“Yes,” said Romanov quietly. “Perhaps I could come back this afternoon?”
“The bank will always be at your service, Your Excellency,” replied Herr Bischoff.
No one had addressed a Romanov by his title since the Revolution. He sat in silence for some time.
Eventually he rose and shook hands with Herr Bischoff. “I will return this afternoon,” he repeated before joining his companion in the corridor.
Neither uttered a word until they were back on the street outside the bank. Romanov was still so overcome by what he had learned that he failed to notice that the man he had so deftly avoided at the hotel was now standing in a streetcar line on the far side of the road.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE PASTOR SAT at the table studying the document but didn’t offer an opinion for some considerable time. When he had heard Adam’s request he had invited the young man into the privacy of his little office at the back of the German Lutheran church.
It turned out to be a stark room dominated by a wooden table and several wooden chairs that didn’t match. A small black crucifix was the only ornament on the white washed walls. Two of the unmatching chairs were now occupied by Adam and the pastor. Adam sat bolt upright while the man of God, clad from head to toe in a black cassock, elbows on the table and head in hands, stared down at the copy of the document.
After some considerable time, without raising his eyes he offered, “This is a receipt, if I am not mistaken. Although I have little knowledge of such things, but I am fairly confident that Roget et Cie, who must be Swiss bankers based in Geneva, have in their possession an object described herein as ‘the Czar’s icon,’ of which, if I remember my history correctly, the original can be viewed somewhere in Moscow. It appears,” he continued, his eyes still fixed on the document, “that if the holder of this receipt presents himself in Geneva, he will be able to claim the aforementioned icon of Saint George and the dragon, deposited there by a Mr. Emmanuel Rosenbaum. I confess,” said the pastor, looking up for the first time, “that I’ve never seen anything like it before.” He folded up the copy of the document and handed it back to Adam.
“Thank you,” said Adam. “That has been most helpful.”
“I am only sorry that my superior the bishop is away on his annual retreat because I feel sure he would have been able to throw more light on the matter than I have.”
“You have told me everything I need to know,” said Adam, but couldn’t resist asking, “Are icons at all valuable?”
“Once again, I must confess that I am not the best man from whom to seek such an opinion. All I can tell you is that, as with all art, the value of any object can vary from one extreme to the other without any satisfactory explanation to us normal mortals.”
“Then there is no way of knowing the value of this particular icon?” asked Adam.
“I wouldn’t venture an opinion, but no doubt the art auctioneers Sotheby’s or Christie’s might be willing to do so. After all, they claim in their advertisements that they have an expert in every field waiting to advise you.”
“Then I shall put their claim to the test,” said Adam, “and pay them a visit.” Adam rose from his chair, shook hands with the pastor, and said, “You have been most kind.”
“Not at all,” said the pastor. “I was only too pleased to assist you. It makes a change from Frau Gerber’s marital problems and the size of the church warden’s marrows.”
Adam took a bus up to Hyde Park Corner and jumped off as it turned left into Knightsbridge. He walked through the subway and continued briskly down Piccadilly toward the Ritz. He had read somewhere that Sotheby’s was on Bond Street, although he couldn’t remember having ever seen it.
He walked another hundred yards before turning left, where he shortened his stride to check all the signs on both sides of the road. He passed Gucci’s, Cartier’s, Asprey’s, and was beginning to wonder if his memory had failed him and whether he should check in the telephone directory. He continued on past the Irish Tourist Board and Celine’s before he finally spotted the gold lettering above a little newspaper kiosk on the far side of the road.
He crossed the one-way street and entered the front door by the side of the kiosk. He felt like a boy on his first day at a new school unsure of his surroundings and not certain to whom he should turn for advice. Most of the people who passed him went straight up the stairs, and he was just about to follow them when he heard a voice say, “Up the stairs and straight through, madam. The auction is due to start in a few minutes.”
Adam turned and saw a man in a long, green coat. The name “Sotheby” was embroidered over his lefthand pocket.
“Where do I go if I want something valued?” Adam asked.
“Straight along the passage, sir, as far as you can go, and you’ll see a girl on the left-hand side in reception,” barked his informant. Adam thanked him, presuming that the guide’s former place of work could only have been on an Aldershot drill square. He walked along to the reception area. An old lady was explaining to one of the girls behind the counter that her grandmother had left the vase to her several years before and she wondered what it might be worth.
The girl only glanced at the heirloom before asking, “Can you come back in about fifteen minutes? By then our Mr. Makepeace will have had time to look at it and give you an estimate.”
“Thank you, my dear,” said the old lady expectantly. The girl picked up the large ornate vase and carried it to a room in the back. She returned a few moments later to be faced with Adam waiting.
“May I help you, sir?”
“I’m not sure,” began Adam. “I need some advice concerning an icon.”
“Have you brought the piece with you, sir?”
“No, it’s still abroad at the moment.”
“Do you have any details?”
“Details?”
“Artist’s name, date, size. Or better still, do you have a photograph of the piece?”
“No,” said Adam sheepishly. “I only know its title, but I do have some documentation,” he added, handing over the receipt he had shown the pastor.
“Not a lot to go on,” said the girl, studying the German transcript. “But I’ll ask Mr. Sedgwick, the head of our Russian and Greek icon department, if he can help you.”
“Thank you,” said Adam, as the girl picked up the phone.
“Is Mr. Sedgwick able to advise a customer?” the girl inquired. She listened for a moment, then replaced the phone.
“Mr. Sedgwick will be down in a few moments, if you would care to wait.”
“Certainly,” said Adam, feeling something of a fraud. While the girl attended to the next customer Adam waited for Mr. Sedgwick and studied the pictures on the wall. There were several photos of items that had come under the auctioneer’s hammer in recent sales. A large painting by Picasso called Trois Baigneuses had been sold for fourteen thousand pounds. As far as Adam could make out the brightly colored oil was of three women on a beach. He felt confident they were women because they had breasts, even if these weren’t in the middle of their chests. Next to the Picasso was a Degas of a girl at a ballet lesson; this time there was no doubt it was a girl. But the painting that most caught Adam’s eye was a large oil by an artist he had never heard of called Jackson Pollock that had come under the hammer for eleven thousand pounds. Adam wondered what sort of people could afford to spend such sums on works of art.
“Wonderful example of the artist’s brushwork,” said a voice behind him. Adam turned to face a tall, cadaverous figure with a ginger mustache and thinning red hair. His suit hung on him as if from a coathanger. “My name is Sedgwick,” he announced in a donnish voice.
“Scott,” said Adam, offering his hand.
“Well, Mr. Scott, why don’t we sit over here, and then you can let me know how I can help you.”
“I’m not sure you can,” admitted Adam, taking the seat opposite him. “It’s just that I have been left an icon in a will, and I was hoping it might turn
out to be valuable.”
“A good start,” said Sedgwick, unfolding a pair of spectacles, which he had removed from his top pocket.
“It may not be,” said Adam, “because I know nothing about paintings and I wouldn’t want to waste your time.”
“You won’t be wasting my time,” Sedgwick assured Adam. “We sell many items for less than ten pounds, you know.” Adam hadn’t known, and Sedgwick’s gentle voice made him feel less apprehensive. “Now am I to understand you do not have a photograph of this particular icon?”
“That’s right,” said Adam. “The icon is still abroad, and to be honest I’ve never laid eyes on it.”
“I see,” said Sedgwick, folding up his glasses. “But can you tell me anything of its provenance?”
“A little. It is known as ‘the Czar’s icon,’ and the subject is Saint George and the dragon.”
“How strange,” said Sedgwick. “Someone else was inquiring after that particular painting only last week, but he wouldn’t leave his name.”
“Someone else wanted to know about the Czar’s icon?” said Adam.
“Yes, a Russian gentleman, if I wasn’t mistaken.” Sedgwick tapped his glasses on his knee. “I checked on it extensively for him but found little that wasn’t already well documented. The man wondered if it had ever passed through our hands, or even if we had heard of it. I was able to explain to him that the great work by Rublev remains in the Winter Palace for all to see. One can always be certain that it’s an original from the Winter Palace because the Czar’s silver crown will be embedded in the back of the frame. Since the fifteenth century many copies of Rublev’s masterpiece have been made, and they vary greatly in quality and value; but the one he seemed interested in was a copy made for Czar Nikolai by a court painter circa 1914. I was unable to find any trace of such an icon in any of the standard works on the subject. Do you have any documentation on your icon?” Sedgwick inquired.
“Not a lot,” said Adam. “Although I do have a copy of the receipt that was left to me in the will,” he added, and handed it over.
Mr. Sedgwick once again unfolded his glasses before studying the paper for several moments. “Excellent, quite excellent,” he said eventually. “It seems to me that, as long as Roget et Cie will release it, a copy of the Czar’s icon painted by the court painter of the time belongs to you. But you will have to go and pick it up yourself, that’s for certain.”
“But is it worth all that trouble?” asked Adam. “Can you give me any idea of its value?”
“Hard to be precise without actually seeing it,” Sedgwick said, returning the document.
“So what is the lowest figure I might expect to get for it?”
The older man frowned. “Ten,” he said, after considerable thought. “Perhaps fifteen, but with an absolute top of twenty.”
“Twenty pounds,” said Adam, unable to hide his disappointment. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time, Mr. Sedgwick.”
“No, no, no, Mr. Scott, you misunderstand me. I meant twenty thousand pounds.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“A LITTLE MORE caviar, Comrade?” inquired Petrova across the lunch table.
Romanov frowned. His pretense at “strictly confidential information” only to be passed on at the highest level had merely elicited a knowing smile from his companion, who was also not inclined to believe that her boss had a pressing appointment at the consulate that afternoon, an appointment that he had forgotten to mention to her before.
Anna held out a spoon brimming with caviar and pushed it toward Romanov as if to feed a reluctant baby.
“Thank you—no,” said Romanov firmly.
“Suit yourself,” said the young woman before it disappeared down her own throat. Romanov called for the bill. When he was presented with the slip of paper he couldn’t help thinking that for that price he could have fed a Russian family for a month. He paid without comment.
“I will see you back in the hotel later,” he said curtly.
“Of course,” said Petrova, still lingering over her coffee. “What time shall I expect you?”
Romanov frowned again. “Not before seven,” he replied.
“And do you have any plans for me this afternoon, Comrade Major?”
“You may do as you please,” said Romanov, and left the table without further word. Once on the street, he set off in the opposite direction to the bank, but he doubted he had fooled the researcher, who was still eyeing him suspiciously through the restaurant window, or the agent, who had waited patiently on the farside of the road for nearly two hours.
By three o’clock Romanov was once again seated in the private room on the fifth floor looked down on by the three photographs of the Herr Bischoffs, and with the fourth Herr Bischoff sitting opposite him and the fifth Herr Bischoff standing behind him.
“We are in possession of,” began Herr Bischoff, in the same deliberate, formal way that had dictated the pace of the morning session, “five boxes which have remained unopened since your father visited us in 1945. Should it be your desire to inspect the contents …”
“Why else would I have returned?” asked Romanov, already made impatient by the measured voice and studied ritual.
“Indeed,” said Herr Bischoff, seemingly unaware of any discourtesy. “Then all we now require is that you sign a disclaimer in order to legalize the situation under Swiss law.” Romanov looked apprehensive. “It is only a formality.” The Russian still didn’t speak. “You can rest assured, Your Excellency, that you are not the only one of your countrymen who from time to time sits in that chair.”
Herr Bischoff slid a sheet of paper across the table. There were over twenty clauses of German, all in small print. Romanov scrawled his signature between the two x’s with the proffered gold pen. He made no attempt to discover what he was signing. If they hadn’t stolen his grandfather’s heritage already, why should they be bothering to try now? he thought.
“Perhaps you will be kind enough to accompany me,” said Herr Bischoff, quickly passing the sheet of paper to his son, who left immediately. He rose and led Romanov silently back to the corridor. But on this occasion they traveled down in the chairman’s private lift all the way to the basement.
When the doors opened Romanov might have thought they had entered a jail had the bars not been made of highly polished steel. A man who was seated behind a desk on the far side of the bars jumped up the moment he saw the chairman and turned the lock on the steel door with a long-shafted key. Romanov followed Herr Bischoff through the open door, then waited until they were both locked inside. The guard preceded them down a corridor, not unlike that of a wine cellar with temperature and humidity gauges every few yards. The light was barely bright enough to ensure that they did not lose their footing. At the end of the corridor, they found Herr Bischoff’s son waiting in front of a vast circular steel door. The old man nodded, and the younger Herr Bischoff placed a key in a lock and turned it. Then the chairman stepped forward and undid a second lock. Father and son pushed open the nine-inch-thick door, but neither made any attempt to enter the vault.
“You are in possession of five boxes. Numbers 1721, 1722, 1723, 1724—”
“And 1725, no doubt,” interrupted Romanov.
“Precisely,” said Herr Bischoff, as he removed a small package from his pocket and added, “This is your envelope, and the key inside it will open all five boxes.” Romanov took the envelope and turned toward the open cavern. “But we must open the bank’s lock first before you proceed,” said Herr Bischoff. “Will you be kind enough to follow us?” Romanov nodded and both Herr Bischoffs proceeded into the vault. Romanov ducked his head and stepped in after them. Young Mr. Bischoff opened the upper lock of the five boxes, three small ones above two larger ones, making a perfect cube. “Once we have left, Your Excellency,” said the old man, “we shall pull the door closed, and when you require it to be opened you have only to press the red button on the side wall to alert us. But I must warn you that at five o’clock the va
ult locks itself automatically, and it cannot be reopened until nine the following morning. However, a warning alarm will sound at four forty-five.” Romanov checked the clock on the wall: three-seventeen. He couldn’t believe he would need close to two hours to find out what was in the five boxes. The two Herr Bischoffs bowed and left.
Romanov waited impatiently for the vast door to close behind him. Once alone in Aladdin’s cave he looked around the room and estimated there must have been two or three thousand boxes filling the four walls, giving them the appearance of a library of safes. He suspected there was more private wealth in that one vault than most countries on earth could call on. He checked the numbers of his own boxes and stood waiting like an orphan who has been told there will be second helpings.
He decided to start with one of the small boxes. He turned the key and heard the lock click before pulling out the stiff drawer to discover it was full of papers. He flicked through them to find they were title deeds to many large tracts of land in Bohemia and Bulgaria—once worth millions, now controlled by Socialist states. As he checked each document, the old saying “not worth the paper they were written on” sprang to mind. Romanov moved to the second box, which he discovered contained the bond certificates of companies once managed by His Excellency Count Nikolai Alexandrovich Romanov. The last time they had declared a profit was 1914. He cursed the system he had been born under as he moved on to the third box, which contained only one document, his grandfather’s will. It took only moments to discover that all had been left to his father and therefore he was the lawful owner of everything—and nothing.
Dismayed, Romanov knelt down to study the two larger boxes, both of which looked big enough to hold a cello. He hesitated before placing his key in the lock, turning it and pulling out the vast container.
He stared down in anticipation.
It was empty. He could only presume that it had been that way for over fifty years unless his father had removed everything, and there was no reason to believe that. He quickly unlocked the fifth box and in desperation pulled it open.
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