The Relic (8 page)

Irina drove home, taking her time. She wasn't in a hurry to get to the apartment. She knew what she would find there. It was a lovely evening; Geneva was beautiful in the springtime. On impulse, she stopped outside the Hôtel Beau Rivage. She felt like relaxing with a drink before going home. And it was a good place to make her telephone call.

She knew she was attractive. Men glanced at her appreciatively. She gave no encouragement. She ordered a glass of Moselle, smoked a cigarette and watched people come and go without much interest. She was thinking about her patient, Adolph Brückner. She knew the type, A number had come to the clinic over the years. Arrogant, greedy products of the capitalist society that she hated. Their women were no better. Their children, spoilt and neurotic, were typical.

She loved her work; the mysterious mechanism of the human psyche fascinated her. She was euphoric when she dismissed a patient, cured and ready to resume a normal life; depressed when she failed and the solution eluded her. It was like winning or losing a chess game at championship level. She played chess as a hobby. She had been trained to regard human beings in her care as no more involving than amoeba under a microscope. Without a professional attitude, she couldn't have worked at the Lenin Institute.

Brückner was different. Brückner wasn't there to be cured of his agonizing affliction. Peter Müller had sent him, as he'd sent others over the past five years. Müller hadn't made one mistake in his selection so far. Brückner was going mad with guilt. He was driving himself to the point of suicide.

A ruthless opportunist who had fought his way to riches and power in post-war Germany must have something dreadful gnawing at his subsconscious to torture himself like that.

Irina stubbed out her cigarette and asked for the bill. And for a telephone. She dialled a number in Munich, closing the cubicle door. It rang for some time, and she exclaimed impatiently. Where was he? He was expecting the call. At last it was answered. She heard Peter Müller's voice.

‘It's me,' she said. ‘I've been ringing for ages. Are you having a party? There's a lot of noise … All right, so long as you can hear. Our friend came today. You're right, I'm sure we're on to something. I didn't rush him. He's coming again tomorrow … Yes, of course, I'll keep him in. Can you come up at the weekend? What an awful row. You must have hundreds of people!'

It irritated her trying to talk against a background of cocktail-party noise. It was unprofessional of Müller. She didn't like him from the beginning. He was too smug, too sure of himself. Now she had reason to hate him. But he was good.

‘Oh, have you? That's nice for you. Make it Friday. I'll know a lot more by then.'

She rang off. He was celebrating, he said. A very big sale to some American collectors. She checked her watch. It was late. Time to go home.

Volkov was sober when the front door opened. He'd slept off the afternoon drinks, showered and made himself coffee. He didn't switch on the lights. He sat in the deepening gloom and thought of the girl who had come into his empty life that morning, and refused to go away.

When he was released he'd been plagued by waking nightmares; often reality and fantasy became indistinguishable. Irina's care had got him through the worst period. Her care and her medical skill. She'd healed his damaged lungs, insisting that he rest and avoid all mental and physical stress. No interviews with the clamouring Western media, no Press conferences till he was stronger. He was so weak he didn't resist. His will seemed to ebb away; the fighting courage that had sustained him even when they forced him on the Aeroflot plane in handcuffs to fly him out of Russia, had deserted him.

He was in Irina's hands. Something in him had broken. Not in the cruel misery of cold and deprivation in his cell, but in the comfort of the Swiss environment. For many months he'd lived only to hear the door open and her step in the hall.

He had depended on her like a child. Irina loved him. Irina had fought for his release and finally persuaded the authorities to let him go. It was a long time since he had discovered the terms negotiated for that act of mercy. That was when he started to drink. He felt the helpless rage well up within him. And the despair.

She switched on the lights.

‘Dimitri, what are you doing sitting in the dark?' She came towards him; he wasn't drunk and gratefully she bent and kissed him on the cheek.

She loves me
, he said to himself.
She takes me in her arms in bed and I can't bear to touch her.…

‘What did you do today?' It wounded her when he flinched from her embrace. She bit her lips, as if one pain would drive out another.

‘Went for a walk. Had a few drinks.' He heard her sigh. ‘Came home again.' He didn't say,
I met this strange girl who told me how brave and wonderful I was and wouldn't go away. And she'll be there tomorrow
. He said, ‘I won't ask what you were doing.'

‘I'm going to change. You might pour me a drink instead of being nasty, darling. It doesn't do any good.'

She went in to the bedroom and stripped off the smart dress. He has to hurt me, she told herself. He has to punish me. I must try not to mind. If only, if only that swine Müller had kept his mouth shut.

He hadn't moved when she came back. She poured herself a glass of wine. ‘I'll make some dinner in a few minutes,' she said. ‘Unless you'd like to go out?'

‘I've been out,' he said. ‘And I'm not hungry.'

Irina looked at him. ‘I wish you'd try,' she said suddenly. ‘We could still be happy. We could have a good life here together.' She leaned close to him; he saw a film of tears in her eyes. ‘It's all over now, darling. It's all in the past. You could stop drinking and start on your book. Don't you realize how things have changed at home? We could go back one day.'

‘There's nothing to stop
you
going,' he remarked. ‘You've given them enough victims by now, haven't you? Not to mention me. Why don't you go?'

‘And leave you here to drink yourself to death alone?'

He shrugged.

She said desperately, ‘I still love you, that's the reason. We go over and over it and nothing changes. You can't forgive me and you won't try. All you want is to destroy yourself and blame me.'

She got up, fighting back tears. At the door of her room she turned back to face him. But he wasn't even looking at her. She slammed the door.

He might have been able to forgive her. He still loved her in those days. He might have been moved by her distress. He might have accepted her explanation. If it hadn't been for Peter Müller.

‘Peter, darling, the Baxters are going. Come and say goodbye to them. Who was on the telephone at this hour?'

Peter Müller followed his wife back to the party. The Baxters were rich American clients; they specialized in early German Gothic carvings and enamels. He had sold them a highly important ivory tryptich for an incredible sum of money. His wife, like all clever American women, had made a friend out of Mary Baxter and organized the party in their honour. She was a great help in the business. They had been married for twenty-two years and they were happy together.

‘Who was it?' she whispered, the smile already in place on her lips as they emerged from his study.

‘Only a runner,' he said. ‘Thinks there's something to be looked at in Geneva. I chewed him up for calling so late. Ah, Joe, Mary—do you really have to go so soon?'

He had a wonderful warm manner. A typical Bavarian, cultivated, charming. Not at all like a German. Mary Baxter felt he was a friend. And that wonderful, wonderful tryptich! She couldn't wait to see it in their house in San Francisco. Thirteenth century, and the crispness of the carving! Joe loved their collection. It had made them famous, introduced them to interesting people in the art world. There'd been a whole profile on them in
American Connoisseur
.

They were escorted to the door, handed in to their car. Peter Müller kissed her hand.

‘Enjoy your treasure, Mary,' he said. ‘There's only one other like it and that's in the Getty Museum.'

‘I wish we'd known you then,' Mary Baxter said. ‘We'd have bought both!'

The party didn't break up for some hours. The Baxters were flying to London early the next morning en route for the States. The Müllers' friends settled down to enjoy themselves and talk about their clients and their businesses. He saw a slim, elegantly dressed woman getting a drink from one of the waiters and went towards her. She was thin and dark, and had been a photographic model in her youth.

‘Eloise, my dear,' he said. ‘Aren't you being looked after? You're always surrounded with admirers!'

‘Not so many at my age,' she smiled at him. He made a gesture, dismissing the idea as absurd.

‘My dear, a mature woman is more attractive than any girl. Have you heard from Adolph?'

‘I spoke to him before I came this evening,' Eloise Brückner said.

‘And how was he?' he asked. ‘It must be so worrying for all of you.'

‘He said he'd had one consultation. He was grumpy. You know what he's like. But no headache, thank God. I'm so grateful to you for persuading him to go and see this doctor. He'd never have listened to me!'

‘I couldn't see an old friend suffer like that,' Peter Müller said. ‘I've known a number of people who have seen this woman; they swore by her. It can't do any harm. Please God, may it help him.'

‘I do hope so,' she said. ‘Thank you, Peter. You've been wonderful.'

She didn't include his wife, Susan. The omission amused him. The two women didn't like each other. They were good at disguising it for the sake of their husbands.

It was past two o'clock when the last guest left. Susan Müller looked round the room. It was littered with empty glasses, plates of half-eaten canapés, full ashtrays. The staff were being slow about clearing up.

‘Well,' she said. ‘Let's hope it was worth all the expense. I've made a note of the spongers who come here and never buy a goddamned thing! Next time, they won't get an invitation!'

‘From what we made out of that Baxter sale we could give a party every night for the next ten years,' Peter reminded her. She was always irritable after a party. She resented the expense. ‘Come on, it was very successful. Let's go to bed.'

Before she went to sleep, she turned on her back and said, ‘Peter? Is there something in Geneva?'

‘There may be,' he said. ‘I might fly up on Friday and take a look.'

‘What is it? Why don't I come, too?'

‘Because it's silver and most likely a fake. I'll only go for the day.'

‘I don't know why you bother,' his wife said. ‘There's no real market for silver at the moment.' She was far more dedicated to business than he was. Unfortunately, she had no natural feel or sympathy with beautiful things. She only saw the price tag.

He heard Susan's deep breathing. He lay beside her till he was sure she was asleep, then he got up and slipped out of the bedroom. He made some hot milk in the kitchen and sat down to drink it. The debris of the party was cleared away. The kitchen was its clean, clinical self.

He had known Adolph Brückner for nearly ten years. Brückner was a big prize for any antique dealer. He had a large fortune, and taste and knowledge acquired over years of collecting. He was an expert on early Russian art. Müller was as shrewd in his business as he was in his other profession. He set out to charm the wife. Eloise Brückner was a beautiful woman and he found he liked her very much. He didn't flirt; she wouldn't have welcomed that. He was astute enough to realize that she loved her husband. He wooed her in a different way, by praising Brückner's knowledge. She began inviting him to parties.

He thought back to that first party in the sumptuous Munich house. The big drawing room was set out like a museum, with rare Italian masters expertly lit and displayed, and, what caught his attention instantly, a large cabinet filled with Russian works of art. Fabergé boxes, photograph frames, copies of Japanese
netsukes
in various hardstones, with tiny jewelled eyes. And, in pride of place, glittering with frosty diamonds and translucent green enamel, a desk set from the Russian Imperial collection. A clock and an exquisite calendar. He noticed that the original Russian date card had not been changed. The set was priceless.

He cultivated Brückner carefully. He wasn't a man to be rushed into friendship. He didn't try to sell him anything. He flattered him by asking his advice and soon Brückner was consulting him. First one expensive rarity was found and purchased, then others followed. Brückner and his wife became close friends of the Müllers. Müller made a lot of money out of that friendship. And, one day, by chance, he caught Adolph Brückner out in a lie. They had discussed the collection of Fabergé at length. He had been allowed to handle the treasured clock, listen to the delightful silver chimes, adjust the calendar. And he had accepted Brückner's story without question. He had discovered the desk set in Paris after the war. He had named a famous French dealer, long since dead.

It was a lucky coincidence, a one-in-a-million chance that brought Müller on a buying trip to Sotheby's in New York, in pursuit of a Fabergé Easter egg made for a rich Russian merchant in 1912. He was acting for Adolph Brückner, who wanted this exquisite rarity for his collection. The estimate was over a million pounds sterling. Müller had his authority to go above the top estimate to buy it. He failed. The buyer was a New York dealer with a French name. The same name, he remembered, as the dealer in Paris who had sold Brückner his desk set. He had approached the man after the sale and introduced himself on behalf of his client. If the egg had not been bought on commission, might he be interested in an immediate profit from the under-bidder?