Inside it, the M84 stun grenade nestled snugly beside his field dressings – ready to play its role in history.
Chapter 12
Embassy of the Russian Federation
6–7 Kensington Palace Gardens
Holland Park
London W8
England
The United Kingdom
EVEN WITHOUT THE flags outside, Ava had no problem identifying the Russian Embassy.
A line of limousines was pulling up in front of numbers six to seven, dropping off a succession of expensively attired men accompanied by their jewel-draped wives and mistresses.
Ava had seen from the embassy’s website that the art exhibition was going to be a grand occasion, so had dressed accordingly – swapping her usual casual clothes for a long dark dress, adding some discreet gold jewellery which picked up the colour in her eyes, and doing her best to pile up her hair. Ferguson had put on a suit and tie.
They followed the crowds up the red-carpeted steps, past the two heavily armed officers from the Metropolitan Police’s SO6 diplomatic protection squad, and into the building.
“I hear the number of Russian spies operating out of the embassy is up at Cold War levels,” Ferguson whispered to Ava as they entered the grand main doorway. “Forty or fifty of them monitoring the UK, while keeping an eye on the expat oligarchs who want to get as far away as possible from the Kremlin.”
They approached the desk, where three formally dressed members of embassy staff were ticking off guests and handing out goodie bags with catalogues and gifts.
Ava slipped Ferguson a cream business card, and gave her own to the lady nearest her.
“We had to turn down your kind invitation because we were in New York,” Ava explained, as Ferguson passed over his card. “But we got home today, earlier than expected, and thought…”
“Of course, madam,” the lady answered, reading the details printed beside a large imperial eagle on Ava’s business card:
MAGDALENA QUINAULT
Volkonsky Fine Arts
Ava had printed out the business cards at home before leaving, using the address and telephone number of a Berkeley Square gallery she had noticed was currently closed for refurbishments.
The lady noted down Ava’s and Ferguson’s assumed names, and returned the cards. “Delighted you could make it.” She smiled, nodding to indicate that all was well.
As Ava and Ferguson passed through the open double doors into the main reception room, they each took a flute of champagne from the white-gloved butler tendering a silver salver of drinks to each guest.
The doors led them into a lavishly furnished reception space decorated in the style of a grand eighteenth-century drawing room. It was almost French, with rich silks and damasks, and finely carved Rococo ornamentation adorning the chairs, tables, fireplaces, and lamps.
As she looked around the room, Ava could not suppress a small intake of breath.
Large black velvet display panels had been placed at various points around the floor and against the walls. On them were hundreds of priceless treasures of Russian art.
It was mesmerizing.
Discreet spotlights glinted on dozens of lavishly gilded picture frames, and a dazzling variety of precious stones shone from an array of sacred objects.
Over in the far corner, a collection of imperial Fabergé eggs glittered in a tiered display case. Ava’s eyes widened – not so much at their sparkling opulence, but because she knew that only forty-three of the fifty original Fabergé eggs survived. And she was looking at half a dozen of them.
This was quite obviously a major exhibition.
At the far end of the room, a microphone stand was set up on a red-draped podium, and a striking man with long brown hair in a ponytail was moving into place behind it.
Ava did not need to wait for the introduction.
It was unmistakably Oleg Durov.
He was tall, with broad shoulders and an athletic physique: fit rather than muscular. He was dressed in the uniform of the super rich – a hand-made black suit and crisp white open-necked shirt, complemented by highly polished black shoes and an oversized leather-strapped watch.
Simple, expensive, and effective.
Ava surveyed the rest of the people in the room, and immediately spotted his bodyguards. She counted four of them – all with bulges under their left arms, and matching wires in their ears. From the way their eyes kept returning to Durov, it was clear who they were protecting.
Dotted among the crowd, she also noted other security details close by their bosses. But Durov’s men were in a different league. While the others sported shaved heads and steroid-enhanced physiques, Durov’s had been chosen to blend in rather than stand out. Not that they looked any less effective. She would not have classified them as friendly.
Up at the podium, Durov was now standing behind the microphone, gazing about calmly as the room fell silent.
“When the glory of ancient Rome was threatened by barbarians,” he began, his voice authoritative, with a slow, slightly detached delivery, “the great emperor Constantine built a Second Rome, to the north. He named it Constantinople, and it was the most spectacular city in the empire. When it fell to Muslim jihadists a thousand years later, civilization again relocated north, creating a Third Rome – this time in Moscow. It was a natural choice. Just like Rome and Constantinople, it also had seven sacred hills. The word Caesar became Tsar in our language, and Christendom was safe once more.”
There was a murmur of approval in the room.
Ferguson leaned across and whispered into Ava’s ear. “How did religion become so big in Russia again so quickly, after seventy years of Soviet persecution?”
“Fashion,” she replied quietly. “The top people at the Kremlin are flocking to the Church. They’re seduced by its flamboyant Russianness.”
She focused back on Durov’s speech.
“Most of you in the West know little about my country. But you should. For many reasons. We are by far the largest nation in the world – covering around a ninth of the planet’s landmass. Mother Russia spans eleven time zones, and is almost as big as the United States of America and China combined. At twelve million people, Moscow is the largest city in Europe, and half as big again as London or even New York.”
There were more nods of approval.
“Russia is the biggest Christian country on the planet, with a heritage stretching back, unbroken, to Constantinople and Rome. We are the guardians of the faith – and the living soul of the West.”
There were more mumblings of assent.
“Not a view you’ll hear too often,” Ferguson whispered again. “Tell that to the Christians sent to the Siberian gulags.”
“Russia saved Christianity,” Durov continued. “And in the twentieth century it saved Europe. In World War Two, Britain and the US each sacrificed around four hundred thousand people in the fight against Nazism.” He paused, scanning the room. “These are big numbers. Until you learn that Matushka Rossiya, Mother Russia, sacrificed twenty-seven million of her children in the same struggle. That’s thirty-four times more than Britons and Americans combined.” His voice dropped, becoming quieter. “So don’t ever tell a Russian that the Yanks and Tommies won the war. And don’t ever doubt that Russians understand blood and country.”
Ava shuddered. The casualty figures were numbing. And there was something else, in the way he was talking. It was as if it was about the present, not the past.
“Russia stands for stability, continuity, and tradition. We savour our precious way of life. While others lose the strength and soul that once made them great, we fight to protect ourselves against the ills of the rest of the world.”
“Swinton’s people will love this,” Ava muttered to Ferguson. “Communism fell twenty-five years ago, and the Kremlin agenda has already moved seamlessly on to fascism.”
“Then Durov’s right.” Ferguson nodded. “They’re proper Romans. They just need to carry around the ancient fas
ces bundles with whipping sticks and executioners’ axes and all that. It’s quite trendy these days. Last time I was in the US I noticed two huge fasces on the main wall in the House of Representatives, and on the seal of the Senate, too.”
Ava leaned closer to avoid being overheard. “This isn’t about old symbols as far as the Kremlin is concerned. This is real. When anyone starts preaching about the superiority of their race, country, and traditions, and at the same time sees existential threats to their way of life from outside – that’s textbook fascism. Their days as communists are long gone. You’ve got to…”
Ava trailed off as she caught sight of a familiar figure out of the corner of her eye. She turned discreetly to check, and then looked again, not quite believing her eyes.
Mary had just entered the room.
Ava leant closer to Ferguson. “You see the woman in blue, over by the door?”
He glanced across.
“That’s Mary, from Vatican Liaison.”
He looked bemused. “Vatican what?”
A plan was quickly forming in Ava’s mind.
Swinton had said there were not many rules in MI13, and she intended to find out if he meant it. “Look, I need to talk to Durov once he’s wrapped up. Can you find out what she’s doing here?”
He nodded. “It’s a tough call, but I’ll do my best.” He smiled, straightening his tie.
Ava turned back to listen to Durov’s closing words as he commended the cultural artefacts to the audience.
When the applause had died down, he stepped away from the microphone and back into the crowd, moving towards a large canvas of a featureless river meandering through bleak empty snow-covered wilds.
Ava seized her chance, walking slowly over to the painting, arriving a few moments before Durov.
As he stopped next to her, she suddenly became aware of quite how large he was – around six foot three, she guessed.
“Do you like Russian landscapes?” he asked, his voice rich with confidence.
“Not especially.” She smiled, looking at the large painted icon of Mary next to it. “Sacred art is more my thing.”
She carried on gazing at the icon, feeling his eyes on her.
“Sorry, your name was?”
She had his attention now.
“Quinault,” she answered, turning to face him and holding out her hand. “Magdalena.”
He shook it perfunctorily. His hand was large, with the texture of paper, and his eyes never left hers. They were intelligent and engaging – but there was something more there. Something chaotic. She could not quite put her finger on it.
“I’m a dealer,” she continued. “Christian, Jewish, Islamic – it’s all good as far as I’m concerned.”
Durov frowned. It was gone in an instant, but she had seen it.
“Orthodox art is, of course, the most skilled.” He announced it as a fact, rather than an opinion. There was no hint of humour in his voice.
“Well, doesn’t that depend?” Ava had no idea how long he would stay talking to her before someone else approached. She needed to make her point quickly. “Some of these icons are exquisite, but they’re not very well known outside Russia. Not like, for example, Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel ceiling, Hieronymus Bosch’s Last Judgement, or the enigmatic Turin Shroud, which have inspired millions of people down the centuries. Wouldn’t you say they’re also skilful artwork?”
She smiled and took a sip of her champagne, noting that Durov’s eyes narrowed a fraction.
“Although,” she raised her eyebrows questioningly, “in the case of the Shroud, some people say that it once belonged to the Orthodox Church, don’t they?”
He was now looking at her intently.
She pressed on, enjoying herself. “Something to do with a French crusader, I think, who saw it during the Fourth Crusade, in Constantinople, in the Orthodox Church of Our Lady Saint Mary at Blachernae.”
A flicker of surprise crossed his face, then it was gone.
She had his total attention now.
She paused, waiting for his reply.
“I heard something of the sort,” he answered carefully.
She forced herself to wait longer.
He was starting to engage.
She needed to take it slowly – make it feel natural. “Wasn’t it known in the Orthodox East as the Mandylion, or the holy image of Edessa, or something like that?”
She could see he was unsure how to take her questioning.
“Holy images are very sacred in our tradition,” he replied slowly, his eyes searching hers for any clues that the conversation had some ulterior purpose.
Was that it? Ava wondered.
Was it as simple as that?
Had he merely taken the Shroud because it was holy to his Church?
She tried another angle.
“But who knows?” She smiled. “I’ve also heard that the Knights Templar painted it as an image of their last Grand Master, Jacques de Molay, suffering like Jesus.”
His eyes darkened. “Then they are confused, Miss Quinault.” His expression was now altogether more menacing. “The Plashchanitsa is unique. The Templars brought it back from Constantinople after they and the barbarian crusaders sacked the city in the Fourth Crusade. When the Shroud appeared in Europe, it was owned by the de Charney family, and it is no coincidence that, fifty years earlier, the Templar knight burned alongside Grand Master Jacques de Molay was his most faithful companion, Geoffroi de Charney.”
Ava pulled back.
Gone was Durov’s mask of the affable businessman. His eyes were gleaming now. The hint of chaos she had noticed earlier was now plain to see.
It was a rigid fanatical belief in the unassailable correctness of his opinions.
What he was saying was wrong in almost every detail, but she had found out what she wanted to know. She had no difficulty believing he was the kind of man who thought himself justified in killing to get what he wanted.
And he knew a lot more about the Shroud than most people.
She sensed the conversation was at a tipping point. If she went in too hard now, she would lose him. But if she got it right, she might just be able to work out what his real interest in the Shroud was.
“You say the Shroud’s unique,” she ventured. “But it isn’t really, is it? There are others – the acheiropoieta, or images not made by hand – like Veronica’s Veil, or the cloth on which Jesus printed his face before sending it to King Abgar of Edessa. Many people don’t realize, but there are maybe a dozen ancient relics around the world said to be miraculous images of Jesus.”
Durov’s face hardened. “These are common misconceptions, Miss Quinault.”
Ava could see that he clearly did not like being contradicted. Nor did he like having the Shroud questioned.
His eyes bored into her. Then, just as suddenly as his mood had turned dark, it changed again. The menace lifted, and he reverted to the urbane cosmopolitan.
“Magdalena, if I may?” He smiled genially. “Would you care to join me for a tour of my private collection? I would be honoured to show you the error of your views.”
Despite the lightness of his tone, there was an unmistakable chill in the challenge.
Her pulse quickened.
“It’s just around the corner,” he added. “We could slip away. No one would know.”
She took a deep breath, trying to calm a rising sense of anxiety.
Was he setting a trap? A rather unsubtle one?
It was one thing fencing with him in a crowded room. But being alone with him in his home would be something else entirely.
Did he know who she was?
She was unarmed, and would be entirely at his mercy – or that of his bodyguards.
Was he perfectly aware that she had taken the Shroud?
She could hear Swinton’s words echoing in her head as the adrenaline started to race in her system.
“From what little we know, even by the low standards of Kremlin gangsters, he’s i
n a league of his own. Not a friendly fellow. After the farce in Nuremberg, it’s possible he knows who you are. So if you see him or his men, take the threat seriously.”
She forced herself to focus.
The fact was that none of Swinton’s people were going to get as close to Durov as she was right now. No amount of expertise in Kremlinology was going to get any of his officers into a direct conversation with Durov about the Shroud. And, as things stood, Durov was their only lead in establishing why the Kremlin wanted the Shroud badly enough to have murdered for it.
Slowly, she nodded. “I would like that very much.”
Chapter 13
Kensington Palace Gardens
Holland Park
London W8
The United Kingdom
AVA STOPPED IN front of Durov’s house – a large detached Italianate mansion set well back from the road.
As he had said, it was just around the corner from the embassy, on a leafy private street protected by armed police checkpoints at either end.
She had never been to the road before, but knew it by reputation.
Most famously, in World War Two, the building at numbers six to eight was ‘the London Cage’ – a secret facility where MI19 held and questioned Nazi prisoners. Among the most famous inmates were the twenty-one Gestapo men responsible for executing the fifty RAF officers who had broken out of Stalag Luft III in ‘The Great Escape’.
Now, the street had become one of the most expensive and exclusive addresses in London, and behind its trees and gas lamps were the private residences of the new mega-elite.
She looked ahead, noting that the mansion’s front garden was neatly landscaped, and through the upstairs windows there were chandeliers twinkling in the first floor rooms.
Even for a Russian oligarch, she mused, Durov was doing well for himself.
She had noticed Ferguson spot her leaving the embassy. He had been deeply engaged in an animated conversation with Mary, but had nevertheless seen her and Durov moving to the door.
She figured he would put two and two together.
The Apocalypse Fire (Ava Curzon Trilogy Book 2) Page 8
