At first, the policeman had been reluctant to do anything. However, with the words ‘he’s a Nobel Prize winner’ ringing loudly in his ears, he changed his mind and took the envelope to the officer in charge.
Professor Popov called Jack two hours later.
‘If this is some kind of sick joke aimed at getting an interview, forget it!’ he said curtly. ‘Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t just hand the photograph to the police and be done with it.’
It took all of Jack’s eloquence and powers of persuasion to convince the Professor to give him five minutes of his time. The Professor agreed to meet Jack at five, and gave him the name of his hotel.
Professor Popov stepped out of the lift and looked around. Although Jack recognised him instantly from the Nobel Prize photograph, the Professor was much smaller than he had expected. The closely cropped hair, the round, steel-rimmed glasses and pointed goatee made him look like a Russian revolutionary of the 1920s. The only thing missing was the starched collar and cravat. Jack walked over and introduced himself.
They found an empty table and sat down. During the next few minutes, Jack described where and how he had acquired the secretaire. Hinting that Anna could perhaps still be alive, he began to hypothesise about the inscription. At first, Professor Popov listened politely. Soon, however, he started to fidget in his seat, took off his glasses and began to polish them meticulously with his handkerchief.
‘I’m sorry to interrupt you, Mr Rogan, but isn’t this pure speculation? The police investigation was extremely thorough and lasted for more than a year. In the end, the case was closed. There were no leads. No clues. Nothing. You cannot imagine what my wife and I have been through. I’m sure your intentions are good, but I cannot allow this to give us false hope only to be disappointed again. We have already endured a death of a thousand cuts. To have to face it all again would be too much to bear,’ said the Professor quietly. ‘Please, try to understand.’ He pushed the photograph across the table towards Jack and stood up.
‘Before you go, Professor, there’s one more thing ...’ said Jack, reaching into his pocket. ‘I also found this, hidden in the secretaire.’ Jack placed the silver bracelet on the table in front him.
At first, the Professor just stared. Then he sat down again, looked at the bracelet more closely without touching it, and paled. Covering his face with his hands, he sat in silence.
‘Did this belong to your daughter?’ asked Jack quietly after a while. The Professor didn’t appear to have heard him and Jack had to repeat the question.
‘You’ll have to ask my wife that. My former wife,’ the Professor corrected himself, his voice sounding hoarse. Pulling a pen out of his pocket, he reached for the envelope on the table and wrote down a number. ‘Now, if you would excuse me, my driver is waiting.’
Professor Popov stood up and handed the envelope to Jack.
Confronted by something too painful to remember, but impossible to forget, the celebrated Nobel laureate looked like a broken old man.
‘Thank you, Professor,’ said Jack, holding out his hand. ‘I will do that.’
For an instant, the Professor hesitated, then reached out and shook Jack’s hand.
7
London, 14 January
Barely awake, Jack reached for the mobile ringing on his bedside table. ‘What time did you get in last night?’ Rebecca asked. ‘I was looking for you.’
‘I had to put my flight back ...’
‘Any luck with Popov?’
‘More than you can imagine. I’ll tell you at breakfast. What time is it?’
‘Time to go shopping, remember? Mayfair, here we come!’
‘Oh God, I forgot! Do we have to?’
‘Absolutely! Your wardrobe’s appalling, Jack. You can’t keep turning up in jeans and checked shirts all the time. And that infernal bomber jacket! The country-boy-from-Oz image is wearing thin, believe me.’
‘It is? I hadn’t noticed.’
‘Remember the BBC yesterday morning? The interviewer was joking about it ...’
‘The guy with the bowtie? Poncy little ... Who cares?’
‘Don’t sound so glum. Just bring your credit card and leave the rest to me. You missed breakfast by the way. See you downstairs in half an hour. Can you manage that?’
‘Jeans and checked shirt it is. I’ll be down in a flash.’
‘Enjoy it while you can.’
‘Is that a threat?’
‘No. A promise. See you in the foyer.’
‘Professor Popov was quite a bit older than I expected,’ said Jack, ‘and very reserved. He wasn’t really that interested until I showed him the bracelet. Then everything changed. He became emotional and rather strange ...’
‘So he recognised it, you think?’ interrupted Rebecca. ‘Here we are. Bond Street. Stop please, driver!’
Jack paid the cabbie and they got out. ‘Not sure. It was all very odd.’
‘In what way?’
‘It was as if the bracelet had triggered something ... A recollection; a memory. Something disturbing ...’
‘Did you ask him?’
‘Sure. But he was noncommittal. He avoided the question and suggested I speak to his wife instead. His former wife that is. And one more thing ... He didn’t touch the bracelet, which I found most unusual.’
‘How weird.’
‘And then he wrote down a phone number and excused himself.’
‘In here, Jack,’ said Rebecca, taking Jack by the hand. ‘Armani. That’s you.’
‘I feel like a five-year-old getting his first sailor suit.’
‘For goodness’ sake, Jack! Just for once, do as you’re told!’
Rebecca was in her element. She seemed to know the entire Armani collection. ‘Stop complaining and try these on,’ she ordered, handing a large pile of clothes to Jack.
She was an experienced shopper with a good eye and excellent taste. The clothes looked great on Jack and suited his athletic build to perfection.
‘I don’t need all this stuff.’
‘Keep quiet! You’re taking the lot. Clothes maketh the man, remember?’
‘I thought it took a little more than that,’ Jack suggested meekly.
There was no reply.
He paled when he was handed the bill by the smiling shop assistant, but wisely held his tongue.
‘One good thing about all this gear, I suppose,’ said Jack, pointing to the Armani bags on the footpath, ‘I should fit in rather well ...’
‘Fit in where?’ asked Rebecca, trying in vain to flag down a cab in the crowded street.
‘When we meet the countess ...’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘Anna Popov’s mother is a Russian countess,’ answered Jack.
‘What?’
‘You heard. Not only that, she runs a boutique hotel just outside Paris. We’re going to stay there on Saturday,’ he added, casually.
‘We can’t do that!’ Rebecca almost shouted. ‘You have commitments!’
‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’ replied Jack, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a crumpled piece of paper – his list of UK engagements – and pointed to a particular entry. ‘It says here – in black and white, I might add – “weekend free”.’
‘Yes, but ...’ protested Rebecca.
Jack held up the piece of paper and shrugged.
‘The weekend’s on me, by the way. I booked the best suite in the chateau. It’ll do you good, you’ll see. Especially after all this shopping. Look, here comes an empty one,’ said Jack. Stepping off the kerb, he whistled like a coachman pulling up a brewery horse. The cab stopped and Jack opened the door for Rebecca. ‘Après vous, mademoiselle. Don’t forget the bags.’
‘You are incorrigible,’ said Rebecca, clenching her fists in mock frustration. ‘I don’t know why I bother!’
‘What’s wrong? I’m just practising my French for our little weekend away.’
8
Kur
agin Chateau near Paris, 16 January
By the time they crossed the moat it was already dark. Jack had insisted on renting a car at Paris airport and was driving. ‘There it is,’ he said excitedly, pointing to the ivy-covered tower rising out of the mist ahead. ‘I told you I’d find it!’
‘Taking the freeway wasn’t such a great idea, admit it,’ replied Rebecca. ‘Driving three times around Paris before finding the right exit must be a record. We should have been here hours ago. Great weekend, Jack. We’ll be lucky to get dinner.’
‘Stop whingeing. You’re about to meet a Russian countess.’
The rented Citroen looked diminutive and out of place next to the two Bentleys and the Mercedes Maybach, parked in front of the imposing entrance.
The liveried doorman suggested politely that they should perhaps go straight to their rooms and change, as dinner would be served in half an hour. Tactfully assisting first-timers was part of his role.
‘Aren’t you grateful we went shopping?’ whispered Rebecca, following the porter up the marble staircase. ‘You heard the man: “lounge suit”. No jeans here, buster. Lucky it wasn’t black tie. We better hurry.’
Their suite occupied almost the entire first floor. It had three bedrooms, each with its own bathroom, and a spacious sitting room with a marble fireplace in the middle.
‘My, my, look at this,’ said Rebecca. ‘Big enough for the entire Von Trapp family. Which room would you like?’ Rebecca was testing Jack.
She thought that taking a suite with three bedrooms had been a clever way of bringing them closer without presumption. She’d wanted him to suggest they share a bedroom. However, a familiar little voice inside her told her to be careful. Leave it up to him, she thought, sensing that he may not be quite ready.
Which room would I like? thought Jack, watching Rebecca carefully. Is she teasing me? Despite his confident and urbane manner, deep down Jack was rather old fashioned and quite shy. Women sensed this and it added a further layer to his appeal. Don’t rush it, mate. You’re her client. Give her some space ...
‘Your choice,’ he said, deflecting the question. ‘You’re my guest, remember? I hope they have some decent tucker ’round here, I’m starving. I don’t fancy frogs’ legs or snails tonight. I could kill for a steak! How about a glass of champagne first?’ suggested Jack, pointing to the silver ice bucket on the sideboard.
‘No time. We’d better get changed and do as we’re told. Move!’ Rebecca chose the bedroom with the fireplace, and Jack the smaller one next to it. A little more relaxed, they spoke to each other through open doors whilst getting changed. Jack needed some help with his attire, and Rebecca was happy to oblige. It all seemed perfectly natural and good fun. Watching Jack in the mirror, Rebecca realised she had made the right decision. Good move, she thought. Intimacy without risking embarrassment.
‘Not bad for a country lad,’ said Rebecca five minutes later when Jack emerged wearing his suit. ‘Let me have a look at you.’
She straightened Jack’s tie and adjusted his collar. Satisfied, she linked arms with him and they walked downstairs to meet the other guests. Somewhere in the background, a string quartet was playing Vivaldi.
The dining room was lit entirely by candles, making the large room appear intimate and warm. Countess Kuragin knew that the difference between a memorable entrance and a flat one was timing. Wearing a simple black evening dress, but jewellery fit for a tsarina, she swept into the room just as her guests were being seated. No one would have believed that the tall, elegant woman with the youthful face and regal bearing was in her forties.
The countess knew the names of all the guests and conversed fluently in several languages. She sat at the head of the table and Jack found himself to her right. Rebecca sat opposite, next to an elderly Texan oil baron who ogled her with interest. The other guests turned out to be an ageing French actor between fortunes, an English lord – clearly a regular – and his bored wife. Further down the table, a bombastic German industrialist from Hanover accompanied by a striking young woman – obviously not his wife – was trying to make conversation with a pianist from Prague who had seen better days.
‘A long way from home, Mr Rogan,’ said the countess, reaching for her glass. ‘I found your book most fascinating,’ she added casually. ‘Do you like the Chablis?’
It was always a fine line between welcome attention and privacy, but the countess knew exactly how far she could go without annoying or, God forbid, embarrassing her guests. Jack was rather pleased with himself for having been recognised and felt instantly at ease.
As every experienced hostess knows, bringing total strangers together at the dinner table for the first time and making them feel relaxed is quite an art. However, by sitting at the head of the table, the countess was able to involve all of her guest in conversation, not only with her, but also with each other. The copious quantities of excellent wine helped as well.
‘Coffee will be served in the music room,’ said the countess after the last dessert plate had been cleared away. ‘Please follow me.’
Standing up, she smiled at the pianist from Prague and took him by the hand, leading him into the music room where the grand piano, a Bösendorfer with the top already opened in concert hall style, was waiting.
‘Do you like Chopin?’ asked the countess, joining Jack and Rebecca by the fire at the other end of the room. ‘He was my mother’s favourite. She used to play Chopin on that very piano. Mazurkas were her forte.’
Rebecca nodded. ‘Very romantic.’
The pianist sat down, stretched his fingers and began to play the Minute Waltz with the flair of a professional. The others stood around the piano and watched him perform.
‘I love your dress, Rebecca,’ said the countess. Smiling, she turned to Jack. ‘You have come a long way for just one night, Mr Rogan, yet there’s so much to see around here, even in winter.’
‘I didn’t come here to see the sights, Countess,’ replied Jack quietly, taking advantage of the opening. ‘I came to see you.’
The countess looked up, surprised. ‘You came to see me?’ she asked. ‘But why?’
‘I have something to show you.’
‘I’m intrigued.’
Realising that they were momentarily alone, Jack reached into his suit pocket, pulled out the bracelet, and placed it on the marble mantlepiece. At first, the countess stared blankly at the bracelet in front of her, then her whole body began to tremble and she had to reach for Jack’s arm to steady herself.
‘It can’t be,’ she whispered, choking with emotion. ‘Where did you ... how?’ The guests standing around the piano began to clap. ‘Is something written on the back?’ asked the countess, her voice barely audible.
‘Yes, one word,’ replied Jack, turning the bracelet over. ‘Right here.’ All the colour had drained from the countess’s troubled face, making her appear suddenly much older.
‘Örökke,’ she whispered. ‘Oh God. Örökke!’
‘What does it mean?’ asked Jack.
‘“Forever”. In Hungarian. Please excuse me,’ whispered the countess and hurried out of the room.
Jack looked at Rebecca and raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, what do you say now?’ he asked.
‘I’m impressed, Jack. The detour is forgiven.’
‘Detour? What detour? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Twenty minutes later the countess returned looking calm and composed. Jack admired her self control.
‘Breeding – see?’ observed Rebecca. ‘Just look at her.’
The countess mingled with her other guests at the piano – Chopin had turned into jazz – and then walked across to Jack and Rebecca who were standing away from the others by the fire.
‘Would you mind coming with me?’ she said, taking Rebecca by the hand. ‘I have something to show you.’
At the back of the chateau was a small chapel. The countess opened the heavy wooden door studded with wrought iron nails, and ushered her guests into her
private world. The first thing Rebecca noticed was the photograph on the altar, its solid silver frame reflecting the dancing flames of the candles burning next to it.
‘That’s Anna,’ said the countess, pointing to a photograph. ‘She was christened in here and so was I.’
This is a shrine, thought Jack, the distinctive smell of wilting flowers, incense and candle wax reminding him of his mother’s funeral.
‘I come here every day to pray,’ continued the countess. ‘I wonder, Mr Rogan, are you the answer to my prayers, or a harbinger of more torment? I’m not sure if I’m strong enough to bear it, should you be the latter. Please tell me, how did you come by the bracelet?’ The countess placed a hand on Jack’s arm and looked at him intently, her eyes reflecting the hopes and fears gripping her heart. ‘And please remember,’ she whispered, ‘we are in God’s house.’
Quietly, Jack described the circumstances of the bracelet’s extraordinary discovery. Hanging on every word, the countess listened in silence. Not once did she interrupt.
‘This is God’s work, can’t you see it?’ she said after Jack had finished. ‘I can feel it. He has brought you here. I believe Anna is alive. I’ve sensed it all these years. Do you believe in destiny, Mr Rogan? I think you do. You say so in your book.’
Looking for reassurance, she reached for Jack’s hand. ‘Thank you for returning the bracelet to me. It’s a sign. You are now part of its history. Come, let me tell you the part you don’t know.’
Jack and Rebecca followed the countess upstairs to her apartment on the top floor. Dismissing her maid, she waited until they were alone.
‘It all began with an old story: two young men in love with the same girl. We all lived in Paris at the time and attended the same university. Zoltan was Hungarian. His parents left Budapest during the revolution in 1956 and opened a small nightclub in Montmartre.’
The countess lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, her gaze fixed on the bracelet on the table in front of her.
‘Nikolai came from an old Russian family. His grandparents left St Petersburg in 1916. They ran away from the Bolsheviks, just like mine. Fortunately, my family already owned this place and settled here. Zolli and Nikki were inseparable. They shared a room somewhere near the university and both of them worked in the club at night. Zolli played the piano in a jazz band and Nikki worked behind the bar. That’s where I met them. I’m telling you all this,’ explained the countess, ‘to help you understand what was to follow. Would you mind opening the champagne, Mr Rogan?’ The countess motioned towards the ice bucket the maid had left for them.
The Disappearance of Anna Popov Page 5