The Isis Covenant (35 page)

When he returned to the balcony he handed Jamie a sepia-tinted picture.

‘My Hannah.’

At first the name didn’t register, then the face swam into focus. A young girl with an almost spiritual beauty, serious, in the photograph, but with a hint of amusement in her eyes that made you wonder how lovely she must have looked when she smiled. Suddenly he was in the back of Lotte Muller’s car on the way to the bunker and the German policewoman’s voice echoed in his ears.
Another of the victims is his niece, Hannah Schulmann, a laboratory technician who worked closely with him. She was nineteen years old
. In that picture she had been smiling.

‘She was working with her uncle, Abraham, on their nuclear programme. I wanted her to come away, to be with me in Belgium, but she wouldn’t leave him. He could never survive without her, she said. When she stopped answering my letters I went to Germany to look for her. You can imagine how that was. Brown-shirts and SS men on every corner, strutting and crowing. Jewish businesses closed, their windows smashed and their owners branded with yellow stars. Fear, everywhere. Of course, I couldn’t find her. They would have taken them all away to some guarded laboratory, then … Well, we know what happened then. It was what I learned in Germany that made me resolve to fight them when they came. It was because of what happened to Hannah that I survived the war. I never forgot her. I married and had children, but I always wondered what happened to my Hannah. And then you found her for me. I will never forget that, Jamie, and as long as I live I will always be in your debt.’

Jamie felt Danny Fisher’s hand on his. He remembered again the eyeless skull with teeth that sixty years later were still like flawless pearls. Gently, she slipped the photograph from his fingers and studied it. Eventually, he found his voice.

‘There’s no question of debt, monsieur. When we found Hannah and her friends murdered in the bunker, it was a scene I will remember for the rest of my life. It changed me. It is one thing to read of these things,
another
to see them. To know that some good has come of it helps take away some of the awfulness.’

Leon Rosenthal nodded gravely. ‘Yet, perhaps there is some way that I can repay you, at least in part, for finding Hannah. You came to Antwerp for a reason, I understand, not unconnected with those times? Samuel mentioned a Soviet official. I am afraid I know nothing of that. Yet, I have taken an interest since our Russian friends abandoned Communism for the KGB.’ He smiled at Jamie’s puzzlement. The Englishman opened his mouth to say something, but Danny Fisher kicked his foot under the table. ‘We have to call it the flowering of capitalism and it is true that many things have changed. Russians, as I am sure Samuel mentioned, are some of Antwerp’s biggest customers. After so many years of austerity they covet things that sparkle. And, of course, should the situation change, diamonds are an ideal, easily transportable currency in times of crisis.’ He stopped to take another sip of whisky, leaving the table to return a moment later with a newspaper, which he left folded in front of him. ‘From time to time,’ he continued absently, ‘certain favoured former clients still ask me for their advice. A few years ago, for instance, I spent some time in St Petersburg – a beautiful city; if you have not visited it, you surely must – as a guest of one such client. I was given what you would call the movie-star treatment.’ He smiled at the memory. ‘Of course, I cannot betray a business confidence by naming the gentleman in question, I have a
reputation
to protect even now.’ He closed his eyes and his voice faded, then recovered slightly. ‘I had the oddest dream a few nights ago, about a diamond, a diamond to take your breath away. Imagine it, a man like me, who has seen everything the diamond world has to offer, from the Koh-i-noor to the Cullinan, being so impressed. A white diamond, flawless, yet, in the way it was presented, flawed, because it had never been cut or polished by an expert. My hands itched to cut it, how they itched. I can feel them now, reaching out for it. But, in the dream, the owner would not have it cut. I could polish it, all seventy-five facets, to make the most of what it was, but the integrity must remain unchanged. Of course, I protested. To make the most of what it was, it must be cut. It was a slightly offset oval, but to reach the very heart of it, to bring out the pure diamond that was its soul, it must be cut pear. I cajoled, I even pleaded, but he would not be moved. If the dream was true, Leon Rosenthal would go to his grave regretting that moment.’ He opened his eyes with a tired smile. ‘Fortunately, it was only a dream.’

‘How much would a stone like that be worth?’ Danny asked, winning a look of scorn from their host.

‘It is not a question of worth, Miss Fisher, but of glory. Even in its cut state, it would have remained at least 275 carats, and would have outsized and outshone the greatest clear pear the world has yet seen by at least one hundred carats. When it was exhibited in London that diamond was insured for one hundred million
pounds
, which was a fraction of its
worth
. In monetary terms, my diamond would be
worth
ten times as much.’

‘Then the man who owned it would have been worth a great deal?’

Leon Rosenthal turned to Jamie with a shrug. ‘He treasured the stone purely for its sentimental value. A gift from his father, I understand. Perhaps a leftover from the time of the Tsars, which if it came to light, might be the subject of some dispute with the remaining remnants of the Romanovs. Who knows? Of course,’ he opened the newspaper in front of him and flicked through the pages, ‘there are many rich men in Russia today. Look at this one, for instance.’ He pointed to a picture of a man disembarking from an enormous yacht. ‘He gives rich men a bad name …’ Jamie craned forward to see the name. Leon removed the newspaper with a knowing smile. ‘… unlike the gentleman who invited me to St Petersburg.’

‘Did he just do what I think he just did?’ Danny demanded as they sat in the back of the taxi taking them to their hotel.

‘I think so. To mix a couple of metaphors, he led us up the garden path, then pulled the rug out from under us.’

‘After all that bullshit about
my Hannah
and how grateful he was, he had the name and he wouldn’t give it to us.’

Jamie smiled and shook his head. ‘That wasn’t
bullshit
. Leon Rosenthal meant every word he said, but Leon’s personal integrity wouldn’t allow him to give us the name. He’s lived all his life by a code of honour as strict as any Samurai. If you look at it from his point of view, everything he’d gained from finally discovering what happened to Hannah Schulmann would have been lost.’

‘I’d still like to go back there and hang the old bastard up by the heels till he spilled.’

‘I doubt that would work. He may be old, but he was one tough old bastard. I think he liked the idea of challenging us.’

‘Yeah. The old bastard.’

Suddenly they were laughing and he took her in his arms and kissed her, feeling the odd mix of hardness and softness that was like an aphrodisiac to his senses.

‘Anyway, how many billionaire Russian oligarchs can there be?’

‘More than you’d think.’

‘Probably,’ he mused, ‘but I’m betting that only one of them has a father who was an NKVD lieutenant serving in Berlin under Marshal Zhukov on the twenty-ninth of April nineteen forty-five.’

XXXIX

PAUL DORNBERGER STARED
out of the hospital window and pondered his next move. The Zurich raid might have been a disaster, but the face he had seen behind the machine gun at the Cessna’s window created a last opportunity to make up the lost ground.

He had underestimated Jamie Saintclair. Like a will-o’-the-wisp, the art dealer somehow flitted in and out of the action with irritating ease and damaging consequences. How had he tracked down Berndt Hartmann so quickly? Dornberger shook his head. That didn’t matter now. All that mattered was that with Hartmann gone and the diamond still missing, only Saintclair could provide him with his next step on the road to reuniting the Eye with the Crown.

News of the air crash had filtered through while he was still in Zurich. A burned-out Cessna float plane. No known survivors. At first he was certain he had lost everything. Only slowly did it emerge that the crashed
plane
contained a single body. Discreet enquiries revealed the victim as one Berndt Hartmann, retired security consultant. That meant Saintclair had somehow escaped. The question was, where would he turn up next? It had been five days and there was no sign of him either at the Bond Street office or the Kensington flat, both of which were being watched by Dornberger’s men.

He looked down at the old man on the bed. Max Dornberger’s skin was the colour and texture of old parchment and the flickering eyes sunk deep in circles of bruising. The shrunken figure breathed in short, gasping bursts like an engine about to cut out. Even the best doctors Oleg Samsonov’s money could buy had given up on him. Three days. Could he hang on until then? Dornberger’s eyes automatically moved to the safe. Was it possible? If a suitable candidate could be found and the ceremony properly reenacted, would it buy him time? No. It was a measure of his desperation that he should even think of it. His father had been emphatic. Without the Eye, the Crown was nothing but a golden trinket. The ritual would only be effective if it was carried out under the right conditions on the first day of the sickle moon. Only then would Max Dornberger be restored. Did he truly believe that? He had to believe it, because if he did not, his whole life had been for nothing. All that pain and death. He had suffered every agony and every humiliation for this. The old man groaned and Dornberger’s entire being seemed to
collapse
in on itself as he was consumed by a terrible emptiness. Once life fled the frail, decaying vessel on the bed, what was left for him? Three days. He must find Saintclair. Every instinct told him that the art dealer was close to the solution. And once he had Saintclair in his power that solution would be his.

Back in the office at the Samsonov complex all he could do was harness his frustration and go through the motions of carrying out his day-to-day work. The billionaire had left to meet a group of Japanese industrialists and Paul, who only had a smattering of the language, had been replaced for the day by an interpreter. He had done everything he could. If Saintclair used one of his credit cards or made a call on his mobile phone he would be alerted. If he appeared either at the house or at the office Paul Dornberger would know within minutes. He even had people checking out London’s countless hotels on the off chance that the art dealer had booked a room under his own name. All he could do now was wait. But waiting didn’t come easy.

He walked along the corridor to the security room. Gerard was sitting back in his chair, almost horizontal, his eyes half closed but never leaving the monitors in front of him. Kenny sat beside him and they chatted quietly, probably about the hitting power and other merits of automatic weapons, which seemed to be their sole topic of conversation. They looked completely
relaxed
, but Dornberger knew that was an illusion. A shadow warrior knew instinctively when to conserve his energy. It came just as naturally as the instinct that would turn these men into whirlwinds of death at the first sign of a threat to their client. The Australian looked up and grinned. ‘Hey, Paul. The old man given you a half day?’

Paul smiled back, donning the mask that had protected him all his life. ‘Even my world has to take a rest some time. Everything set for the German trip?’

It was only conversation, but Paul saw the instant change as Kenny’s mind turned to business. ‘Sure, Paul. Scout car, decoy, client’s car and chase car on the way to the airport. Straight through to the plane. Four men waiting on the tarmac at the other side and the same system on the way to the meet. Wha’dyathink? No problems?’

‘No problems. They tell me the nightlife’s great in Berlin.’

They both laughed. The chances of any of them getting beyond fifty yards of Oleg Samsonov’s side during the visit were non-existent, almost as non-existent as the chances of Oleg going to a nightclub.

‘Can I get you guys a coffee?’ Kenny shook his head and Gerard didn’t even acknowledge the suggestion. ‘I’ll ask the others.’ As he walked past Gerard’s monitor, he could see an armed figure standing by the outer gate. It wasn’t Vince, who lay on his bunk in the security quarters reading some kind of Japanese manga comic,
while
the two other men played cards at a small table. All three looked up with the bored watchfulness that was endemic to their kind when they were out of the firing line.

‘Coffee?’ he asked.

‘Thanks for the offer, but no.’ Vince smiled. The others shook their heads silently and concentrated on their cards. Paul went through to the small kitchen and prepared himself a cup of the instant he preferred. On the left of the door was a board with rows of hooks that held the keys for Samsonov’s fleet of cars, but Dornberger’s mind went over what he had just witnessed. The angles and the distances.

He stayed with the guards for a few minutes, drinking his coffee and engaging Vince in desultory conversation about the fortunes of the Forty Niners, which he knew the Californian took an interest in. It was something he did most days and they were as relaxed in his presence as tight-wound men like these ever would be.

When he returned to his desk, he picked up an invoice he’d been keeping for over a week. He had little to do with the day–to-day running of the household. Irina, who in her heart of hearts was a traditional borscht-stirring, gossiping Russian housewife, insisted that it was her way of staying in contact with reality in her gold-plated world. The timing was important. He was careful never to be alone with her and he knew she would be just completing her daily two-hour session
with
the secretary who helped with the various charities she involved herself in. The household staff worked strictly defined hours and kept to their quarters in the grounds when they weren’t on duty to ensure privacy for the Samsonov family. He trotted upstairs to the huge open-plan living area.