The Amber Room (4 page)

“And these people will come?”

“Given the proper mixture of exclusivity and good cause,” Alexander replied, “not only will they come, but they will pay for the privilege. I expect to sell these tickets for two hundred pounds.”

Rokovski gaped. “Per person?”

“You're quite right,” Alexander smiled. “Two hundred fifty would be much more appropriate for such a worthy cause.”

“You see, Dr. Rokovski,” Jeffrey explained, “not only do you raise money for your cause through selling tickets, but you also attract the attention of celebrities and the media.”

“Call me Pavel, please.”

“Thank you. This leads to further private donations and sometimes even bequests.”

“I see,” Rokovski nodded. “So this must be a very special party for all such special people.”

“I intend to hold it at the Ritz,” Alexander replied. “I have booked the grand ballroom, and I expect no fewer than six hundred would-be patrons of Polish art.”

“Incredible,” Rokovski breathed. “And what are you going to showcase?”

It was Alexander's turn to show confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Is that not the correct word? Most conferences I have attended have some type of centerpiece to excite the participants' imagination. An example you can show the people of what you are trying to do. Some photograph or brochures, perhaps even the real thing.”

“The real thing?” Alexander leaned forward. “Bring an example of Polish artwork over for the event? That would be extraordinary.”

“I have an idea,” Rokovski said. “There is a collection of exceptional religious artifacts within the Marian Church. We should find you something small yet beautiful, an article that
would represent the wonder of Polish religion and heritage. Something easily transportable—perhaps a medieval chalice. I know the curate, Mr. Karlovich, quite well.”

“This is a splendid proposition,” Alexander said. “This would help our project immensely.”

“Of course, I will arrange all the necessary export documents,” Rokovski said, writing in a small pocket notebook. “I suggest we extend to you three pieces. First, the article from the Marian Church—but I do not have direct control over the church, you understand. Approval must be given by the curate.”

“I understand, and am indeed grateful.”

“As for pieces within the national collections, well, of course, those are within my jurisdiction.” He thought for a moment, nodded to himself. “Might I suggest a small oil painting of the Madonna and Child? And there is a splendid miniature altar in the Czartoryski Collection. An exceptional piece, I promise you.”

“The three together would comprise an extraordinary exhibit,” Alexander enthused. “Such treasures would go far to convince the guests to become true patrons of our cause.”

Rokovski glanced at his watch, rose to his feet. “Then I will call you from Cracow the day after tomorrow. We can ship the altar and the painting, there is no difficulty at that point. I must warn you, however, that Curate Karlovich would insist on a personal envoy to transport whatever article he loans you to London and back.”

“I had planned to travel to Poland on other business next week,” Alexander replied. “I will see to this matter and give Mr. Karlovich my personal assurances.”

CHAPTER 4

London's East End was a completely different world, run by a different sort of people and held in place by different laws. Jeffrey loved the feeling of passing through alien gates and was thrilled to find Katya enjoying it as well.

He motioned toward a bakery whose front window displayed nothing but opaque frost and several dozen icicles. “Sorry about the cold.”

“It's too early to worry about little things like that.” She snuggled happily against him on the taxi seat. “Some people haven't even gone to bed yet.”

“Some people do this every day.”

“Not me.” She prodded his shoulder into a more comfortable shape. “I should have brought my pillow.”

He reached into his satchel, poured coffee from the thermos, held it toward her. “Maybe this will help.”

She tasted the cup and gagged. “What is this?”

“Coffee. What did you think?”

“It goes down like tar.” She looked at him with eyes cleared from the slightest hint of sleepiness. “I'm glad you're better at antiquing than you are at making coffee.”

“You woke up in a hurry.”

“This is too exciting to worry about things like sleep,” she replied. “My first antiques market. How much can I spend?”

He showed genuine alarm. “Nothing.”

She smiled. “Got you.”

He sank back in the taxi seat. “Be still my heart.”

“What are we going for, if not to buy?”

“Sometimes we find bargains or smaller pieces for the shop,” Jeffrey explained. “But less often in the London markets than in those out in the country. Usually, I just like to come and look and learn. Today, though, I've got to see Andrew about a piece I want to take from his shop. He's been
away for a week, and his assistant said he'd be back in time for today's market.”

They crossed over Tower Bridge, with its soaring ramparts and trademark red brick keeps. Their taxi passed block after block of small businesses and corner cafes and derelict warehouses before letting them off in front of a tumbledown building marked by piles of refuse and crowds of people. Jeffrey paid the driver and steered Katya around the gossips and sharp-eyed thieves and runners and sniffers. Runners owned items but could not afford their own shop, he explained as they walked, while sniffers looked for price discrepancies and borrowed. Jeffrey stopped her by a burly young man squatting beside several flung-open boxes of goods.

“Go in a High Street shop with ten quid,” the street hawker called to the jostling, friendly throng. “They'll throw you out on your ear. 'Ave a look at this then. Atomizer spray, 'ave a gander at the brochure, sixteen quid for the large size. And the perfume, twenty-two fifty for the blokes with more wallet than sense. Goes on the top like that. Bath soap and men's cologne, all top o' the line, right? And what am I gonna do for you, then?” Smack went the broad-bladed hand on the top of one box. “Not seventy quid as they'd take you for on the High Street.” Smack! “Not sixty.” Smack! “Not even fifty nor forty nor even thirty.” Smack! “Ten pounds is all I'm askin'.”

He hefted the half-dozen gaudy boxes between two grimy hands.

“Ten quid for the lot. Who's got a lady or two waitin'? Not to mention a posh cologne for yourselves, gents. Ten quid, price of your cab ride home after she thanks you proper. And you ladies, how's about a gift for yourselves, then? All right, who's willing to part with a tenner?”

Satisfied with the show, the crowd moved forward with money outstretched as the hawker hastily stuffed his wares into shopping bags. Jeffrey took Katya's arm and led her inside.

Bermondsey Market was a rabbit warren of plywood
booths and rickety stalls with whitewashed pegboard walls, crammed in what once had been a warehouse for the river traffic. The gathering began each Friday morning at four o'clock and ran until noon. Rents were outrageous, considering the surroundings.

The first buyers to arrive were always the professionals, in and out with time left over for a hot cuppa before winding up their shop shutters. By nine o'clock the pointed banter of the dealers had been replaced by a babel of languages. Well-heeled aficionados from a dozen countries paraded in furs and jewelry, looking for a buy on the cheap. Their dollars and francs and liras and yen and marks kept the stallholders well fed.

Across the street was the outdoor spillover market, crowded with shopkeepers who were on the waiting list for a stall in the building. On cold days like this they cursed and suffered and lowered prices to draw customers out into the winter weather.

The market's interior was warmer only by degree. Jeffrey could still see his breath as they strolled around the stalls closest to the wide-open entrance. Stallholders either wore layers of sweaters under voluminous greatcoats or stood around in sweatshirts and jeans and pretended not to feel the cold. Many wore old woolen mittens with the fingers cut out for having a feel of the goods.

Jeffrey strolled and nodded at familiar faces and inspected wares and listened to the swirl of talk. Hearing a familiar voice, he turned to find Andrew leaning across a glass-topped jewelry case, talking to a young stallholder with a street-hardened face. Andrew wore a camel-hair overcoat and cashmere scarf against the chill, but the stylish clothes did not erase the marks of tougher times from his face and bearing. He had been the first to admit Jeffrey into the inner circle of London's antique dealers, a gift of confidence that Jeffrey had never forgotten.

“You don't mind if things come to market by different routes, then,” the stallholder asked Andrew.

“No, of course not,” Andrew replied, his casual tone belied by the gleam in his eyes. “Long as it hasn't grown wings and flown out somebody's window with half the local force tailing it, I'm quite pleased with a good piece, however it arrives.”

“This is the fellow I came to see,” Jeffrey said to Katya, pointing toward Andrew. “Why don't you have a look around, then come find us out by the tea wagon when you're done.”

“All right.” She gave him an excited smile and wandered off.

Jeffrey inched closer to the pair.

“How's it going in Albania, then?” the young man demanded of Andrew, motioning with his head toward the unseen stalls across the street.

“Cold,” Andrew replied. “Let's have a look at the emerald. Is that Indian?”

“Victorian, more like. Done up to suit somebody arriving home after playing tourist out with the natives.” He slipped the gold floral design with an emerald heart into Andrew's hand. “Anybody buying anything?”

“What, outside?” Andrew slipped a jeweler's loop out of his pocket and screwed it in. “Too cold to tell. I put this eyepiece in to have a look at a bit of merchandise and it froze to my skin.”

“Scares people off, the cold. I was out there for eight years, next to that old duffer propped up in the corner behind you. Used to give me nightmares, hearing the weather report for a day like this.”

“Shows how soft you are.”

“Easy for you to say, isn't it? What with the posh West End shop and six little helpers all in a row. Open at ten, close at four, with a two-hour lunch in between. Stretch out in back for a quiet kip after tea.”

Jeffrey sidled up. “Sounds like a good life to me.”

Andrew turned and showed genuine pleasure. “Hello, lad. Out for a gander, are you?” He handed back the piece to the stallholder, adding, “Let me know about that other little item, will you?”

“Right you are.”

“Come on over here, lad,” Andrew said, drawing Jeffrey out of the stream of buyers. “Now, what can I do for you?”

“I passed by your shop the other day. Your salesclerk said you were up north at an auction,” Jeffrey said. “I might have a buyer for that piece in your window.”

“Oh, I couldn't bear to part with that one,” Andrew replied automatically. “Was actually thinking of taking it home.”

The piece in question was the seventeenth-century oak sideboard Jeffrey had described to Betty. “Do you think it was made in America?”

Andrew's gaze turned shrewd. “You had more than just a gander at it, didn't you?”

“I thought it might be, from its size,” Jeffrey replied. “My buyer is from the States, I think she'd go for it in a big way.”

“Really?” Andrew brushed at his sleeve in a calculated display of disinterest. “Pity they couldn't clean this place once a year or so, wouldn't you say?”

“She'd probably be willing to offer upward of thirty thousand for it.”

“Dollars or pounds?”

“Pounds.”

Andrew shook his head. “I'm so taken with it myself, lad. Tragic, it is. Really don't think I could part with the item.”

Jeffrey refused to be driven higher. “But you have to eat.”

Andrew sighed his agreement. “I suppose you'll want it carted around to your place, then.”

“You don't think I'd send her around to you, do you?”

“No harm in hoping, is there?” The business done, Andrew permitted himself a grin. “Come on, then. I'll let you buy me a cup of tea. Strongest thing we can get around here, this time of day.”

They walked out the back entrance and over to a trailer-stall that sold steaming cups of tea. Andrew accepted a cup and stepped into the relative warmth of an unused loading dock. “You remember our friend Sydney Greenfield?”

“Purveyor to the would-bes and has-beens, sure.” Jeffrey permitted himself a smile. “Sydney's all right.”

“In a manner of speaking,” Andrew replied. “Saw him the other day. Passing strange it was. Sydney was fitted out in a whole new wardrobe, Saville Row by the looks of it. I asked him what was the occasion, know what he said?”

“I couldn't imagine.”

“No, nor I. Stood right there and told me he'd come into a bit of the folding stuff.”

“More than a bit, by the sounds of things.”

“All right for some, I told him. Was it legal?”

“What a question.”

“Swore up and down it was legit. New clients, he said.” Andrew sipped, sighed a sweetened steam, sipped again. “Mate of mine, next shop down but one, said he saw Sydney down Portobello way last week.”

Portobello Road was another of the famous weekly London markets. In recent years it had become much more of a tourist event, and therefore much pricier, than the other two. Portobello was on Saturday, Covent Garden on Monday, and Bermondsey on Friday. All others were pretenders to the first ranking.

“Shocked him no end, it did,” Andrew continued. “Sydney's been going through some hard times, you know, owed money to half the dealers down there. So happened he was paying them off.”