“Comrades! Pay attention,” one of them ordered loudly. “When you hear your name, bring your belongings and join the man who announced it.”
As the names were read off each of the men noted who their supervisor was then quickly finished their vodka and rose. With full stomachs for the first time in many, many months, they gathered what possessions they had then joined one of the four clusters of men. As a group was complete, the supervisor led them out.
In the barracks he was quickly assigned an empty bunk that had a thin mattress rolled up at the head with a small pillow and a single blanket on top of it; the idea that one thin blanket would be sufficient was another introduction to the fact that the space was warm.
Clean work clothes, even stockings and underwear had been folded and stacked on a large table at one end of the room along with a collection of used but serviceable work shoes on the floor.
For the first time he realized there were already men living there; a few of the bunks near the entrance were made up and had clothes hanging on hooks by them.
“They thought of everything,” a man noted aloud when holding up the pants and shirts. “No pockets ... no cuffs.”
“Unpack. Then you will clean up,” the supervisor ordered. “Take one set of your work clothes with you. You are to shower and discard what you are wearing in the bin near the lavatory door. You will shave and dress ... you will learn of your work assignments soon.”
The supervisor left the long room and the men began following their orders, avoiding any communication other than to exchange glances and shrugs.
Molenkov looked at what he was wearing and quickly decided there was little or nothing he had on that could be salvaged other than a belt; months at a machine parts work bench had permanently rendered his clothing dark with grimy stains. The pores and creases in the thin skin of his aging hands still had residues of dark machine-oil and his cuticles were almost permanently blackened; his old sweat-stained cap had formed a crease in what was left of his thinning, almost white hair.
Crossing the hall to the lavatory, Molenkov placed the new clothing he had chosen in a space on a shelf then got undressed and discarded everything into the rapidly-filling bin of rags that had served so many men as clothes for far too long. To his astonishment the shower room had hot, not just warm water and there were bars of crude soap scattered around. Like all of the men, he lingered, marveling at the experience of hot water and getting really clean for the first time in months.
Razors were on a shelf and after showering they followed the instructions to shave, standing before small mirrors mounted above a long, trough-like sink running along one wall.
“This must have been senior enlisted men’s quarters,” the man next to Molenkov said quietly.
Molenkov looked around briefly as if someone might overhear than asked quietly, “You were in the army?”
The man shook his head. “Until this morning I was a pipe fitter. I have repaired fixtures in them before.”
“I have not shaved in ... I cannot say I know now how long,” another man said then set the razor down, rinsed the shaving soap from his face and examined the stranger before him in the mirror.
Molenkov, too, could barely recognize himself without the unevenly-shaded gray and white beard he had worn for so long. His sunken cheeks and deep-set eyes along with the blotches that had appeared on his skin made it seem as if he was looking at his dead father in the mirror.
Orders called out by the supervisor got them moving into the dressing area and some trades were quickly arranged among them to improve the fit of the work uniforms and footwear. They soon returned to the barracks where the supervisor eyed them carefully and a few instructions were given to get rid of old caps then the group filed out into the hallway.
Molenkov was not the only one who noticed the armed soldiers at the double-door they were led to and while there were uneasy glances exchanged no one spoke as the guards recognized the supervisor and stepped aside. Beyond was yet another long corridor they filed into then the guards closed the doors.
Molenkov whispered to the nearest man, “We are prisoners,” and received a hint of a nod in response.
As the supervisor led them further along they could see workshops on each side – rooms that had a definite familiarity. The tools and machinery of fine jewelry making were arrayed in them and a handful of men were already at work.
“You can see we are just getting underway, Comrades. We have little or no time for practice.”
One of the men from behind Molenkov spoke up. “How long will there be work for us, Comrade?”
The supervisor was devoid of emotion as he responded. “Until Comrade Yeremenko says there is no more to be done.”
- # -
Merkulov approached the only man seated at the cluster of workbenches in the otherwise vacant workshops. “You have done well, Comrade.”
“Thank you,” Molenkov said gratefully, knowing the only reason he was the last artisan still working in the shops was because of a skill only he had been gifted with. That gift had meant he was tasked with some of the most difficult and important work and he had not rushed.
Without saying a word Merkulov reached out his hand.
Molenkov handed him a fine cotton cloth then deposited the piece he was working on in the center of it. The manager used his magnifying glass to examine the work for nearly a minute. “Yes, yes,” he said appreciatively. “It appears you are nearly finished?”
“Tomorrow ... maybe the next day you can exchange them back and forth without knowing.”
“To the eye, of course,” the manager said.
Molenkov nodded. “With a stone of that color and size it is impossible to truly duplicate ... replicate, yes. But only the most sophisticated of tests could possibly discern a difference between the two as to age.”
“The enamel?” Merkulov asked.
“That, yes ... we cannot match it precisely ... and the gold ... there are impurities in the original as well but as long as no destructive test is performed I believe it will be indistinguishable.”
“Tomorrow, you said?”
Molenkov nodded. “I believe so. I need just one more comparison to the original, Comrade.”
“We will arrange it, Sergei. In the morning ... you get some rest now.”
Molenkov removed his eyepiece and rubbed his eyes, surprised at the manager’s use of his first name. He had been working alone without taking the kinds of small breaks one naturally did when working among others and found his back and shoulder’s had stiffened. He stretched, flexed his hands and stepped off the stool then walked slowly out of the workshop and down the hall toward the empty barracks.
Murkulov placed the piece back on the pad then turned and walked out of the area to his office. He picked up the phone on his desk, ordered a connection made to Yeremenko and after less than a minute of waiting for the Director to be located he said, “Comrade Yeremenko, as of noon tomorrow the order will be filled.”
- # -
At noon the following day the manager handed Molenkov’s completed piece to another man who examined it briefly then passed it to another inspector who placed it beside the original. After a thorough comparison with a powerful magnifying glass the man glanced at his compatriots and said flatly, “Done.”
Merkulov nodded to the two men and they turned and walked away with the items in their possession.
Without looking his supervisor in the eye, Molenkov asked, “Comrade, may I speak freely?”
Almost casually the man asked, “What is on your mind?”
Molenkov struggled with the words. “I ... I ... what ... what will I do now? I cannot go back to making parts ... making parts for guns ... is there no work I can do here?”
Merkulov was forthright in following his orders. “We all have our assignments, Comrade. It is not for me to change the orders of the Kremlin.”
Again at a loss for words, the old man’s mind struggled with the thought of leaving t
he relatively luxurious conditions he had been living in. But that wasn’t the only force dragging on him; an indefinable sense of dread was now mixed with a feeling that by making counterfeits of historical treasures he was somehow betraying the Motherland.
The unasked questions were haunting him almost as much as the fear of what would happen if he were to know the answers.
The supervisor shook his head. “You and the men who completed their assignments have been provided for. You will not have to fight the Nazis, Comrade,” he offered reassuringly then lowered his voice and his tone became almost fatherly. “Now, go. Pack your things then come to my office. You will collect your pay and there will be transportation.”
Molenkov finally accepted the fact that there was no more to be done. As he walked for the last time back to the empty barracks he began to feel his future was more than just unsettled; they had been so sequestered that he knew nothing of what Leningrad was now like nor the status of the war.
Putting his new clothing in the old suitcase didn’t assuage the sense of worry but as he walked to the manager’s office he gradually resigned himself to having no choice but to go back and find out what work he would be put to. Almost reluctantly, he stood at the door of the office and finally knocked.
“Enter,” he heard and opened the door into the supervisor’s office.
“Guard this carefully, Comrade,” Merkulov said as he turned and lifted a burlap sack then passed it to Molenkov. “You will find several days worth of rations in it, including a sausage ... I should warn you, men have been killed for much less.”
Molenkov’s surprise was obvious. “Thank you, Comrade,” he said gratefully as memories of what life had been like raced through his mind. He was about to offer his hand to the man he had worked for over the months but thought better of that kind of personal gesture. Instead he simply said, “Thank you,” again with all the warmth his fears would allow him to generate.
“Good bye, Comrade,” Merkulov said evenly.
Molenkov turned and walked out of the office and closed the door for the last time. With his pay envelope in his coat, the heavy sack over his shoulder and his suitcase in his hand he followed two enlisted men down a series of corridors to an exit door that opened onto a driveway. They pointed him into the back of a small truck with a covered bed and he set his things over the tailgate then managed to climb in without assistance; months of decent rations had taken years off his apparent age.
He leaned up against the side and was rocked back and forth as the truck navigated a series of long, narrow drives then finally stopped. He could hear the driver say something, then the truck lurched forward again and in the receding view out the back he saw guards lower the cross-bar back into place. When the truck came to another halt at what he estimated was almost a half-kilometer further he heard the driver call out to him. “This is as far as we take you, Comrade – your transport is out on the street.”
Struggling somewhat with his suitcase and the sack, he managed to get out and walk forward. As he passed the cab with his exhaled breath spinning off into the air he said, “Thank you, Comrades.”
When he realized the heavy wooden doors of the exit were still closed he turned back toward the truck but the driver waved him on.
“Pound on it. They will open it,” he heard the man shout.
As Molenkov trudged some thirty meters forward some of the details of the wooden doors became more visible. There were no hinges; the marks and stains were very strange. Now even more bewildered, he asked aloud quietly, “Bullet holes?” Had there been fighting this close to the palace?
Just as he was going to set his case down to pound on the huge door he realized something else was wrong. What had first appeared to be a set of heavy gate doors was actually a thick wooden wall mounted against the stone; his stomach turned when an unwanted thought surfaced: Those stains – they look like dried blood.
The primitive part of the man’s mind was awakening, telling him to flee but his body remained paralyzed by rational thought. They would not do this! There is no reason for this! All-too-soon it began to make sense; none of the men doing this work could have been left alive to reveal what they had done.
In despair rather than adrenaline-driven panic he slowly turned around to look back. By the time he was facing the truck the suitcase and sack had been dropped to the ground and he saw the driver and passenger already stationed outside the vehicle with their rifles raised.
“Fools ... just old fools—” were his last, whispered words.
The darkness came instantly and Sergei Molenkov didn’t see the soldiers approach, collect the same well-used pay envelope and sack of food that had been carried there so many times before.
CHAPTER 2
The Museum of Fine Arts, Houston, Texas, Wednesday, May 21, 1997
Fortunately for everyone attending the gala on this evening, the deluge that had battered and soaked the gulf region of Texas earlier in the day had finally abated, somehow leaving behind even more humidity than normal but also unseasonably cooler temperatures. Consequently, the benefactors of Houston’s Museum of Fine Arts and their friends and invited guests didn’t need to worry about being dampened or breaking a sweat between the valet parking line and the climate-controlled indoor environs; even those who self-parked nearby risked little chance of being visibly uncomfortable in formal wear.
The invitation-only preview of the Russian “Jewels of the Romanovs” touring exhibit drew in the art-loving crowd that had either made substantial donations to the institution over the years or were guests of those who had. In addition to the chance to ogle the collection of priceless treasures prior to the public opening, some considered it a social obligation to be there; some viewed it as an opportunity to see and be seen. Then there were those drawn by the curiosity of having honest-to-God formerly communist Russians in town, including a senior bureaucrat of indecipherable political position but seemingly significant stature in the world of art history.
Even with the atypical late-spring cool, a casual visitor would still have been able to tell this was Texas; there are few other states where evening wear routinely includes exotic-skin cowboy boots and margaritas outnumber martinis four-to-one.
The floating sounds of a Paraguayan harpist and a guitarist were seemingly incongruous against the historical Russian theme of the exhibit; the more popular southern flavor presented by the performers had been selected rather than typical attempts at reproducing the less-than recognizable Eastern-European sounds of the prior century; the organizers were not trying to replicate an era – it was a fund-raising party, after all.
Michael Kirkland had come to Houston expecting—among other things—to at least get a first-hand sample of the seemingly unique Texas cuisine, but standing before one of the many serving tables distributed around the huge museum he actually felt slightly disappointed. The quite spectacular offerings prepared by some of the area’s stellar chefs included almost everything but what he was looking for.
“My first trip to Houston and I find I’m at a loss,” he mused toward one of the uniformed serving staff, deliberately loud enough to get a tall, auburn-haired and elegantly-dressed woman nearby to turn her head slightly. “But this is excellent,” he suggested pleasantly to the grinning young man on the other side of the serving table.
Elanore Calder balanced a fork on her tiny plate then turned fully to see who it was with the sort-of-British accent. When she did see the man’s face she was a little taken aback. Damn, she said to herself as she smiled automatically then assumed her preferred role as hostess. She stepped slightly closer and extended her hand to the stranger and in a subdued Texas drawl she introduced herself. “Well, hello ... Elanore Calder ... welcome ... we are so pleased to see a new face here.”
The tall, expensively-dressed man with the almost-chiseled features and short, dark hair took her hand gently but firmly. “Michael Kirkland, at your service,” he said fluidly with the barest hint of a bow, trying
not to overtly study her.
“Oh, my,” she said with a slight chuckle then charmingly added, “You really aren’t from ‘round here are you?”
The now less-subtle twang of the woman’s voice gave him a chance to try a poorly-rehearsed cowboy imitation. “No, Ma’am, but I arrived as rapidly as possible,” he said then quickly asked in his normal, slightly formal diction, “Was that the proper form?”
Sociable to a fault, Elanore Calder leaned closer and whispered conspiratorially, “I really shouldn’t give away state secrets, but it’s, ‘I got here quick as I could ’.”
Kirkland repeated it back to her twice, sounding more like a bad version of John Wayne than a native.
She laughed again. “You’re a quick study ... but, Mr. Kirkland—”
He raised a hand slightly and sounded as if he were pleading. “Please ... please, just Michael.”
It dawned on her that the nails on the fingers of the large, powerful-looking hands appeared to be manicured and she managed to hide a bit of disappointment. Oh, dear ... so good looking, so polite ... he’s probably gay. “Michael – well, that works for me. So, Michael, whereabouts are you from?” she asked then took a sip of champagne, noting also there was no ring on the left hand holding his drink.
“I’m based in New York ... I’m here doing research.”
“Research?” she asked with a note of surprise. “You don’t look much like a researcher, Michael,” she tested coyly. “Somehow I can’t see you in a lab coat unless you wore it on TV.”
He grimaced only slightly. “I should say I’m an appraiser doing research ... and I don’t even own a laboratory smock,” he advised.
She avoided snickering at his pronunciation of ‘laboratry’ then asked almost dubiously, “An appraiser?”
Glancing around he said, “I study the values of precious things,” then he gestured toward a group of people surrounding a brilliantly-lighted cabinet with a fabulous piece of jewelry displayed in it. “That ... that brooch they are studying, for example ... that’s a two hundred carat sapphire. There are fifty-six carats of diamonds around it ... it’s antique to say the least.” He turned again and after a quick survey of the not-so-subtle diamond earrings dangling below the woman’s ears he smiled and gazed at her intently. “What would you suppose it might be worth?”
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