Jacques Pontin, the manager of the hotel, was stationed at the door waiting to greet the new arrivals; he introduced himself immediately, and as soon as he had checked them in he banged a little bell with the palm of his hand to summon a porter to assist the guests with their bags. A moment later a young man in his early twenties, dressed in green livery, appeared.
“Suite seventy-three and room seventy-four,” Jacques instructed before turning back to Romanov. “I do hope your stay will prove to be worthwhile, Hen Romanov,” he said. “Please do not hesitate to call upon me if there is anything you need.”
“Thank you,” said Romanov as he turned to join the porter, who stood sentinel-like by the door of an open lift. Romanov stood to one side to allow Anna to go in first. The lift stopped at the seventh floor, and the porter led the way down a long corridor to a corner suite. He turned the key in the lock and invited the two guests to go in ahead of him. The suite was as Romanov had expected, in a different league from the finest hotels he had ever experienced in either Moscow or Leningrad. When he saw the array of gadgets in the marble bathroom he reflected that even prosperous travelers to Russia, if seasoned visitors, brought their own bath drains with them.
“Your room is through here, madame,” the porter informed the researcher and unlocked an adjoining door. Although smaller in size, it maintained the same unassuming elegance. The porter returned to Romanov, handed him his key, and asked if there would be anything else he would require. Romanov assured him there was nothing and passed over a five-franc note.
Once again the porter gave a slight bow and, closing the door behind him, left Romanov to unpack while Anna Petrova went to her room.
Romanov started to undress and then disappeared into the bathroom. He studied himself in the mirror. Although he was vain about his looks, he was even vainer about the state of his physique. At twenty-nine, despite being six feet, he still only weighed 165 pounds on western scales, and his muscles remained hard and taut.
By the time Romanov had returned to the bedroom, he could hear the shower beating down in the adjoining bathroom. He crept over to the door and edged it open. He could see quite clearly the outline of Anna standing in the shower. He smiled and noiselessly moved back across the thick carpet, slipped under the sheets and into the researcher’s bed. He waited for her to turn off the steaming shower.
Adam stepped out of the freezing shower. Within minutes he was dressed and joined Lawrence in the kitchen for breakfast.
“Still unable to charge you for hot water, am I?” Lawrence said as Adam peered over his flatmate’s shoulder, “Sorry, can’t stay and chatter with the unemployed,” he said, picking up his briefcase. “The Shah of Iran wants to discuss his financial problems with me. Sorry to rush off before you’ve had your comflakes, but I can’t afford to keep His Imperial Majesty waiting.”
Left on his own, Adam boiled himself an egg and burned some toast before he turned to the newspaper to team of the latest casualties in Vietnam and President Johnson’s proposed tour of the Far East. At this rate he decided he wasn’t going to win the Daily Mail’s “Housewife of the Year” competition. He eventually cleared away in the kitchen, made his bed, and tidied up behind Lawrence—nine years of self-discipline wasn’t going to change old habits that quickly—then he settled down to plan another day.
He realized he could no longer avoid making a decision. He sat once again at his desk and began to consider how to get the official document translated without arousing further suspicion.
Almost absentmindedly he removed the Bible from the bookshelf and extracted the letter he had read the night before. The final paragraph still puzzled him. He considered Heidi’s translation once again.
All that will be required of you is to present yourself at the address printed on the top right-hand corner of the enclosed document, with some proof that you are Colonel Gerald Scott. A passport should prove sufficient. You will then be given a bequest that I have left to you in the name of Emmanuel Rosenbaum.
I hope it will bring you good fortune.
Adam turned his attention back to the document. He was still quite unable to discern what the bequest could possibly be, let alone whether it was of any value. Adam mused over the fact that such an evil man could involve himself in an act of kindness hours before he knew he was going to die.
An act that now left him with no choice about his own involvement.
Romanov gathered the blankets together and in one movement hurled them on to the floor to expose Anna curled up like a child, knees almost touching her exposed breasts. Anna’s hand groped for a corner of the sheet to cover her naked body.
“Breakfast in bed?” she murmured hopefully.
“Dressed in ten minutes, or no breakfast at all,” came back the reply. Anna lowered her feet gingerly on to the thick carpet and waited for the room to stop going round in circles before heading off toward the bathroom. Romanov heard the shower burst forth its jets. “Ahhh,” came the pitiful cry. Romanov smiled when he remembered that he had left the indicator locked on dark blue.
During breakfast in the dining room they mulled over the approach he intended to take with the bank if Petrova were able to confirm that the icon was in fact Rublev’s original masterpiece. He kept looking up from the table and then suddenly, without warning, said, “Let’s go.”
“Why?” Anna asked, as she bit into another slice of toast. Romanov rose from the table and without bothering to offer an explanation strode out of the room and headed straight for the lift. Petrova caught up with her boss only moments before the lift gate closed. “why?” she asked again, but Romanov did not speak until they were both back in his suite. He then threw open the large window that overlooked the railway station.
“Ah, it’s outside your room,” he said, looking to his right, and quickly walked through to the adjoining bedroom. He marched past the disheveled double bed, jerkedopen the nearest window, and climbed outside. Petrova stared down from the seventh floor and felt giddy. Once Romanov had reached the bottom rung of the fire escape, he ran to a passing streetcar. Petrova would never have made it if she hadn’t been lifted bodily onto the tram by Romanov’s sheer strength.
“What’s going on?” she asked, still puzzled.
“I can’t be sure,” said Romanov, looking out of the back of the streetcar. “All I do know for certain is what the local CIA agent looks like.”
The researcher looked back in the direction of the hotel, but all she could see was a mass of anonymous people walking up and down the pavement.
Romanov remained on the streetcar for about a mile before he jumped off and hailed a passing taxi going in the opposite direction.
“Bischoff et Cie,” he said as he waited for his puffing assistant to join him.
The cab headed back in the direction of the hotel, winding in and out of the morning traffic, until it came to a halt in front of a large brown granite building that filled the entire block. Romanov paid off the driver and stood in front of imposing double doors made of thick glass and covered in wrought iron welded to look like the branches on a tree. By the side of the door, carved inconspicuously into the stone and inlaid with gilt, were the words “Bischoff et Cie.” There was no other clue as to what kind of establishment lay within.
Romanov turned the heavy wrought-iron knob, and the two Russians stepped into a spacious hall. On the left-hand side of the hall stood a solitary desk behind which a smartly dressed young man was seated.
“Guten morgen, mein Herr,” he said.
“Good morning,” said Romanov in German. “We have an appointment with Herr Dieter Bischoff.”
“Yes, Herr Romanov,” said the receptionist, checking the list of names in front of him. “Will you please take the lift to the fifth floor, where you will be met by Herr Bischoff’s secretary.” When the two of them stepped out of the lift they were greeted by a lady in a neat plain suit. “Will you please follow me,” she said, without any trace of accent. The two Russians were escorted alon
g a picture-lined corridor to a comfortable room that more resembled the reception room of a country house than a bank.
“Herr Bischoff will be with you in a moment,” the lady said, withdrawing. Romanov remained standing while he took in the room. Three black-and-white framed photographs of somber old men in gray suits, trying to look like somber old men in gray suits, took up most of the far wall, while on the other walls were discreet but pleasant oils of town and country scenes of nineteenth-century Switzerland. A magnificent oval Louis XIV table with eight carved mahogany chairs surrounding it dominated the center of the room. Romanov felt a twinge of envy at the thought that he could never hope to live in such style.
The door opened and a man in his mid-sixties, followed by three other men in dark gray suits, entered the room. One look at Herr Bischoff, and Romanov knew whose photograph would eventually join that of the other three gray, somber men.
“What an honor for our little bank, Mr. Romanov,” were Bischoff’s first words as he bowed and shook the Russian by the hand. Romanov nodded and introduced his assistant, who received the same courteous bow and handshake. “May I in turn present my son and two of my partners, Herr Muller and Herr Weizkopf.” The three men bowed in unison, but remained standing while Bischoff took his seat at the head of the table.
At his gesture both Romanov and Anna sat down beside him.
“I wonder if I might be permitted to check your passport?” asked Bischoff, as if to show that the formal business had begun. Romanov took out the little blue passport with a soft cover from his inside pocket and handed it over. Bischoff studied it closely, as a philatelist might check an old stamp, and decided it was mint. “Thank you,” he said, as he returned it to its owner.
Bischoff then raised his hand, and one of the partners immediately left them. “It will only take a moment for my son to fetch the icon we have in safekeeping,” he confided. “Meanwhile perhaps a little coffee—Russian,” he added.
Coffee appeared within moments, borne by yet another smartly dressed lady.
“Thank you,” said Petrova, clearly a little overawed, but Romanov didn’t speak again until Herr Bischoff’s son reappeared with a small box and handed it over to his father.
“You will understand that I have to treat this matter with the utmost delicacy,” the old man confided. “The icon may not turn out to be the one your government is searching for.”
“I understand,” said Romanov.
“This magnificent example of Russian art has been in our possession since 1938 and was deposited with the bank on behalf of a Mr. Emmanuel Rosenbaum.”
Both visitors looked shocked.
“Nevozmozbno,” said Anna, turning to her master. “He would never …”
“I suspect that’s exactly why the name was chosen in the first place,” Romanov said curtly to Anna, annoyed at her indiscretion.”Can’t you see? It makes perfect sense. May I see the icon now?” said Romanov, turning back toward the bank’s chairman.
Herr Bischoff placed the box in the center of the table. The three men in gray suits each took a pace forward. Romanov looked up. “Under Swiss law we must have three witnesses when opening a box in someone else’s name,” explained the old man.
Romanov nodded curtly.
Herr Bischoff proceeded to unlock the metal box with a key he produced from his pocket, while his son leaned over and undid a second lock with a different key. The little ceremony completed, Herr Bischoff pushed up the lid of the box and turned it round to face his guests. Romanov placed his hands into the box like an expectant child does with a Christmas stocking and drew out the icon. He stared at the beautiful painting. A small wooden rectangle that was covered in tiny pieces of red, gold, and blue making up the mosaic of a man who looked as if he had all the worries of the world on his shoulders. The face, although sad, still evoked a feeling of serenity: The painting Romanov held in his hand was quite magnificent, as fine as any he had seen at the Winter Palace. No one in the room was quite sure what would happen next as Romanov offered no opinion.
It was Anna who finally spoke.
“A masterpiece it is,” she said, “and undoubtedly fifteenth century, but as you can see it’s not Saint George and the dragon.”
Romanov nodded his agreement, still unable to let go of the little painting. “But do you know the origin of this particular icon?” Romanov asked.
“Yes,” Anna replied, glad to be appreciated for the first time. “It is the icon of Saint Peter, you see he holds the keys … painted by Dionisiy in 1471, and although it is undoubtedly one of the finest examples of his work, it is not the Czar’s icon.”
“But does it belong to the Russian people?” asked Romanov, still hopeful of some reward for all his trouble.
“No, Comrade Major,” said the researcher emphatically. “It belongs to the Munich Gallery, from where it has been missing since the day Hitler was appointed Reichschancellor.”
Herr Bischoff scribbled a note on a piece of paper in front of him. At least one bank in Munich was going to be happy to do business with him in the future.
Romanov reluctantly handed back the icon to Herr Bischoff, only just managing to say, “Thank you.”
“Not at all,” said Herr Bischoff imperturbably, replacing the icon in the box and turning his key in his lock. His son completed the same routine with his own key and then departed with the unclaimed treasure. Romanov rose, as he considered nothing more could be gained from the meeting—although he believed he had discovered Goering’s alias, or one of them.
“I wonder if I might be permitted to have a word with you in private, Herr Romanov?” asked the elderly banker.
“Of course.”
“It is rather a delicate matter I wish to put to you,” said Herr Bischoff, “so I thought you might prefer your associate to leave us.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Romanov, unable to think of anything Bischoff might have to say that he wouldn’t later need to discuss with Petrova.
“As you wish,” said Bischoff. “I am curious to discover whether there was any other reason behind your request to see me.”
“I don’t understand what you mean,” said Romanov.
“I felt perhaps I knew the real reason you had selected this bank in particular to start your inquiry.”
“I didn’t select you,” said Romanov. “You were only one of—” he stopped himself.
“I see,” said Bischoff, himself now looking somewhat bemused. “Then may I be permitted to ask you a few questions?”
“Yes, if you must,” said Romanov, now impatient to get away.
“You are Alexander Petrovich Romanov?”
“You must already believe that or we would not have proceeded this far.”
“The only son of Petr Nikolayevich Romanov?”
“Yes.”
“And grandson of Count Nikolai Alexandrovich Romanov?”
“Is this to be a history lesson on my family tree?” asked Romanov, making his irritation visible.
“No, I just wanted to be sure of my facts, as I am even more convinced it would be wise for your associate to leave us for a moment,” the old man diffidently suggested.
“Certainly not,” said Romanov. “In the Soviet Union we are all equal,” he added pompously.
“Yes, of course,” said Bischoff, glancing quickly at Anna before continuing. “Did your father die in 1948?”
“Yes. He did,” said Romanov, beginning to feel distinctly uncomfortable.
“And you are the only surviving child?”
“I am,” confirmed Romanov proudly.
“In which case this bank is in possession …” Bischoff hesitated as a file was put in front of him by one of the men in gray. He placed a pair of gold, half-moon spectacles on his nose, taking as long as he could over the little exercise.
“Don’t say anything more,” said Romanov quietly.
Bischoff looked up. “I’m sorry, but I was given every reason to believe your visit had been planned.”
Petrova was now sitting on the edge of her seat, enjoying every moment of the unfolding drama. She had already anticipated exactly what was going to happen and was disappointed when Romanov turned to speak to her.
“You will wait outside,” was all he said. Petrova pouted and rose reluctantly to leave them, closing the door behind her.
Bischoff waited until he was certain the door was closed, then slid the file across the table. Romanov opened it gingerly. On the top of the first page was his grandfather’s name underlined three times. Below the name were printed row upon row of incomprehensible figures.
“I think you will find that we have carried out your grandfather’s instructions in maintaining a conservative portfolio of investments with his funds.” Bischoff leaned across and pointed to a figure showing that the bank had achieved an average increase of 6.7 percent per annum over the previous forty-nine years.
“What does this figure at the foot of the page represent?” asked Romanov.
“The total value of your stocks, bonds, and cash at nine o’clock this morning. It has been updated every Monday since your grandfather opened an account with this bank in 1916.” The old man looked up proudly at the three pictures on the wall.
“Bozhe Moi,” said Romanov, as he took in the final figure. “But what currency is it in?”
“Your grandfather only showed faith in the American dollar,” said Herr Bischoff.
“Bozhe Moi,” Romanov repeated.
“May I presume from your comment that you are not displeased with our stewardship?”
Romanov was speechless.
“It may also interest you to know that we are in possession of several boxes, the contents of which we have no knowledge. Your father also visited us on one occasion soon after the war. He appeared satisfied and assured me that he would return, but we never heard from him again. We were saddened to learn of his death. You might also prefer in the circumstances to return and investigate the boxes at another time,” the banker continued.
A Matter of Honor Page 8
