A Very British Ending (Catesby Series) (7 page)

After Miss Greenwood went on leave, Catesby was surprised how flawlessly Gerald had taken over her clerical duties. He dealt with routine correspondence efficiently and typed replies in Catesby’s own style for signature – and sometimes forged that too.

‘Sir.’

‘I wish you wouldn’t call me that.’

‘How should I address you?’

‘Just say what you want to say.’

‘You have an invitation to dinner.’ Gerald smiled. ‘And it’s addressed to “Your Excellency” – so maybe my calling you “sir” is too modest.’

‘Is it to some arty thing?’ Catesby’s dip cover, third secretary in the cultural attaché’s section, meant he had to go to a lot of concerts and exhibitions.

‘I don’t know. The address appears to be a Rhineland
Schloss
.’

‘From a baron, I hope?’

‘Indeed it is. Baron Roman Nikolai Maximilian von Ungern-Sternberg. Oddly, he signs his name in Russian. Look.’

Catesby took the letter and smiled. ‘Have you never heard of Baron Roman von Ungern-Sternberg?’

‘No. Is he famous?’

‘Infamous, I should say – and very dead.’ Catesby went over to a bookcase and found a history of the civil war that tore Russia apart after the Bolshevik Revolution. He turned to the appropriate page and handed the book to Gerald.

‘It sounds,’ said Gerald, ‘that he was a bad guy.’

Catesby shrugged. ‘We shouldn’t make moral judgements in our business.’

‘But you always do.’

Catesby smiled. ‘That’s top secret.’

Catesby decided it wouldn’t be a good idea to drive a British Humber emblazoned with
Corps Diplomatique
number plates to the castle. His section had access to a few German cars with ordinary plates. Catesby chose a rather grand Opel Kapitän six-cylinder saloon – the sort of car a bloated black market profiteer
would have wrangled for calling on an ex-SS general who wanted to fence a looted work of art. A lot of the reborn Germany stank. At times, Catesby thought the gallows at Nuremberg and Hamelin hadn’t been busy enough. On one occasion, just after the Hamburg Ravensbrück trial, he had met Albert Pierrepoint in the Officers’ Mess at Celle. Pierrepoint went on to swing 202 German war criminals – and that day had just executed three women; the oldest sixty-one, the youngest twenty-seven. The hangman sipped his whisky and looked at Catesby. ‘It doesn’t make any difference, you know?’

‘What doesn’t?’

‘Hanging them. It doesn’t deter people.’

‘But it punishes them.’

‘It certainly does that.’

The road to the castle was winding and when it turned east there were stunning views of the Rhine reflecting the full moon. It was deliciously spooky and a bit corny. The builders of Rhineland castles didn’t aim at subtlety and understatement. It was, Catesby thought, the very opposite of his native East Anglia. When the castle finally silhouetted itself against the darker night sky, Catesby counted five turrets. There was also a wall with battlements.

The final approach was across a drawbridge that spanned a deep gully. There was a gatehouse that guarded entry to the outer bailey. A cast-iron gate with spikes had been winched up and Catesby tried not to imagine it crashing through the roof of the Opel Kapitän and impaling him like a kebab. As he drove into the bailey he spotted a Rolls-Royce and decided to park next to it.

As soon as he got out of the car, Catesby heard muffled footsteps approaching – a swishing sound, as if the person were wearing velvet boots. A slight figure appeared out of the shadows wearing a calf-length leather tunic with a high collar and wide cup-shaped sleeves. The dress, thought Catesby, seemed somehow Asian – and the face, when illuminated by the moon, was that of a young East Asian woman. Catesby greeted her in English, ‘Good evening.’

The woman answered in German. Her accent, in total contradiction to her appearance, was very upper-class East Prussian. She shook hands, bowed and silently clicked her soft boots.

‘Do you live here?’ said Catesby.

‘I am staying here for the moment, but I don’t know for how long.’

‘Was it you who invited me here this evening?’

‘No, it was my uncle. I must tell you about him before you go up.’ She stirred nervously and reached into a deep hidden pocket. ‘But you will be safe.’ She extended her palm. It bore a dark flat needle-shaped object about two inches long. ‘I took the precaution of removing the firing pin from his pistol. But I don’t think he would have used it in any case.’

‘How very kind.’

‘My uncle is mad, but doesn’t always seem so. Follow me closely – it’s easy to get lost here. A visitor recently died when he stepped on to a staircase that wasn’t there.’

The dining room was high Gothic with add-ons. The fireplace was marble with a carved lintel depicting a primal battle between beasts, demons and naked men. The panelling and chairs were carved oak – with more laughing demons. It reminded Catesby of the pew ends at Blythburgh Church that had escaped being vandalised by Cromwell’s soldiers. The room was dominated by two life-size oil paintings. One was of Baron Roman Nikolai Maximilian von Ungern-Sternberg wearing the imperial Russian St George’s Cross for Bravery. He had won the medal for leading Cossack cavalry charges against German troops in 1915–1916. The Tsar had personally presented him the medal. The other oil painting depicted Nicholas II, the Empress Alexandra and their son, Alexei Nikolaevich, translated to heaven and wearing the hallows of sainted martyrs. Catesby rightly surmised that he was the only atheist socialist in the room – but he still deplored what the Bolsheviks had done to the Tsar and his family. And yet, Catesby realised, he was a murderer too. He was beginning to wish that he hadn’t done it.

The host, despite having an Asian niece, had blue eyes and greying blond hair. He greeted Catesby with formality and
showed him to a low table where they seated themselves on richly brocaded cushions.

‘Do you like fermented mare’s milk?’

‘I think I could acquire a taste for it.’ Catesby held out a silver goblet and studied his host while his eyes were averted pouring.

‘The Mongolians call it
airag
– it’s their national drink.’ The host lifted the lid of a silver tray. ‘These dumplings are called
buuz
– they are filled with minced mutton, but any meat can be used.’

‘Thank you. Is your niece Mongolian?’

‘She is a Manchurian princess, but she also has the blood of my own ancestors. We are Baltic German aristocracy, but related to the royal families of Finland and Russia.’

‘Have you a name?’

‘Quite a long list of names, but I’m not going to tell them to you.’

Catesby smiled and nodded to the portrait of Baron Roman von Ungern-Sternberg. ‘But you obviously are not him?’

‘No, but he is a close kinsman.’

Catesby looked at the painting and then at his host. They both had the same mad – completely insane – eyes. One of the baron’s eyes was so demented and glaring that Catesby had thought it magnified by a monocle, but there was none. ‘There is a resemblance.’

‘Thank you for saying so.’ The nameless host raised his goblet and drank. ‘
Airag
has a calming influence. They say you should drink it if you suffer from a nervous condition.’

Catesby laughed.

‘You find that amusing?’

‘I was thinking of Genghis Khan – did
airag
calm him down?’

‘It might have made his strategic planning more thorough. Genghis Khan was a great and visionary conqueror.’

For the first time Catesby noticed a number of strange objects hanging from a bright yellow cord affixed to the oak panelling next to the baron’s portrait. ‘Are those things Mongolian?’

‘What things?’

Catesby pointed.

‘They’re sacred,’ said the man. ‘But I’ll let you see them and
touch them – it is a great honour.’ The man got up with difficulty; he seemed to have a gamey leg. He limped across the room, unhooked the yellow cord and brought the objects to the table.’

Catesby guessed they were talismans of some sort. The largest was a round copper disc with an outer ring inscribed with symbols. There were also leather pouches, tiny mirrors with blue strings attached, painted pieces of wood and various chains and charms. The most sinister was a silver plaque embossed with skeletons.

‘They’re not all Mongolian,’ said the host touching the copper. ‘This is a Tibetan zodiac disc. The yellow cord, by the way, was blessed by Gautama Buddha. But these are my favourite toys.’ The man picked up a pouch with a leather drawstring. He loosened the string and emptied four yellow-white objects on to the table. ‘They are Mongolian dice. We use them for divining the future.’

Catesby was tempted to ask how Ipswich Town were going to finish the season, but bit his tongue.

The man picked up the objects and rolled them.

‘Good news?’ said Catesby.

The man stared for a second. ‘Outside force will influence you.’

‘They look like bones,’ said Catesby.

The man smiled and picked up the first die: ‘This one is from a horse.’ He then pointed to the other bone dice: ‘Cow, goat, man.’

Catesby gave a cold smile. ‘May I roll them?’

‘Please, you are my honoured guest.’

Catesby gathered the bones. They were dry and smooth. He momentarily pressed the human one between his thumb and forefinger. Then shook them in his fist and rolled them.

The man looked at them from two angles and frowned.

‘What’s the verdict?’ said Catesby.

‘Others might try to harm you, better be careful.’

‘How do you know they refer to me?’

‘You were the one who rolled them.’ His host smiled. ‘Would you like to try again?’

‘No, thank you. I’ll leave fate alone.’

‘Sometimes that is wise. Meanwhile, we must eat.’ The man lifted another silver lid. ‘The next course is
khorkhog
. It is a popular dish from the countryside that you eat with your fingers.’

As Catesby ate he felt the mad eyes of the baron burning into the side of his head. And when he looked across the table he saw the same demented eyes staring at him. ‘You like
khorkhog
?’ said his host.

‘It’s lovely.’

‘It was a staple of the great Khan’s warriors as they pillaged the lands of the Jin Dynasty. As you know, they conquered Zhongdu in 1215.’

‘Modern Peking,’ said Catesby wiping his lips.

‘And it will happen again.’ The nameless host paused and glared. ‘You are a strange person, Herr Catesby.’

‘In what way?’

‘You have not asked why I invited you.’

‘I assumed you would eventually tell me.’

‘You assumed correctly. First of all, I owe you an apology – even though I did not personally arrange your attempted murder.’

Catesby struggled to keep his composure. It wasn’t what he had expected to hear. He assumed that his host was just another right-wing monarchist nutcase. Catesby reckoned that one in five of his agents claimed blood ties with the Romanovs. He calmed himself. Perhaps the ‘attempted murder’ was just another of his host’s fantasies and had nothing to do with what had actually happened that night in Kensington. Catesby smiled blandly. ‘Which particular attempted murder?’

‘You mean there have been others?’

‘Yes, but I can’t give you the details.’

‘I didn’t realise that being a very junior cultural attaché was such a dangerous job.’

‘Artists are very sensitive – and sometimes explosive creatures.’

‘The people who tried to kill you were not artists – they were low-level criminals of the most common sort. I was utterly appalled when I found out.’

‘Are they likely to strike again?’

‘I very much doubt it. They are legionnaires and both have been sent to Indochina.’

‘Alsatians?’

‘Naturally, that’s why they were chosen.’

Catesby nodded. His host wasn’t a complete fantasist.

‘Your would-be assassins are now part of a Foreign Legion unit composed largely of ex-SS. They have been tasked with fighting behind Viet Minh lines and few are expected to return.’

Catesby glanced up at Baron von Ungern-Sternberg. He was wearing his St George’s Cross on his Mongol caftan. How, Catesby thought, the mad baron would have loved the war in Vietnam. And yet, his hands were small and delicate, his right gently holding his left as if to stop it from shaking.

‘We had the painting commissioned from a photograph that was taken the evening before he was executed by firing squad. At least the Bolsheviks gave him that honour.’

Catesby smiled. He doubted that the Bolsheviks had regarded von Ungern-Sternberg’s execution as an ‘honour’ – more likely as a warning to others.

His host suddenly looked sly and suspicious. ‘How much do you know about my kinsman?’

Catesby had done his homework on von Ungern-Sternberg, but he preferred to hear his host’s own account. ‘I only know the barest details.’

‘My noble kinsman was a great warrior. He fought for the Tsar in East Prussia in 1915 and 1916. Following the Bolshevik revolution, he pledged his allegiance to the Romanovs and fought against the Bolsheviks in Siberia during the civil war. After the White Guards were defeated by the Reds, my kinsman led the remnants of his division thousands of miles into Outer Mongolia. He added Tibetans and Mongol tribesmen to what was left of his White Army Cossacks. Against all odds, he succeeded in driving the Chinese out of the capital Urga.’ The host nodded at the portrait of Baron Roman. ‘It was a stunning feat of arms – worthy of a Teutonic knight. The Chinese outnumbered my kinsman’s tiny army by five to one.’

Catesby knew that his host’s version of his kinsman was a glorified one that left out ugly details. He had said nothing about von Ungern-Sternberg’s rabid anti-Semitism, his use of unspeakable forms of torture, his execution of anyone with physical defects, his drug addiction – his dinner party set piece of roasting the hearts of his victims and serving them in their own skulls.

‘In the end, he was betrayed.’

‘By whom?’ said Catesby.

His host got up and limped over to the baron’s photo. If, thought Catesby, von Ungern-Sternberg should suddenly step alive out of the painting, his host had better hide that physical imperfection or he was for the chop. Catesby smiled bleakly and drank his fermented mare’s milk. It was, surprisingly, not unlike a mild, malty ale.