Stalin's Gold

Stalin's Gold by Mark Ellis





About the author

Mark Ellis lives in London and has been a barrister, corporate executive and entrepreneur. Stalin’s Gold is the second in his Frank Merlin series. Princes Gate is the first.





Acknowledgements


Many thanks again are due in particular to Jon Thurley and Patricia Preece for their advice and great help in pulling this book together. Also thanks to the readers of early drafts for comments and advice: Mair Ellis, my mother, who sadly died just before the publication of this book and who was my great fan in all things, Kate Ellis, Keith Ross, John Harrington and Geoff Barclay. Thank you to Victoria for editing help and to all my family for their support. Special thanks are due to my good friends, Gregg Berman and Norman Lang, who have done so much to help with the promotion of my work in the USA and have been great sources of encouragement. Audrey Manning yet again coped brilliantly with the deciphering and typing of the many drafts. Thank you Audrey. Last, but not least, thank you to all at Troubador Publishing Ltd who helped with the production of this book.





Prologue


Moscow, December 1938

Lavrentiy Pavlovich Beria was not used to feeling intimidated. It was rather his job in life to intimidate others. Some might say that “intimidate” was quite a polite word for what he did. One month ago he had been appointed head of the NKVD, the state security service, by his Georgian compatriot, Josef Vissarionovich Dzhugashvili, otherwise known as Stalin. In this position it was his task to hunt down, terrorise, torture and, more often than not, exterminate the enemies of the state. Since, in the mind of his boss, this category of “enemies of the state” often appeared to embrace the majority of the Russian population, this was no easy task. However, as when he had run Georgia with blood-soaked efficiency, he approached it with ruthless determination. A powerful, self-confident and brilliant man nevertheless, as he sat in the leather armchair beside Stalin’s surprisingly modest desk, Beria was feeling intimidated. Through the window he could see the snow beginning to fall in large, fluffy flakes down towards the courtyard. The roofs of the Kremlin already carried a thick layer of snow from yesterday’s blizzard. He removed his thick-lensed spectacles and gave them a wipe with his red handkerchief, then rose and walked around the room in an attempt to relieve his anxiety. Pausing at a bookcase, he pulled out a heavy volume of Shakespeare’s plays, which fell open at a passage from Macbeth.

“Found anything interesting?” The soft voice with its still thick Georgian accent made Beria jump and the book fell from his hand. “Now then, Lavrentiy Pavlovich, be careful there. That is one of the first Russian translations of Mr Shakespeare. It is worth a rouble or two.”

Josef Stalin emerged fully from the side door through which he had gained access to the room and bent down to pick up the book, which was still open at the page Beria had been reading. “Ah, what have we here! ‘There’s daggers in men’s smiles. The near in blood, the nearer bloody!’ How true, don’t you think? An important thing for men like us to remember. Duncan was not wary enough of those close to him and got himself killed. A mistake we shall not make, my friend, eh?”

Stalin smiled broadly, dislodging a few remaining specks of breakfast from his thick moustache, and patted Beria gently on his shining bald head. “Come.”

As Beria went back to his chair, Stalin sat down at his desk, lit a pipe, then removed a folder from a drawer. “Gold, Lavrentiy. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

Unfortunately, Beria did. “The Spanish consignment?”

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