Free Stalin's Gold by Mark Ellis Page B

boys. Go on. Get the bastards.” Iris grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the house.
They watched as waves of British fighters surged up into the sky and tore into the deadly storm cloud of German bombers. They saw some bombers and fighters spiralling down, but the vast bulk of the invaders continued inexorably on their way. A loud crashing sound came from the nearby fields and they were suddenly showered with sods of earth.
Sam shouted at the others, “Let’s get in!”
As they closed the kitchen door, Fred pointed towards the hall. He pulled open a door under the stairs and touched a light switch. “It’s too late to get to the shelter. Come down into the cellar. I’ve made it quite cosy. We’ll be alright there. Come on, Iris, give me your hand.” They made their way down the stairs. Two mattresses had been crammed into the cramped space. An old camp-burner, a relic of Fred’s army days, together with a teapot, a packet of PG Tips and some mugs rested on an upturned old crate. A book of Sherlock Holmes stories, a couple of faded issues of Picture Post and a copy of The Thirty-Nine Steps lay on one of the mattresses. Sam also noticed a bucket discreetly positioned behind the crate.
Another explosion thudded nearby and the cellar door above them clattered open and Sam jumped up the stairs to lock it.
“Alright, love?” Iris’ hands were shaking and Sam helped her down onto the mattresses. Fred reached out and patted her stomach. “The young lad’s got his first taste of action already. He’s going to be a soldier and a fine one at that.”
Iris smiled weakly. “I hope to God there are no wars for him or anyone to fight in after this one.”
They settled down for the duration. There were two more heavy explosions in the first hour, but mostly they could hear the dull thump of distant bombardment. By the time the all clear sounded at seven, Sam had read two Sherlock Holmes stories and drunk two cups of tea and Iris and Fred were both asleep. He climbed the stairs to enter the hall and pushed through the front door into the street. A house at the far end of the terrace was burning, but everything else seemed normal. He walked back through the house out into the garden and then through the gate, past the allotments and into the open fields. He thought he would be able to get the clearest view of the London skyline from the middle of one of the fields. Until he got there, he didn’t turn to look back. When he did, he saw vast billowing clouds of black smoke covering most of the horizon. All of London must be on fire , he thought. He stared, his mind a blank, for a moment or two, then came to his senses. It’s best to leave Iris with her dad , he thought. For some reason the garish music hall image of Max Miller came to his mind. Yes, the centre of town seemed to be top of the bill today and the southern suburbs were just the supporting acts. He’d have to get back to Battersea though – he needed to know whether they had a home to go back to. He felt a firm push from behind and jumped. He turned to find one of the small ponies someone kept in the fields. He put his hand onto the animal’s head and stroked it. He could feel it shaking.
“You and me both, mate. You and me both.”

* * *

Maksim tried very hard to keep his hand still as he poured more brandy into his employer’s glass. The fact that dinner had been served to the accompaniment of the racket from Germany’s largest bombing attack by far on the English capital seemed not to have disturbed Kyril Voronov at all. He had laughed and joked all night. Although most of the bombs appeared to be falling far to the east, they had heard plenty of explosions much closer to home. A neighbour had knocked on the door a little earlier to warn Maksim that Pont Street had been hit by a cluster of bombs. Pont Street was a mere five-minute walk from Voronov’s palatial house off Eaton Square. When Maksim had told him this, Voronov had only laughed louder. But