A Matter of Honour (14 page)

He decided to start with one of the small
boxes. He turned the key and heard the lock click before pulling out the stiff
drawer to discover it was full of papers. He flicked through them to find they
were title deeds to many large tracts of land in Bohemia and Bulgaria – once
worth millions, now controlled by the Socialist State. As he checked each
document, the old saying ‘not worth the paper they were written on’ sprang to
mind. Romanov moved to the second box which he discovered contained the bond
certificates of companies once managed by His Excellency Count Nicholai
Alexandrovich Romanov. The last time they had declared a profit was in 1914. He
cursed the system he had been born under as he moved on to the third box which
contained only one document, his grandfather’s will. It took only moments to
discover that it had all been left to his father and therefore he was the
lawful owner of everything – and nothing.

Dismayed, Romanov knelt down to study the
two larger boxes, both of which looked big enough to hold a cello. He hesitated
before placing his key in the lock of the first, turning it and pulling out the
vast container.

He stared down in anticipation.

It was empty. He could only presume that it
had been that way for over fifty years unless his father had removed everything
and there was no reason to believe that. He quickly unlocked the fifth box and
in desperation pulled it open.

The box was split into twelve equal
compartments. He raised the lid of the first compartment and stared down in
disbelief. Before him lay precious stones of such size, variety and colour that
would have made anyone who was not royal gasp. Gingerly he lifted the lid off
the second compartment, to find it contained pearls of such quality that one
single string of them would have transformed a plain girl into a society
beauty. As he opened the third box his amazement did not lessen and he
understood for the first time why his grandfather had been considered one of
the most enterprising merchants of the century. And now it all belonged to Alex
Romanov, an impecunious Government official who was already wondering how he
could possibly enjoy such riches.

It took Romanov a further hour to go through
the contents of the remaining nine compartments. When he reached the last one –
almost an anti-climax, in that it contained nothing but gold coins – he felt
thoroughly exhausted. He checked the clock on the wall: five thirty. He began
to replace the lids on each of the compartments, but during the treasure hunt
he had come across one object of such magnificence that he could not resist
removing it. He paused as he held up the long heavy gold chain weighted by a
medallion, also made of solid
gold, that
hung from it.
On one side was an engraved picture of his grandfather – Count Nicholai
Alexandrovich Romanov, a proud, handsome man – while on the other was a profile
of his grandmother, so beautiful that she surely could have worn any of the
jewellery in that treasure trove with distinction.

For some time, Romanov held the chain in his
hand before finally placing it over his head and letting the medallion fall
from his neck. He gave the piece one last look before tucking it under his
shirt. When he had replaced the lid on the last compartment he slid the box
back into place and locked it.

For the second time that day Romanov’s
thoughts returned to his father and the decision he must have made when faced
with such a fortune. He had gone back to Russia with his secret. Had he planned
to rescue Alex from the life of drudgery that was all he could look forward to?
His father had always assured him that he had an exciting future but there were
secrets he was too young to share and he, in turn, had passed that information
on to the authorities.
His reward a place at the Komsomol.
But his father must have taken that secret to the grave because Alex would
never have learned of the fortune if it had not been for Poskonov.

His mind turned to the old banker. Had he
known all along or was it just a coincidence that he had been sent by Poskonov
to this bank first? Members of his chosen profession didn’t survive if they
believed in coincidence.

A false move and the State would not
hesitate to send him to the same grave as his father and grandfather. He would
have to be at his most skilful when he next came into contact with the old
banker,
otherwise he might not live to choose between power
in his homeland or wealth in the West.

“After I have found the Tsar’s icon I will
make my decision,” he said, quite audibly. He turned suddenly as the alarm bell’s
piercing sound rang out. He checked the clock and was surprised by how much
time he had spent in the locked room. He walked towards the vault door and on
reaching it pressed the red button without looking back. The great door swung
open to reveal two anxious-looking Herr Bischoffs. The son stepped quickly into
the vault, walked over to the five boxes and made safe the bank’s locks.

“We were beginning to get quite worried
about the time,” said the old man. “I do hope you found everything to your
satisfaction.”

“Entirely,” said Romanov. “But what happens
if I am unable to return for some considerable time?”

“It’s of no importance,” Herr Bischoff
replied. “The boxes will not be touched again until you come back, and as they
are all hermetically sealed your possessions will remain in perfect condition.”

“What temperature are the boxes kept at?”

“Ten degrees Celsius,” said Herr Bischoff,
somewhat puzzled by the question.

“Are they airtight?”

“Certainly,” replied the banker. “And
watertight, not that the basement has ever been flooded,” he added quite
seriously.

“So anything left in them is totally safe
from any investigation?”

“You are only the third person to look
inside those boxes in fifty years,” came back the firm response.

“Excellent,” said Romanov, looking down at
Herr Bischoff.
“Because there is just a possibility that I
shall want to return tomorrow morning, with a package of my own to deposit.”

“Can you put me through to Mr Pemberton,
please?” said Adam.

There was a long pause. “We don’t have a Mr
Pemberton working here, sir.”

“That is Barclays International in the City,
isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mr Lawrence Pemberton.
I feel certain I’ve got the right branch.”

The silence was even longer this time. “Ah,
yes,” came back the eventual reply. “Now I see which department he works in. I’ll
find out if he’s in.” Adam heard the phone ringing in the background.

“He doesn’t seem to be at his desk at the
moment, sir, would you like to leave a message?”

“No thank you,” said Adam, and replaced the
receiver. He sat alone thinking, not bothering to switch on the light as it
grew darker. If he was to carry through the idea he still needed some
information which Lawrence as a banker should find easy to supply.

A key turned in the door and Adam watched
Lawrence enter and switch the light on. He looked startled when he saw Adam
seated in front of him.

“How does one open a Swiss bank account?”
were Adam’s first words.

“I can’t imagine one would find it that easy
if all you have to offer is next week’s unemployment cheque,” said Lawrence. “Mind
you, they usually keep a code name for English customers,” he added, as he put
his copy of the
Evening News
on the
table. “Yours could be ‘pauper’.”

“It may surprise you to learn that it was a
serious question,” said Adam.

“Well,” said Lawrence, taking the question
seriously, “in truth, anyone can open a Swiss bank account as long as they have
a worthwhile sum to deposit. And by worthwhile I mean at least ten thousand
pounds.”

“Yes, but how would you go
about getting the money out?”

“That can be done over the phone or in
person, and in that way Swiss banks don’t differ greatly from any bank in
England. Few customers, however, would risk the phone, unless they’re resident
in a country where there are no tax laws to break. In which case why would they
need the gnomes of Zurich in the first place?”

“What happens when a customer dies and the
bank can’t be sure who the rightful owner of the assets is?”

“They would do nothing but a claimant would
have to prove that they were the person entitled to inherit any deposits the
bank held. That’s not a problem if you’re in possession of the correct
documentation such as a will and proof of identity. We deal with such matters
every day.”

“But you just admitted that it’s illegal!”

“Not for those clients resident
overseas,
or when it becomes necessary to balance our gold
deposits, not to mention the bank’s books. But the Bank of England keeps a
strict watch over every penny that goes in and out of the country.”

“So, if I
were
entitled to a million pounds’ worth of gold left to me by an Argentinian uncle
deposited in a Swiss bank, and I was in possession of the right legal documents
to prove I was the beneficiary, all I would have to do is go and claim it?”

“Nothing to stop you,” said Lawrence. “Although
under the law as it currently stands, you would have to bring it back to this
country, and sell the gold to the Bank of England for the sum they deemed
correct, and then pay death duty on that sum.” Adam remained silent. “If you do
have an Argentinian uncle who has left you all that gold in Switzerland, your
best bet would be to leave it where it is. Under this Government, if you
fulfilled the letter of the law, you would end up with about seven and a half
per cent of its true value.”

“Pity I haven’t got an Argentinian uncle,”
said Adam.

“He doesn’t have to be Argentinian,” said
Lawrence, watching his friend’s every reaction closely.

“Thanks for the information,” said Adam and
disappeared into the bedroom.

The last pieces of the jigsaw were beginning
to fit into place. He was in possession of Roget’s receipt of the icon
originally meant for his father; all he needed now was a copy of the will to
show that the document had been left to him. He could then prove that he was
the owner of a worthless or priceless – he still had no way of being sure which
– copy of the Tsar’s icon. He lay awake that night recalling the words in his
father’s letter. “If there is anything to be gained from the contents of this
envelope I make only one request of you, namely that your mother should be the
first to benefit from it without ever being told how such good fortune came
about.”

When Romanov returned to the hotel, via the
Russian Consulate, he found Petrova in her room dressed in jeans and a bright
pink jersey, sitting in a corner reading, her legs dangling over the side of
the chair.

“I hope you had a fruitful afternoon?” he
enquired, politely.

“I certainly did,” Anna replied. “The
galleries in Zurich are well worthy of a visit. But tell me about
your
afternoon. Did it also turn out to
be fruitful?”

“It was a revelation, my little one, nothing
less. Why don’t we have a quiet supper in my room so I can tell you all about
it while we celebrate in style?”

“What a magnificent idea,” said the
researcher. “And may I be responsible for ordering dinner?”

“Certainly,” said Romanov.

Petrova dropped her book on the floor and
began to concentrate on the extensive
a
la carte
menu that had been left by Romanov’s bedside table. She spent a
considerable time selecting each dish for their banquet and even Romanov was
impressed when it finally appeared.

Anna had chosen as an entree gravad lax
edged with dill sauce. Accompanying it was a half-bottle of Premier Cru Chablis
1958. Between mouthfuls Romanov told her of the contents of his family
inheritance and as he described each new treasure the researcher’s eyes grew
larger and larger.

Romanov’s monologue was only once
interrupted, by a waiter who wheeled in a trolley on which sat a silver salver.
The waiter lifted the salver to reveal a rack of lamb surrounded by courgettes
and tiny new potatoes. To accompany this particular dish, the hotel had
provided a Gevrey Chambertin.

The final course, a fluffy raspberry
souffle, required in the researcher’s view only the finest Chateau Yquem. She
had selected the ‘forty-nine, which only made her lapse into singing Russian
folk songs which Romanov felt, given the circumstances, was somewhat
inappropriate.

As she drained the last drop of wine in her
glass Petrova rose and, slightly unsteady, said, “To Alex, the man I love.”

Romanov nodded his acknowledgment and
suggested it might be time for them to go to bed, as they had to catch the
first flight back to Moscow the following morning. He wheeled the trolley out
into the corridor and placed a ‘Do not disturb’ sign over the door knob.

“A memorable evening,” smiled the
researcher, as she flicked off her shoes. Romanov stopped to admire her as she
began to remove her clothes, but when he unbuttoned his shirt, the researcher
shopped undressing and let out a gasp of surprise.