Brilliant

by Kellogg, Marne Davis

  Mr. Rush nodded. His expression was grave. “Yes. He met with my great-great-grandmother, Dowager Empress Marie Feodorovna, and told her to talk to no one but himself, and later, long after she was gone—he’d stayed in contact with my grandfather and then my father—he added your name to his. So”—he examined his hands— “the time has come to sell them. The proceeds will enable us to reclaim our properties.”

  I now studied him very closely. This was what Sir Cramner had insisted would happen one day, and all of a sudden, here it was. Right out of the blue. We never know, do we, when life will change.

  Just bang, whole different picture of the world. In the blink of an eye, our perspective is shifted forever.

  This could be the golden parachute Ballantine’s so desperately needed—Sir Cramner’s final gift to the firm he loved so much. My mind spun from one end of the spectrum: From a bonanza of spectacular publicity—Bertram would be positively orgasmic on the podium, gaveling us to higher and higher records. The publicity would be unstoppable. To the other: We would be blamed for launching World War III—Bertram would resign, and the government would close us down and sue us for ending the world.

  “Forgive me, Mr. Rush, to say this is a momentous occasion is extraordinary understatement. It’s mind-boggling.” I knew I needed to say something, ask some sort of intelligent question. “When you say ‘reclaim our properties,’ what exactly does that mean? Reestablish the monarchy?”

  He shook his head vehemently. “No. No. We’d never make such a presumptuous, or ridiculous, claim. In spite of what some loyalists may proclaim over the Internet—and believe me, they’re everywhere—restoration of the monarchy in Russia is completely unfeasible, if not impossible. It’s not even desirable, unless, of course, the people were to clamor for it, which they’re not. Unfortunately.” That self-deprecating smile again. “No, what I’m talking about is that, during the revolution, all of my family’s possessions, our estates, furnishings, everything, except those small items they could carry out with them—if they were lucky enough to escape—were appropriated by the state.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but Dimitri Rush held up his hand. “If I may,” he said. “Let’s face the truth: Many of those palaces, properties, jewels, and furnishings are, in fact, rightfully the possessions of the Russian people. And should remain so. They’re national treasures. But many others aren’t. Some were gifts to family members; others were bought legitimately and legally. It’s those properties we want to buy back, because they’re rightfully ours. We have deeds and bills of sale to prove it.”

  “What about the jewelry? What is the condition of the provenances?”

  “Unimpeachable. These are family, not state, pieces, and each one is fully documented.”

  Well, first of all, when a family is the monarchy of a country, there is a not-so-fine line between what’s “family” and what’s “state.” If you were a regular citizen, especially in Imperial, pre-Revolutionary Russia, nobody went around giving you fabulous gems or estates. And when it came to the money? Well, that was another big part of the problem in Russia: The monarchy was keeping all the money—they might have bills of sale for certain goods or properties, but they’d bought them at fire sale prices because the people who’d owned them didn’t have any choice but to sell. If they wanted to thrive, survive, or live. Maybe if the Romanovs had reinvested a little of that cash in the economy, they’d still be in power.

  Plus, the chances of having verifiable provenances of a collection that has been through what this one has would be slim, at best. Although—and I had to remind myself that “althoughs” are what make exceptional things happen—the personal jewelry that the Dowager Empress had brought with her to England when she fled, and sold to today’s royal family in order to pay for her upkeep, was fully documented. Some of the pieces could be traced back to the 1400s. So it was possible this collection was in the same condition.

  “I’m sorry to sound skeptical, Mr. Rush, but as we’ve all seen over the last years, keeping the provenance intact on something as big and singular as a painting that went through World War II has proved almost impossible in many cases. So to have an entire collection of jewelry that survived not only the Russian Revolution and World War II, securely documented, seems unlikely.”

  “I know. But it’s true.” Mr. Rush wasn’t defensive. He was relaxed and confident.

  “Where is the collection now? When can we see it?”

  “I have it with me. It’s in the back of my car.”

  “In the back of your car,” I repeated. “I see.” It occurred to me Mr. Rush was a crackpot who’d somehow stumbled on Sir Cramner’s fantastic claim.

  He sensed what I was thinking. “Hidden in plain sight, Miss Keswick. It’s always the best way. It’s what’s kept them safe all these years.”

  “Where is your car?”

  “At the front door.”

  “Okay. I’m going to call the loading dock—I think it’d be a good idea to move the car inside before we unload it.”

  Mr. Rush shook his head. “Not necessary. No one knows what’s in there. Besides, I’ve got guards—believe me, nobody can get past them.”

  This was a tricky game. If he were legit, then this was the first of what would become many, many negotiations, large and small. If I were to dig in now, he could very easily get in his car and drive a block or two to Christie’s, or across the way to Sotheby’s, and they’d welcome him with open arms.

  “Believe me, miss, my family has been responsible for the safe- keeping of this treasury for more than eighty years. I’m certain I can get it across the sidewalk and through your front door.”

  “All right, I’ll notify security. Please tell me you won’t mind if I do that.”

  “By all means. We’ll need a couple of strong backs and dollies as well.”

  T H I R T Y - E I G H T

  A mud-splattered, slightly dented, aged, white Range Rover—the perfect car for a country gentleman living on fumes—was parked at the bottom of the steps under the watchful eye of our elegant doorman, Winston. He’d come to us from Claridge’s, seduced by one of Bertram’s irresistible offers, and now classed up our establishment in his black-and-gold livery. Watching him greet the early-bird arrivals for the morning’s auctions, it seemed he knew everyone in the world by name. Winston was a London institution. I doubted Owen knew how lucky we were to have him.

  Two Airedales sat patiently looking out the smudged, Range Rover windows—one in the driver’s seat, one directly behind. I’m not a dog expert by any means, but these looked to me to be the perfect standards for the breed, with large intelligent eyes, alert expressions, cocked ears, and dark black saddles with rich tan legs and faces. They were an ideal choice for guardians—the fearlessness and brute strength of the breed was legendary. The minute they saw their owner, they stood up and wagged their tails.

  Dimitri Rush opened the rear cargo door, snapped on the dogs’ leads, and let them leap out, where they automatically took up their duty stations next to him. Then he leaned into the cargo area and pushed aside a jumble of athletic, hunting, and fishing equipment and tossed back a black tarp, revealing six black metal, padlocked, tackle boxes—each about three feet long, a foot and a half wide, and a foot tall. I don’t know how much each case weighed, but it required two of our burly furniture movers to lift them from the bed of the wagon and muscle them onto the dollies. Armed guards stood by as the cases were stacked.

  That done, Mr. Rush and the dogs, who I noticed had not taken their eyes off the cases, followed closely as the carts were rolled down a service ramp into what was known as Cellar A (Ballantine’s had four basement levels). Once we were all in, a three-inch-thick, solid steel door clanged shut and was bolted behind us.

  Life in an auction house is dynamic, the backstage activity is non-stop, and Cellar A was the center of the action. We proceeded through an alley of storage lockers with open-slatted walls, their contents visible inside. Moving men swarmed on and o
ff ancient service elevators while supervisors in headsets called out directions for what went into which bin. Today was Monday, and goods were being organized for Wednesday’s auctions. The names of the consignees, time of auction, assigned room, and auctioneer, were displayed at the door to each bin. As soon as today’s sales were over and the goods moved out, these items would be moved up to the showrooms tonight for tomorrow’s exhibitions.

  No one paid much attention to our silent parade moving through the maze and maelstrom and onto an empty elevator. We ascended to the mezzanine and went directly to a windowless conference room accessible only by passing behind my desk. The fireproof room, itself a safe of sorts, was reserved for review of highly sensitive or fragile goods, such as documents, illuminated manuscripts, or ancient books; or small items, such as fine jewelry, coins, or stamps. Items that were easily pocketed.

  The movers gently hefted the cases onto the baize-covered table, and left.

  The guards closed the door and took up their watch, and I locked the door from the inside and pushed the rheostats of the track lights and the air-conditioning thermostat up to high. The lights would force the temperature up in the close little chamber, and it would quickly become unbearably hot. But, the intense lighting was essential. Close examination of the goods would quickly show us what we had in terms of the gems—the real thing or a pig in a poke.

  The atmosphere was charged with anticipation. I needed to go get Owen, but I also felt Mr. Rush needed some time to gather himself. I’d recognized in our brief meeting that he was a deliberate, thoughtful man, so I watched quietly from the door while he and the dogs slowly circled the table, his hand sliding familiarly across the boxes. He seemed almost to embrace them. His face was pale. He was about to change history by opening these boxes, to step into the spotlight, and assume a perilous mantle. So aware that I was a witness to the occasion—the last anonymous moment of this man’s life—I remained silent, respectful. His posture was ramrod straight, his shoulders square. There was no fear or trepidation there, only duty.

  Shortly, I said, “If you’re ready, I’m going to get Mr. Brace.”

  “Mr. Brace?”

  “Chairman of the board of Ballantine’s.”

  “Ah. Yes. I suppose we have to tell someone sooner or later.” His lips tilted.

  “It’s going to be all right,” I said, knowing I didn’t have the slightest idea what I meant by that, and while he didn’t look to me as though he could use an encouraging word or two, I knew it wouldn’t hurt. “I’ll be back in a second.”

  Bertram’s office was empty, and Owen’s door was closed. I rapped on it and walked in. He was on the phone. His feet, in their thin-soled, glossy black, banker’s shoes, were propped on the edge of the Edwardian desk. He was leaning back in his chair, a hand covering his eyes as though he were trying to concentrate on every word and it was taking every ounce of his energy. We were both suffering from sleep deprivation and running on sheer will, but I now had the advantage of adrenaline.

  Bertram sat across from him, his laptop on the edge of Owen’s desk. He was studying a spreadsheet.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” I said, “but something urgent has come up.” Owen lifted his hand and frowned.

  “Seriously. This is important.” I removed his jacket from the coat rack and held it open for him to slip on.

  “Okay, Gil.” He sat up and swung his feet to the floor. “I’ve got to go. Keep me posted.” He hung up the phone. “What?”

  “You both need to come into the small conference room.” I could scarcely contain myself. “You aren’t even going to believe it.”

  “What?”

  “Do you remember that night when you came to my apartment, the night of Tina’s press conference, and you were thumbing through a book about Russian crown jewels and I told you the story about Sir Cramner? That he said one day someone would show up at Ballantine’s with an even bigger collection of Imperial jewels?” I smoothed the jacket along the top of his shoulders.

  “Vaguely.”

  “Well, he just showed up.”

  “Who just showed up?” Bertram asked.

  “The Czar of Russia.”

  They both returned to what they’d been doing.

  “Listen to me. Did I steer you wrong about Lady Melody? No. I gave you good advice, and I’m telling you right now that there’s a man in the vault room with a half dozen cases he claims are full of Romanov jewelry that belonged to his great-great-grandmother the Dowager Empress. Now, you both can just stay in here like a couple of nincompoops, or you can come in and meet him and see what he’s got.”

  “Quite right,” Bertram said, and got to his feet and straightened his tie. “No harm, no foul. Heaven forbid I should ever be accused of being a nincompoop.”

  “Whatever.”

  The dogs went on full alert when the three of us entered, growling deep in their throats, and waiting for instructions.

  Once I’d made the introductions and Mr. Rush repeated the circumstances, I realized how completely preposterous it sounded. Owen kept looking back and forth between us, as though we were speaking Swahili.

  Bertram just nodded his gray head, like a psychiatrist pretending to listen but trying to remember when his tee time was.

  “Sir, will you excuse us a moment?” Owen took my elbow and guided me out of the room and into his office. “Is this some kind of joke?”

  “No.” I couldn’t help but laugh. I was as bemused as he was. “It’s just what I said. I mean, I don’t know if he’s telling the truth, but I told you what Sir Cramner said would happen, and you’ve heard what Mr. Rush has to say. For all I know, the boxes could be full of sandwiches, but on the chance he’s the real thing, you need to be there.”

  “Who else knew about this besides you and Sir Cramner?”

  “I haven’t got the slightest idea. But I’m pretty sure no one else in the firm knew about it. No one that I know of.”

  Owen jammed his hands in his pockets and shook his head. “I don’t know what the hell’s happening, but I feel like I jumped off a cliff forty-eight hours ago and terra firma is nowhere in sight. You have completely turned my world upside down. Every time I get near you, something happens.”

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  “Did I say I didn’t like it? All right. Let’s go back and see what he’s got.”

  When Mr. Rush unlocked the boxes and opened them up, and as those halogen lights hit that jewelry, it was blinding. The contents were beyond imagination. Other than the English crown jewels, this was, without question, the most fabulous collection ever assembled.

  For once, neither Owen nor Bertram had anything to say.

  T H I R T Y - N I N E

  We trailed Mr. Rush along the row of armored cases. They were lined with rich red velvet that was in perfect condition. The first held tiaras, including one that looked identical to the tiara that had been the English royal family’s favorite for most of the twentieth century, known as the Grand Duchess Vladimir of Russia’s Tiara.

  “Is that what I think it is?” I asked.

  “You recognize it?” Mr. Rush’s face brightened. “The one you’re familiar with is Grand Duchess Vladmir’s, of course. This”—Mr. Rush lifted the tiara out of the case and held it up—“is the original. The Dowager Empress had it made in the 1870s—it became one of her favorites. It’s quite astonishing, isn’t it?” The fifteen interlaced diamond circles blazed in the strong light, as though they were on fire. Inside each circle was a robin’s egg–sized cabochon Kashmir sapphire—they hung suspended like giant, royal blue teardrops, quivering slightly, ready to fall. “Do you know the story?”

  “No. I didn’t even know this piece existed. Do you mind telling us about it?”

  Flattered, he continued. “The Dowager Empress was very attached to her niece, Miechen—Grand Duchess Vladimir—who was considered the leading hostess in St. Petersburg.”

  I knew well about Miechen. A bright, jolly, politically astute, tw
enty-year-old German princess who married the forty-year-old Grand Duke Vladimir, Russia’s richest and most influential aristocrat. Little Miechen was a very savvy, brainy gal. She went right to work building her own power structure, and within no time at all, their home, the spectacular Vladimir Palace—today it houses part of the Hermitage Museum—on the banks of the Neva, became the alternative court. Miechen was able to pull this off for a couple of reasons: not only because of the power of her personality and financial wherewithal, but also because vague, vapid, overwrought, and not-terribly-bright Empress Alexandra was so totally wrapped up in her family and under the spell of her “counselor,” the rascal Rasputin, she had virtually no interest in anything that had to do with society or the official court—to the obvious detriment of the family, the monarchy, and all of the history of Russia, to put it mildly. “Anyone who wanted to accomplish anything,” Mr. Rush explained, “whether in the court, the military, or the government, knew that Miechen and her husband were the center of Imperial power, not the throne.”

  It’s difficult to describe my feeling at seeing this piece face-to-face. It was so dazzling, it almost seemed fake, like a crown in a movie. “May I?” I asked, and held out my hands.

  He placed the tiara in them. I held it up to the light and watched the reflections move through the thousands of facets. “Magnificent.”

  “It’s like looking into the center of a lightning storm, isn’t it?”

  I nodded and handed it back.

  “As I was saying,” Mr. Rush continued his history, “the Dowager Empress adored Miechen. They had a great deal in common, including a passion for jewelry. Even though the Czarina was her daughter-in-law, the Dowager had no patience with her, thought she was a fool, and more than that, blamed her for the Czar’s weaknesses, for his refusal to accept reality and adapt to it. But we won’t go into that today. Too long a story.”