A Matter of Honour (7 page)

“How can you be so certain?” demanded
Romanov, fearful that his last avenue might be closing.

“Because the Swiss banks
always return valuables when they can be certain of a nation’s or individual’s
right of possession.
In
the case of the Grand Duke of Hesse and the Tsar’s icon there was no proof of
ownership, as the last official owner was Tsar Nicholas II and he, as every
good Russian knows, Comrade, had no successors.”

“Then I must do exactly what Goering did and
retrace his steps by going direct to the banks. What has been their policy to
date?” asked Romanov.

“That differs from establishment to
establishment,” said Petrova. “Some banks wait for twenty years or more and
then try either by extensive research or advertising to contact the owner or
their next of kin. In the case of the Jews who lost their lives under the Nazi
regime, it has often proved impossible to trace a legitimate owner. Although I
have been unable to prove it, I suspect they kept the rewards and split the
proceeds among themselves,” said Petrova.
“Typical
capitalists.”

“That is neither fair nor accurate, Comrade,”
said Romanov, glad to show that he had also been doing some research.
“Because that is another of the great myths perpetrated by the
poor.
In fact, when the banks have been unable to discover the rightful
owner of any treasure left with them they have handed it over to the Swiss Red
Cross to auction.”

“But if the Tsar’s icon had ever been
auctioned we would have heard about it by now through one of our agents?”

“Precisely,” said Romanov. “And I’ve already
checked through the
,inventory
of the Red Cross: four
icons have been disposed of during the last twenty years and none of them was
St George and the Dragon.”

“Then that can only mean some unscrupulous
bankers have disposed of the icon privately once they felt sure no one was
going to make a claim.”

“Another false premise, I suspect, Comrade
Petrova.”

“How can you be so certain?” the young
researcher asked.

“For one simple reason,
Comrade.
The Swiss
banking families all know each other intimately and have never in the past
shown any propensity for breaking the law. Swiss justice, in our experience, is
as tough on corrupt bankers as it is on murderers, which is precisely why the
Mafia was never happy about laundering its money through the established banks.
The truth is that Swiss bankers make so much money dealing with honest people
that it has never been in their best interests to become involved with crooks.
There are remarkably few exceptions to this rule, which is the reason so many
people are willing to do business with the Swiss.”

“So, if Goering stole the Tsar’s icon and
deposited it in a Swiss bank vault, it could be anywhere in the world by now?”
said Petrova.

“I doubt it.”

“Why?” sighed Petrova, a little peeved that
her deductions were now proving wide of the mark.

“Because for the past three weeks I have had
heaven knows how many operatives combing Europe for the Tsar’s icon. They have
spoken to nearly every major curator, keeper, dealer and crook in the art world
and yet they still haven’t come up with a single lead.
And
why not?
Because the only people who have seen the icon since 1917 were
the Hesses and Goering, which leaves me with only one hope if it was not
destroyed when the Grand Duke’s plane crashed,” said Romanov.

“Namely?” asked Petrova.

“That while the rest of the world is under
the illusion that the original still hangs in the Winter Palace, it has, for
the past twenty years, been lodged in a Swiss bank waiting for someone to claim
it.”

“A long shot,” said the researcher.

“I am quite aware of that,” said Romanov
sharply, “but don’t forget that many Swiss banks have a twenty-five-year rule
before disclosure, some even thirty. One or two even have no deadline at all as
long as enough money has been deposited to cover the housing of the treasure.”

“Heaven knows how many banks there might be
who fall into that category,”
sighed
Petrova.

“Heaven knows,” agreed Romanov, “and so
might you by nine o’clock tomorrow morning. And then it will be necessary for
me to pay a visit to the one man in this country who knows everything about
banking.”

“Am I expected to start straight away,
Comrade Major?” the researcher asked coyly.

Romanov smiled and looked down into the girl’s
green eyes. Dressed in the dull grey uniform of her trade, no one would have
given her a second look. But in the nude she was quite magnificent. He leaned
over until their lips nearly met.

“You’ll have to rise very early, Anna, but
for now just turn out the light.”

It took Adam only a few more minutes before
he had checked over both documents again. He put the original back in the faded
envelope and replaced it in the Bible on his bookshelf. Finally he folded his
duplicated copy of Goering’s letter into three horizontal pieces and cut it
carefully along the folds into strips which he placed in a clean envelope and
left on his bedside table. Adam’s next problem was how to obtain a translation
of the document and Goering’s letter without arousing unnecessary curiosity.
Years of army training had taught him to be cautious when faced with an unknown
situation. He quickly dismissed the German Embassy, the German Tourist Board and
the German Press Agency as all three were too official, and therefore likely to
ask unwanted questions. Once he was dressed he went to the hall and began to
flick through the pages in the London E-K Directory until his finger reached
the column he had been searching for.

German
Broadcasting

German
Cultural Institute

German
Federal Railway

German
Hospital

German
Old People’s Home

His eye passed over ‘German Technical
Translations’ and stopped at a more promising entry. The address was given as
Bayswater House, 35 Craven Terrace,
W2
. He checked his
watch.

Adam left the flat a few minutes before ten,
the three pieces of the letter now safely lodged in the inside pocket of his
blazer. He strolled down Edith Grove and into the King’s Road, enjoying the
morning sun. The street had been transformed from the one he had known as a
young subaltern. Boutiques had taken the place of antiquarian bookshops. Record
shops had replaced the local cobbler, and Dolcis had given way to Mary Quant.
Take a fortnight’s holiday, and you couldn’t be sure anything would still be
there when you returned, he reflected ruefully.

Crowds of people spilled out from the
pavement on to the road, staring or hoping to be stared at, according to their
age. As Adam passed the first of the record shops he had no choice but to
listen to ‘I Want to Hold Your Hand’ as it blared into the ears of everyone
within shouting distance.

By the time Adam reached Sloane Square the
world had almost returned to normal – Peter Jones, W. H. Smith’s and the London
Underground. The words his mother sang so often over the kitchen sink came back
to him every time he walked into the square.

And you’re giving a treat (penny ice and
cold meat)

To a party of friends and relations,

They’re a ravenous horde, and they all came
aboard

At Sloane Square and South
Kensington stations.

He paid a shilling for a ticket to
Paddington and, installed in a half-empty carriage, once again went over his
plan. When he emerged into the open air at Paddington he checked the street
name and, once he was sure of his bearings, walked out on to Craven Road until
he came to the first available newsagent and then asked the directions for
Craven Terrace.

“Fourth road on the left, mate,” said the
shopkeeper, not bothering to look up from a pile of
Radio Times
on which he was pencilling names. Adam thanked him and
a few minutes later found
himself
standing at the end
of a short drive, looking up at the bold green and yellow sign: The German
Young Men’s Christian Association.

He opened the gate, walked up the drive and
strode confidently through the front door. He was stopped by a porter standing
in the hallway.

“Can I help you, guv’nor?”

Adam put on an exaggerated military accent
and explained that he was looking for a young man called Hans Kramer.

“Never ‘eard of ‘im, sir,” said the porter,
almost standing to attention when he recognised the regimental tie. He turned
to a book that lay open on the desk. “‘E isn’t registered,” he added, a
Woodbine-stained thumb running down the list of names in front of him. “Why don’t
you try the lounge or the games room?” he suggested, gesturing with the thumb
to a door on the right.

“Thank you,” said Adam, not dropping the
plummy tones. He walked smartly across the hall and through the swing doors – which,
judging from the lack of paint on the
base,
looked as
if they had been kicked open more often than they had been pushed. He glanced
around the room. Several students were lounging about reading German papers and
magazines. He wasn’t sure where to start, until he spotted a studious-looking
girl
on her own in a corner,
poring over a copy of
Time
magazine. Brezhnev’s face stared
out from the cover. Adam strolled over and took the empty seat beside her. She
glanced sideways at him and couldn’t hide her surprise at his formal dress. He
waited for her to put the paper down before asking, “I wonder if you could
assist me?”

“How?” enquired the girl, sounding a little
apprehensive.

“I just need something translated.”

She looked relieved. “I will see if I can
help. Have you brought something with you?”

“Yes I have, I hope it isn’t too difficult,”
Adam said. He took the envelope from his inside pocket and extracted the first
paragraph of Goering’s letter.

Then he put the envelope back in his pocket,
took out a little notebook and waited expectantly. He felt like a cub reporter.

She read the paragraph over two or three
times,
then
seemed to hesitate.

“Is anything wrong?”

“Not exactly,” she replied, still
concentrating on the words in front of her. “It’s just that it’s a little bit
old-fashioned so that I might not be able to give you the exact sense.”

Adam breathed a sigh of relief.

She repeated each sentence slowly, first in
German and then in English as if wanting to feel the meaning as well as just
translating the words.

“Over the last... past year we have come to
know... each other
somewhat.
. . no, no,” she said, “quite
well.” Adam wrote each word down as the girl translated them.

“You have never disguised – perhaps a better
meaning is ‘hidden’ -” she added, “your distaste for the National Socialist
Party.”

She raised her head and stared at Adam. “It’s
only out of a book,” he assured her. She didn’t look convinced but nevertheless
continued. “But you have at every time... no, at all times, behaved with the
courtesy of an officer and a gentleman.”

The girl looked up, even more puzzled, as
she had now reached the last word.

“Is that all?” she asked. “It doesn’t make
sense. There has to be more.”

“No, that’s it,” said Adam, quickly taking
back the sheet of paper. “Thank you,” he added. “It was most kind of you to
help.”

He left the girl and was relieved to see her
shrug resignedly and return to her copy of
Time.
Adam went in search of the games room.

When he swung the door open he found a young
man in a World Cup T-shirt and brown suede shorts. He was tapping a table
tennis ball up and down listlessly.

“Care for a game?” said the boy, not looking
at all hopeful.

“Sure,” said Adam, removing his jacket and
picking up the table tennis bat at his end of the table. For twenty minutes
Adam had to play flat out to make sure he lost 18-21, 21-12, 17-21. As he
replaced his jacket and congratulated his opponent he felt sure he had gained
the young man’s confidence.

“You put up good fight,” said the German. “Give
me good game.”

Adam joined him at his end of the table. “I
wonder if you could help me with something?” he said.

“Your backhand?” said the young man.

“No, thank you,” said Adam, “I just need a
paragraph of German translated.” He handed over the middle paragraph of the
letter. Once again, the would-be translator looked puzzled.

“It’s from a book, so it may seem a little
out of context,” Adam said, unconvincingly.

“Okay, I try.” As the boy began to study the
paragraph, the girl who had already translated the first section came into the
games room. She made her way towards them.

“This hard to make out, I am not good
translation for,” the young man said. “My girlfriend better, I think. I ask
her.
Liebling, kannst Du dies fur den Herrn
ins Englische?”
Without looking at Adam he passed the second paragraph over
to the girl who immediately said, “I knew there was more.”