Sunstroke

by Madge Swindells

  ‘So you know?’

  ‘I knew that Wolf Moller had a son. I made the emerald and sapphire bracelet he gave you for the occasion. It was Borovoi who told me you are searching for your child. We shall find him, Nininchka, by working together,’ he whispered. ‘I promise you. We make the perfect combination. I know how Wolf Moller operates and you can recognize him. You have brought me the icon and now I will find your son for you.’

  ‘I find it hard to believe that you never saw Wolf.’

  ‘Once I knew him well. We were in the same prison camp for juveniles in Siberia, but we were children. He was always known as Wolf because he was fast and silent and very smart, and also because he would not tell anyone what his real name was. Once he confided in me that his parents were shot because they were titled. I suppose he was afraid he would be killed if he told anyone.

  ‘Years later he contacted me because he had Angolan diamonds for sale. He used the name Wolf again, Wolf Moller this time, but we never met. It was always the telephone, or the fax, or a go-between.’

  ‘But you made the jewellery for him, so you must have known where he lived.’

  ‘No. I assumed that he lived in Angola, or close by.’ Sergei’s eyes beamed reassurance and kindliness, yet he did not mention his own reason for wanting to find Wolf.

  ‘You are not being straightforward with me, Sergei. Why do you want Wolf so badly? Colonel Borovoi said Wolf stole millions of dollars from you.’

  ‘Not dollars, Nina, diamonds, half a billion dollars’ worth and not from me, but from the Russian state, but I was ruined because of the theft. It’s a very complicated story.’

  ‘If we are going to work together, you must tell me everything.’

  He sighed. ‘Let’s get up. I’ll tell you over breakfast.’

  I took a leisurely shower, dressed, and found Sergei in his kitchen laying out fruit and cheese and home-made brown bread, which he said he had baked. He was full of surprises.

  ‘Eat and listen well, Nininchka. All my life I have loved jewellery and beautiful gems, with too much passion perhaps. So I became an expert gemmologist.

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Don’t interrupt. No, in Russia, but later I studied in Germany and Holland. Eventually I saved enough to start my own workshop, designing beautiful things. Moller used to supply me with smuggled diamonds and other precious stones from Africa. I wasn’t able to take all that he offered. My workshop and my jewellery shop did not have that large a clientele. It was an arrangement that suited us both, but I never met him. He was always cautious.’

  ‘So what went wrong?’

  ‘Tch! I shall lose track if you keep on prodding me. You don’t understand how it is in my country. Everything is run by committees. It’s very tedious, but as a Russian I can never forget my roots, so when Kromdragmet, the committee that exports Russia’s gems, asked me to join them, I agreed. Later they voted me vice-president.

  ‘Now, listen, Nininchka, here comes the crunch. We Russians are at the mercy of De Beers’ world marketing cartel, who control diamond marketing worldwide. Russia is permitted to sell only five per cent of its diamonds on the open market. This is far too little for us because we badly need foreign currency, but if we sell more diamonds and defy De Beers’ control we are penalized.’

  ‘That seems so unfair.’

  ‘We hit on a brilliant plan. Early this year we shipped over five hundred million dollars’ worth of diamonds in five lots to be cut and polished prior to selling them. I set up a diamond-cutting workshop in San Francisco and signed security for the polishing and cutting equipment. We planned to have the diamonds stolen, and returned to us so we could sell them on the open market, which would double our diamond sales.’

  ‘Sounds foolproof.’

  ‘I thought it was. It was I who suggested bringing in Wolf Moller to fake the theft. Colonel Borovoi of the state police was brought in as well, because he had worked with Moller in the old days. He was Moller’s liaison when Wolf worked as a freelance agent for the KGB.’

  ‘Was that the first time you met Borovoi?’

  ‘Yes. Borovoi contacted Wolf and arranged the theft. Wolf was supposed to deliver the stones to me at my hotel in San Francisco, but he never came. He disappeared with half a billion dollars’ worth of uncut stones.

  ‘I was sacked from Kromdragmet and the committee refused to release the cash to reimburse me for the diamond-cutting equipment. Naturally, after such a loss, the diamond-cutting firm went bankrupt and so did I. Fortunately I hadn’t signed personal security for the purchases so I still have my home. I’m starting again, buying and selling old jewellery to build up capital. Naturally I wish to find Wolf Moller. He must reimburse me.’

  ‘Listen, Sergei. Colonel Borovoi wants to find Wolf badly. If he knew how to find him a few months ago, then why can’t he find him now?’

  ‘Wolf has fled. Can you blame him? Now, Nininchka. Wolf always sold his diamonds through the Brussels Diamond Circle. I have found you a job there. You start on Monday. When he comes you will recognize him and you will call me. I shall be nearby.’

  When Sergei went into his office to take a call, I scribbled a note thanking him for the payment, adding, ‘Going home for a few days. See you sometime next week.’

  Chapter 64

  Sergei’s love-making had only succeeded in anaesthetizing me for one night. I flew back to London, where I had some shopping and banking to do, and caught a later flight to Inverness. I arrived at ten to find Father sitting beside a blazing log fire in the morning room. He scanned me anxiously.

  ‘It’s good to see you, Nina. You had me pretty worried for a while.’

  ‘I’m okay. It wasn’t so bad.’

  I hung my raincoat on the back of the door and warmed my hands in front of the fire. Nothing had changed except Father, I thought, in a moment of nostalgia. I bent over him and kissed his cheek. There was the same Persian rug, the thick black sheepskin by the hearth, the brass canister full of tongs and shovels, the roomy old couches and books piled all over the place. If I looked long and hard enough I might find my old copies of Ivanhoe and Kidnapped. I remembered how Brigit and I used to huddle by the fire until she crawled into the embers to keep warm, but that was centuries ago.

  ‘Let’s have a snack by the fire. Are you hungry? Mrs Peters made a steak and kidney pie. It’s in the fridge. You can warm it in the microwave. Or perhaps you ate on the plane.’

  ‘I’m not hungry, thanks. I could do with a drink. How about you?’

  ‘Likewise. You look as if you could use one.’ Father struggled to rise.

  ‘Stay there. I’ll get it.’

  I poured two neat whiskies and pulled up a chair to join him by the fire.

  ‘Glad you’re back.’ His hand reached out and squeezed mine. ‘I was never much good at expressing my feelings. I was so afraid for you. I wish to God I’d never let you embark on this search.’

  I glanced at him in surprise. He was gazing towards the fire, and the flames reflecting on his cheeks made him look ruddy and sun-tanned. He looked happier.

  ‘So what can you tell me, Father?’

  ‘Well, I must say, your David Bernstein impressed me no end.’

  ‘You spoke to him?’

  ‘He came here.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘While you were in Russia, David brought me his research as well as details of your arrest. We can go through it in the morning. He’d persuaded his Mossad colleagues to apply for your extradition as Naomi Hunter, wanted for questioning for the Unita scam. That’s when we learned that the Russian police had not arrested you. David’s Mossad friends discovered that Borovoi was holding you in an old disused prison, which is used as a warehouse nowadays. David had plans to come and get you out of there, but Borovoi released you.’

  How had I managed to get everything so wrong? I had badly misjudged David. Strangely I felt no guilt, only sadness.

  ‘Why? Just why?’

  ‘You can work it out, Nina.
What did they ask you to do?’

  ‘Co-operate with them in identifying Wolf. Evidently the police – no, rather, Borovoi has no idea what Wolf looks like.’

  ‘And you said you would?’

  ‘Yes. In return for Nicky’s safe and immediate delivery to us.’

  ‘Would you have trusted a bunch of criminals enough to co-operate?’

  ‘No. But isn’t Borovoi still a colonel in the police?’

  ‘One foot in each camp, according to Wattling’s latest report. So many of them have, since the fall of the Soviet system. Well, that’s your answer, Nina. They wanted you to believe that you were working with the police. So they promised you Nicky.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘I wouldn’t set much store by their promises.’

  ‘No. I have a problem. I feel that I’m not getting anywhere, Father. Somewhere I went wrong. I’m in a cul-de-sac. It’s bugging me, but I can’t quite work it out.’

  ‘I think we should go along with David’s plans. I must say, I like David, Nina.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose you would.’

  ‘We have a lot in common. He’s someone I’d be proud to call my son-in-law.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ My calm deserted me. ‘Not another word on the subject. I have promised myself to trust no one until I have Nicky safely home. Emotions have no place in my life right now—’

  I broke off and gazed at the flames, trying to work out why I had been so eager to believe Borovoi. ‘It’s more than that, really. I could never forgive David for falling in love with a woman like Naomi Hunter. He has no idea what I’m really like.’

  ‘You flatter yourself, Nina. You’re not that good an actress. He guessed who you were weeks ago. He told me he was waiting for you to trust him enough to tell him of your own volition. Somewhere along the line you’ve got things horribly wrong.’

  ‘I really don’t want to talk about David. Do you mind?’

  ‘Now, don’t get emotional on me, my dear. I could never handle women’s tears. Your mother was always crying when we first married. I could never understand why. Of course, now I do. I’ve had plenty of time to sit and think about it.’

  ‘Mother longed for fun. It was too bleak here. She was city born and bred.’

  ‘I didn’t keep her cooped up. She was free to go to London whenever she wanted. I suppose that was one thing I did right.’

  ‘I wonder.’

  ‘I never understood her. I suppose that was our problem. I never had contact with women, other than the occasional romp in the hay. My mother died when I was barely into my teens, I had no sisters and I attended a boys’ public school. Nothing prepared me for the trauma of suddenly finding myself cooped up with one, and soon there were two, after you came on the scene. I’m not trying to make excuses. Just explaining.’

  ‘There’s nothing to explain. It was long ago. It doesn’t matter any more.’

  ‘I think it does. You were a lonely child, Nina, always seeking affection. I left you to your mother and that was my mistake. There is nothing in my life I regret as much as my neglect of you, Nina. I long for a second chance, but it’s too late now.’

  To hide my expression, I stood up and poured myself some coffee from the pot on the warmer. The aroma of my father’s favourite blend brought back more memories. Taking my mug, I went to the fire and stood toasting my back. I sensed that Father wanted to talk, but didn’t know how to begin.

  After a while, I said, ‘I wish I had been with Mother when she died. I always blamed her for my broken childhood. I could never forgive her for leaving you, or for taking me away from my home. By the time I left school, I was sure I’d broken all emotional ties with her. I was wrong. There’s some invisible link between mother and daughter. It’s like a hotline to your soul, conveying all the guilt and love and anger. I wasn’t the daughter she wanted.’

  ‘The blame’s not hers at all. It’s mine, Nina. Your mother came from an Orthodox Jewish family. I swept her off her feet and she ran away from home to marry me. I had no experience with Judaism, or with women. I didn’t understand what she was giving up. She never went home after we married because they never forgave her.

  ‘When I met her she was studying political philosophy. I gave a lecture on British foreign policy at her university. I remember how she heckled me. That’s what attracted me to her.’

  ‘Good God! Mother?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve always felt that I received rough justice when I was partially destroyed, because I had destroyed her.’

  ‘No… please!’ The words were torn out of me. ‘Don’t think like that. No one deserves such a punishment. You call that justice?’

  ‘Once she asked me to convert. An Ogilvie! I remember how I laughed at her. I took her to the library and showed her our family ancestry. The ancient heritage of kings and warriors, bound in neat navy leather. It’s meaningless. I know that now. There’s no point in history unless you can use it to improve the lot of the living.

  ‘She wanted to bring you up Jewish. Did you know that? She said you were Jewish. Regrettably I refused. I only gave in over your name. So she began to pine. To look at her you’d think that parties and fashion, and later on lovers, were the extent of her interests. Triviality was her defence against her world.

  ‘You might consider examining your Jewish roots once in a while, Nina. I would be pleased, particularly now that David Bernstein has entered our lives. I have no doubt you and he will sort things out eventually.’

  For some reason, I found Father’s words comforting.

  He had switched off in his abrupt way. I sensed this was all the emotion he could take for one night. I felt much the same.

  *

  Later, I lay in bed, remembering. On winter weekends, before his accident, Father would join the local hunt and return late, his eyes blazing with vigour and joy, his horse snorting and lathered. The hunters would return with their wives for drinks and dinner and there would be laughter and jokes, while the smell of roasting game wafted up the stairs.

  Longing to join in, I used to take a rug and hide in the cupboard above the stairs from where I could sprawl across the landing and peer through the banisters, retreating to my eyrie at the sound of footsteps. Father looked magnificent in a kilt, and Mother would wear the latest fashion, her dresses and her beauty goading the other wives into a seething, uneasy comradeship as they exchanged views on her spendthrift ways and her frequent excursions to London.

  During quiet moments, their whispered comments would drift up to me in snatches for the hall and surrounding balcony had the accoustic properties of a whispering gallery. To my annoyance laughter drowned most of their words. When Father sang, in his rich bass voice, my happiness was absolute. I loved him so dearly, but always from a distance. Had he any idea how much his lonely daughter used to worship him? How I still worshipped him? Or the anguish I suffered when he was brought back from hospital, maimed for life?

  That was when the light in his eyes began to fade. I used to watch his heroic fight to survive as a vital, living person and I would will him to be strong, and try in vain to interest him with stories of my own daily events. Then came the day when my mother told him we were leaving and his eyes became bleak and remote.

  I never forgave my mother for her cruelty, just as I had never stopped longing for my father’s love. Now, for the first time, I understood my mother. I wished I had penetrated her defences.

  After a while I forced myself to examine my progress in my search for Nicky, which, I had to admit, was almost nil. I went back over my search step by step.

  Meeting David Bernstein had been a breakthrough because his money-laundering research had linked the Unita scam with Wolf. This had led to Martha Newton-Thomas and the discovery that Wolf’s Trans-African Foundation account had been transferred to Sarajevo. Examining the Sarajevo account had led me to Cassellari, but I had not progressed since then. I was indeed in a cul-de-sac. Why had I imagined that working with Cassellari would ultimately
lead to Wolf? It had not, at least not yet, and I was in a hurry. I would have to go back to Cassellari and find the reason why he had paid a million dollars into Wolf’s account. There had to be a way to make him reveal the link between them.

  Chapter 65

  A cold front from the sea had crept over the island, but higher up in the Sardinian hills the sun was still shining. The sunlit clouds stretched out to the north, east and south, glistening golden, cerise and white under an azure sky. Sitting on the balcony of Vittorio Cassellari’s home, one had the impression of being in heaven. No wonder Cassellari had delusions of godlike powers. I might get the same if I lived here long enough.

  I shivered and tightened my coat around me, aware that I was incubating a bad dose of flu. My throat was sore, my neck stiff and even my ears ached. Where was Cassellari? He was over an hour late for our appointment.

  Enforced waiting is the pits if you’re trying to keep anxiety at bay. Perhaps because of my flu, my defences were low. Anxiety about my child and doubts of ever finding him zoomed into my mind. I shivered and sneezed and cursed Signor Cassellari for being late.

  Pull yourself together, Nina! I went inside, took out my notebook and began to list the possible reasons for Cassellari’s payment of a million dollars to Wolf’s company. The most likely explanation was a payment for drugs, but the thought of Wolf being involved with drugs was abhorrent. It could have been for arms or for diamonds, but neither alternative seemed likely. Eventually, I leaned back and visualized my favourite daydream.

  Wolf is sitting unaware as I approach him obliquely. I pull out my handgun, point it at him and he turns, stunned and flinching. I say, ‘Wolf, I loved you, but you betrayed me. You took away my reason for living. You took my child hostage and threatened to harm him. You left me to face a prison sentence. I was tortured and kept in solitary confinement. Did you know that? Did you ever care? You cheated me. Even our marriage wasn’t real. Yet I loved you so.’ Then I squeeze the trigger, slowly, keeping my hand steady, aiming between his eyes.