The Samurai Inheritance (16 page)

The Russian let out a snort of laughter. ‘Yeah, sure.’

Vatutin led the way down to the basement garage and a black BMW 7-series. For all their professed dislike of the Germans, Jamie mused, the Russians had a thing for their motors. As they approached the big car, two men got out. One opened the rear door for Jamie as Vatutin made for the front seat. Jamie looked at the Russian, who shrugged:
Don’t make a fuss; this is the way it must be
. The Englishman hesitated for a split second, wondering how many victims had been lulled into a false sense of security by their assassins’ good manners. But what choice did he have? He ducked in to the rear of the BMW and took the centre seat, with one man on either side, comforted by the fact that at least this time he wasn’t manacled to the floor.

They drove up the ramp and a guard lifted the barrier to let them out into the thin autumn sunshine of a Moscow afternoon. The BMW turned right and drove through the square and along a broad street that took the car past the Bolshoi theatre complex. When the driver turned into the long drag of New Arbat Avenue, Jamie felt a jolt of elation that Vatutin was returning him to his hotel. But the optimism faded when they continued past the turning and crossed Novarbatsky Bridge and the glittering expanse of the River Moskva. They were heading westwards. After a mile or so an enormous obelisk appeared on a height to the left of the road, and Vatutin turned in his seat.

‘Victory Park up on Poklonnaya Hill,’ he said with a tourist guide’s smile. ‘You should go there some time. Lots to see. It was as close to Moscow as Napoleon got.’

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 friend’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.