The Relic (24 page)

‘They are lovely,' Eloise murmured beside him as they stood and admired. ‘Perhaps I should keep them. Adolph left it up to me to decide what to do with everything.'

There were the two gold and jewelled boxes Müller had sold him at a staggering profit, considering he had bought them from someone facing criminal charges, and desperate for cash. The early Byzantine pendants and a necklace that had graced some medieval nobleman's wife. Two fifteenth-century icons set in beaten silver, studded with amythest and quartz. Rarity was what Brückner valued more than gems and gold. A pair of rock crystal goblets engraved with the cipher of Peter the Great. Boxes, portrait miniatures and then in a section of its own in the centre of the display, the works of Carl Fabergé in the high days of Tsarist glory.

‘I think he's my favourite,' Eloise said, one slim finger directed at a toad made of nephrite, its bulging eyes two big ruby cabochons, surrounded by a ring of diamonds. Diamonds formed the wide mouth so that the little creature seemed to grin with light.

‘He's got such a naughty look,' she said.

Müller smiled. He thought that if he'd had the choice, it wouldn't be the toad snuff box, but the marvellous box in yellow and white opal enamel, with the unhappy Nicholas II's cipher and crown, and the Imperial eagles in diamonds and black enamel.

By comparison, the desk set was almost modest. It had the place of honour because, as he'd said earlier, it was unique. Designed and made as a present from the emperor for his niece. A Christmas gift, since the Easter feast was celebrated by the exchange of eggs and was more important in the orthodox calendar. They gleamed watery green, with the diamonds like frost, sparkling under the light.

He stood for a moment in silence. In his imagination he saw Brückner stuffing them in to his pockets, wrapped in the clothing of the woman he had raped, while his companion murdered her.

God knows how she had got hold of them, he thought. Or how the greatest treasure of all, St Vladimir's Holy Cross, came to be hidden in a humble farmhouse in the Ukraine. For all those years Adolph Brückner had guarded his bloody loot and built his reputation as an art lover around it. The Grand Duchess Elizabeth, owner of the clock and the calendar, had been murdered by the Bolsheviks, like her uncle the Tsar. Like the woman in the house by the woods. In the end they had driven Brückner to near madness and death. It was no more than he deserved.

Müller caught Eloise by the elbow.

‘Don't give anything to anyone, my dear,' he said. ‘I was wrong to suggest what I did. Keep them; I'm sure that's what Adolph would have wanted. Let's go back, shall we?'

Outside in the corridor she said, ‘I must reset the alarm. You see what I mean about it being a nightmare? And this is just one room!'

It worked in reverse. The elephant clock was set to twelve-thirty. Third gilded flower on the left of the first console table going the opposite way, third flower on the right of the second table. A light touch and not even a mouse could have scuttled through that ballroom without setting off the alarm all over the house—and the city.

‘A brandy before you go?' Eloise offered.

Müller decided to abstain. ‘It's late,' he said. ‘Susan will be home by now.'

He thought he detected a flicker of disappointment on her face. No harm in that. He came close and took her hand in both of his. He kissed it and then lightly touched her cheek with his lips.

‘I've had a wonderful evening. And, next week we are going to the Hofburg. I'll call you tomorrow. And you know, anything I can do for you—just ask. Give my love to the children.'

She crossed and rang the bell.

‘Friedrich will show you out,' she said. ‘Thank you for being such a dear friend. I look forward to our dinner.'

He drove home slowly, thinking. The sight of the desk set had emptied him of all desire. He was reminded of his priorities. He had to get it. His reward, as Viktor promised, would be commensurate. The Volkovs would soon be back in Russia. That part of his operation was closing down.

As he drew up outside his own apartment, he shut off the engine and sat there, thinking through to the future. He'd boasted to Irina that politicians come and go, but spies go on forever. He was in his early fifties. He had a thriving business, a good life by any standard. But his secret life was contracting as East/West tensions slackened. There would be less and less for him to do without the outlet at the Amtel clinic. And, therefore, less reason to go on, to take the occasional risk.

He didn't want to play the game part time. The risks were still there and the satisfaction alone wouldn't justify them. He would get Rakovsky the desk set, then retire before they retired him. It was a bonus that he could do it by way of Eloise Brückner's bed.

He drove the car into the garage reserved for residents and went up to his apartment. Susan was waiting. She hadn't gone to any cinema and she hated art films with subtitles. He had explained that he was going to see Eloise, in the hope she might be willing to sell him something. She came and kissed him in her brisk way.

‘Any luck, darling?'

‘I might get the two boxes back,' he lied. ‘The Orlov one anyway. It's worth three times what he gave me for it.'

‘She won't give you any bargain,' his wife said. ‘That lady knows about money.'

Müller couldn't argue with that. ‘So do I,' he said. ‘Leave it to me. I'll get it out of her.'

They sat hand in hand and watched a late-night television movie. They were very companionable. The next morning the Swiss detective agency called to say that Dimitri Volkov and his companion had crossed over to France. Regrettably, their surveillance team had lost them.

Chapter 4

The Soviet consul came to see her. He brought an assistant and it was the assistant who did all the talking. The consul introduced him.

‘This is Vladimir Turin from the trade department,' he said.

Irina shook hands with him briefly.

‘Please sit down,' she said.

She didn't offer them a drink. It wasn't a social visit. She had discharged herself from the clinic as soon as she heard about the empty envelope lying on her office floor and that Dimitri's passport had not been found. That, she concluded, must have been what the intruder was looking for. The implications were too serious to be concealed. She got back to her apartment and, with a vicious headache, managed to search through the cupboards. Nothing belonging to him was missing.

But the emptiness had a special quality she recognized. Real emptiness, not absence. There was a difference. He wasn't out, he was gone. She had felt so weak and sick that she was tempted to delay. To go to bed and sleep on it before she called the embassy. But that was failing in her duty. She had never failed. Except, she thought bitterly, when she fell in love with Dimitri Volkov.

The consular official was very understanding. This surprised her. He didn't express shock at what she told him. Later, with time to collect herself, Irina realized he knew already. She must rest, he insisted. Everything was in hand and he would come and see her the next day.

She wasn't surprised to see two of them when she opened the door.

‘How are you feeling?' the young man called Turin asked her. She looked ghastly, with a dressing taped on top of her head.

‘Better,' she said to the consul. ‘Thank you for not coming last night. I'm much clearer this morning. Is there any news of my husband?'

Turin answered. ‘He was heading for the border into France two nights ago,' he said. ‘Unfortunately the surveillance team lost him.'

‘Surveillance?' Irina looked up sharply. ‘You were watching him? Why wasn't I told?'

‘Not our people,' Turin corrected. ‘Swiss private detectives. If it had been our operation, he wouldn't have got away.'

She put a hand to her head; she felt dizzy for a moment.

‘Swiss detectives? I don't understand.'

‘It was a routine precaution. Your husband was involved with a woman and Moscow wanted a low-key investigation. A private firm was chosen to do it.'

‘A woman? You say he was involved with a woman?' She stared at them in turn. Two bright patches of colour blazed in her cheeks. The consul thought she looked very ill.

Turin proceeded without mercy. ‘He'd been having an affair with her for some time. Meeting in secret, sleeping overnight in her apartment. She was with him when he escaped. A blonde woman, in her twenties.' He referred to a note he'd taken out of his pocket. He had flat brown eyes, deep-set like stones in his face. ‘A similar description to the one you gave of your attacker,' he said.

‘Yes,' Irina managed to speak.

‘Obviously they planned to leave Switzerland and they had to get a passport for him. He couldn't travel through Europe without that. Did you mention returning to the Soviet Union to him at any time, Comrade Doctor?'

‘No,' Irina made an effort to control herself. ‘No, of course I didn't. He wouldn't have come. I'd planned another way of getting him there.'

Turin smiled. ‘A sudden illness?'

‘It's been done before,' she retorted. ‘I had it all worked out. Excuse me for a moment.'

She left them and made her way to the bathroom. A woman. Sleeping with her, staying together overnight. She retched into the basin. She drank some water, splashed her face and dried it. Her reflection stared back at her, ashen, sunken-eyed, the mouth caught in a rictus of pain. Years of lying beside him, hungry for the love he couldn't give her. Bearing the taunts, the drunken emptiness. He had betrayed her with someone else. Slept with her. Made love as they used to make love long ago when they first met. Stolen afternoons, long nights when the dawn came before they tired.

Five years of living in exile, the price she'd offered to pay to save his life and win his freedom from the Gulag. She forced herself to stand up straight. She turned from that sorry sight in the glass and went back to the two men.

‘Tell me about the woman,' she said curtly.

‘I have no authority to go into details,' Turin sounded apologetic. ‘Except to say that you are not being held responsible for what has happened. I can assure you of that. In fact,' he repeated the message received from his superiors that morning, ‘in fact, the official view is very sympathetic to you, Comrade. Also,' he looked at his notes again. ‘A reservation has been made for the Aeroflot flight out tomorrow morning at eleven o'clock. You'll go direct to Moscow.'

A scheduled flight, not a special plane. She understood the significance of that. She was going home, but not in disgrace.

‘Will you let my family know?'

‘Your father will be at Sheremetov to meet you and take you home,' Turin answered. ‘Is there anything else we can do?' He turned, including the consul this time. ‘You seem to be still groggy. We can send someone round to pack up for you.'

‘That would be a help,' she said. ‘I'm recovering every day. You know, I very nearly had her? I had my hand on her throat—a few seconds more and she'd have passed out. I'd got the carotid artery under my thumb.' She stopped.

Neither of the men spoke. The consul looked at his fingernails. Turin nodded to him and they stood up. They each shook hands.

‘I'll collect you in the morning,' Turin said. ‘We'll issue a short statement to the Press saying you are going home for a rest after your ordeal. It would be as well if you confirm this to the clinic director yourself.'

‘I'll speak to him,' Irina promised. ‘Let yourselves out, please.'

She lit a cigarette and put it out after a few puffs. She couldn't smoke. It tasted vile. The room was very quiet. Peaceful. She looked round it. Home for the last five years. It had never been home to her. She would leave it behind without a pang. She felt no attachment to the clinic or to the patients there any more. To her they all seemed to assume the identity of that damned Italian whose antics had dragged her from her lunch that day—into the office to find her husband's lover rifling through her private papers.

Her mouth filled with a bitter taste; the bile of jealousy almost choked her. He'd stopped drinking for that other woman. She'd noticed the change and had been too blind to guess the reason. How, where had he met her? On one of his endless, aimless walks, trying to kill time between drinks?

She closed her eyes to shut out the torture of imagining them together. Younger than she by at least ten years; surely she'd glimpsed bright blue eyes in that surge of violence between them?

‘If he were here now,' she said out loud, ‘I'd kill him.'

She started to cry and let the tears spill out and run down her face. So many tears she'd shed for him. When he was arrested, and she'd rushed from friend to friend, begging them to help, to use their influence. Her father, trying to comfort her and reproaching her at the same time:
I told you not to marry him. I warned you he was no good for you
.

The terrible anguish of seeing him in prison, hearing the rough consumptive cough and knowing that unless she did something, he would disappear into the Siberian wasteland and die. And the silent tears during the time they had lived together in that flat. Seeing him turn from her, degrading himself by trying to escape in drink. Losing the man she had loved because Peter Müller had betrayed the deal she'd made to get him out of Russia.

Müller! Müller with his arrogance and his contempt for her husband. Opening his loud mouth as if the man sitting close by was no more sentient than a waxwork dummy. Dummy is what he'd called him to her once. Müller! She heaved herself up and sat by the telephone. She dialled the Munich number of his shop.

‘Irina? How are you? I read about what happened.'

‘I'm all right,' She kept her voice steady. ‘Can you talk to me?'

‘Yes, the place is empty at the moment. Anything urgent?'