“Then I must do exactly what Goering did and retrace his steps by going direct to the banks. What has been their policy to date?” asked Romanov.
“That differs from establishment to establishment,” said Petrova. “Some banks wait for twenty years or more and then try either by extensive research or advertising to contact the owner or their next of kin. In the case of the Jews who lost their lives under the Nazi regime, it has often proved impossible to trace a legitimate owner. Although I have been unable to prove it, I suspect they kept the rewards and split the proceeds among themselves,” said Petrova. “Typical capitalists.”
“That is neither fair nor accurate, Comrade,” said Romanov, glad to show that he had also been doing some research. “Because that is another of the great myths perpetrated by the poor. In fact, when the banks have been unable to discover the rightful owner of any treasures left with them they have handed them over to the Swiss Red Cross to auction.”
“But if the Czar’s icon had ever been auctioned wouldn’t we have heard about it through one of our agents?”
“Precisely,” said Romanov. “And we’ve already checked through the inventory of the Red Cross: four icons have been disposed of but none of them is of Saint George and the dragon.”
“Then that can only mean some unscrupulous bankers have disposed of the icon privately once they felt sure no one was going to make a claim.”
“Another false premise, I suspect, Comrade Petrova.”
“How can you be so certain?” the young researcher asked.
“For one simple reason, Comrade. The Swiss banking families all know each other intimately and have never shown in the past any propensity for breaking the law. Swiss justice, in our experience, is as tough on corrupt bankers as it is on murderers, which is precisely why the Mafia was never happy about laundering its money through the established banks. The truth is that Swiss bankers make so much money dealing with honest people that it has never been in their best interests to become involved with crooks. There are remarkably few exceptions to this rule, which is the reason so many people are willing to do business with the Swiss.”
“So if Goering stole the Czar’s icon and deposited it in a Swiss bank vault, it could be anywhere in the world by now,” said Petrova.
“I doubt it.”
“Why?” sighed Petrova, a little peeved that her deductions were now proving wide of the mark.
“Because for the past three weeks I have had heaven knows how many operatives combing Europe for the Czar’s icon. They have spoken to nearly every major curator, keeper, dealer, and crook in the art world, and yet they still haven’t come up with a single lead. And why not? Because the only people who have seen the icon since 1917 were the Hesses and Goering, which leaves me with only one hope if it was not destroyed when the Grand Duke’s plane crashed,” said Romanov.
“Namely?” asked Petrova.
“That while the rest of the world is under the illusion that the original still hangs in the Winter Palace, it has for the past twenty years been lodged in a Swiss bank waiting for someone to claim it.”
“A long shot,” said the researcher.
“I am quite aware of that,” said Romanov sharply, “but don’t forget that many Swiss banks have a twenty-five-year rule before disclosure, some even thirty. One or two even have no deadline at all as long as enough money has been deposited to cover the housing of the treasure.”
“Heaven knows how many banks there might be who fall into that category,” sighed Petrova.
“Heaven knows,” agreed Romanov, “and so will you by nine o’clock tomorrow morning. And then it will be necessary for me to pay a visit to the one man in this country who knows everything about banking.”
“Am I expected to start straight away, Comrade Major?” the researcher asked coyly.
Romanov smiled and looked down into the girl’s green eyes. Dressed in the dull gray uniform of her trade, no one would have given her a second look. But in the nude she was quite magnificent. He leaned over until their lips nearly met.
“You’ll have to rise very early, Anna, but for now, just turn out the light.”
CHAPTER FIVE
IT TOOK ADAM only a few more minutes before he had checked over both documents. He put the original back in the faded envelope and replaced it in the Bible on his book shelf. Finally he folded his duplicate copy of Goering’s letter into three horizontal pieces and cut it carefully into three separate strips, which he placed in a clean envelope and left on his bedside table. Adam’s next problem was how to obtain a translation of the document and Goering’s letter without arousing unnecessary curiosity. Years of army training had taught him to be cautious when faced with an unknown situation. He quickly dismissed the German embassy, the German Tourist Board, and the German press agency, as all three were too official and therefore likely to ask unwanted questions. Once he was dressed he went to the hall and began to flick through the pages in the London E-K directory until his finger reached the column he had been searching for.
German Broadcasting
German Cultural Institute
German Federal Railway
German Hospital
German Old People’s Home
His eye passed over “German Technical Translations” and stopped at a more promising entry. The address was given as Bayswater House, 35 Craven Terrace, W2. He checked his watch.
Adam left the flat a few minutes before ten, the three pieces of the letter now safely lodged in the inside pocket of his blazer. He strolled down Edith Grove and onto King’s Road, enjoying the morning sun. The street had been transformed from the one he had known as a young subaltern. Boutiques had taken the place of antiquarian bookshops. Record shops had replaced the local cobbler, and Dolcis had given way to Mary Quant. Take a fortnight’s holiday, and you couldn’t be sure anything would still be there when you returned, he reflected ruefully.
Crowds of people spilled out from the pavement onto the road, staring or hoping to be stared at, according to their age. As Adam passed the first of the record shops, he had no choice but to listen to “I Wanna Hold Your Hand,” as it blared into the ears of everyone within shouting distance.
By the time Adam reached Sloane Square the world had almost returned to normal—Peter Jones, W. H. Smith’s and the London underground. The words his mother had sung so often over the kitchen sink came back to him every time he walked into the square.
And you’re giving a treat (penny ice and cold meat)
To a party of friends and relations,
They’re a ravenous borde, and They all came aboard
At Sloane Square and South Kensington stations.
He paid a shilling and threepence for a ticket to Paddington and, installed in a half-empty carriage, once again went over his plan. When he emerged into the open air at Paddington he checked the street name, and once he was sure of his bearings walked down to Craven Road until he came to the first available newsagent and then asked the directions for Craven Terrace.
“Fourth road on the right, mate,” said the shopkeeper, not bothering to look up from a pile of Radio Times on which he was penciling names. Adam thanked him and a few minutes later found himself standing at the end of a short drive, looking up at the bold green-and-yellow sign: The German Young Men’s Christian Association.
He opened the gate, walked up the drive, and strode confidently through the front door. He was stopped by a porter standing in the hallway.
“Can I help you, guv’nor?″
Adam put on an exaggerated military accent and explained that he was looking for a young man called Hans Kramer.
“Never’eard of’im, sir,” said the porter, almost standing to attention when he recognized the regimental tie. He turned to a book that lay open on the desk. “‘e isn’t registered,” he added, a Woodbine-stained thumb running down the list of names in front of him. “Why don’t you try the lounge or the games room?” he suggested, gesturing with the thumb to a door on the right.<
br />
“Thank you,” said Adam, not dropping the plummy tones. He walked smartly across the hall and through the swinging doors—which from the lack of paint on the base looked as if they had been kicked more often than they had been pushed. He glanced around the room. Several students were lounging about reading German papers and magazines. He wasn’t sure where to start until he spotted a studious-looking girl on her own in a corner, poring over a copy of Time magazine. Brezhnev’s face stared out from the cover. Adam strolled over and took the empty seat beside her. She glanced sideways at him and couldn’t hide her surprise at his formal dress. He waited for her to put the paper down before asking, “I wonder if you could assist me?”
“How?” inquired the girl, sounding a little apprehensive.
“I just need something translated.”
She looked relieved. “I will see if I can help. Have you brought something with you?”
“Yes I have, I hope it isn’t too difficult,” he said. Adam took the envelope from his inside pocket and extracted the first paragraph of Goering’s letter. Then he put the envelope back in his pocket, took out a little notebook, and waited expectantly. He felt like a cub reporter.
She read the paragraph over two or three times, then seemed to hesitate.
“Is anything wrong?”
“Not exactly,” she replied, still concentrating on the words in front of her. “It’s just that it’s a little bit old-fashioned, so that I might not be able to give you the exact sense.”
Adam breathed a sigh of relief.
She repeated each sentence slowly, first in German and then in English as if wanting to feel the meaning as well as just translating the words.
“Over the last … past year we have come to know … each other somewhat … no, no,” she said, “quite well.” Adam wrote each word down as the girl translated them.
“You have never disguised—perhaps a better meaning is ‘hidden,’” she added, “your distaste for the National Socialist Party.”
She raised her head and stared at Adam. “It’s only out of a book,” he assured her. She didn’t look convinced but nevertheless continued. “But you have at every time … no, at all times, behaved with the courtesy of an officer and a gentleman.”
The girl looked up, even more puzzled, as she had now reached the last word.
“Is that all?” she asked. “It doesn’t make sense. There has to be more.”
“No, that’s it,” said Adam, quickly taking back the sheet of paper. “Thank you,” he added. “It was most kind of you to help.” He left the girl and was relieved to see her shrug resignedly and return to her copy of Time. Adam went in search of the games room.
When he swung the door open he found a young man in a World Cup T-shirt and brown suede shorts. He was tapping a table-tennis ball up and down listlessly.
“Care for a game?” said the boy, not looking at all hopeful.
“Sure,” said Adam, removing his jacket and picking up the table-tennis racket at his end of the table. For twenty minutes Adam had to go all out to make sure he lost 18-21, 21-12, 17-21. As he replaced his jacket and congratulated his opponent, he felt sure he had gained the young man’s confidence.
“You put up a good fight,” said the German. “Give me good game.”
Adam joined him at his end of the table. “I wonder if you could help me with something?” he said.
“Your backhand?” said the young man.
“No, thank you,” said Adam, “I just need a paragraph of German translated.” He handed over the middle paragraph of the letter. Once again, the would-be translator looked puzzled.
“It’s from a book, so it may seem a little out of context,” Adam said unconvincingly.
“Okay, I try.” As the boy began to study the paragraph, the girl who had already translated the first section came into the games room. She made her way toward them.
“This hard to make out, I am not good translation for,” the young man said. “My girlfriend better, I think. I ask her. Liebling, kannst du dies für den Herrn auf Englisch?″ Without looking at Adam he passed the second paragraph over to the girl who immediately said, “I knew there was more.”
“No, no, don’t bother,” said Adam, and grabbed the piece of paper away from the girl. He turned back to the boy and said, “Thank you for the game. Sorry to have bothered you,” and walked hurriedly out into the corridor, heading for the front door.
“Did you find’im, sir?”
“Find him?” said Adam.
“Hans Kramer,” said the porter.
“Oh, yes, thank you,” said Adam. As he turned to leave, he saw the young boy and his girlfriend were following close behind
Adam ran down the drive and hailed a passing taxi.
“Where to?” said the cabbie.
“The Royal Lancaster Hotel.”
“But that’s only just round the corner.”
“I know,” said Adam, “but I’m already late.”
“Suit yourself, guv,” said the cabbie, “it’s your money.”
As the cab moved off Adam peered out of the back window to see his table-tennis opponent in conversation with the porter. The girl stood alongside them, pointing at the taxi.
Adam relaxed when the cab turned the corner and they were out of sight.
In less than a minute the taxi had drawn up outside the Royal Lancaster. Adam handed the cabbie half a crown and waited for the change. Then he pushed through the revolving doors of the hotel and hung around in the foyer for a few moments before returning to the pavement again. He checked his watch: twelve-thirty. Easily enough time for lunch, he thought, before going on to his interview with the Foreign Office. He headed across Bayswater Road into the park at a brisk pace, knowing he couldn’t hope to find a pub until he reached Knightsbridge.
Adam recalled the table-tennis match. Damn, he thought. I should have thrashed him. At least that would have given him something else to think about.
Romanov’s eye ran down the list of the fourteen banks. There was still an outside chance that one of them might be in possession of the Czar’s icon, but the names meant nothing to him. It was another world, and he knew he would now have to seek advice from an expert.
He unlocked the top drawer of his desk and flicked through the red book held only by the most senior-ranking officers in the KGB. Many names had been scratched out or overwritten as regimes came and went, but Alexei Andreyevich Poskonov had remained in his present position as Chairman of the National Bank for nearly a decade. Only Gromyko, the Foreign Secretary, had served in any office longer. Romanov dialed a number on his private line and asked to be put through to the chairman of Gosbank. It was some considerable time before another voice came on the line.
“Comrade Romanov, what can I do for you?”
“I urgently need to see you,” said Romanov.
“Really?” The gravelly tones that came from the other end of the line sounded distinctly unimpressed. Romanov could hear pages being flicked over. “I could manage Tuesday, say eleven-thirty?”
“I said it was urgent,” repeated Romanov. “It concerns a State matter that can’t wait.”
“We are the nation’s bankers and do have one or two problems of our own, you might be surprised to hear,” came back the unrepentant voice. Romanov checked himself and waited. There was more flicking of pages. “Well, I suppose I could fit you in at three forty-five today, for fifteen minutes,” said the banker. “But I must warn you that I have a long-standing engagement at four.”
“Three forty-five it is, then,” said Romanov.
“In my office,” said Poskonov. The phone went dead.
Romanov cursed out loud. Why did everyone feel obliged to prove their manhood with the KGB? He began to write down the questions he needed answered in order to put his plan into operation. He couldn’t afford to waste even a minute of his fifteen. An hour later he asked to see the Chairman of the KGB. This time he was not kept waiting.
“Trying to play the c
apitalists at their own game, are we?” said Zaborski, once Romanov had outlined his intentions. “Be careful. They’ve been at it a lot longer than we have.”
“I realize that,” said Romanov. “But if the icon is in the West, I’m left with little choice but to use their methods to get my hands on it.”
“Perhaps,” said the Chairman. “But with your name such an approach could be misunderstood.”
Romanov knew better than to interrupt the brief silence that ensued. “Don’t worry, I’ll give you all the backing you need—although I’ve never had a request quite like this one before.”
“Am I allowed to know why the icon is so important?” Romanov inquired.
The Chairman of the KGB frowned. “I do not have the authority to answer that question, but as Comrade Brezhnev’s enthusiasm for the arts is well known, you must have been able to work out that it is not the painting itself that we are after.”
What secret can the painting hold? thought Romanov, and decided to press on. “I wonder if …”
The Chairman of the KGB shook his head firmly.
Bugs don’t have eyes, thought Romanov, but you know what that something is, don’t you?
The Chairman rose from his desk and walked over to the wall and tore another page from the calendar. “Only ten days left to find the damn thing,” he said. “The General Secretary has taken to phoning me at one o’clock every morning.”
“One o’clock in the morning?” said Romanov, joining in the game.
“Yes, the poor man can’t sleep, they tell me,” said the Chairman, returning to his desk. “It comes to all of us in time—perhaps even you, Romanov, and maybe carlier than you expect if you don’t stop asking questions.” He gave his young colleague a wry smile.
Romanov left the Chairman a few minutes later and returned to his office to go over the questions that did need to be answered by the chairman of Gosbank. He couldn’t help becoming distracted by thoughts of what could possibly be the significance of such a small painting, but accepted he must concentrate his efforts on finding it and then perhaps the secret it contained would become obvious.
A Matter of Honor Page 5
