The Romanov Stone

by Robert C. Yeager

Kate looked away.

  Yes, she thought, she would be the final prize, the ultimate evidence of authenticity. Or rather a husk of herself, hypnotically programmed to follow his every lead. Just as certainly Kate knew that, as soon as Novyck had deposited the Tsar’s dowry in his account, the husk would be discarded.

  They turned right and pulled up in front of the Langley, one of London’s most elegant hotels.

  Their taxi stopped and was immediately surrounded by top-hatted doormen and bell hops. As they entered the sumptuous lobby, Kate marveled at the soft fabrics, delicate furniture and gold, yellow, ochre and black color scheme. Scents of jasmine and chamomile drifted in from the dining room. Far from a hole-up for international gangsters, she thought, it was the sort of place where, in a different, better, time, one might have met Anna Neagle for tea.

  The Romans had chosen this part of London for its two defensible promontories, Ludgate and Cornhill. But outside invaders hadn’t brought The City down. In 1665, a virulent resurgence of the Black Death swept the area. Thousands of Londoners perished. Their clothes were burned and their naked bodies piled high on plague carts for the ride to burial mounds that could still be seen.

  Novyck pushed her wheelchair into a gilt-lined elevator. Kate momentarily shuddered. It was here in London, too, that she would make her last stand.

  Chapter 60

  Hector Molina smiled in surprise and delight as their cab, which had followed the Novyck party from Victoria Station, slipped under the ornate entrance to London’s Langley Hotel. Molina had been a guest at the hotel before—several times, in fact—both on pleasure and business.

  Ahead of them, Novyck, Kate Gavrill, and Novyck’s men had just disembarked and were moving—the young woman in a wheelchair—through the lobby. London’s original “grand” hotel when it opened in 1865, the Langley was the first city hostelry to offer elevators—“ascending rooms” as they were called—and hot and cold running water.

  “You’ll like the Tsar’s Bar,” Molina told his companion as they got out of their cab. “They have caviar, borscht, Russian Zakusis and a hundred kinds of vodka.”

  Krasky grunted. He didn’t need a tour guide to tell him about Russian bars. And relieving his frustration would take more than a few swills of grain alcohol.

  Seven stories and just fifty paces north of Oxford Circus, the hotel couldn’t have been more quintessentially British. A long line of Anglo-Saxon intellectual and artistic aristocracy and a smattering of royalty had signed its registry. A brass plate identified the rooms favored by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Another announced the “Wallis Simpson” suite—the trysting spot used by the American divorcee and King Edward VIII before he renounced his throne for love.

  Clipping two one-hundred pound notes to the registration form, Molina bluffed their way past the desk.

  “We’re with the Novyck party, but we don’t have reservations,” he said. “We need to be on the same floor.”

  The clerk happily obliged. Though its standard rooms were fully booked at this time of year, space could sometimes be found in the hotel’s handful of ultra-luxury suites.

  Moments later, Molina stuck their keycard in a door. It opened onto a curved staircase. Climbing up, he and Krasky found a large room. In its center was a king-size bed with large silk pillows, a soft duvet which matched the pastel wall decorations and Roman blinds. There were two armchairs, a table, a fruit bowl and an alcove with a lighted wardrobe. A corner window offered dramatic views of London.

  Additional stairs led to a private drawing room with settee, table, another minibar and a color TV with SKY channels.

  Molina put his bags down in the drawing room.

  “I’ll sleep in here,” he said, graciously allowing his large companion the comfort of the bed.

  Molina reached into a small briefcase and removed a pea-sized device. He unpeeled its backing to reveal a gummed surface. With Krasky trotting behind him, he walked a few feet down the hall and attached the pea near the floor on the door to Novyck’s suite.

  “It’s a small transponder, powered by a wristwatch battery,” Molina explained after they returned to their room. “When the door moves, it sends a signal. The range is only about a hundred yards, but that’s enough to tell us when anyone enters or exits.”

  “How?”

  “A soft buzz on this mobile.” Molina held up his own cell phone, handing it to Krasky.

  “So what good does it do us to know they’ve left? Our guns are in Russia—and Brighton Beach.”

  “Don’t you see? We don’t want guns,” Molina said. “Nobody in London has them anyway. This”—he drew the short silk garrote from his pants pocket—“is all we’ll need.”

  Molina’s cell alarm sounded. He cracked their suite’s front door, then turned and whispered hoarsely to Krasky.

  “He’s going. I’ll follow.”

  A short time later, the Latin watched from a cab window as Novyck headed up a flight of stairs on Threadneedle Street and into the Bank of England. Molina was no financier, but he knew the bank hadn’t held private accounts for a century or more. Why had Novcyk gone there?

  He’d have to deduce the answer later. He—Molina—couldn’t just walk into the Bank of England. Novyck must have official business there, but what? He’d left the two goons to guard the woman at the hotel and, unless he was fool enough to carry it, the stone as well. Molina knew those rooms, and he knew each one contained a safe. He leaned forward in his seat.

  “Driver, back to the Langley, please,” he said.

  #

  Chapter 61

  When Imre Novyck ascended the steep flight of stairs to the “Old Lady of Threadneedle Street,” he was entering more than a savings depository. The Bank of England symbolized Britain’s enduring role as a global financial center and, indeed, as a bedrock of civilization itself.

  Greeting Novyck in the outer lobby were Peter Cushing, partner of the New York law firm Kate had retained, and Hillyer Walker-Smith, from Cushing and Wakeman’s affiliate firm in London.

  “Miss Gavrill isn’t joining us?” Cushing asked. “This is a bit irregular. I thought we would be meeting with her. My office, however, did receive your faxed copy of her Power of Attorney.”

  “We will only be dealing with photocopies today,” Novyck said. “We thought it would be more appropriate for her to appear after our preliminary discussions, at which time we will present the original documents and, of course, the stone and its Faberge egg container. I know Miss Gavrill left the Faberge piece with you for safekeeping—I trust you have it with you.”

  “Of course,” Cushing replied. “It’s locked in the vault at our London office. As far as our meeting with Miss Gavrill, Mister, ah,”—he glanced at the card in his hand—“Novyck, this is cutting our timetable much closer than I would like. Tomorrow, as you may be aware, is the last day we can file such claims.”

  “Let’s proceed, shall we?” interjected Walker-Smith, an elderly but authoritative-sounding attorney of slight stature who carried Cushing’s briefcase.

  A few minutes later, the three sat in a room decorated with duck egg blue walls, gilded chair rails, white lampshades and heavy gold-framed oils. Facing them across a conference table were Sir Reginald Wilcox, president of the Bank, and Frederick Carlyle, representing the Bank’s solicitors.

  Cushing leaned forward in his leather-upholstered armchair, his face reflected in the burled walnut.

  “I thought it might be helpful to open with a summary,” he began, “just to be sure we are all starting from the same page.”

  Wilcox and Carlyle stared back woodenly.

  “As you know, at the beginning of World War I, Tsar Nicholas II was acknowledged to be one of the world’s wealthiest individuals.

  “In 1906,” Cushing continued, “Nicholas secured for his children five dowry accounts at this bank, each for approximately five million
pounds, or twenty million U.S. dollars, based on exchange rates at that time.

  “We are not here,” he added quickly, seeing the stricken looks on the faces of the bank executives, “to address the whereabouts of those multiple funds and accounts, which were never claimed.”

  “Or proven to exist,” interjected Sir Reginald, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

  Cushing remained unperturbed. “We are here today to claim a sixth dowry account, established in equal amount by Nicholas Romanov in 1913, for his daughter with Anya Putyatin. Our claimant, Miss Kate Gavrill, is their direct descendant and heir.”

  Cushing now leaned back in his seat. Wilcox bent forward, and spoke.

  “You are aware, Mr. Cushing, that the Bank of England functions as the central bank for the United Kingdom. It has not offered private banking services for more than a century.”

  Cushing now tilted forward again. The two men faced each other at eye level across the table.

  “Yes, yes,” Cushing said, “and I know that you, Sir Reginald, are aware that private accounts were historically maintained for European nobility. This is such an account, and at the cumulative interest rates prevailing over those many intervening years, today stands at a value in excess of $90 million U.S. dollars. That is the amount we are seeking.”

  Wilcox glared at his opponent.

  “Mr. Cushing, the American imposter Anna Anderson, the most recent such claimant—whom I should like to point out no member of this bank ever actually saw—was in recent years revealed to the world to be a fake by DNA analysis. We will expect that your Miss Gavrill prove her claim using similar evidence.

  “We are indeed, prepared to satisfy that requirement. In fact, Mr. Novyck is carrying such evidence in his briefcase.”

  Cushing paused, then spoke slowly to emphasize his words. “I further wish, gentlemen, to draw your attention to the following facts:

  “In 1959, The Observor of London reported on Baring Brothers Bank. ‘The Romanovs were among their distinguished clients,’ the newspaper declared, adding, and I quote, ‘Barings still holds a deposit of more than 40 million pounds that was left with them by the Romanovs.’

  “In 1987, the British Government established a Russian Compensation Fund, administered by the accounting firm of Price Waterhouse, to compensate holders of pre-revolutionary tsarist bonds. London newspapers quoted a Fund spokesman indicating that the money had come from Tsar Nicholas II’s multi-million dollar London bank account, whose existence had been denied for more than sixty years.

  “Our own firm’s research shows that Romanov assets included money deposited by the tsar and his family in British bank accounts—mainly this bank and Barings—and that the money was surreptitiously transferred to King George V and Queen Mary with the connivance of the British Treasury and the banks concerned. In fact, the man at the center of these dealings—one Peter Bark—had been the tsar’s last finance minister. He was hired by King George to manage the sale of Romanov jewels—those that had been slipped out of Russia—at scandalously low prices to Queen Mary. Many of the most fabulous of these same gems can currently be seen on the necks of Queen Elizabeth and Princess Anne. The King, I might add, later knighted Peter Bark in recognition of his, ahem, services.”

  Tension lines etched the slopes of the nobleman’s nose. “Now see here, Cushing, are you implying—”

  “Sir Reginald, Mr. Carlyle,” Cushing said, “I am implying very little. What I have just stated is a matter of historical record. And I am sure this information could be amplified if one were to seek legal access to the Windsor Archives.”

  The faces of both Englishmen turned lobster red.

  “My clients and I are perfectly willing to seek such access,” Cushing went on, fixing the two British hosts with a firm gaze, “and, if necessary, to press our case in the public prints. But we think you’ll agree that would be unfortunate for all concerned, and, in any event, there should be no need to do so. We seek no funds the tsar may have deposited in separate accounts for his legitimate children. We seek no further compensation for the valuable—and scandalously acquired—jewels that are in possession of your own House of Windsor. Finally, we seek no accounting of the transfers of Romanov funds that may have taken place in the years after the Great War.

  “We seek only those monies—with interest—due our single client as a direct heir,” Cushing said. “And we will present full proof of our claims. Mr. Novyck, will you share with us the photocopies of the Bank of England documents? We, of course, retain the originals, which we will turn over to you for authentication, in the presence of our representative.”

  Novyck handed Sir Reginald the leather briefcase containing copies of the papers Irina had left for Kate.

  “Please, allow us a few minutes to review these,” Carlyle murmured, a troubled expression replacing his bulldog’s anger of a few moments before. Novyck, Walker-Smith and Cushing rose and repaired to the outer office. They could hear the Brits’ voices, but could not make out what they were saying. At one point, a small elderly man wearing glasses entered the room, stayed briefly, and then left. When Wilcox and Carlyle emerged, they were smiling and notably more relaxed.

  “Gentlemen, we agree there is no need to make these proceedings contentious or for the subject of our discussions to leave the confines of this room. Our archivist has determined that the papers you have given us are almost certainly copies of authentic documents. We will simply ask that you present the originals, together with the so-called Romanov alexandrite and the Faberge container, for our experts to inspect—in the presence of your representative, of course.

  “We would also ask that you obtain a Court of Chancery order that your client is indeed a Romanov—the DNA evidence you’ve gathered should suffice for that purpose.”

  “Time is of the essence,” said Novyck. “May we meet again this afternoon?”

  “Yes, Mr. Novyck, and be certain to bring Miss Gavrill,” said Carlyle, still smiling. “By law, tomorrow is the absolute deadline to reclaim assets of this type. The bank will insist that you honor it.”

  Moments later, Novyck was back in his cab. Only a single hurdle remained: preparing Kate for her final appearance. To succeed, her submission to him must be complete—mentally, emotionally and physically.

  At the last thought, he smiled, imagining the pleasures he would enjoy administering her final exam.

  He tapped the window. “Driver, the Langley, please. And hurry.”

  The cab pulled away. Novyck did not notice a pair of Metropolitan Police cars arrive at the Bank’s entrance. Nor did he see the tall American—whom he would have instantly recognized—emerge from one of them.

  #

  Chapter 62

  Kate stood before the mirror in her locked hotel room, clothed only in a black thong.

  Although her mind was fixed with purpose, Kate struggled with the task of trying to look sexy for a man she despised. Moreover, her weapons of attraction were limited.

  She slipped on the silk jacket from the only outfit she had—the snug but tasteful Gianfranco Ferre suit Novyck had given her to wear on the plane. Now, worn without a blouse and bra, the garment’s jacket molded to her body in soft folds. With its wide lapels, saddle shoulders, and gangsta rap length, the coat teased in movement. She pulled on the lined skirt.

  Considering that Novyck’s decision to abandon their bags had left her without lingerie, this wasn’t a bad get-up. The suit coat fully draped her, but allowed glimpses of flesh. Irina always said a man’s imagination was a woman’s most powerful ally.

  “Tartov! My Comrade! To our mutual great fortune!” Through her door, Kate heard the clink of the Langley’s best crystal. Novyck’s thugs had decided to throw themselves a party.

  Announced by the clatter of a serving cart, their meal had begun shortly after Novyck left. “Your beef and vodka, gentlemen,” she heard the waiter say. Now, aft
er a multitude of crystalline clashes, the formerly scary pair sounded more like the bumbling Bolsheviks in Ninotchka.

  “Not long we get rich,” Andre slurred in broken English.

  “Yah,” replied Tartov, “Like Imre say. Shoppink for suits on Saville Row.”

  Bang! The room reverberated with a loud explosion, then shouts and curses. Furniture collided against the walls and a table tipped over. A lamp crashed to the floor; its bulb popped like a toy gun.

  Kate heard a fearsome voice—thick, Slavic, brutal.

  “Kill them?” Vulcan Krasky asked.

  “No. Please, no. There’s no need.” The second man’s voice was cultured, assured, softer. “Use this tape around their hands,” he said with a slight Spanish accent, “and across their mouths.”

  Someone turned the key to her room from the other side. The door opened—Kate quickly ducked behind it. A man entered.

  As he passed, she saw him through the hinges. It was same man from the Ratchka Hotel who’d left without helping. His back turned to her, he headed for the closet and dropped to his knees.

  Kate silently slipped around the door, making a beeline for the room’s still gaping main entry.

  At that moment, Krasky rose from Andre’s legs, having finished taping up her guards. In full flight, Kate hurled straight into his ample mid-section.

  Rough hands grabbed her shoulders. Her jacket slid to one side and her blouse opened, baring her right breast.

  “So, my tasty little professor, Krasky finally gets his hands on you. And it looks like you are ready for pleasure, yes?”

  Kate kneed him. Krasky groaned and folded at the center. She pulled out of his grasp, dashing for the door.

  With amazing speed for his size, Krasky spun and clasped her trailing arm.

  Like a dancer, he twirled her back into his grasp. Her coat opened, and he slipped both hands around her waist, drawing her against him.