Not far ahead they turned off the road into a wooded area dotted with occasional brightly coloured dachas, the holiday homes where well-off Russians came to stay in the summer months. Eventually, it led to a long driveway with gravel crunching under the car’s tyres. Jamie scanned the trees to left and right until an unnatural angular shape drew his attention. A moment later he caught sight of a soldier in a camouflaged uniform staring at the car. He wasn’t sure whether the fact that the man appeared to be carrying an assault rifle was reassuring or otherwise.
‘Stalin had a dacha not far from here,’ Vatutin said without turning his head. ‘But this house belonged to Lavrentiy Beria. You have heard of him?’
‘Of course.’
‘Naturally, Stalin didn’t trust him and he didn’t trust Stalin, so they kept each other close. The Boss used Beria and the NKVD to clean up for him, and when he’d done the job, pouf, he got cleaned up too. He was a very tidy man, the Boss.’
‘Naturally,’ Jamie echoed drily. ‘I appreciate the history lesson.’
‘Oh, the most important lesson is yet to come, Mr Saintclair,’ the Russian said with a conviction that sent a shudder down Jamie’s spine.
At last they arrived at a large wooden house with a wide veranda. The two men escorted Jamie to the door, where they patted him down with professional courtesy.
‘I’m sorry.’ Vatutin shrugged apologetically. ‘I know you were searched at the Lubyanka, but it is protocol. Nothing that could be used as a weapon and no recording devices.’
Jamie felt his heart beat a little faster. Now he was intrigued, the anxiety that had been growing with every mile outside Moscow replaced by curiosity. His destination had always been a mystery and his fate, despite Vatutin’s apparent affability, uncertain. But here – along with the military guards and their carefully camouflaged armoured cars in the trees – was the first sign he was meeting someone significant. The two heavies stepped back and Vatutin waved him towards the door. ‘Please,’ he said.
The decoration in the large hall was much sparser inside than the exterior of the building had hinted, with a pervading smell of recently applied varnish. A few pictures, mostly Moscow scenes, adorned the green-painted walls. One was a stern portrait of a man familiar to anyone who had seen television news pictures of Russia over the last decade or so. This was a place that had a function, Jamie decided, but not one that was lived in, at least not regularly. The Russian led the way through to a room where a log fire flickered between two broad windows that looked out over a stretch of garden lawn in dire need of attention.
‘You will wait here, please.’ Jamie sensed a hint of nervousness in Vatutin’s voice as he left the room. The sensation transferred itself to his stomach, which felt like a ball of mating snakes had taken up residence. In the silence that followed his eyes automatically swept the doors and windows looking for the quickest escape route if things happened to go wrong.
He turned at the sound of the door opening and his mind froze at the sight of the man who walked briskly into the room.
‘Please be seated.’ The voice was much gentler than Jamie had expected. When he appeared on TV at the side of the man whose portrait hung in the hall he always looked the slighter of the two, but that turned out to be an illusion. In reality he was as tall as Jamie and the dark jacket and blue open-necked shirt hid a soldier’s physique. The appraising eyes were grey and close-set beneath heavy brows. Deep lines dragged the corners of his mouth downwards as if he’d long forgotten how to smile. In the casual clothes he might have been an off-duty businessman, or a surgeon between shifts. In fact, if Jamie was to believe CNN, he had a direct connection to one of the most powerful men on earth.
‘Please,’ the man repeated, gesturing to the chair. ‘Thank you for coming,’ the Russian welcomed him gravely. ‘Of course, neither of us is really here at all.’ He smiled.
In other circumstances Jamie might have argued the point, but something told him it would be impolitic, not to say dangerous. ‘Of course,’ he agreed, ‘but naturally I’m a little curious to know why I’m not here.’
The other man nodded slowly, as if people were shanghaied and dragged to meet him all the time and should be grateful for the opportunity, which was a thought. ‘You are enjoying your trip to Moscow?’
‘It has been very interesting so far,’ Jamie replied with gross understatement. Why did he have a feeling that the poker face he was trying to project was more of a village idiot’s vacant smile?
‘Yes.’ The lips twitched a hair’s-breadth upwards, which seemed to record satisfaction. ‘You are a man of culture, Mr Saintclair, a graduate of Oxford University.’ Well, it was Cambridge, actually, but you didn’t correct a man like this. ‘You understand the passions that can be inspired by art. The way a painting or a sculpture can raise goosebumps on your skin, and composition and style can seem to talk to you of a talent beyond the realms of ordinary men or women; a genius unparalleled in any other aspect of life.’ As he made his unlikely observations, he studied Jamie with an almost lizard-like concentration. ‘I have a friend who feels the same passion.’ The bushy eyebrows rose slightly and Jamie nodded to confirm he understood just which friend was the subject of this conversation. ‘It has always been my friend’s vision to bring great art to all Russian people,’ the man continued. ‘For many decades the appreciation of such works was suppressed and the repercussions of that suppression still exist today, do you not agree?’
Coming from a former high-ranking officer of the KGB who had undoubtedly done his share of suppressing during the twilight years of the Soviet Union, this was a ticklish subject. Jamie responded with an answer that was at once general and hopefully harmless. ‘Yet you have always been fortunate in having some of the world’s finest museums, and I believe Soviet children were encouraged to visit them from an early age even during the, er … difficult years.’
The almost feminine lips twitched into what might have been a proper smile until you noticed that looking into the grey eyes was like staring into the depths of an Arctic ice hole. ‘Ah, our museums. They have a particular interest for you, I understand?’
Suddenly Jamie felt like the rabbit who’d become an object of fascination for a sleek brown creature with sharp teeth and a twitching nose. So much for avoiding the trap. ‘As a student of fine art,’ he said carefully, ‘how could they not?’
‘Yet this interest is in items with a very specific origin.’ The eyes narrowed and took on a knowing look. ‘You are a hunter, Mr Saintclair, and as a fellow hunter I can appreciate the attributes that have made your talents so sought after.’
‘I—’ A raised hand instantly stilled Jamie’s protest.
‘For instance, your rather specialized sphere of the art profession brought you into contact with a friend of my friend. You were seeking an artefact known as the Eye of Isis, I believe?’ Jamie found he didn’t dare breathe and the closest window was beginning to look more inviting by the second. ‘Did you ever find it, I wonder? I have evidence that it spent a number of years in what was then the Soviet Union, and that the Russian Federation might have a claim on an object whose origins are, let us agree, so very obscure.’ The Eye was a priceless diamond the size of a goose egg that had been the centrepiece of the Crown of Isis. Jamie hoped the Russian wasn’t hinting that he wanted it back, because some careless sod had turned the enormous gem into about a million shards of crystalized carbon.
Fortunately, the next words seemed more reassuring. ‘However, my interest is not in some gem, no matter how valuable, it is in a piece of art that my friend loaned to his good friend Oleg Samsonov and which went missing after his untimely demise …’ In the cartoons they see stars, Jamie saw golden flowers in a glazed green pot against a nondescript background, last seen in Oleg Samsonov’s safe room as the billionaire businessman’s blood spread across the floor of his London mansion. ‘Mr Saintclair?’ He realized the other man had continued speaking. ‘I said I want you to track down the person who took my f
riend’s painting and negotiate its recovery.’
‘I’m not sure I can do that.’ Jamie felt himself go pale. ‘The British police … diplomatic channels … a much better chance of finding the … the painting. I already have a commission that may take some time to complete.’
His host listened to him wrestle with the words, his head cocked slightly to one side, face immobile and the eyes watchful and penetrating. ‘As for the commission, I believe I can help you accomplish at least part of it. You are seeking links to a man called Gennady Berzarin? Well, Gennady had a son, Arkady, and this Arkady lives a rather reclusive life. Not an easy man to reach, but of course I can help you reach him if you wish. You might even carry a message to him from my friend.’ He smiled. ‘Yes. Tell Arkady that his old friend Sergei from university sends his regards. That will get his attention. You talk of time? I have all the time in the world, Mr Saintclair. All that matters is that the only remaining version of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers in private hands is restored to its rightful owner. As for the police and diplomatic channels, this is not state business, but personal. Oleg and my friend had an arrangement, which he would prefer to remain private, just as this meeting between us must remain forever between the two parties?’
It wasn’t a question requiring an answer, but Jamie decided to answer it anyway. ‘Naturally.’
‘Then we are agreed.’ That twitch of the lips again. ‘You will track down the Lausanne Sunflowers at your leisure and negotiate its return to the rightful owner. Mr Vatutin will be our point of contact and he will be in touch from time to time to discuss your progress. Should there be any problem with the negotiations he will prove invaluable to you as he always has been to me.’
Even as Jamie’s brain screamed No, he knew there was no way out. This was one of the most ruthless men in the world. With a click of his fingers Jamie Saintclair would be back in the Lubyanka, his future at best uncertain. Even if he agreed and walked away with no intention of carrying out the instructions it would be a small thing for these men to destroy him. He suspected death would be the least of it. First they would kill his reputation.
‘You are considering your fee, of course. On discovery of the painting you will—’
‘I want no fee, sir,’ Jamie stepped in quickly. The last thing he needed in his muddled and often inscrutable records was an enormous payment from a dodgy offshore account in the Cayman Islands. ‘It would be my pleasure to find the Van Gogh and ensure its return.’
The other man took time to consider this, and for a moment Jamie wondered if he’d delivered a mortal insult. ‘Very well.’ The Russian repeated his slow nod. ‘But honour demands there should be some kind of quid pro quo. We talked of artefacts in Russian museums that might be of interest to you? These establishments are run by conservatives who believe every artwork either on display or in storage is there by right, no matter its origin. Any object recovered from, let us say, Nazi Germany in the early part of nineteen forty-five is regarded as legitimate war reparation for the destruction done to the Motherland over the four preceding years. Of course, you and I know that many of these objects were confiscated from people who were themselves victims of the Nazis. The surviving relatives have legitimate claims upon their property. On receipt of your signature agreeing to track down a painting of unknown provenance, I will pledge to do my best to identify these artworks. Once this has been achieved, I will negotiate their release and pass them on to Saintclair Fine Arts for eventual repatriation to the families of their former owners on terms agreeable to both.’
The avaricious segment of Jamie’s brain computed the value in money and prestige of what he’d just been offered – and, let’s face it, dared not refuse. At the same time, a part-admiring voice in his mind screamed a warning. This is what makes this man so dangerous. He has looked into your soul, identified what you most covet and handed it to you on a golden plate. An image of a hissing serpent in an apple tree replaced the man opposite, and he saw a hand reaching out for a shining piece of fruit. As seductions went it was up there with the best. And of course the gleam of the apple hid the little worm burrowing away at its centre; the worm that went by the name of your signature and meant that the seduction was the first step towards a lifetime on your back in a brothel.
He looked up as some hidden signal heralded Vatutin’s return, bearing an official-looking document and a gold pen. The Russian was grinning.
‘Welcome aboard, comrade.’
XIX
It seemed to Jamie that Magda Ross had taken his absence with surprising equanimity.
‘I thought you might have been worried,’ he said after Vatutin – first name Alexei now that they were comrades – had dropped him off outside the hotel in a state close to bewilderment. ‘At least a little bit.’
Magda laid down the Japanese grammar she was reading by the window and uncoiled herself from the chair. ‘I was a little bit,’ she admitted as she walked past him to the coffee machine. ‘But I trust you to know what you’re doing. Besides, Daniel popped in to let me know you might be out of circulation for a couple of days.’
‘He did?’
‘He did. I was a little curious as to why, but he couldn’t tell me.’
The statement held a question but Jamie was busy trying to figure out how Daniel could have known without having inside information from the Lubyanka. ‘Dimitri Kaganovich was a dead end.’ He gave her a reassuring smile to cover up the guilt of not telling her just how dead, or his suspicions that he might have been responsible in a sort of second-hand, semi-detached kind of way. ‘But he pointed me towards some other people and they came up with an address for the family of his dear-departed old chum Gennady.’
‘And these people would be …?’ she asked too sweetly.
‘It was all a little bit mysterious.’ Jamie felt the heat in his cheeks as he evaded the question. ‘But that happens sometimes in my line of work. They looked up the files and voilà: Gennady Berzarin gave up the diplomatic service and moved out to Siberia …’ Magda blinked at the unexpected geographical twist and forgot the cross-examination she’d planned. ‘He became a leading citizen, and eventually mayor of a place called Krasnoyarsk, which I’m told is a mining town on the Yenisei River.’
‘We’re going to Siberia?’
‘I’m going to Siberia.’ The words emerged of their own volition, but his instinct told him he was correct. He was swimming with sharks now and he had no right to ask Magda Ross to accompany him into this potentially lethal part of the ocean. ‘Krasnoyarsk isn’t the kind of place for the unprepared with winter coming on.’
But Magda had other ideas. ‘Do you really think you’re dumping me here?’ Her tone was a mix of incredulity and determination, a sort of low-pitched warning signal mirrored by a narrowing of flashing walnut eyes. ‘You lured me all the way to Moscow with your South Sea puzzle and your promises of First Class all the way, so don’t think you can suddenly leave me behind. I’ve an investment in the Bougainville head too and I want to be there when you find it. Where you go I go, Jamie Saintclair, even if it means travelling solo.’
She stood there with her chest heaving with passion and he struggled to maintain his conviction in the face of such a major distraction. ‘Siberia isn’t Moscow, Magda.’
‘No, but it’s halfway to Tokyo, which is where we were going originally, in case you’d forgotten.’
‘I hadn’t forgotten but—’
‘Please, Jamie, don’t do this.’ She was pleading now, and he had the odd sensation that this was a different Magda Ross. ‘You’ve no idea what it was like in the museum with all those dusty old men and simpering office girls. When you walked into the museum and mentioned what you were looking for it was like a storm blowing away the cobwebs of my life. An opportunity to have an adventure after five years of staring at mind-numbing reports on computer screens. I’ve contributed nothing yet, but I know I can help. Just give me a chance.’
Sharks or no sharks, a man could only take so much. Despite
his reservations Jamie’s resolve crumbled and Magda saw it written on his face. Her mood transformed as if the sun had just come out from behind a cloud.
‘All right,’ he growled, trying to regain the initiative. ‘But you can forget going solo. From now on we stay close and cover each other’s back. Unless you’d be uncomfortable with that?’
It was the only time he’d seen her blush. ‘I may have exaggerated for effect.’
‘The first thing we need is some proper cold-weather clothing.’
‘Of course.’ She disappeared through the connecting door into her suite and returned a moment later with a pair of enormous bags with the name of a prominent Moscow store printed across the front. From the first, she pulled a heavily padded and obviously expensive jacket – it was too stylish to call an anorak. ‘I wasn’t sure of the colour, but dark blue seemed neutral enough. And I got you a couple of thick woollen sweaters and some winter socks.’
‘Good, we can stop off somewhere and buy some, er … thermals.’
‘Thermals?’ Her eyebrows went up along with her voice. ‘Do we have some kind of expedition planned? Mammoth hunting? A camping trip on the steppe?’
‘All I have to get us close to Arkady Berzarin is an address that could be in the middle of nowhere and what might be called a verbal letter of introduction,’ Jamie explained patiently. ‘If that doesn’t work we might have to try something a little more unorthodox than knocking on his door.’ He shrugged, remembering he could have been back sunning himself with Fiona on Bondi Beach instead of chasing shadows in Russia. ‘In my experience, it’s the things you don’t take that you end up needing. And there are certain extremities I’d prefer not to expose to frostbite.’
‘Well, I can understand that,’ she laughed and turned towards her suite. ‘I’ll start packing for the flight.’
‘Er, I’m afraid there won’t be a flight.’ She froze in the doorway and he quickly explained. ‘I tried to book a plane, but apparently there have been severe electrical storms and everything between here and the Far East is effectively grounded. The only option is the train. I’m afraid we’re in for a rather extended trip.’
The Samurai Inheritance Page 13
