“Right.”
“Thursday at ten then, it will give you a little longer to think about my right hook.”
The Chairman of the KGB studied the report on the desk in front of him: something didn’t ring true. He looked up at Romanov. “Your reason for visiting Bischoff et Cie was because they claimed to be in possession of a fifteenth-century icon that might have fitted the description of the one we are searching for?”
“That is correct, Comrade, and the chairman of Gosbank will confirm that he personally arranged the meeting.”
“But the icon turned out to be of Saint Peter and not of Saint George and the dragon.”
“Also confirmed by Comrade Petrova in her report.”
“Ah, yes, Comrade Petrova,” said Zaborski, his eyes returning to the sheet of paper in front of him.
“Yes, Comrade.”
“And later that evening Comrade Petrova mysteriously failed to keep an appointment with you?”
“Inexplicably,” said Romanov.
“But which you reported to Comrade Melinac at the embassy.” He paused. “You were responsible for selecting Petrova yourself, were you not?”
“That is correct, Comrade Chairman.”
“Does that not reveal a certain lack of judgment on your part?”
Romanov made no attempt to reply.
The Chairman’s eyes returned to the file. “When you awoke the next morning, there was still no sign of the girl?”
“She also failed to turn up for breakfast as arranged,” said Romanov, “and when I went to her room all her personal belongings were gone.”
“Which convinced you she had defected.”
“Yes, sir,” said Romanov.
“But the Swiss police can find no trace of her,” said Zaborski. “So I keep asking myself why would she defect? Her husband and her immediate family live in Moscow. They are all employed by the State, and it is not as if this were Comrade Petrova’s first visit to the West.”
Romanov didn’t offer an opinion.
“Perhaps Petrova disappeared because she might have been able to tell us something you didn’t want us to hear.”
Still Romanov said nothing.
The Chairman’s gaze once again returned to the file. “I wonder what it was that young Petrova wanted to tell us? Who else you were sleeping with that night, perhaps?”
Romanov felt a shiver of fear as he wondered how much Zaborski really knew. Zaborski paused and pretended to check something else in the report. “Perhaps she could tell us why you felt it necessary to return to Bischoff et Cie a second time.” Once again Zaborski paused. “I think I may have to open an inquiry into the disappearance of Comrade Petrova. Because, Comrade Romanov, by the time you returned to the bank a third time,” said the Chairman, his voice rising with each word, “every second-rate spy from here to Istanbul knew that we were searching for something.” The Chairman paused. Romanov was still desperate to find out if Zaborski had any real evidence. Neither spoke for some time. “You have always been a loner, Major Romanov, and I do not deny that at times your results have allowed me to overlook certain indiscretions. But I am not a loner, Comrade. I am a desk man, no longer allowed your freedom of action.” He fiddled with the paperweight of Luna Nine on the desk in front of him.
“I am a file man, a paper man. I make reports in triplicate, I answer questions in quadruplicate, explain decisions in quintuplicate. Now I will have to explain the circumstances of Petrova’s strange disappearance to the Politburo in multiplicate.”
Romanov remained silent, something the KGB had taken several years to instill into him. He began to feel confident that Zaborski was only guessing. If he had suspected the truth, the interview would have taken place in the basement where a less intellectual approach to questioning was carried out.
“In the USSR,” continued Zaborski, now rising from his chair, “despite our image in the Western world, we investigate a suspicious death”—he paused—“or defection more scrupulously than any other nation on earth. You, Comrade Romanov, would have found your chosen profession easier to follow had you been born in Africa, South America, or even Los Angeles.”
Still Romanov did not venture an opinion.
“The General Secretary informed me at one o’clock this morning that he is not impressed by your latest efforts, distinctly unimpressed were the exact words he used, especially after your excellent start. All he is interested in, however, is finding the Czar’s icon, and so, for the time being, Comrade, he has decided there will be no investigation. But if you ever act in such an irresponsible way again it will not be an inquiry you are facing, but a tribunal, and we all know what happened to the last Romanov that faced a tribunal.”
He closed the file. “Against my better judgment and because we are left with less than a week, the General Secretary has allowed you a second chance in the belief that you will indeed come up with the Czar’s icon. Do I make myself clear, Comrade?” he barked.
“Very clear, Comrade Chairman,” said Romanov and, turning smartly on his heel, quickly left the room.
The Chairman of the KGB waited for the door to close before his eyes settled back on the file. What was Romanov up to, Zaborski needed to know suddenly realizing that his own career might now be on the line. He flicked down a switch on the little console by his side. “Find Major Valchek,” he ordered.
“I’ve never actually had champagne and caviar,” admitted Adam, as he looked up at the beautiful girl who sat opposite him across the table. He loved the way she tied her hair, the way she dressed and the way she laughed, but most of all the way she smiled.
“Well, don’t get frightened, because I can’t imagine caviar will ever find its place on this particular menu,” teased Heidi. “But perhaps soon when you are the proud owner of the Czar’s icon, that is, if Mr. Rosenbau …”
Adam put a finger to his lips. “No one else knows about that, not even Lawrence.”
“That may be wise,” Heidi whispered. “He will only expect you to invest all the money you make from the sale in his boring bank.”
“What makes you think I’d sell it?” asked Adam, trying to discover how much she had worked out.
“If you own a Rolls-Royce and you are out of work you do not then go and hire a chauffeur.”
“But I’ve only got a motorbike.”
“And you’ll have to sell that as well if the icon turns out to be worthless,” she said, laughing.
“Would you like a coffee to follow?” asked the waiter, who was already clearing their table in the hope of fitting in two more customers before the night was out.
“Yes, please. Two cappuccinos,” said Adam. He turned his gaze back to Heidi. “Funnily enough,” he continued as the waiter retreated, “the only time I’ve ever rung Lawrence at the bank the operator couldn’t immediately locate him.”
“What’s so surprising about that?” asked Heidi.
“It was as if they had never heard of him,” said Adam, “but perhaps I was imagining it.”
“A bank that size must have over a thousand employees. You could go years without knowing everyone who worked there.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Adam said, as two coffees were placed in front of them.
“When do you plan on going to Geneva?” Heidi asked, after she had tried a sip of the coffee and found it too hot.
“First thing Wednesday morning. I hope to be back the same evening.”
“Considerate.”
“What do you mean?” asked Adam.
“To choose my one day off to fly away,” she said. “Not very romantic.”
“Then why not come with me?” he asked, leaning across the table to take her hand.
“That might turn out to be more significant than sharing your sausages.”
“I would hope so, and in any case, you could be most useful.”
“You do have a way with words,” said Heidi.
“You know, I didn’t mean it that way. It’s simply that I don’t sp
eak German or French, and I’ve never been to Switzerland other than on a school skiing trip—and then I kept falling over.” Heidi tried her coffee again.
“Well?” said Adam, not letting go of her hand.
“The Swiss speak perfect English,” she said eventually, “and should you have any problem with the bank, you can always get in touch with Lawrence.”
“It would only be for the day,” said Adam.
“And a waste of your money.”
“Not very romantic,” said Adam.
“Touché.”
“Think about it,” said Adam. “After the cost of your round-trip flight I will be left with only £19,969. I don’t know how I’ll get by.”
“You really mean it, don’t you?” said Heidi, sounding serious for the first time. “But women are not impulsive creatures.”
“You could always bring Jochen along with you.”
Heidi laughed. “He wouldn’t fit on the plane.”
“Do say you’ll come,” said Adam.
“On one condition,” said Heidi thoughtfully.
“Separate planes?” said Adam grinning.
“No, but if the icon turns out to be worthless, you will let me refund the price of my ticket.”
“It couldn’t be worth less than thirty-one pounds, so I agree to your terms,” said Adam. He leaned over and kissed Heidi on the lips. “Perhaps it will take more than one day,” he said. “Then what would you say?”
“I would demand separate hotels,” replied Heidi, “if it wasn’t for the high cost of the Swiss franc,” she added.
“You are always so reliable, Comrade Romanov. You fulfill the primary qualification for a successful banker.” Romanov studied the old man carefully, looking for a hint that he knew exactly what had been awaiting him at the bank.
“And you are always so efficient, Comrade Poskonov,” he said, then paused, “the only qualification necessary in my chosen profession.”
“Good heavens, we are beginning to sound like a couple of aging commissars at an annual reunion. How was Zurich?” he asked as he lit a cigarette.
“Like a Polish tractor. The bits that worked were fine.”
“From that I assume the bits that didn’t work failed to produce the Czar’s icon,” the chairman said.
“Correct, but Bischoff turned out to be most helpful, as was Jacques. My every need was catered for.”
“Your every need?”
“Yes,” replied Romanov.
“Good man, Bischoff,” said the banker, “that’s why I sent you to him first.” The old man slumped down into his chair.
“Was there any other reason you sent me to him first?” asked Romanov.
“Five other reasons,” said Poskonov, “but we’ll not bother with any of them until you have found your icon.”
“Perhaps I’d like to bother now,” said Romanov firmly.
“I’ve outlived two generations of Romanovs,” said the old man raising his eyes. “I wouldn’t want to outlive a third. Let’s leave it at that for now. I’m sure we can come to an understanding when the spotlight is no longer on you.”
Romanov nodded.
“Well, you will be pleased to learn that I have not been idle in your absence. But I fear my results also resemble a Polish tractor.”
The banker waved Romanov to a seat before he reopened his file, which had grown in size since he had last seen it. “Originally,” the chairman began, “you presented me with a list of fourteen banks, eleven of which have now confirmed that they are not in possession of the Czar’s icon.”
“I have been wondering about that—is their word to be taken at face value?” asked Romanov.
“Not necessarily,” said the banker. “But on balance the Swiss prefer not to become involved rather than tell a deliberate lie. In time the liar is always found out, and I still, from this office, control the cash flow of eight nations. I may not wield what they would call financial clout, but I can still put the odd spoke into the wheel of the capitalist monetary system.”
“That still leaves us with three banks?” said Romanov.
“Correct, Comrade. The first is Bischoff et Cie, whom you have already visited. But the other two have refused to cooperate in any way.”
“Why is it your influence does not extend to them?”
“The most obvious of reasons,” replied Poskonov. “Other interests exert a stronger influence. If, for example, your major source of income emanates from the leading Jewish families, or alternatively the Americans, no amount of pressure will ever allow you to deal with the Soviet Union.” Romanov nodded his understanding. “That being the case,” continued Poskonov, “there still has to be an outside chance that one of these two banks is in possession of the Czar’s icon, and as they are never going to admit as much to Mother Russia, I am not sure what I can recommend you do next.”
The banker sat back and waited for Romanov to take in his news.
“You are unusually silent,” Poskonov ventured, after he had lit another cigarette.
“You have given me an idea,” said Romanov. “I think the Americans would describe it as a long shot.” But if I’m right, it will be the Russians who will get the home run.”
“Baseball is a game that I’ve never understood, but I am glad, however, to have been of some use today. Although I suspect you will still need this, whatever your long shot.” Poskonov removed a single piece of paper from his file and handed it over to Romanov. On it were the words:
DAUMIER ET CIE, ZURICH (refused)
ROCET ET CIE, GENEVA (refused).
“No doubt you will be returning to Switzerland very soon.”
Romanov stared directly at the banker.
“I wouldn’t recommend you visit Bischoff et Cie on this trip, Alex. There will be time enough for that in the future.”
Romanov straightened his fingers.
The old man returned his stare. “You won’t find me as easy to get rid of as Anna Petrova,” he added.
CHAPTER TEN
THE ELDERLY LOOKING man took his place at the back of the taxi line. It was hard to estimate his height because he looked so bent and frail. A large overcoat that might have been even older than its wearer reached almost to the ground, and the fingers that could only just be seen peeping through the sleeves were covered in gray woollen mittens. One hand clung on to a little leather suitcase, with the initials E. R. in black, looking so worn that it might have belonged to his grandfather.
One would have had to bend down or be very short to see the old man’s face—a face that was dominated by a nose that would have flattered Cyrano de Bergerac’s. He shuffled forward slowly until it was his turn to climb into a taxi. The operation was a slow one, and the driver was already drumming his fingers against the wheel when his passenger told him in guttural tones that he wanted to be taken to the bankers, Daumier et Cie. The driver moved off without asking for further directions. Swiss taxi drivers know the way to the banks in the same way as London cabbies can always find a theater and New York’s cabs a West Side bar.
When the old man arrived at his destination he took some time sorting out with which coins to pay. He then pushed himself slowly out on to the pavement and stood gazing at the marble building. Its solidity made him feel safe. He was about to touch the door when a man in a smart blue uniform opened it.
“I have come to see—” he began in stilted German, but the doorman only pointed to the girl behind the reception desk. He shuffled over to her and then repeated, “I have come to see Herr Daumier. My name is Emmanuel Rosenbaum.”
“Do you have an appointment?” she asked.
“I fear not.”
“Herr Daumier is in conference at the moment,” said the girl, “but I will find out if there is another partner available to see you.” After a phone conversation in German she said, “Can you take the lift to the third floor?” Mr. Rosenbaum nodded with obvious signs of reluctance, but did as he was bid. When he stepped out of the lift, only just before the door close
d on him, another young woman was standing there ready to greet him. She asked him if he would be kind enough to wait in what he would have described as a cloakroom with two chairs. Some time passed before anyone came to see him, and the old man was unable to hide his surprise by the age of the boy who eventually appeared.
“I am Welfherd Praeger,” said the young man, “a partner of the bank.”
“Sit down, sit down,” said Mr. Rosenbaum. “I cannot stare up at you for so long.” The young partner complied.
“My name is Emmanuel Rosenbaum. I left a package with you in 1938, and I have returned to collect it.”
“Yes, of course,” said the junior partner, the tone of his voice changing. “Do you have any proof of your identity, or any documentation from the bank?”
“Oh, yes,” came back the reply, and the old man handed over his passport and a receipt that had been folded and unfolded so many times it was now almost in pieces.
The young man studied both documents carefully. He recognized the Israeli passport immediately. Everything seemed to be in order; and the bank’s receipt, too, although issued in the year of his birth, appeared authentic.
“May I leave you for a moment, sir?”
“Of course,” said the old man, “after twenty-eight years I think I can wait for a few more minutes.”
Shortly after the young man had left the woman returned and invited Mr. Rosenbaum to move to another room. This time it was larger and comfortably furnished. Within minutes the junior partner returned with another man, whom he introduced as Herr Daumier.
“I don’t think we have ever met, Herr Rosenbaum,” said the chairman courteously. “You must have dealt with my father.”
“No, no,” said Mr. Rosenbaum. “I dealt only with your grandfather, Helmut.”
A look of respect came into Herr Daumier’s eyes.
“I saw your father only on the one occasion and was sad to learn of his premature death,” added Rosenbaum. “He was always so considerate. You do not wear a rose in your lapel as he did.”
A Matter of Honor Page 12