A Matter of Honour (13 page)

He walked another hundred yards before
turning left, where he shortened his stride to check all the signs on both
sides of the road. He passed Gucci’s, Carrier’s, Asprey’s and was beginning to
wonder if his memory had failed him and whether he should check in the
telephone directory. He continued on past the Irish Tourist Board and Celines
before he finally spotted the gold lettering above a little newspaper kiosk on
the far side of the road.

He crossed the one-way street and entered
the front door by the side of the kiosk. He felt like a boy on his first day at
a new school, unsure of his surroundings and not certain to whom he should turn
for advice. Most of the people who passed him went straight up the stairs and
he was just about to follow them when he heard a voice say, “Up the stairs and
straight through, madam. The auction is due to start in a few minutes.”

Adam turned and saw a man in a long, green
coat. The name ‘Sotheby’ was embroidered over his left-hand pocket.

“Where do I go if I want something valued?”
Adam asked.

“Straight along the passage, sir, as far as
you can go and you’ll see a girl on the left-hand side in reception,” barked
his informant. Adam thanked him, presuming that the guide’s former place of
work could only have been on an Aldershot drill square... He walked along to
the reception area. An old lady was explaining to one of the girls behind the
counter that her grandmother had left the vase to her several years before and
she wondered what it might be worth.

The girl only glanced at the heirloom before
asking, “Can you come back in about fifteen minutes? By then our Mr Makepeace
will have had time to look at it and will be able to give you an estimate.”

“Thank you, my dear,” said the old lady
expectantly. The girl picked up the large ornate vase and carried it to a room
in the back. She returned a few moments later to be faced with Adam.

“May I help you, sir?”

“I’m not sure,” began Adam. “I need some advice
concerning an icon.”

“Have you brought the piece with you, sir?”

“No, it’s still abroad at the moment.”

“Do you have any details?”

“Details?”

“Artist’s name, date,
size.
Or better still do
you have a photograph of the piece?”

“No,” said Adam sheepishly. “I only know its
title but I do have some documentation,” he added, handing over the receipt he
had shown the pastor.

“Not a lot to go on,” said the girl,
studying the German transcript. “But I’ll ask Mr Sedgwick, the head of our
Russian and Greek Icon department, if he can help you.”

“Thank you,” said Adam, as the girl picked
up the phone.

“Is Mr Sedgwick able to advise a customer?”
the girl enquired. She listened for a moment then replaced the phone.

“Mr Sedgwick will be down in a few moments,
if you would care to wait.”

“Certainly,” said Adam, feeling something of
a fraud. While the girl attended to the next customer Adam waited for Mr
Sedgwick and studied the pictures on the wall. There were several photos of
items that had come under the auctioneer’s hammer in recent sales. A large
painting by Picasso called ‘Trois Baigneuses’ had been sold for fourteen
thousand pounds. As far as Adam could make out the brightly coloured oil was of
three women on a beach dancing. He felt confident they were women because they
had breasts even if they weren’t in the middle of their chests. Next to the
Picasso was a Degas of a girl at a ballet lesson; this time there was no doubt
it was a girl. But the painting that most caught Adam’s eye was
a large
oil by an artist he had never heard of called
Jackson Pollock that had come under the hammer for eleven thousand pounds. Adam
wondered what sort of people could afford to spend such sums on works of art.

“Wonderful example of the artist’s
brushwork,” said a voice behind him. Adam turned to face a tall, cadaverous
figure with a ginger moustache and thinning red hair. His suit hung on him as
if from a coathanger. “My name is Sedgwick,” he announced in a donnish voice.

“Scott,” said Adam, offering his hand.

“Well, Mr Scott, why don’t we sit over here
and then you can let me know how I can help you.”

“I’m not sure you can,” admitted Adam,
taking the seat opposite him. “It’s just that I have been left an icon in a
will and I was hoping it might turn out to be valuable.”

“A good start,” said Sedgwick, unfolding a
pair of spectacles which he had removed from his top pocket.

“It may not be,” said Adam, “because I know
nothing about paintings and I wouldn’t want to waste your time.”

“You won’t be wasting my time,” Sedgwick
assured Adam. “We sell many items for less than ten pounds, you know.” Adam
hadn’t known and Sedgwick’s gentle voice made him feel less apprehensive. “Now
am I to understand you do not have a photograph of this particular icon?”

“That’s right,” said Adam. “The icon is
still abroad, and to be honest I’ve never laid eyes on it.”

“I see,” said Sedgwick, folding up his
glasses. “But can you tell me anything of its provenance?”

“A little.
It is known as ‘The Tsar’s Icon’ and the
subject is St George and the Dragon.”

“How strange,” said
Sedgwick.
“Someone else
was enquiring after that particular painting only last week but he wouldn’t
leave his name.”

“Someone else wanted to know about the Tsar’s
icon?” said Adam.

“Yes, a Russian gentleman, if I wasn’t
mistaken.” Sedgwick tapped his glasses on his knee. “I checked on it
extensively for him but found little that wasn’t already well documented. The
man wondered if it had ever passed through our hands, or even if we had heard
of it. I was able to explain to him that the great work by Rublev remains in
the Winter Palace for all to see. One can always be certain that it’s an
original from the Winter Palace because the Tsar’s silver crown will be
embedded in the back of the frame. Since the fourteenth century many copies of
Rublev’s masterpiece have been made and they vary greatly in quality and value;
but the one he seemed interested in was a copy made for Tsar Nicholas by a
court painter circa 1914. I was unable to find any trace of such an icon in any
of the standard works on the subject. Do you have any documentation on your
icon?” Sedgwick enquired.

“Not a lot,” said Adam. “Although I do have
a copy of the receipt that was left to me in the will,” he added, and handed it
over.

Mr Sedgwick once again unfolded his glasses
before studying the paper for several moments. “Excellent, quite excellent,” he
said eventually. “It seems to me that, as long as Roget
et
Cie will release it, a copy of the Tsar’s icon painted by the court painter of
the time, belongs to you. But you will have to go and pick it up yourself, that’s
for certain.”

“But is it worth all that trouble?” asked
Adam. “Can you give me any idea of its value?”

“Hard to be precise without actually seeing
it,” Sedgwick said, returning the document.

“So what is the lowest figure I might expect
to get for it?”

The older man frowned. “Ten,” he said, after
considerable thought.
“Perhaps fifteen, but with an absolute
top of twenty.”

“Twenty pounds,” said Adam, unable to hide
his disappointment. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time, Mr Sedgwick.”

“No, no, no, Mr Scott, you misunderstand me.
I meant twenty
thousand
pounds.”

“A little more caviar, Comrade?” enquired
Petrova across the lunch table.

Romanov frowned. His pretence at ‘strictly
confidential information’ only to be passed on at the highest level had merely
elicited a knowing smile from his companion who was also not inclined to
believe that her boss had a pressing appointment at the Consulate that
afternoon, an appointment that he had forgotten to mention to her before.

Anna held out a spoon brimming with caviar
and pushed it towards Romanov as if she was trying to feed a reluctant baby.

“Thank you – no,” said Romanov firmly.

“Suit
yourself
,”
said the young woman before it disappeared down her own throat. Romanov called
for the bill. When he was presented with the slip of paper he couldn’t help
thinking that for that price he could have fed a Russian family for a month. He
paid without comment.

“I’ll see you back in the hotel later,” he
said curtly.

“Of course,” said Petrova, still lingering
over her coffee. “What time shall I expect you?”

Romanov frowned again. “Not before seven,”
he replied.

“And do you have any plans for me this
afternoon, Comrade Major?”

“You may do as you please,” said Romanov,
and left the table without further word. Once on the street, he set off in the
opposite direction to the bank, but he doubted if he had fooled the researcher,
who was still eyeing him suspiciously through the restaurant window; or the
agent, who had waited patiently on the far side of the road for nearly two
hours.

By three o’clock Romanov was once again
seated in the private room on the fifth floor looked down on by the three
photographs of the Herr Bischoffs, and with the fourth Herr Bischoff sitting
opposite him and the fifth Herr Bischoff standing behind him.

“We are in possession of. . .” began Herr
Bischoff, in the same deliberate, formal way that had dictated the pace of the
morning session, “. . . five boxes which have remained unopened since your
father visited us in 1945. Should it be your desire to inspect the contents...
”

“Why else would I have returned?” asked
Romanov, already made impatient by the measured voice and studied ritual.

“Indeed,” said Herr Bischoff, seemingly
unaware of any discourtesy. “Then all we now require is that you sign a
disclaimer in order to legalise the situation under Swiss law.” Romanov looked
apprehensive. “It is only a formality.” The Russian still didn’t speak. “You
can rest assured,
Your
Excellency, that you are not
the only one of your countrymen who from time to time sits in that chair.”

Herr Bischoff slid a sheet of paper across
the table. There were over twenty clauses of German, all in small print.
Romanov scrawled his signature between the two X’s with the proffered gold pen.
He made no attempt to discover what he was signing. If they hadn’t stolen his
grandfather’s heritage already, why should they be bothering to try now, he
considered.

“Perhaps you will be kind enough to
accompany me,” said Herr Bischoff, quickly passing the sheet of paper to his
son who left immediately. He rose and led Romanov silently back to the
corridor. But on this occasion they travelled down in the chairman’s private
lift all the way to the basement.

When the doors opened Romanov might have
thought they had entered a jail had the bars not been made of highly polished
steel. A man who was seated behind a desk on the far side of the bars jumped up
the moment he saw the chairman and turned the lock on the steel door with a
long-shafted key. Romanov followed Herr Bischoff through the open door then
waited until they were both locked inside. The guard preceded them down a
corridor, not unlike that of a wine cellar with temperature and humidity gauges
every few yards. The light was barely bright enough to ensure that they did not
lose their footing. At the end of the corridor, they found Herr BischofFs son
waiting in front of a vast circular steel door. The old man nodded and the
younger Herr Bischoff placed a key in a lock and turned it. Then the chairman
stepped forward and undid a second lock. Father and son pushed open the nine
inch thick door but neither made any attempt to enter the vault.

“You are in possession of five boxes.
Numbers 1721, 1722, 1723, 1724.

“And 1725, no doubt,” interrupted Romanov.

“Precisely,” said Herr Bischoff, as he
removed a small package from his pocket and added, “This is your envelope and
the key inside it will open all five boxes.” Romanov took the envelope and
turned towards the open cavern. “But we must open the bank’s lock first before
you proceed,” said Herr Bis-choff. “Will you be kind enough to follow us?”
Romanov nodded and both Herr Bischoffs proceeded into the vault. Romanov ducked
his head and stepped in after them. Young Mr Bischoff opened the upper lock of
the five boxes, three small ones above two large ones, making a perfect cube. “Once
we have left, Your Excellency,” said the old man, “we shall pull the door
closed, and when you require it to be opened you have only to press the red
button on the side wall to alert us. But I must warn you that at six o’clock
the vault locks itself automatically and it cannot be reopened until nine the
following morning. However, a warning alarm will sound at five forty-five.”
Romanov checked the clock on the wall: three seventeen. He couldn’t believe he
would need over two hours to find out what was in the five boxes. The two Herr
Bischoffs bowed and left.

Romanov waited impatiently for the vast door
to close behind him. Once alone in the Aladdin’s cave he looked around the room
and estimated there must have been two or three thousand boxes filling the four
walls, giving them the appearance of a library of safes, He suspected there was
more private wealth in that one vault than most countries on earth could call
on. He checked the numbers of his own boxes and stood waiting like an orphan
who has been told there will be second helpings.