The Starling’s Magic

By Derek Mellor

A sequel to The Lucy Effect (AuthorHouse 2015), The Starling's Magic finds Paddy Lieber, a freewheeling Liverpudlian entrepreneur in the beautiful city of 1927 Leningrad - where he becomes the subject of a hoax. The theft of a painting from the Hermitage museum, The Leningrad Starling, a revered icon considered to have healing powers, is pinned on Paddy and he is used by high- ranking Soviet officials as a pawn in their corrupt game of political and financial intrigue.

Is there magic in the air for those caught up in the dramatic events? Random incidents lead to catastrophic consequences for some, but for others it's new found joy. How much is an external magic part of this as opposed to the individual's perception of events, or are they one and the same?

The Starling's Magic is a fast-moving tale with twists and turns. Will Hahyoo, tasked with security at Lieber Enterprises and others get to the bottom of the scam and manage to free Paddy before darker forces in Leningrad close in and make it impossible?

Lightened and spiced with the wit and humour of Paddy and his secret lover, the novel is about the love, passion, goodness and courage of ordinary people - Russian, Irish, Chinese, German and English - transcending systems of control and evil. The Starling's Magic is a story for our troubled times.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Mar 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9781728385631

Derek Mellor

I love writing in all the ways that it’s possible. It’s what I’ve been doing all my life since the age of seven. Recently I had a particular story screaming for me to write—this one. It was partly my grandson’s doing. He led the way. He taught me the importance of wanting to turn the page and the nonsense of wanting to impress. But now the characters that have evolved are within me, and I suspect they’ll move me to write sequels. And all this is because of grandsons. Who’d have known! I live near Liverpool and have been involved, in all my working life, with examining relationships between human beings. I am interested in philosophy, art, music, and social history but mainly people.

Book preview

The

Starling’s

Magic

DEREK MELLOR

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AuthorHouse™ UK

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403 USA

www.authorhouse.co.uk

Phone: [phone]

© 2019 Derek Mellor. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 03/12/2019

ISBN: 978-1-7283-8564-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-8563-1 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Acknowledgements

Characters

The Beginning of the Magic

Part 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

T hanks to Linda, my wife, for her help and support. Clare, my daughter for her helpful advice and Rachel, my youngest, for her interest and support.

A big, big thanks to Maria Shevkina, an art restorer my anchor-person in Moscow who has assisted me so much in writing this novel and the previous one. She helped not only in finding out information about Russian culture but also with the drawings on the 1927 map of Leningrad.

Other friends in Russia include Elena and Igor Churilov, who live in St Petersburg. Elena, who works at a museum in the city, helped me to get my head around the names of streets in the Leningrad of 1927 that changed a great deal during the 1920’s. She also provided very useful photographs of Leningrad, particularly of the dock area in the period of the novel.

I commissioned Igor, Elena’s husband, a well-known St Petersburg artist, to paint the Leningrad scene, ‘The starling is above the city.’ This painting proudly hangs in my dining room and I have used the image for the cover of the novel. I wish to thank him for giving me permission to use it in this publication.

Thanks to Ray McIntosh, who provided me with information regarding nautical matters and hardly missed a trick in editing the manuscript. Also thanks to Julia Ray for her much needed professional proof reading of the draft.

Finally, thanks to Miraz and staff at the ‘Café FM’ in Widnes. As usual the cafe provided me with a perfect setting for writing.

Characters

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The Beginning of the Magic

T he painting, in the foreground, showed a starling about to take flight and in the far distance a group of starlings flocked above the light blue grey sky-line of the city of St Petersburg. It was the masterpiece by Vasily Surikov, ‘ The St. Petersburg Starling’ (1872), and right from the beginning, it attracted myths. Myths, like moths to a powerful lamp, couldn’t resist its power. Each time it changed its habitat and place of hanging, new ones sprang up.

Surikov offered it as a gift to Tsar Alexander II in 1872. The reasons for the gift are unknown, but Alexander, an admirer of his work, couldn’t refuse the piece. Compared with other works that hung in the great hall at his summer palace near St Petersburg, its dimensions were meagre, but as the tsar’s favourite it was placed in a position which captured huge quantities of light and stole the show. The tsar was captivated by the artist’s depiction of the starling, with wings raised, caught in anticipation of flight and revealing its brilliant jewelled breast. So common a bird, yet so preciously adorned, he’d comment whenever engaged in viewing the painting with a guest.

As one story goes, the day it was hung in the great hall his youngest son, having been struck down by pneumonia for a week, began to recover. There was no doubt in Alexander’s mind that the painting had intervened. This thought linked to another, in some unfathomable way as a revelation, it represented hope for a troubled Russia that he’d been charged by God to rule.

Starlings create striking, ever-changing patterns as they flock in flight, with each bird ensuring the safety and well-being of its neighbour. Celtic folklore has it the bird teaches us lessons of group etiquette, social standing, family relations, and how one appears to the world in those relationships. Starlings show the subtleties of the art of communication and vocalisation, which needs to be clear and expressive; they don’t hold back on speaking their voice.

When the Communist regime took over after the October Revolution of 1917, the painting was moved from the palace at Selo to the Hermitage Museum, previously a palace in Petrograd. The painting became known as The Petrograd Starling and then, The Leningrad Starling, when the name Petrograd was changed to Leningrad to honour Lenin after his death in 1924. These official name changes for a revered painting were unique in the history of art, but in the hearts of the older generation it remained The St Petersburg Starling. But it showed the importance that the Communist Party attached to the painting, especially in the early days of the revolution. It served as a symbol of hope for the people of Russia when hope was a scarce commodity.

So it was referred to as The People’s Icon, a name that stuck in tsarist times and was patronised by all classes. Its power to inspire hope through myth persisted. The very day that the painting passed through the doors of the Hermitage Museum, the communist authorities agreed to a grant that the museum desperately needed. The museum’s future was secure. Many are the stories - too numerous to mention here - of people who could tell of nothing short of miracles occurring after touching the secular icon. The museum’s curators were so concerned about damage to its surface they eventually placed it behind a glass screen. Even then people would touch the glass and new stories sprang up. It managed to escape being sold off in the late 1920s along with other paintings to pay for machinery needed to support Soviet industrialisation.

The Leningrad Starling was deliberately lost or sold in 1931 and no records remain of its whereabouts. There are few people in Russia today, who know of the painting. But whenever it’s mentioned by those who knew it and its legacy, their eyes light up and hope lingers in their hearts for its return to the motherland.

Part 1

Chapter 1

17 April 1927, Ochta Forest, near Leningrad, 16.45

D arkness fell and hugged to death the damp blackness of the forest. It began to snow giant flakes, and the wipers on the green Buick heaved against packed ice. The windscreen enticed mist that played a game it won without effort, even though Vladimir Slovich, a deputy commander with the state security force known as Cheka, kept thrusting the back of his gloved hand over its surface. The snow had caught him out. He didn’t know the road he was on. A road covered in potholes at the edges, so he kept to its centre for an easier ride. Even so, at times, the car skittered around in the snow. Fortunately traffic was sparse, most had disappeared as Vladimir left the city’s boundary when he turned right onto the Ochta road, heading south.

Vladimir slowed down to a snail’s pace and steered the car to the line of trees that clung to the edge of the road. When he felt the car jar over a pothole, he braked gently and the car slid to a stop. He grabbed a torch from the passenger seat. At first it wouldn’t work. He freed one hand from a glove and cursed the cold metal as he tightened its back plate. He checked the tattered map and the odometer reading on the dash. He couldn’t be more than a kilometre away from Chirva’s dacha.

He’d been travelling for five minutes after checking the map. The giant snowflakes were replaced by hailstones, making it easier to work out the lay of the land as the windscreen wipers’ effectiveness improved. On his left, he noticed the trees give way to a clearing and what looked like a large country house that had dimmed oil lights flickering in the windows. It had to be his chief’s dacha.

He drove past and turned left off the road in between a narrow gap in the undergrowth. Branches pitched snow onto the bonnet and windscreen and scraped the car’s wings. Once parked, he made sure the car couldn’t be seen from the road. He was more than an hour early for his meeting with Chirva. He didn’t like it. Vladimir wasn’t one for showing keenness, especially to someone like Chirva. He’d known the chief for only two weeks but had hated him before they’d even met.

These thoughts were halted by the sound of a heavy engine and lights. Through a gap in the trees, he glimpsed a lorry pull up on the Ochta road adjacent to the dacha,

– Who is Chirva’s visitor at his secret dacha at this time of night?–

Vladimir couldn’t fend off an urge to investigate. He checked his pistol out of habit and found himself charging through undergrowth, snow hurling off branches in all directions, towards the five-metre-high wooden fence that surrounded the property. He scaled the fence and jumped down into powdery snow.

Vladimir could see the building more clearly; the white-out provided ghostly footlights. Its length amazed him. He estimated it was no shorter than twenty metres and capable of accommodating three or four medium-sized dachas into its area.¹ From what he could make out, as the snow started to fall heavier, the so-called country house was more than unusual. It had two storeys in place of the state-regulated one. And the material used wasn’t the traditional wood. It consisted of brick, with stone surrounding narrow, tall window frames on both floors. It was certainly not a country house but more like a small apartment block in the forest off the beaten track –a forest that concealed, with the house known only to wild creatures:

– What is Chirva up to? Why has he asked me to his secret dacha?–

Vladimir crept through the snow towards the porch. He could hear Chirva’s raised voice shouting at the visitor. Shining the torch on the ground ahead of him, he checked for obstacles. By the time he noticed the twine peeping through the snow, drawn taut between canes, he’d tripped. Was this a signalling device?

He illuminated the area for a few seconds. Pegs and canes surrounded him. Chirva was a gardener? He couldn’t imagine it, not with his manicured fingernails.

Vladimir reached the porch and clung to its tufted, snow-covered wall for a few seconds to catch his breath. He crouched under the window and slithered along to the end of the porch’s wall so he could overhear the conversation.

‘I had to come,’ the woman said in a voice that trembled. ‘I wanted rid of it. Couldn’t stand the idea of checking it into the left luggage lockers at Warsaw Station for you to pick up. I mean, such a treasure in a left luggage locker!’

‘But I thought we’d agreed,’ Chirva said.

Vladimir noticed anger in his voice. There was a pause, and Vladimir could hear the sound of tearing paper.

‘The Leningrad Starling.’ How absolutely beautiful,’ Chirva said in gasps.

There was silence except for Vladimir’s own heavy breath, which created sprays of mist in the cold air. He wondered whether they might detect this personal signal as he crouched under the window of the porch, but they were too engrossed.

‘To hold it, Sasha, I can’t believe it,’ Chirva said in a voice brimming with excitement. He added urgently, ‘But you can’t come in. Have to go. Someone’s due.’

‘Who?’

‘My new deputy. He’ll be here soon. You mustn’t be seen, ‘Go, go!’

Vladimir heard footsteps crunch the snow as she retreated, it was an almost continuous sound. He realised she was running.

‘Oh, Sasha, is the copy hanging in the gallery yet?’ Chirva called out.

‘Tomorrow,’ she said, still reeling from his angry outburst. ‘Bloody tomorrow.’

The door slammed on the vehicle. The engine started, the gears grinded, and she was gone.

Vladimir felt his facial muscles relax as he began to realise the implications of what he’d stumbled upon. A thought from a long-hidden cavern in his mind compelled him to look skywards for the star – the one his mother told him to seek whenever his luck changed for the better. He had been six at the time. Why did she say this, and why did he remember? The following year, his mother had died while giving birth to his sister. A shiver ran down his spine at the thought of his sister, and the usual anger erupted – an anger that had followed him down the years.

The heavens revealed nothing of a star, only heavy flakes of snow from the blackness above. In his stillness, the snow had almost covered him. He’d become an icy cocoon. Only two weeks ago, he’d been banished from his precious Moscow to Leningrad and this fool Chirva. The move to the Cheka unit in Leningrad had been arranged by his father, whom he detested. Vladimir didn’t believe that what his father called the, grave error, he’d committed in Moscow would funnel him into a Siberian exile and hard labour. He knew his father didn’t believe it either. Behind it all, his father, a high-ranking official in the Kremlin, didn’t want the family’s name rubbished any more by what his father referred to as a, loose cannon, of a son and insisted Vladimir make himself scarce. He had no choice. His father’s political influence mattered. It allowed him privileges that he’d continue to exploit in Leningrad. He had to accept the expulsion and his dumping on Chirva, an old friend of his father.

As he retraced his footprints to the fence, he kept thinking about the conversation between Chirva and Sasha. It was gradually sinking in that it changed everything. Lumps of snow slid off his hat and coat. The cocoon was melting. His puppeteer, Chirva, could become his marionette, a slave to his schemes – and Leningrad his new Moscow.

He tried to remember the name of his mother’s star as he made his way through the snow to the Buick. If he couldn’t see it, he should at least speak its name out, if only for his mother’s sake.

Snow started to fall even heavier. Once in the car, he lit a Gitanes, the last cigarette in the pack.

Deep in thought, aided by the creeping wonder of nicotine in his bloodstream, the name of the star came to him. In triumph, he threw the empty pack out of the window. It was soon hidden by snow.

Excitement was building. He smelled a kill, but he had to be patient, cautious even.

But Vladimir felt little of either as he waited in the car for his official appointment with Chirva at his secret dacha in the forest.

************

Standing in the dacha’s porch, Vladimir checked his watch. He was eight and a half minutes early for his meeting. The snow fell wild and thick, geared up for a crescendo as if in some opera, hinting at drama. He observed a reflection of his coat in the porch window – a mass of snow, ice, and water – and turned away from the dacha’s front door as he heard Chirva’s footsteps. He checked the Buick, which he’d re-parked on the roadside at the end of the path. It was loaded with snow. He hoped it wouldn’t cause problems when he fired up the engine. Vladimir wanted to sprint away in a grand exit, as much as he wanted to have his back facing the chief when he opened the door.

‘Ah, Vladimir, you’re early.’ Vladimir turned around slowly and walked past the chief, his coat dripping a trail of snow. He opened the first door he came to along the corridor and noticed torn brown paper strewn across the floor.

‘No!’ shouted Chirva, ‘The door at the end of the hall.’

On entering the room he was directed to, Vladimir took his heavy, wet coat off and threw it on a sofa and sat down on the chair closest to the roaring fire. Chirva’s lit pipe lay on an ashtray on the hearth, an arm’s length away.

‘I see you’ve found a chair.’

Vladimir didn’t respond.

Chirva pulled an armchair towards the fire and picked up his pipe and sat down. ‘I’ve asked you here because I have a task,’ Chiva said. Vladimir noticed a deep frown on the chief’s face as his eyes swept to his leather coat strewn across the sofa, and to a damp patch forming on the red Persian carpet. ‘It’s top secret and of great importance to the Party. You mustn’t speak of it to anyone. You’ll report to me here whenever it’s necessary. We won’t speak of the matter in any other place unless it’s unavoidable. Do you understand?’ Vladimir remained silent. Chirva repeated the question.

Vladimir’s thoughts were focussed on The Leningrad Starling. When he’d walked into the first room with the torn paper on the floor, it convinced him that he must act quickly –perhaps the next day. He’d snatch it, whatever it was, and make it appear to have been a burglary. He knew Chirva would suspect him and put two and two together and make four. That’s how Vladimir wanted to play it. How could Chirva reproach him? It would blow the man’s cover.

‘Vladimir, do you understand man?’ Chirva said in an agitated voice.

The word ‘understand’ created the first drips of a thaw in Vladimir’s ideas about how he should play the game with Chirva. A faint smile broke on his lips. He uncrossed his folded arms. The thought that had struck him earlier, Leningrad will become my new Moscow, returned. He understood it was necessary to placate the chief for the time being, at least until the way ahead was clear.

‘Yes, Chief,’ he said.

‘In three weeks you’ll travel to London as an emissary of Cheka and report to our embassy. They will have limited knowledge of what we’re up to, but you’ll find they are willing to follow your orders. Their job is to get the paperwork sorted out. We have other agents involved with the case, but you don’t need to know about that aspect of the operation at the moment.’

Vladimir gained the impression that Chirva was enjoying all this. Wouldn’t he be rid of his unwanted deputy for several weeks?

‘Your main task is in Liverpool. There you’ll make contact with two firms, Nobles Ltd and Lieber Enterprises. They’ll be bidding on a contract to ship electrical equipment to Russia for the Volkhov hydroelectricity project here in Leningrad.’²

Chirva rose from his chair and walked over to a drinks cabinet, pulled out a half-empty bottle of vodka and poured a good measure into a glass. Vladimir was taken by surprise as Chirva offered him the drink.

‘We want the firm Lieber to win the contract. Paddy Lieber is a notorious Irish entrepreneur with an interesting pedigree. He’s well known for taking chances and enjoys dodging the law and not only in England. This reputation will be useful for us.’ Chirva paused, picked up the pipe and stuffed tobacco in with his first finger. He lit it using a long taper and puffed hard till a flame rose from its bowl. Vladimir noticed his eyes narrow with pleasure.

‘I repeat, your job is to ensure Lieber Enterprises is the successful bidder for the contract and is seen to have won it fair and square. It doesn’t matter how you achieve this; just make sure it’s watertight. This is essential for the plan that the Party has in mind to run as smoothly as possible. Everything must seem correct and above board.’

Before Chirva had a chance to continue, Vladimir interrupted.

‘Plan?’

There was silence. Chirva looked into the fire and, at the end of a series of puffs on his pipe, turned towards Vladimir. Still silent, Vladimir wondered what would come next.

‘You’ll be aware there are comrades in England and Germany behind bars awaiting trial for treason. Some are Russian. The only way we can get them back is by trading.’³

‘Trading?’ Vladimir said.

‘Yes, trading people we hold in Moscow with those of ours abroad.’

Vladimir pretended not to understand, but he had an inkling of what was to come.

‘What’s that got to do with this Lieber person?’ he said.

‘At the moment we’re short of a necessary trading commodity, foreign spies and criminals. This is where Lieber comes in. The plan is to frame him. He’ll be accused of stealing a precious national object.’

‘What precious object?’

‘You only have to know it’s a painting.’ He tapped the upturned bowl of his pipe on the ashtray. Small lumps of ash fell and he untwisted the stem of the pipe, ready to clean it. He’d failed to see the look of diluted triumph on Vladimir’s face. Chirva sat down and took the vodka in the crystal-cut wine glass in one gulp.

It dawned on Vladimir what the painting was. He’d been misled by the word ‘Leningrad’ used by Chirva earlier when Sasha had arrived at the dacha. ‘The Leningrad’ placed in front of ‘Starling’ – Leningrad in its previous life was St Petersburg. Not only did the city change its name after Lenin’s death, but the painting followed suit. It was really The Petersburg Starling. If the theft ever came to light Vladimir knew it would create the biggest of stinks. It was a national treasure not so much because of its reputation as a fine work of art but because of the rumours of it possessing mystical power, which Vladimir viewed as poppy-cock, as did the Communist Party. The Party wanted to see it off early on in the civil war, as they did many items of religious art work, but couldn’t. It was a secular icon, as portraits of Lenin were. But unlike Lenin’s portraits, spawned across the Motherland, eyes burning into comrades, The Leningrad Starling possessed an opposite impact. Its impact could be played with as a toy to fit an observer’s beliefs. Beliefs which meant nothing to Vladimir or the Party.

Chirva poured himself another generous drink. Vladimir hadn’t touched his first, as he wanted a clear head. He wondered why Chirva needed so much of the stuff.

‘You’ll report to our embassy in London at the beginning of May,’ Chirva said. Vladimir’s elevated mood produced the required nod of the head in tandem with pressed lips indicating surrender. He felt fired up enough to laugh out loud, but he managed to dampen the urge.

‘The embassy will fill you in on the detail. All they know is that the bidder who wins will be transporting the machinery by road from the engineering works to the docks in Liverpool. The switchgear equipment will be loaded onto the SS Nadezhda, a Russian vessel at Liverpool, and you’ll join the crew as its minder along with Lieber. But more important,’ there was a pause. Vladimir knew Chirva was looking forward to a response. He didn’t give him the pleasure and Chirva continued, ‘Vladimir, this is when the second important part of the mission begins. No doubt you will find it difficult. You’ll need to become a gentle actor. Is it possible?’ Another pause ensued. Vladimir knew that Chirva was trying it on again.

‘I know you’re not stupid and can act when pushed. I’ve been informed of this by a reliable source I think you know.’ Vladimir knew, his father.

Chirva went on about the plan as Vladimir, in his head, shuffled through what his next moves might be, but Chirva suddenly stopped speaking. His eyes closed. The booze had taken its toll. He’d obviously had a few celebratory shots of vodkas before Vladimir arrived. As he stared at Chirva, he smiled. If only he knew what tomorrow held for him, his present alcohol–infused numbness would explode. Vladimir, suddenly, on a whim, shouted out the name of his mother’s star, to see if Chirva was really asleep. He didn’t make a murmur. A thought careered through his mind. Could he take the painting that night? It was dismissed. Chirva would definitely know he was the thief, and he wanted him to suffer the anguish of not knowing the culprit for a while at least.

Vladimir left Chirva sleeping on his chair in front of an exhausted fire. He found pen and ink and wrote a note saying he’d gone and hadn’t wanted to disturb him from his peaceful sleep. He’d underlined the word ‘peaceful.’ He picked up his leather coat, hat and gloves and crept out of the room, placing his booted feet down as gently as he could as he walked the length of the corridor. Five rooms ran off it and he opened the door of each and glanced in. There was no sign of a canvas even in the room with torn paper strewn over the floor. In the last room on the right-hand side of the corridor was a study containing books and files. He unlocked the window. Chirva would be in no state to notice the unlocked window before he went to bed. He reckoned it would be easy enough to get in the following morning.

Vladimir was about to open the front door when he heard a shuffling sound. Chirva was staggering along, fighting against the vodka. They stood centimetres apart, in a stand-off. Neither spoke. Vladimir felt his boss’s breath on his face, the aroma of a tobacco andvodka cocktail. Inside Vladimir was as calm as a still, bottomless steel-grey lake. Chirva broke first and muttered words that Vladimir didn’t catch. He opened the door and shoved Vladimir out into the icy night and he was gone.

The green Buick skidded around curves as the forest road twisted and turned. Vladimir, red faced and steamed with excitement, yanked his gloves off. The desire to clutch the ice-cold metal steering wheel overwhelmed him in tandem with a ferocious urge to pit his wits against the ice run of a road. He taunted it, shouting out obscenities at every curve he negotiated in triumph. On a straight stretch of the Ochta road, he turned off the car’s headlamps. The deep virginal snow offered some light and above, the heavens cleared of heavy clouds, exposed jewelled stars and planets as if solely for Vladimir’s benefit. ‘Venus is out there mother’s star,’ he caught himself mumbling. As he turned the headlamps on, the road seemed to disappear out of sight. He braked hard, the Buick went into a sharp spin, and the rear lurched to the right. He pulled the steering wheel to the right and pumped the brake pedal. The car pounded through a bank of snow and slid to a stop. To Vladimir’s amazement, the car ended up facing the right direction on the Ochta Road, its engine still running. He’d reached the outskirts of the city and drove on to its centre.

Vladimir was to rise early the next morning and he gave up the idea of the planned visit to the bar in the Astoria hotel. He headed straight to bed as soon as he arrived at his apartment on Plekhanov Street. At first he couldn’t get to sleep. In his mind he went over what Chirva had said about the Liverpool operation. Viktor Voskrensensky, the ship’s cook, a man whose honesty shone out of his backside, was to be persuaded that he saw Lieber stow The Leningrad Starling in his cabin the night before the Nadezhda’s and Lieber’s return to Liverpool. The painting, which he knew to be fake because Chirva had the original, would be rescued and returned to the Hermitage Museum to be shipped to Moscow. Chirva would not only have his hostage the glorious motherland needed, and be praised for the feat, but he would also have the original The Leningrad Starling his idol of an icon. Then there was the bit that Chirva had mentioned, the other agents in Liverpool. But the details weren’t clear and the effort of trying to unravel the muddle lulled him into sleep.

That night Vladimir had a dream. A cook half Vladimir’s stature stood in a ship’s galley. Vladimir’s hands were white-knuckle tight around his throat. His hands grew larger every second that passed, a look of terror was in the cook’s eyes. He had a feeling of power. The power that he could do anything to the man he held. His hands now enormous, the cook tiny and almost invisible. Vladimir controlled whether the insect of a figure he saw before him lived or died. There was an instant scene change and a painting of a bird appeared. The bird became animated, burst into flight from a ripped canvas and flew at him. Its long pin-sharp beak, lance-like, aiming for his eyes. Flapping wings moved so fast they were lost to invisibility as the bird became a gleaming silvered arrow that struck his forehead. He woke, sitting bolt upright in bed, but he was calm. Dreams were important. They shouldn’t be dismissed. Dreams could provide answers to questions. He focused on the cook he remembered from Chirva’s boozy speech. The ship’s cook was playing a pivotal piece in Vladimir’s mission to Liverpool. But what of the bird in the dream attacking him? It was The Leningrad Starling beyond a doubt. Was it linked to this Viktor, the cook? What was the question in that, never mind the answer?

Chapter 2

18 April 1927, Liverpool, 01.01

H ahyoo was in the deepest of sleeps in his bedroom on the top floor of a large Georgian-style terraced property in Rodney Street close to where he worked. He’d chosen the second floor even though there were vacant bedrooms on the floor below. It had something to do with the bedroom facing south being the most positive of feng shui sleeping positions. ⁴ The house was owned by Lieber Enterprises, the firm he was a partner with, and he’d been a temporary resident in Rodney Street for more than five years -nearly as long as he’d been a partner.

City centre church bells boomed out the passing of the first hour, but Hahyoo slept on. This fact was unusual in one way, for he had an acute sense of hearing, but of course familiar sounds were selectively rejected unlike the sound of a spider scuttling along softly on a window ledge on the other side of the room, which would be alien enough to wake him instantly. So when the telephone rang faintly in the lounge on the ground floor at such an unearthly hour, it registered as unusual in his brain. As Hahyoo would comment on such events, as unexpected and unwelcome as a blizzard on a hot’s summer’s day in Wuhan, a reference to his ancestral Chinese home. He woke immediately.

At first he didn’t move, apart from placing his horn-rimmed spectacles on, a first step for Hahyoo when contemplation was called for. Sleeping on the second floor had disadvantages. Should he rush down the two flights of stairs, only for the telephone’s bell to become silent when he reached the contraption? Instantly he went through a list in his mind of who the caller might be and whether he needed to respond. The thought entered his head that if he were in his ancestral home, the dilemma would never occur. People didn’t have telephones there. If a knock beckoned at the door in the middle of the night, it had to be important, you didn’t wait for a second knock. You threw yourself out of bed and in panic, faced whatever greeted you on the other side of the door.

The telephone stopped ringing. That settled it. He turned over, buried his head in the soft pillow and relaxed, but the telephone rang again. No lists this time, he sprang out of bed and hurtled down the stairs and grabbed the receiver. He was breathing heavily. There was a long pause on the other end.

‘Hello, who is that please?’ Hahyoo said, expecting the worst.

A woman’s voice answered. She had a strong Liverpool accent and she was breathing heavily. ‘It’s a friend of yours, Jorgie or somthin’ like that. He needs your help. Come quick. The Charleston. There are some fellas here …’

The telephone went dead.

Hahyoo arrived at the Charleston Club in Mathew Street. He’d telephoned Paddy Lieber, the senior partner, on his way out and arranged to meet him there. The Charleston was a gambling club in the city centre about a mile or so away from where Hahyoo lived. The club was an unknown quantity to Hahyoo. He’d visited casinos in his Hong Kong police days on routine matters but never at two in the morning on unofficial business. On this occasion, he was here on what some might view as official business, being responsible for security at Lieber Enterprises in the city and docks, although it didn’t feel like that to him. This was a firm, he described to confidantes, as a maverick outfit with soul, dealing in anything that produced a profit and didn’t hurt anyone except the tax man. Sometimes he disagreed with certain practices, but he turned a tightly shut eye. This risky absence of sight enabled Lieber Enterprises to keep its head above water in troubled trading times.

Jorgen, the subject of the telephone call, was a junior partner in years as much as experience. He was based in their Hamburg office but had been recalled to Liverpool. The gossip from trusted sources in Hamburg suggested he was in a spot of trouble that could affect the firm’s reputation. Hahyoo, like Paddy, would describe Jorgen more as a friend than a business colleague. ‘Indestructible bonds tempered in the fire of dangerous times,’ as Paddy would put it with a hint of Celtic lyricism encouraged by several drams of the best Irish. But both he and Paddy were seriously worried. As a boy, Jorgen had suffered the most in those dangerous times of the Great War, its toll for him hadn’t lessened with the passing years, and no doubt the trouble that threatened Jorgen at the Charleston club that night was its latest manifestation.

Paddy was late. He didn’t want to enter the club on his own, but Jorgen could be in danger. Hahyoo, in trepidation, his heart-beat increased, walked slowly up the stone steps of the club and pushed the door open cautiously. As the door closed behind him, most of the cold air vanished and his glasses misted over. He stopped. He took deep breaths to encourage calm and counted down the exhalations, not the usual twenty-one, but ten, he hadn’t time for more. Hahyoo cleaned his horn-rimmed glasses with a pressed bleached white handkerchief that he wore in the top pocket of his woollen black jacket. Everything was a blur and was shrouded in darkness. There was a noise of sprung doors moving to and fro rapidly and he thought he saw a dark shape moving towards him. He hoped it would be Paddy, but he knew Paddy couldn’t have made it from his house in such a short time. Hahyoo threw his glasses back on and in the flickering light of a gas lamp fitted to the wall, he noticed a reception office with a half-open sliding window. Someone entered the office and turned the lamp up high. It was a large-framed woman in a light blue dress with a plunging neckline.

‘What can I do for you, sir?’ she said with a hint of enticement. Hahyoo recognised the caller’s voice.

‘Yes, well…’

The woman barged in.

‘Im sorree to say I’ve not cast me eyes on you before.’ She looked him up and down. ‘Or anything like you. Who are you dear?’

Hahyoo started to stroke his neat black jacket. A ludicrous thought came from somewhere,

–I should be in a coolie tunic–⁵

‘I am called Mr Chung Hai, please call me Hahyoo.’

‘Yes, I will Haryou,’ she said, lingering on the name.

‘You phoned me, asked me to come quickly. Man here who is drunk. His name is in wallet – Jorgen,’ Hahyoo said. His heartbeat quietened. He felt more composed and looked straight into her cool blue eyes to make her aware the balance of control was shifting to him.

‘Oh yeah, I thought you wus a customer,’ she said. Hahyoo saw slight movements in the blue eyes. He knew she wasn’t thinking any such thing.

‘What has happened to Jorgen?’ Hahyoo said.

‘Jorgie showed up with this foreigner. Foreigner looked as if he was up to somethin’. Kept fillin’ him with booze. Sat at the same table all night. Both bettin’, but your fella Jorgie, or whatever his name is, was bettin’ a lot more than the other geezer.’ A tall, broad man suddenly charged into the office and whispered something to her. They withdrew to the door through which the broad man had entered. The man was facing Hahyoo and hemanaged to lip-read the whisper. We need to get those fella’s out of here before boss comes round. Has China-man come for him? He looks a load of use. How’s he going to manage him and those goons?

Hahyoo wished he hadn’t bothered to lip-read and pick up on their conversation. The phrase ‘Thinking something will happen is worse than living it’ – zipped through his mind.

‘You, come with me,’ the man said. He waved his hand towards Hahyoo to reinforce the command. His hands were large and hairy, to Hahyoo, a gorilla came to mind. The man was out of the office door in a flash and appeared through the double swinging doors. He stood in front of Hahyoo. As they were about to enter the main hall, there was a voice Hahyoo recognised. He turned round and the pressure bearing down on him lifted instantly.

‘Hello Hahyoo, fancy meetin’ you here of all places,’ Paddy said as he almost danced over the stone floor towards Hahyoo. ‘What’s the score then, for draggin’ me away from me nightcap? Surely you didn’t want a lesson on the roulette?’ Hahyoo smiled, not at the quip but in relief that he was standing right next to Paddy.

Hahyoo was surprised as he and Paddy entered the hall, chaperoned by the gorilla at the sheer number of people hanging around at such an hour. The place was populated with toffs and moneyed people, their bodies tense, their eyes glued on colours and numbers. Bakelite chips clinked as bets were placed. On raised stages at each end of the hall, two roulette wheels rotated after the tellers’ last calls. Balls flew smoothly clockwise around rims and then there were clicks of dreams, as the balls slowed and teased, as they ran over cubicles of destiny. Sandwiched between were tables of card players, seated on padded blue velvet chairs, heavily pitting their skill, muscles straining, checking faces for tell-tale signs of motive. The spreading or slamming of cards on the table would follow, learnt responses to luck and failure. Cigarette smoke curled and hung, keeping the scene below bound in its place. And above, in the centre of the hall, the lights of a chandelier played with the smoke and always won.

They headed for the roulette table furthest away from them, where the game had stopped. One man was pushing and shoving another beyond the chest-high brass rail surrounding the roulette table. The man was attempting to corral the other towards a dimly lit balcony that ran around the hall. As they got nearer, Hahyoo recognised the one being picked on as Jorgen. Suddenly Paddy rushed past Hahyoo as the man took a swing at Jorgen. When the attacker saw Paddy approach he dashed away into the shadows of the balcony and burst through a fire exit door. Play stopped along the length of the hall as eyes focussed on the disturbance. But it resumed in seconds. Players checked their fates as ivory balls rested to dole out executions, reprieves, and short-term galloping joy, they didn’t care a jot about anything else.

Jorgen had slumped into a chair on the balcony and was sleeping. A couple of the gorilla’s mates who’d been hanging back disappeared. The gorilla told Hahyoo to get rid of Jorgen before he got chucked out. Paddy had his arm around Jorgen, whose eyes flickered in recognition as he surfaced from sleep, but he instantly fell back into a deep slumber and started to snore. As the gorilla retreated, a man dressed in a morning suit with a frilly white shirt and black dicky tie waylaid him. Hahyoo observed the morning suited man giving the gorilla a ticking off. Seconds later he approached Hahyoo saying he was an acquaintance of Paddy and apologising for his employee’s shortcomings. After expressing his slant on the unfortunate event, he suggested a stroll to his quarters for a civilised drink to put matters straight. Hahyoo refused, the only drink he needed at that precise moment was a drink of his precious Keemun tea.

***********

Hahyoo and Paddy acted as crutches as they marched Jorgen from the casino to Rodney Street in a vain attempt to sober him up. But he’d remained, as Paddy kept repeating, completely out of it, the poor sod. There’d be no memory of his early morning stroll through the deserted city-centre streets and it was 3.00 a.m. by the time they arrived at the house. From his favourite