“You indicated those shipments were for war material,” Mansfield said. “Are you aware of any transfers on behalf of the royal family or the Tsar personally?”
Bainbridge shook his head. “The shipments were payments for military aid. The first consignment was arranged by the Russian Ambassador to England, Count Benckendorff. The remaining shipments were by agreement of the Russian Finance Minister and Prime Minister Lloyd George, after a meeting in Paris in 1915. Some more distant Romanov family members had holdings in England, but late in the war Nicholas II made a show of bringing home all foreign deposits. By the time of his abdication, he and his immediate family had no assets in the Bank of England.”
Mansfield leaned forward. “I am interested in another transfer that occurred, or may have been scheduled to occur, in 1917 via the Mediterranean.”
Bainbridge stared back. “I am a banker and a banking historian. I deal in records and documents archived at the Bank of England. If there were additional gold shipments received by the bank in 1917, there would be evidence. My search revealed neither an additional deposit, nor evidence of a pending deposit, originating from the Mediterranean or elsewhere. If there had been an additional gold shipment made to England, it didn’t involve the Bank of England.”
“Would there be others, outside of the military, who would have advance logistics information of a proposed gold shipment, whether it went to the Bank of England or some third party?”
“The diplomatic corps might, but security and transport would in all likelihood be handled by the military.” Something tugged at Bainbridge’s mind and he looked out the pub window. Across the street, plastered on a bus stop bench, was an advertisement for a Lloyd’s of London insurance office.
“There is one other avenue you may consider investigating,” he said. “The initial shipment from Archangel in 1914. It was carried on Royal Navy vessels. The War Risks Insurance Office in London insured the shipment and charged the Russian government a premium, along with the transport fee, totaling one percent of the shipment. If your phantom shipment was to be carried on a Royal Navy ship, there’s a fair chance the Insurance Office would have known something about it.”
A wide smile crossed Mansfield’s face. “I knew that you would be of great service.” He stood and bowed. “Thank you, Mr. Bainbridge, for the information and for the beer.” He turned and left the pub, leaving Bainbridge to stare at the twin empty glasses.
41
“Good morning, Summer,” Julien said on the telephone. “I have some intriguing news.”
“Good morning, Julien.” With her free hand, Summer pulled open the curtains of her hotel room and glanced at the cloudy weather. “What kind of news?”
“Charles Trehorne just called me from the reading room of the National Archives, where he got an early start this morning. He says he found an extraordinary document in the papers of Sir Leigh Hunt. He didn’t elaborate but encouraged us to meet him there.”
“Do you think it’s information about the gold?”
“All he said was that it might explain a few questions about the Canterbury. I’m on my way over now and can pick you up in about ten minutes.”
“I’ll grab Dirk and see you downstairs.”
The Rolls was waiting at the curb when the twins exited the hotel. Dirk and Summer climbed in back, where Perlmutter was reading a copy of the London Times.
“Trehorne worked pretty fast,” Dirk said.
“He practically lives at the National A
rchives. Plus, it doesn’t take much of a historical mystery to get him fired up.”
As the Rolls began to exit the hotel drive, they heard a loud-revving car. The Rolls jolted to a stop, amid a crunch of gears, and its occupants were flung forward as the old car suddenly sped in reverse. An instant later, a black car burst by, its side door careening off the Rolls’s front bumper amid a squeal of tires. The speeding car hopped the curb, plowed through a small garden, and slammed into the brick façade of the hotel’s gift shop.
Ravi rolled down the divider window. “Is everyone all right?”
“Yes, thank heavens,” Perlmutter said. “The blasted fool nearly sent us to our demise.”
“Ravi, that was a fine bit of accident avoidance,” Dirk said. “How did you know he was going to strike us?”
Ravi smiled. “Private security driving school. We were taught how to minimize a collision. I heard the loud engine, saw his driving angle, and had an inkling he was headed our way. Fortunately, this old car dropped into reverse in a flash.”
“Do you think he survived?” Summer motioned toward a cloud of smoke around the smashed car.
They exited the Rolls and approached the car, an old black cab whose front end looked like an accordion. The driver’s door was wedged open but the interior was empty. A crowd surrounded the car. There was no sign of a driver.
Examining the car, Dirk noted a racing-type four-point safety harness in the driver’s seat and the absence of a license plate. He scanned the crowd, but whoever was driving had melded into the onlookers, then escaped.
“A missing driver,” Perlmutter said. “That’s odd.”
“Probably wasn’t a registered driver and wished to avoid a jail sentence,” Ravi said, before walking back and examining a long crease on the Rolls’s bumper. Soon the police arrived, an accident report was completed, and they were permitted to leave.