Winter Palace (33 page)

Ivona thought of what Jeffrey had told them before his departure. “Tombek is mafia?”

“Tombek is death,” the wife declared. “Even their shadows are poison.”

“They are here from time to time,” the man went on. “There is some agreement with the people who control the market. Transport, probably. Tombek controls the roads into Saint Petersburg.”

“And the harbor?”

The man shrugged. “I have heard so, but cannot say for sure. We have no dealings with the sea.”

“Better we had dealings with none of this,” his wife retorted. “Not ever again.”

Ivona stowed her purchases in a shopping bag pulled from her pocket. “I and all who cannot be seen thank you for this gift,” she said, and turned away.

Chapter 31

“I express-mailed all the completed bid documents to you yesterday,” Jeffrey reported to Markov by phone. “Along with a copy of my report.”

“How long have you been back in London?” The man's voice sounded decidedly strained.

“Three days. I waited to call until after I had the photographs and had worked through the documents with your lawyer. Everything looks in pretty good shape.”

“Excellent.” Markov was decidedly less than enthusiastic.

“The documents, I mean, not the house,” Jeffrey added. “Well, the house is in fairly decent shape as well, all things considered. A group's been using your ground floor as a warehouse for the past few months. The floor's pretty badly scarred.”

“You don't say.”

“There was also a company with offices upstairs, but they've gone bust. They seem to have left everything pretty much intact. All the ornate fittings have been stripped, of course. And there's virtually no furniture left anywhere, so there was nothing for me to evaluate within my own area of expertise. Basically, all that's left are some wardrobes.”

“What?” He turned positively alarmed.

“They're in the suite of rooms that I believe were your father's chambers,” Jeffrey said, wondering where he might have made a mistake. “His dressing room has some really nice built-in mahogany wardrobes. They've been painted this awful matte white, but you can tell that they would be worth fixing up.”

“I see,” Markov said, subsiding.

“The garden is overgrown, and the outbuildings have pretty much surrendered to the march of time,” Jeffrey persisted. “You'll probably have to gut them and start over.”

“Quite, quite.” Worriedly.

“I have an architect going over everything right now. Which brings us to my next question. The architect won't have his blueprints and repair estimates done for another week, maybe two. But the Saint Petersburg authorities are pressing for some kind of formal bid. They're really eager to see this manor taken off their hands. So I was wondering if you'd review the package and give me a figure I could use as an opening bid. I'll make it contingent upon the architect's finding no serious structural damage, of course.”

“Fine, fine.”

“You need to make your bid for the actual sales price, but they will only be able to offer you a lease for the moment. I guess you already knew that.”

There was a heartbeat's pause, then a shrill, “A
lease?
”

Jeffrey explained the current legal situation. “The contract with the city authorities will state that they will sell the palace to you once the laws have been passed. Until then, you will have a thirty-year lease, with all payments going to the eventual purchase price.”

There was the sound of breathing, then, “I shall look forward to receiving your report and then will come back to you immediately. Until then. Goodbye.”

****

“Someone who nobody in Russia knows, you said,” General Surikov told him. The man's guttural voice was flat as an empty barrel. “Somebody with a name in Eastern Europe, yet unknown in our area.”

Prince Vladimir Markov shifted uncomfortably. “It could be just a fluke.”

“Indeed. A fluke that the young man arrives in Saint Petersburg with Bishop Denisov's secretary, then proceeds to make contacts with a series of people who have nothing whatsoever to do with his assignment. A fluke. Indeed.”

“Speaking of flukes,” the prince countered, “you said that
if I were to cooperate with you on this, the palace would be mine once more.”

“Once more?” The general showed frosty humor. “It has never been such.”

“Mine, my family's, there is no difference.” Markov hated the way his voice sounded to his own ears. This was too much like begging. He hated not having the money to simply go in and purchase the palace on his own. But that was completely beyond his reach.

Almost all the family's wealth had been tied up in land and houses and possessions in Russia, every cent of which had vanished with the Bolsheviks' arrival, along with every member of his family save for his father, who had been saved simply because he had been in France at the time of the October Uprising. The same father who had squandered away almost all their remaining funds upon mistresses and drink and gambling and entertainments the family could hardly afford. The same father who had left him a crumbling Riviera palace he had not been able to keep up, along with burning desire to see his family's position restored.

Markov had been forced to accept the reality that, given his own financial situation, he would never be able to afford the repurchase of his family's Saint Petersburg estate. The sale of his current, smaller Riviera home would barely cover the cost of renovation. No, Markov had decided, the purchase funds would have to come from elsewhere.

And then the general had appeared.

“The agreement,” Markov reminded him, “was that my palace would be used as a warehouse for your goods. My company would be granted your required export licenses, your shipments would be made, and I would be left in peace to restore my family's name and honor. And home.”

Markov had struggled long and hard before agreeing to allow himself to be used as a front. Front for what, Markov did not ask nor care to know, but he assumed it involved drugs or something equally dangerous, illegal, and expensive.

Surikov's group had initially approached Markov solely because of his name. They had seen the prince with his gradually declining wealth as a perfect front for their export activities. Markov had then responded with the plan that was now unfolding. In return for allowing his palace to be used as a warehouse, his company as a basis for the export of their goods, Markov would be granted the return of his old home.

It was the sort of work that Markov felt was not beneath his station. All was to have been kept at arms' length, and his hardest task should have been to wait for all to unfold. Until now.

“Such loyalty is to be admired,” the general said dryly. “In any case, the holdup is a mere formality. Parliament will pass the required laws any day now.”

“That may well be,” Markov replied. “But what of my home?”

Surikov showed confusion. “What of it?”

“Your group will pay the required lease amounts until your shipments are completed,” he said bleakly. “And then you will leave me with a debt I cannot pay, for a palace I will not be allowed to keep.”

“Ah. Now all is clear. Rest assured, Prince Markov, this too can be arranged in a manner acceptable to all concerned. An account opened with the sales figure deposited before the first shipment is completed.”

Markov nodded his acceptance, yet somehow knew in an instant of startling pain that the moment would never arrive.

“What should concern you just now is remaining healthy so that you may enjoy it.” Eyes the color of old Siberian ice plunged deep. “To whom have you spoken of our little project?”

“To no one, of course.”

The general snorted his disbelief and declared, “A payment will be demanded for this error.”

“I have made no error,” Markov protested, his heart fluttering like a captured bird. “I did only as we discussed. As
we agreed. And there is still nothing certain to indicate that the American is anything more than he appears.”

“Let us both hope that nothing incriminating is ever discovered,” the general said, then subsided into brooding silence.

“You will be moving your articles to another location?” Markov asked, half-hoping that it would be so. At this point, he wanted nothing more than to be rid of the general and his invisible superiors and the whole stinking mess.

The general shook his head, his eyes focused elsewhere. “Not just now. There is too much attention placed upon it. By too many. Including the Americans.”

“You stole from the Americans?”

“No. Well, yes, I suppose. In a sense.”

Markov could scarcely believe what he was hearing. “But why?”

The gaze sharpened. “Shall I pass that question on as well? Allow my superiors to hear that you are now questioning their judgment?”

“No, of course not. It is just—” Markov backed off, wiped a clammy forehead. “What do you wish for me to do?”

“Send your American antiques dealer back to Russia.”

“That is all?”

“For the moment. My superiors have decided to take matters into their own hands.”

“The American has just informed me of his intentions to travel at the end of this week.”

“Excellent. Whether or not he is simply a casual bystander, a mere pawn, the risk has now grown too great. The chance that he might be other than he seems is now too dangerous to permit. This chance must now be eliminated.”

“And for myself?”

“Know I shall argue on your behalf,” the general assured him. “Still, if I were in your position just now, I should have long and serious discussions with whatever gods might be at my disposal.”

Chapter 32

“First the United States Consulate, then the Russian Orthodox Church, and now the KGB.” Bishop Michael Denisov gave his head a merry shake. “Our young American friend has proven to be quite a surprise.”

It was a rare ability, this talent of his for enthusiasm. He delighted in all, showed compassion with humor, brought even the bitterest of babushkas a moment of peace. This reaction to all that the world brought his way caused Ivona equal amounts of awe and frustration.

“You cannot possibly be pleased with his actions,” Ivona protested.

They were seated in the kitchen of what had been the central Ukrainian Rites Catholic Church in all of Saint Petersburg—a converted cellar in a nameless high-rise apartment block. Now that the church was permitted to work above-ground, now that Mass could be held without the threat of arrest, the cellar had been split. Half had been converted into a Bible school for children, and the other half served as a small apartment for visiting church officials.

“Well, he most certainly has been active. You must say that for him.” Bishop Michael looked to Yussef. “Has he told you why he chose to disclose our loss to them?”

“He thought he could trust them,” Yussef replied, and shook his head. “It chills the blood.”

“Yes, quite so,” the bishop agreed, although he did not appear the least concerned. “Still, he has avenues open to him that we do not.”

“The KGB?” Ivona's voice had a shrill catch to it. “The Orthodox? You call these avenues?”

Yussef released the briefest of smiles. “My dear Aunt Ivona, were you not the one who refused to accuse the Orthodox church of being behind it all?”

“But to turn to them, to confess our secrets,” Ivona protested. “This is madness!”

“He thinks not,” Yussef countered.

“And what has he learned,” Bishop Michael demanded. “Has he told you that?”

“It matches what we ourselves have discovered.”

“Does it indeed?”

Yussef nodded. “And adds some missing pieces.”

“You approve of the American's actions?”

“The better I know him,” Yussef confessed, “the more I approve.”

Bishop Michael examined him closely. “You are not speaking just of our mission.”

“Not only, no.” Yussef took a breath. “He has a way of bringing the impossible within reach.”

For some reason his words appeared to shake Ivona to the very core. Her hand trembled as she set down her tea and muttered, “Madness.”

Bishop Michael paused to inspect her face, then turned his attention back to Yussef. “You think that he may lead us to the missing treasures?”

“I think,” Yussef said carefully, “that he will do his very best to assist us. And I believe that all his actions are meant to further this aim.”

“Then his coming is indeed a miracle,” Bishop Michael declared. The expression that flashed briefly across Yussef's features caused him to pause. “What is it?”

“He . . .” Yussef hesitated. “I do not know how to say this.”

“He speaks to Yussef about faith,” Ivona said bitterly, “and Yussef listens.”

Bishop Michael's eyes widened. “This is true?”

“He challenges my heart,” Yussef confessed.

The fragile, gray-haired man gave a faint smile. “Indeed a miracle,” he repeated.

Ivona was dumfounded. “You can't possibly mean that you approve of this outrage.”

The bishop gave her a long and thoughtful stare before telling Yussef, “When he returns to Saint Petersburg, share all we know with the American. Let him apply his heart and mind to solving our puzzle. And guard yourselves as best you can, both of you. Danger stalks behind every shadow.”

Chapter 33

The night before Jeffrey's departure, they held each other close and long, speaking little, sharing with their hearts. If truth be known, if night whispers were to speak in human tongue, it might be found that he wept a bit that night. For he was much in love, yet the wind called out to him, and he knew it was to sweep him away with the dawn.

He knew, but did not let the knowledge rise. He wept, and thought the tears were hers. Which they were. He gave them to her, and she accepted them with her heart and with gentle lips that tasted their saltiness and the love that lifted them from his eyes.