‘Come on, Nicolai! What’s the answer?’
Nicolai puts on a pair of glasses and examines the painting closely, making little clicking noises with his tongue. At last he says, ‘The brushwork is magnificent, the paints absolutely masterful in their tints. They match exactly what we would expect from Fra Angelico’s genius. Everything: the composition, the linear perspective, the style . . . it’s almost perfect.’
‘Almost?’ raps out Andrei.
Nicolai nods mournfully. ‘Perfect, but for one thing. Analysis of the pigments and the canvas itself tells us that this work is no more than two hundred years old. It’s a very clever, very delightful, very exciting pastiche. It is a wonderful work by a great talent, but it is not by Fra Angelico.’ He looks straight at Andrei who is standing like a statue, his face pale. ‘I’m sorry, Andrei, but there’s no doubt about it. Your painting is a fake.’
CHAPTER TWO
I’m virtually running through the Winter Palace in pursuit of Andrei, who is striding ahead of me. I hope he can remember the way out because I have no idea where we are. We’ve gone along metres of corridors and down at least one flight of stairs already.
Fifteen hundred rooms. If he can’t remember the way, we could be racing around for a very long time looking for the exit.
But Andrei evidently knows the route and he keeps up his killing pace until we reach the door where we came in. He goes to open it.
‘Andrei, please!’ I gasp. ‘Wait!’
He stops and turns around. His expression is awful: I’ve never seen rage so deeply etched on a face and his eyes are like burning flint.
‘I . . . I . . . I’m sorry!’ I manage to say as I try to catch my breath. ‘I know what the painting meant to you!’
A nasty snarl curls his lips. ‘You and your friend have cost me two million dollars,’ he says, his voice harsher than ever. I never usually notice his accent – he sounds more American than anything to me – but now the Russian aspect is pronounced, as though he wants to emphasise the difference between us. ‘You want to think about that, huh?’
I almost recoil in shock. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re my art adviser, aren’t you? You and Mark, together? You came with me to Croatia to advise me on the purchase of the Fra Angelico and it was on your say-so that I bought the goddamned thing! So much for your expertise.’
I gasp at this. It’s blatantly unfair. I can see Mark’s unhappy face in my mind right now. He didn’t want to be pressed into advising Andrei to buy the painting but Andrei insisted. Mark’s advice was to wait until the painting was properly authenticated; Andrei hadn’t listened. I can hear Mark telling me that his reputation would be on the line if the painting turned out to be a fake. Oh God, Mark – what will this do to you?
Fury blazes up in me. Andrei can’t play it this way. He can’t pretend that he didn’t steamroller us and buy the painting against Mark’s advice.
‘You know that’s not true!’ I cry. The anger boiling up in me makes my voice strong and indignant. ‘I won’t let you blame Mark for this! He warned you, he told you to be cautious but you wouldn’t listen. He never wanted you to buy that painting but you went ahead anyway. He’s been so loyal to you, how dare you turn on him like this?’
Andrei says nothing but he’s paler than ever, his brows knitting as he stares at me.
I’m more fired up now, despite a voice at the back of my mind warning me to tread carefully. ‘It’s your own fault, you know it is. You wanted to believe that the painting was real, so you did exactly what you wanted. Is this how you operate? Throwing people to the lions when things go wrong rather than take the blame yourself? I thought better of you than that. But I’m beginning to realise I was wrong about you on more than one level.’
I can’t quite believe what I’ve just said. A thread of fear curls around my stomach and tightens. Oh no, I’ve gone too far.
His teeth are clenched, I can tell by the tightness of his jaw and the way a muscle is pulsing in his cheek. He looks like he wants to kill me. Then, after an agonising pause, he says curtly, ‘Get in the car. Now.’ He strides out without looking to see if I’m obeying.
As I follow him through the door, I curse my rashness. I’m completely at this man’s mercy. Now is not the time to antagonise him – but I couldn’t stop myself. If he’s going to blame Mark and me for this situation, then our working relationship is at an end anyway. But what if I’m about to see a whole different side of Andrei Dubrovski? I’ve seen him polished and civilised, considerate, even seductive – but I’ve always known that under that sophisticated exterior is a boy from the Moscow back streets, brought up in an orphanage, who made his fortune through toughness and determination, succeeding no matter what it took.
How far would he go if he wanted some kind of revenge?
The driver is out of the car, holding the door open for me. I climb in and wonder what the hell is going to happen now. Andrei is next to me. He’s silent but I can sense the fury roiling inside him. My instinct tells me to keep quiet, so I don’t even ask where we’re going now. I want desperately to be back in my room at the hotel. I need to get away from him so I can think this all through. The car sets off, out through the gate and back over the river. We’re on the Nevsky Prospect, the famous main road of St Petersburg, crawling along through the heavy traffic, rolling by crowds of well-wrapped-up people walking through snowy streets in front of bright shop windows. We pass ornate department stores, brightly lit malls, huge churches and beautiful monuments. I ought to be thrilled to be here, I ought to be drinking in these sights, but instead I’m nervous and unhappy, wondering what is going to happen next.
Andrei doesn’t speak all the way back to the hotel. Then, as we walk into the glitzy marble lobby with its giant crystal lights, he says, ‘I’m going to my room. Order whatever you want for lunch. Be ready to leave here again at two o’clock.’
‘Are we going home?’ I venture.
He looks down at me with a swift chilly gaze. Then something he sees in my face makes him pause and soften slightly. ‘Not yet. Tonight. There’s something I need to do first.’ He looks as though he wants to say something else, but he decides against it and only adds: ‘Two o’clock. Exactly.’
I go back to my room, grateful to be able to recover a little from the drama of this morning. When the door is safely closed behind me, I lean against it and sigh with relief. Then I kick off my boots, throw myself down on my bed and stare up at the ceiling.
‘So the painting is a fake,’ I say out loud. ‘I can’t believe it. After all that.’
I wonder what Andrei intends to do about it. I wouldn’t want to be the abbot of the monastery when he has to take that particular telephone call. But I have my own call to make. I ought to tell Mark what the results of the Hermitage investigation are; he needs to know. I remember the last time I saw him, just before I left for Russia with Andrei. I’d gone round to the Belgravia house to see how he was and get some final instructions, only to find a big bustling blonde woman had taken charge of everything.
‘My sister Caroline,’ Mark explained in a voice that was weaker than ever. ‘She’s going to stay and take care of things in the house.’
‘And you?’ I asked, watching as Caroline stomped off to give some instructions to the handyman working outside, her loud patrician tones already ringing out. Her bulky noisiness was in such contrast to Mark’s slim, quiet elegance that it was hard to believe they had the same parents. ‘Is she going to take care of you?’
I was still absorbing the news that Mark was sick, and wondering how serious it was, as he refused even to say what exactly was wrong with him.
‘Of course. Very good care. She’s excellent at all of that.’ Mark smiled, and the sight made me want to cry. It was supposed to look cheerful but his thin lips stretched over his bony face gave him a rictus grin. I realised suddenly that his teeth and eyes looked enormous in his head, huge but yellow-tinged and unhealthy.
He’s really
ill, I thought, with something like astonishment. Of course I knew he was ill, but people get sick and then get better. Unless they get sick and then sicker, and then sicker still and then . . .
‘Actually, Beth,’ Mark said, making as though to lean towards me confidentially but then not finding quite enough strength, ‘did I tell you my operation is tomorrow?’
I shook my head, hoping that he couldn’t see the blur of tears in my eyes.
‘Oh yes, I’m top priority. Into theatre first thing, and eight hours on the operating table. It’ll whizz by because I’ll be the closest thing to dead there is without actually being dead. At least, I hope I don’t end up dead, that really isn’t the idea.’ Mark chuckled at his own little joke. ‘So think of me recovering in my hospital bed while you’re waltzing around St Petersburg – but Caroline will make sure I’m taken care of, don’t worry.’
I’m staring up at the light above the bed, and I realise I’ve been counting the little halogen bulbs over and over while I think about Mark. The operation must have been yesterday. It was on his neck, so I’ve no idea if he’ll be able to talk, even assuming it was a success. Oh God, I hope it was a success. I’ve grown to love Mark, as a friend and mentor and an inspiration for how to live life beautifully. He’s been so much more than an employer to me.
I pick up my mobile and my thumb hovers over it for a moment, then I put it back down on the bed beside me. I won’t phone him with this particular news, not yet. There’s no nice way to tell him that Andrei intends to throw him under a bus – and I might yet be able to salvage the situation. After all, there is the mysterious trip at 2 p.m.; perhaps I could try exerting some influence over Andrei then.
Yes, that’s definitely the way. I’ll try and appeal to Andrei’s decency. I’m sure he has some. And I’ll wait to see how Mark is doing before I tell him anything else.
With that decided, I sit up and think about ordering lunch, so I can be ready to go at precisely two o’clock.
I’m ten minutes early in the lobby, just in case. At five minutes to two, Andrei comes striding out of a lift, wearing his dark-blue silk and cashmere overcoat. Everyone notices him at once and watches him, some subtly, others openly staring. His energy radiates out and draws every eye. Besides that, he’s physically interesting to look at: he’s tall, broad-shouldered and his face is almost handsome. It’s craggy and tough, its heavy features and obstinate mouth given something extraordinary by those blazing blue eyes.
It’s strange to remember that I’ve seen those eyes soften to a hazy sky-blue, and that unsmiling mouth curve into a smile meant just for me. And I’ve heard that hard voice become mellow and murmur strange promises and predictions that touched something in me even while I was pulling away.
‘Good. You’re here,’ he snaps.
Nice to see you too!
Actually, I prefer this Andrei. I can deal with a bad-tempered, selfish, spoilt Andrei. I find it harder to know what to do with a softer, sweeter, more human, more vulnerable Andrei.
Stop it. Don’t go there. Don’t even think about it.
Just then I notice that Andrei is not alone. There’s a woman behind him, dressed in a long black coat and the round dark fur hat I’ve seen on so many people here. Wisps of fair hair are escaping from beneath the soft fur, and her face is pale and fine below. She is expressionless, and keeps one hand resting on a large leather bag that she wears with the strap across her body. I notice that she’s quite a bit taller than I am.
We’ve got company? My heart sinks. This will put an obstacle in the path of talking to Andrei about Mark.
Andrei gestures to his companion. ‘Beth, this is Maria. She’s my assistant today. Come with me, we’re leaving immediately.’
I fall in obediently behind Maria, and we follow Andrei out, looking like a rather comical trio of large, medium and small. The car is just outside and a moment later we’re back in its delightful warmth. I shiver after my brief experience of the freezing air outside. I don’t think I’ve ever been anywhere as cold as St Petersburg. Thank goodness Andrei didn’t feel like a trip to Siberia.
Andrei and Maria talk as we set off, and they talk for the rest of the hour-and-a-half journey, but as every word is in Russian, I understand nothing. I concentrate hard for a while, attempting to decipher what I’m hearing, but it’s pointless. Maria has taken a notebook out of her capacious bag and is scrawling across the pages in what looks like impenetrable scribble.
As we leave the most prosperous part of St Petersburg, the lights become less golden and gaudy. It’s almost dark already, and I feel suddenly very tired. Leaning my head back against the leather headrest, I can’t fight the sudden weight in my eyelids, and the inner pull towards unconsciousness. I try to stay awake, but I simply can’t.
When I come to, we’ve pulled to a halt in a small car park in front of a large, grey, institutional-looking building.
‘Come on, sleepy,’ Andrei says, his voice rough but not unkind. ‘We’re here. You’ll be woken up by what’s inside, don’t worry about that.’
I shake my head to dislodge the sleepiness, a little bewildered. A moment ago I was lost in a vivid dream in which I was at home, arguing with my mother about something. What was it? Oh yes, she was telling me to come home. ‘You’ve been away long enough,’ she was saying sternly. ‘I don’t like it, Beth!’ and I was exasperated, trying to explain that I couldn’t just come home, I had to wait for Andrei’s private plane and . . .
‘Come on, Beth!’ snaps Andrei.
The driver is holding the door open. I climb out, burrowing down into my coat as hard as I can. The cold is cruel, biting through my coat and clothes as though they’re not even there. I need to get out of this bitterness soon; my feet are already numb from the icy ground and my skin is prickling all over in protest at the sensation of freezing air sucking out all its warmth.
Andrei leads the way along a path around to the front of the building, and Maria and I follow, concentrating on not skidding on the path, which is still icy despite being well gritted. At the front door, the building looks even bleaker, its four grey storeys stretching up, with shutters closed and not much sign of life anywhere.
‘Where are we?’ I ask, not able to keep my mouth shut any longer.
‘You’ll see,’ Andrei replies shortly. He presses a button mounted at the side of the doorway. I think I can hear noise from behind the thick door, a kind of high-pitched wailing. Then, a moment later, the door is pulled open and a middle-aged, grey-haired woman is standing there, dumpy in a plain skirt and jumper, starkly outlined against the flood of light coming from inside. She sees Andrei and gives a big gasp, her eyes widening and her mouth broadening into a smile. The next moment, she has begun to chatter excitedly in Russian and, to my astonishment, she has flung her arms around Andrei, despite his bulky coat, and is hugging him tightly.
From within the building comes more high-pitched chattering and noise: the babble of voices and the sound of small shoes, scraping chairs, clattering feet on stairs. We must be visiting a school or . . .
We’re going inside. The woman has released Andrei and is now pulling him by the hand while she calls out loudly to the people inside the building. Maria is beside me, a big smile illuminating her pale, rather sharp face. Now I’m beginning to guess and, as soon as we step into the large, brightly lit hall, blessedly warm compared to the chill outside, I know for sure.
Around sixty children aged from about three to around ten have grouped themselves in the hallway at the foot of a staircase. They are muttering, whispering and fidgeting but as we stand in front of them, they fall silent, and sixty pairs of eyes turn to another figure, a woman standing in front of them, who lifts her hands, counts them in and begins to conduct as the childish voices suddenly soar into song.
I don’t recognise the tune or understand any words, but the song is absolutely beautiful. I think it must be something to do with Christmas, but perhaps that’s because I can see that there are strings of home-made chains
made from shiny paper strung from the walls and twisted up the stair rail. Of course, Christmas is coming . . . it’s December already.
The children have a shabby look about them, with their well-worn trousers, skirts and jumpers, but they are clean and bright-faced. I watch the very littlest, the ones with angel faces, who don’t yet know their words but are singing along as best they can. Then I see the older ones, earnest, missing teeth, concentrating hard as they watch the teacher, or being distracted by a friend’s nudging elbow or an enticing bit of fallen paper chain. There are all sorts of children: pigtailed girls, girls with flowing hair pinned with sparkly clips, girls with thick glasses, girls in trousers and girls in dresses. There are boys with buzz cuts, boys with ponytails and others with mullet affairs. There are angelic-looking boys, and boys with bruises and grazes, plump-cheeked lads and gaunt, skinny things who look like they could eat all day and still be hungry. All are singing.
I look over at Andrei and I’m amazed. He’s smiling in a way I’ve never seen before: broad, open and full of pride and pleasure. He’s clutching his hands in front of him and rising up slightly on his toes in time to the music. He looks as pleased as any father at his child’s carol concert.
So this is Andrei’s orphanage. He told me on the plane that he sponsors an orphanage, and that his wish is to make the place as full of colour and fun as he can, so that it’s not like the grim place where he grew up. I look around: yes, despite the functionality of the place, there’s colour too. Plenty of it. Pictures are everywhere, bright cushions are on chairs, there are patterned rugs on the grey linoleum floor. It’s a cheerful place, despite having the unmistakeable air of an institution rather than a home.
I look back at the children. Which one would Andrei have been most like? That round-faced, blue-eyed boy singing his heart out? Then I see a boy at the back. He’s about ten and taller than the others, so he’s tucked himself away where he can’t be noticed. Perhaps he’s shy about his height, or doesn’t like singing. He’s thin-faced, probably because he’s growing so fast, and he’s singing through barely moving lips, as though he’s doing it because he has to. The boy’s expression is unreadable and then he glances over at Andrei and his face takes on a look of absolute hero worship.
Promises After Dark (After Dark Book 3) Page 2