A Matter of Honour (9 page)

Romanov was unable to hide his disbelief. “I
confess,”
continued
the chairman, “that our revered
General Secretary showed no less incredulity when I informed him of these facts
some years ago.”

“Then I will need a thousand million?” asked
Romanov.

“No, no, no. We must approach the problem
from a different standpoint. You do not catch a poacher by offering him rabbit
stew.”

“But if the Swiss are not moved by the offer
of vast amounts of money, what
will
move
them?”

“The simple suggestion that their bank has
been used for criminal activity,” said the chairman. “But how...” began
Romanov. “Let me explain. You say that the Tsar’s icon hanging in the Winter
Palace is not the original but a copy.
A good copy, painted
by a twentieth-century court painter, but nevertheless a copy.
Therefore
why not explain to each of the fourteen banks privately that, after extensive
research, we have reason to believe that one of the nation’s most valuable
treasures has been substituted with a copy and the original is thought to have
been deposited in their bank? And rather than cause a diplomatic incident – the
one thing every Swiss banker wishes to avoid at any cost – perhaps they would,
in the interests of good relationships, consider checking in their vaults items
that have not been claimed for over twenty years.”

Romanov looked straight at the old man,
realising why he had survived several purges. “I owe you an apology, Comrade
Poskonov.”

“No, no, we each have our own little skills.
I am sure I would be as lost in your world as you appear to be in mine. Now, if
you will allow me to contact each of the chairmen on this list and tell them no
more than the truth – a commodity I am always obliged to trade in although I
imagine your counterparts are not so familiar with – namely that I suspect the
Tsar’s icon is in
their
bank, most of
them will be disinclined to hold on to the masterpiece if they believe in so
doing a crime has been perpetrated against a sovereign state.”

“I cannot overstress the urgency,” said
Romanov.

“Just like your grandfather,” Poskonov
repeated. “So be it. If they can be tracked down, I shall speak to every one of
them today. At least that’s one of the advantages of the rest of the world
waking up after us. Be assured I shall be in touch with you the moment I have
any news.”

“Thank you,” said Romanov, rising to leave. “You
have been most helpful.” He was about to add, as he normally did in such
circumstances, I shall so inform my Chairman, but he checked himself, realising
the old man wouldn’t have given a damn.

The chairman of Gosbank closed the door
behind him and walked over to the bay window and watched Romanov run down the
steps of the bank to a waiting car. I couldn’t have supplied you with the one
hundred million in gold bullion at this particular time, even if the General Secretary
had ordered me to, he thought to himself. I doubt if I have ten million dollars’
worth of gold left in the vaults at this moment. The General Secretary has
already ordered me to fly every available ounce to the Bank of New York – so
cleverly was his ploy disguised that the CIA had been informed about the
deposit within an hour of its arrival. It’s hard to hide over 700 million
dollars in gold, even in America. I tried to tell him. The chairman watched
Romanov’s car drive away. Of course if, like your grandfather, you read the
Washington Post
as well as
Pravda,
you would already have known
this. He returned to his desk and checked the names of the fourteen banks.

He knew instantly which of the fourteen had
to be phoned.

Adam stepped out of Tattersalls Tavern on
the corner of Knightsbridge Green and headed past the Hyde Park Hotel towards
the Royal Thames Yacht Club. It seemed a strange place for the Foreign Office
to hold an interview, but so far everything connected with the application had
been somewhat mysterious.

He arrived a few minutes early and asked the
ex-Royal Marines sergeant on the door where the interviews were taking place.

“Sixth floor, sir.
Take the lift in the corner,” he pointed
ahead of him, “and announce yourself at reception.”

Adam pressed a button and waited for the
lift. The doors opened immediately and he stepped in. A rather overweight,
bespectacled man of roughly his own age who looked as if he never turned down
the third course of any meal followed him at a more leisurely pace. Adam
touched the sixth button, but neither man spoke on their journey up to the
sixth floor. The large man stepped out of the lift in front of Adam.

“Wainwright’s the name,” he informed the
girl on the reception desk.

“Yes, sir,” said the girl, “you’re a little
early, but do have a seat over there.” She gestured towards a chair in the
corner, then her eyes moved on to Adam and she smiled.

“Scott,” he informed her.

“Yes, sir,” she repeated. “Could you join
the other gentleman? They will be seeing you next.” Adam went over and picked
up a copy
of Punch
before settling
down next to Wainwright, who was already filling in the
Telegraph
crossword.

Adam soon became bored with flicking through
endless issues
of Punch
and took a
more careful look at Wainwright. “Do you by any chance speak German?” Adam
asked suddenly, turning to face the other interviewee.

“German, French, Italian and Spanish,”
Wainwright replied, looking up. “I assumed that was how I managed to get this
far,” he added somewhat smugly.

“Then perhaps you could translate a
paragraph from a German letter for me?”

“Delighted, old fellow,” said Adam’s
companion, who proceeded to remove the pair of thick-lensed glasses from his
nose, and waited for Adam to extract the middle paragraph of the letter from
his envelope.

“Now, let me see,” Wainwright said, taking
the little slip of paper and replacing the glasses.
“Quite a
challenge.
I say, old fellow, you’re not part of the interviewing team
by any chance?”

“No, no,” said Adam, smiling. “I’m in
exactly the same position as you – except I don’t speak German, French, Italian
or Spanish.”

Wainwright seemed to relax. “Now let me see,”
he repeated, as Adam took out the small notebook from his inside pocket.

“‘During the past year you cannot have
failed to... notice that I have been receiving from one of the guards a
regular, regular... regular supply’,” he said suddenly, “yes, ‘supply of Havana
cigars. One of the few pleasures I have been allocated’ – no, ‘allowed’, better
still ‘permitted’ – ‘despite my... incarceration’. That’s the nearest I can
get,” Wainwright added.
“ ‘The
cigars themselves have
also served another purpose’,” Wainwright continued, obviously enjoying
himself, “‘as they contained tiny capsules...’”

“Mr Scott.”

“Yes,” said Adam, jumping up obediently.

“The Board will see you now,” said the
receptionist.

“Do you want me to finish it off while they’re
finishing you off, old chap?” said Wainwright.

“Thank you,” Adam replied, “if it’s not too
much trouble.”

“Far easier than the crossword,” Wainwright
added, leaving on one side the little unfilled half-matrix of squares.

Alex Romanov was not a patient man at the
best of times, and with the General Secretary now ringing up his chief twice a
day,
these were not the best of times. While he waited for
results of the chairman of Gosbank’s enquiries he re-read the research papers
that had been left on his desk, and checked any new intelligence that had been
sent back by his agents in the field. Romanov resented the scraps of
information the chairman of Gosbank must have been receiving by the hour, but
he made no attempt to pester the old man despite his time problem.

Then the chairman of the bank called.

On this occasion Romanov was driven straight
over to the State Bank at Neglinnaya 12 and ushered up to the finely furnished
room without a moment’s delay. Poskonov, dressed in another of those suits with
an even larger check, was standing to greet him at the door.

“You must have wondered if I had forgotten
you,” were Poskonov’s opening words as he ushered Romanov to the comfortable
chair. “But I wanted to have some positive news to give you rather than waste
your time. You don’t smoke, if I remember correctly,” he added, taking out his
packet of Dunhill cigarettes.

“No, thank you,” Romanov said, wondering if
the chairman’s doctor realised how much the old man smoked.

The chairman’s secretary entered the room
and placed two empty glasses, a frosted flask and a plate of caviar in front of
them.

Romanov waited in silence.

“I have, over the past two days, managed to
talk to the chairmen of twelve of the banks on your original list,” Poskonov
began, as he poured two vodkas, “but I have avoided making contact with the
remaining two.”

“Avoided?” repeated Romanov.

“Patience, Comrade,” said Poskonov, sounding
like a benevolent uncle. “You have longer to live than I so if there is any
time to be wasted it must be yours.”

Romanov lowered his eyes.

“I avoided one of the chairmen,” Poskonov
continued, “because he is in Mexico showing President Ordaz how not to repay
their loan to Chase Manhattan while at the same time borrowing even more
dollars from the Bank of America. If he pulls that off I shall have to
recommend to the General Secretary of the Party that he is offered my job when
I retire. The second gentleman I have avoided because he is officially in
Chicago, closing a major Eurobond deal with Continental Illinois, while in fact
he is booked in at the St Francis Hotel in San Francisco with his mistress. I
feel certain you would agree, Comrade Major, that it would not advance our
cause to disturb either of these gentlemen at this precise moment. The first
has enough problems to be going on with for the rest of the week, while the
second may well have his phone tapped – and we wouldn’t want the Americans to
discover what we are searching for, would we?”

“Agreed, Comrade,” said Romanov.

“Good. Anyway as they both return to
Switzerland early next week we have quite enough to be going on with for now.”

“Yes, but what -” Romanov began.

“It will please you to know,” continued
Poskonov, “that of the twelve remaining chairmen all have agreed to co-operate
with us and five have already phoned back. Four to say they have run a thorough
check on the possessions of customers who have been out of contact with the
bank for over twenty years, but have come up with nothing that remotely
resembles an icon. In fact, one of them opened a deposit box in the presence of
three other directors that had not been touched since 1931 only to discover it
contained” nothing but a cork from a 1929 bottle of Taylor’s port.”

“Only a cork?” said Romanov.

“Well, 1929 was a vintage year,” admitted
the chairman.

“And the fifth?” enquired Romanov.

“Now that, I suspect, may be our first
breakthrough,” continued Poskonov, referring to the file in front of him. He
adjusted his spectacles with the forefinger of his right hand before
continuing. “Herr Dieter Bischoff of Bischoff et Cie” – he looked up at his
guest, as if Romanov might have recognised the name – “an honourable man with
whom I have dealt many times in the past – honourable, that is, by Western
standards of course, Comrade,” added the chairman, obviously enjoying himself. “Bischoff
has come up with something that was left with the bank in 1938. It is
unquestionably an icon, but he has no way of knowing if it is the one we are
looking for.”

Romanov leapt up from his seat in
excitement. “Then I had better go and see for myself,” said Romanov. “I could
fly out today,” he added. The chairman waved him back into his chair.

“The plane you require does not leave
Sheremtyevo airport until four thirty-five. In any case, I have already booked
two seats on it for you.”

“Two?” enquired Romanov.

“You will obviously need an expert to
accompany you, unless you know considerably more about icons than you do about
banking,” Poskonov added. “I also took the liberty of booking you on the
Swissair flight. One should never fly Aeroflot if it can be avoided. It has
managed only one aviation record consistently every year since its inception,
namely that of losing the most passengers per miles flown, and a banker never
believes in going against known odds. I have fixed an appointment for you to
see Herr Bischoff at ten o’clock tomorrow morning – unless, of course, you have
something more pressing to keep you in Moscow, Comrade?”

Romanov smiled.

“I note from your file that you have never
served in Switzerland,” said the old man, showing off. “So may I also recommend
that you stay at the St Gothard while you are in
Zurich.
Jacques Pontin will take excellent care of you. Nationality has never been a
problem for the Swiss, only currency. And so that brings my little
investigation up to date, and I shall be in touch again as soon as the two
itinerant chairmen return to Switzerland next Monday. All I can do for the
moment
however,
is wish you luck in Zurich.”