Romanov reached the steps of Neglinnaya 12 at three-thirty because he knew he needed more than the fifteen minutes he had been allocated if he was to get all his questions answered. He only hoped Poskonov would agree to see him immediately.
After announcing himself at the reception desk he was accompanied by a uniformed guard up the wide marble staircase to the first floor, where Poskonov’s secretary was waiting to greet him. Romanov was led to an anteroom. “I will inform the chairman of the bank that you have arrived, Comrade Romanov,” the secretary said and then disappeared back into his own office. Romanov paced up and down the small anteroom impatiently, but the secretary did not return until the hands on the clock were in a straight line. At three-fifty, Romanov was ushered into the chairman’s room.
The young major was momentarily taken aback by the sheer opulence of the room. The long red velvet curtains, the marble floor, and the delicate French furniture wouldn’t, he imagined, have been out of place in the governo’s rooms at the Bank of England. Romanov was reminded not for the first time that money still remained the most important commodity in the world—even in the Communist world. He stared at the old stooped man with the thinning gray hair and bushy walrus mustache who controlled the nation’s money. The man of whom it was said that he knew of one skeleton in everyone’s closet. Everyone’s except mine, thought Romanov. The old man’s checked suit might have been made before the Revolution and would once again be considered “with it” on London’s King’s Road.
“What can I do for you, Comrade Romanov?” inquired the banker with a sigh, as if addressing a tiresome customer who was seeking a small loan.
“I require one hundred million American dollars in gold bullion immediately,” he announced evenly.
The chairman’s bored expression suddenly changed. He went scarlet and fell into his chair. He took several short, sharp breaths before pulling open a drawer, taking out a square box, and extracting a large white pill from it. It took fully a minute before he seemed calm again.
“Have you gone out of your mind, Comrade?” the old man inquired. “You ask for an appointment without giving a reason, you then charge into my office and demand that I hand over one hundred million American dollars in gold without any explanation. For what reason do you make such a preposterous suggestion?”
“That is the business of the State,” said Romanov. “But since you have inquired, I intend to deposit equal amounts in a series of numbered accounts across Switzerland.”
“And on whose authority do you make such a request?” the banker asked in a level tone.
“The General Secretary of the Party.”
“Strange,” said Poskonov. “I see Leonid Ilyich at least once a week, and he has not mentioned this to me,” the chairman looked down at the pad in the middle of his desk, “that a Major Romanov, a middle-ranking”—he stressed the words—“officer from the KGB would be making such an exorbitant demand.”
Romanov stepped forward, picked up the phone by Poskonov’s side, and held it out to him. “Why don’t you ask Leonid Ilyich yourself and save us all a lot of time?” He pushed the phone defiantly toward the banker. Poskonov stared back at him, took the phone, and placed it to his ear. Romanov sensed the sort of tension he only felt in the field.
A voice came on the line. “You called, Comrade Chairman?”
“Yes,” replied the old man. “Cancel my four o’clock appointment and see that I am not disturbed until Major Romanov leaves.”
“Yes, Comrade Chairman.”
Poskonov replaced the phone and without another word rose from behind his desk and walked around to Romanov’s side. He ushered the young man into a comfortable chair on the far side of the room below a bay window and took the seat opposite him.
“I knew your grandfather,” he said in a calm, matter-of-fact tone. “I was a junior commodity clerk when I first met him. I had just left school, and he was very kind to me, but he was just as impatient as you are. Which was why he was the best fur trader in Russia and thought to be the worst poker player.”
Romanov laughed. He had never known his grandfather, and the few books that referred to him had long ago been destroyed. His father talked openly of his wealth and position, which had only given the authorities ammunition to destroy him.
“You’ll forgive my curiosity, Major, but if I am to hand over one hundred million dollars in gold I should like to know what it is to be spent on. I thought only the CIA put in receipts for those sort of expenses without explanation.”
Romanov laughed again and explained to the chairman how they had discovered that the Czar’s icon was a fake and he had been set the task of recovering the original. When he had completed his story he handed over the names of the fourteen banks. The banker studied the list closely while Romanov outlined the course of action he proposed to take, showing how the money would be returned intact as soon as he had located the missing icon.
“But how can one small icon possibly be that important to the State?” Poskonov asked out loud, almost as if Romanov were no longer in the room.
“I have no idea,” replied Romanov truthfully and then briefed him on the results of his research.
There was an exasperated grunt from the other chair when Romanov had finished. “May I be permitted to suggest an alternative to your plan?”
“Please do,” said Romanov, relieved to be gaining the older man’s cooperation.
“Do you smoke?” asked the banker, taking a pack of Dunhill cigarettes from his coat pocket.
“No,” said Romanov, his eyebrows lifting slightly at the sight of the red box.
The old man paused as he lit a cigarette. “That suit was not tailored in Moscow either, Major,” the banker said, pointing at Romanov with his cigarette. “Now, to business—and do not hesitate to correct me if I have misunderstood any of your requirements. You suspect that lodged in one of these fourteen Swiss banks”—the chairman tapped the list with his index finger—“is the original Czar’s icon. You therefore want me to deposit large amounts of gold with each bank in the hope that it will give you immediate access to the head of the family, or chairman. You will then offer the chairmen the chance to control the entire hundred million if they promise to cooperate with you?”
“Yes,” said Romanov. “Bribery is surely something the West has always understood.”
“I would have said ‘naive’ if I hadn’t known your grandfather; it was he who ended up making millions of rubles, not me. Nevertheless, how much do you imagine is a lot of money to a major Swiss bank?”
Romanov considered the question. “Ten million, twenty million?”
“To the Moscow Narodny Bank perhaps,” said Poskonov. “But every one of the banks you hope to deal with will have several customers with deposits of over a hundred million each.”
Romanov was unable to hide his disbelief.
“I confess,” continued the chairman, “that our revered General Secretary showed no less incredulity when I informed him of these facts some years ago.”
“Then I will need a billion?” asked Romanov.
“No, no, no. We must approach the problem from a different standpoint. You do not catch a poacher by offering him a rabbit.”
“But if the Swiss are not moved by the offer of vast amounts of money, what will move them?”
“The simple suggestion that their bank has been used for criminal activity,” said the chairman.
“But how …” began Romanov.
“Let me explain. You say that the Czar’s icon hanging in the Winter Palace is not the original but a copy. A good copy, painted by a twentieth-century court painter, but nevertheless a copy. Therefore why not explain to each of the fourteen banks privately that, after extensive research, we have reason to believe that one of the nation’s most valuable treasures has been substituted with a copy and the original is thought to have been deposited in their bank? And rather than cause a diplomatic incident—the one thing every Swiss banker wishes to avoid at any cost�
��perhaps they would in the interests of good relationships consider checking in their vaults items that have not been claimed for over twenty years.”
Romanov looked straight at the old man, realizing why he had survived several purges. “I owe you an apology, Comrade Poskonov.”
“No, no, we each have our own little skills. I am sure I would be as lost in your world as you appear to be in mine. Now, if you will allow me to contact each of the chairmen on this list and tell them no more than the truth—a commodity I am always obliged to trade in although I imagine your counterparts are not so familiar with—namely that I suspect the Czar’s icon is in their bank, most of them will be disinclined to hold on to the masterpiece if they believe in so doing a crime has been perpetrated against a sovereign state.”
“I cannot overstress the urgency,” said Romanov.
“Just like your grandfather,” Poskonov repeated. “So be it. If they can be tracked down, I shall speak to every one of them today. At least that’s one of the advantages of the rest of the world waking up after us. Be assured I shall be in touch with you the moment I have any news.”
“Thank you,” said Romanov, rising to leave. “You have been most helpful.” He was about to add, as he normally did in such circumstances, I shall so inform my chairman, but he checked himself, realizing the old man wouldn’t have given a damn.
The chairman of the Gosbank closed the door behind him and then walked over to the bay window and watched Romanov run down the steps of the bank to a waiting car. I couldn’t have supplied you with the one hundred million in gold bullion at this particular time, even if the General Secretary had ordered me to, he thought to himself. I doubt if I have ten million dollars’ worth of gold left in the vaults at this moment. The General Secretary has already ordered me to fly every available ounce to the Bank of New York—so cleverly was his ploy disguised that the CIA had been informed about the deposit within an hour of its arrival. It’s hard to hide over seven hundred million dollars in gold, even in America. I tried to tell him. The chairman watched Romanov’s car drive away. Of course if, like your grandfather, you read the Washington Post as well as Pravda, you would already have known this. He returned to his desk and checked the names of the fourteen banks.
He knew instantly which of the fourteen had to be phoned.
Adam stepped out of Tattersall’s Tavern on the corner of Knightsbridge Green and headed past the Hyde Park Hotel toward the Royal Thames Yacht Club in Knightsbridge. It seemed a strange place for the Foreign Office to hold an interview, but so far everything connected with the application had been somewhat mysterious.
He arrived a few minutes early and asked the ex-Royal Marines sergeant at the door where the interviews were taking place.
“Sixth floor, sir. Take the lift in the corner,” he pointed ahead of him, “and announce yourself at deception.”
Adam pressed a button and waited for the lift. The doors opened immediately and Adam stepped in. A rather overweight, bespectacled man of roughly his own age who looked as if he never turned down the third course of any meal joined him. Adam touched the sixth button, but neither man spoke on their journey up to the sixth floor. The large man stepped out of the lift in front of Adam.
“Wainwright’s the name,” he informed the girl on the reception desk.
“Yes, sir,” said the girl, “you’re a little early, but do have a seat over there.” She gestured toward a chair in the corner; then her eyes moved on to Adam, and she smiled.
“Scott,” he informed her.
“Yes, sir,” she repeated. “Could you join the other gentleman? They will be seeing you next.” Adam went over and picked up a copy of Punch before settling down next to Wainwright, who was already filling in the Telegraph crossword.
Adam soon became bored with flicking through endless issues of Punch and took a more careful look at Wainwright. “Do you by any chance speak German?” Adam asked suddenly, turning to face the other interviewee.
“German, French, Italian, and Spanish,” Wainwright replied, looking up. “I assumed that was how I managed to get this far,” he added somewhat smugly.
“Then perhaps you could translate a paragraph from a German letter for me?”
“Delighted, old fellow,” said Adam’s companion, who proceeded to remove the pair of thick-lensed glasses from his nose and waited for Adam to extract the middle paragraph of the letter from his envelope.
“Now, let me see,” Wainwright said, taking the little slip of paper and replacing the glasses. “Quite a challenge. I say, old fellow, you’re not part of the interviewing team by any chance?”
“No, no,” said Adam, smiling. “I’m in exactly the same position as you—except I don’t speak German, French, Italian, or Spanish.”
Wainwright seemed to relax. “Now let me see,” he repeated, as Adam took out the small notebook from his inside pocket.
“‘During the past year you cannot have failed to … notice that I have been receiving from one of the guards a regular, regular … regular supply,’” he said suddenly, “yes, ‘supply of Havana cigars. One of the few pleasures I have been allocated’ —no, ‘allowed,’ better still, ‘permitted’—‘despite my … incarceration.’ That’s the nearest I can get,” Wainwright added. “‘The cigars themselves have also served another purpose,’” Wainwright continued, obviously enjoying himself, “‘as they contained tiny capsules …’”
“Mr. Scott.”
“Yes,” said Adam, jumping up obediently.
“The board will see you now,” said the receptionist.
“Do you want me to finish it off while they’re finishing you off, old chap?” said Wainwright.
“Thank you,” Adam replied, “if it’s not too much trouble.”
“Far easier than the crossword,” Wainwright added, leaving on one side the little unfilled half-matrix of squares.
Alex Romanov was not a patient man at the best of times, and with the General Secretary now ringing up his chief twice a day, these were not the best of times.
While he waited for results of the chairman of Cosbank’s inquiries he reread the research papers that had been left on his desk and checked any new intelligence that had been sent back by his agents in the field. Romanov resented the scraps of information the chairman of Gosbank must have been receiving by the hour, but he made no attempt to pester the old man despite his time problem.
Then the chairman of the bank called.
On this occasion Romanov was driven straight over to the State Bank and ushered up to the finely furnished room without a moment’s delay. Poskonov, dressed in another of those suits with an even larger check, was standing to greet him at the door.
“You must have wondered if I had forgotten you,” were Poskonov’s opening words as he ushered Romanov to the comfortable chair. “But I wanted to have some positive news to give you rather than waste your time. You don’t smoke, if I remember correctly,” he added, taking out his pack of Dunhill cigarettes.
“No, thank you,” Romanov said, wondering if the chairman’s doctor realized how much the old man smoked.
The chairman’s secretary entered the room and placed two empty glasses, a frosted flask, and a plate of caviar in front of them.
Romanov waited in silence.
“I have, over the past two days, managed to talk to the chairmen of twelve of the banks on your original list,” Poskonov began, as he poured two vodkas, “but I have avoided making contact with the remaining two.”
“Avoided?” repeated Romanov.
“Patience, Comrade,” said Poskonov, sounding like a benevolent uncle. “You have longer to live than I, so if there is any time to be wasted it must be yours.”
Romanov lowered his eyes.
“I avoided one of the chairmen,” Poskonov continued, “because he is in Mexico showing President Ordaz how not to repay their loan to Chase Manhattan while at the same time borrowing even more dollars from the Bank of America. If he pulls that off, I shall have to recom
mend to the General Secretary of the party that he is offered my job when I retire. The second gentleman I have avoided because he is officially in Chicago, closing a major Eurobond deal with Continental Illinois, while in fact he is booked in at the Saint Francis Hotel in San Francisco with his mistress. I feel certain you would agree, Comrade Major, that it would not advance our cause to disturb either of these gentlemen at this precise moment. The first has enough problems to be going on with for the rest of the week, while the second may well have his phone tapped—and we wouldn’t want the Americans to discover what we are searching for, would we?”
“Agreed, Comrade,” said Romanov.
“Good. Anyway as they both return to Switzerland early next week, we have quite enough to be going on with for now.”
“Yes, but what—” Romanov began.
“It will please you to know,” continued Poskonov, “that of the twelve remaining chairmen all have agreed to cooperate with us, and five have already phoned back. Four to say they have run a thorough check on the possessions of customers who have been out of contact with the bank for over twenty years, but have come up with nothing that remotely resembles an icon. In fact, one of them opened a deposit box in the presence of three other directors that had not been touched since 1931 only to discover it contained nothing but a cork from a 1929 bottle of Tailor’s port.”
“Only a cork?” said Romanov.
“Well, 1929 was a vintage year,” admitted the chairman.
“And the fifth?” inquired Romanov.
“Now that, I suspect, may be our first breakthrough,” continued Poskonov, referring to the file in front of him. He adjusted his spectacles with the forefinger of his right hand before continuing. “Herr Dieter Bischoff of Bischoff et Cie”—he looked up at his guest, as if Romanov might have recognized the name—“an honorable man, whom I have dealt with many times in the past—honorable, that is, by Western standards of course, Comrade,” added the chairman, obviously enjoying himself. “Bischoff has come up with something that was left with the bank in 1938. It is unquestionably an icon, but he has no way of knowing if it is the one we are looking for.”
A Matter of Honor Page 6