Winter Palace (12 page)

“Thanks ever so much.” He swung around the table so that he could nestle into her lap, said, “Teach me some Polish.”

“Oh no, not now.” She almost sang the words. “Nobody can learn it just like this. Not even you. It's the most difficult language in all Europe.”

He made mock-serious eyes. “More difficult than English?”

She smiled. “Until you learn. It sounds a lot like Russian to the ear, though the Polish alphabet is not Cyrillic. It is a Slavic language, and all Slavic tongues have similarities, just like all Latin languages.”

He traced the line of her chin with one finger, wondered at the pleasure such a simple, intimate gesture could bring. “Teach me something, Katya. Just a couple of words.”

“Let's see.
O Rany Boskie
means the wounds of Christ, a favorite remark of complaining grandmothers.” Happiness lent a childlike chanting tone to her voice. “
Sto lat
means a hundred years, and is used as a toast and a birthday greeting.
Na zdrowie
is a drinking salute and means to your health.
Trzymaj się
literally means hold on to yourself, but is used to mean hang in there. It's said between friends upon departure
or hanging up the phone.
Słucham
means I'm listening and is said when you pick up the phone.”

“You have beautiful ears,” he whispered, reaching up to kiss the nearest one.

She pushed him away with the backhanded gesture of an impatient four-year-old. “Shush, this is serious. Now the word for hello is, repeat after me,
Cześcz
.”

“Only if you wait until I need to sneeze,” he said, twirling a wayward strand.

“Okay, then
Pa-pa
. Try that. It means goodbye, but you only say it to a close friend.”

“That's one thing I never want to say to you,” he told her solemnly. “Not ever.”

She looked down at him with merry eyes. “
Całuję rączki
. That's thank you in the most formal, flirtatious sense, and really means, I kiss your hand.”

He ran his fingers around her neck to mold with the feather-soft hairs on her nape. “How do you say I love you?”

Her eyes shone with a violet-gray light that filled his heart to bursting. She both whispered and sang the words, “
Ja cię kocham
.”

Late that afternoon they took a taxi along the winding Corniche to Alexander's former residence, now owned by Prince Vladimir Markov. Villa Caravelle rose from a steep hillside overlooking the azure waters of the Mediterranean. The walls surrounding the circular drive were of small, round pebbles, overlaid with great blooming pom-poms of wisteria. The air was heavily scented by flowers, especially jasmine. Everything was perfectly manicured—miniature citrus trees, bursts of bougainvillea, magnolia in full bloom. The air was absolutely still.

Jeffrey rang the bell, caught sight of Katya's expression, asked, “Do you mind having to do this business on our honeymoon?”

“A little,” she admitted.

“Sorry we didn't go to Scotland after all?”

“Of course not.” She smiled up at him. “Let's just get this real-life stuff over with as quickly as possible and return to fairyland, okay?”

The door was answered by a severe-looking woman in a navy blue dress. “Monsieur et Madame Sinclair? Entrez-vous, s'il vous plait.”

They stepped into a high-ceilinged marble foyer. When the door closed behind them, their eyes took a moment to adjust to the darker confines. In the distance a voice said, “Mr. Sinclair, madame, please come in.”

Electronically controlled shutters lifted from great arched windows. Light splashed into the salon with the brilliance of theater spotlights. Jeffrey was suddenly very glad that Alexander was not there to see what had happened to his former home.

The great room reminded him of a museum between major exhibitions. Antiques and works of art cluttered every imaginable space. Nothing matched. Tapestries from the late Middle Ages crowded up next to Impressionist paintings, which were illuminated by gilded art-deco lamps held by giant nymphs. Persian carpets overlapped one another, with the excess rolled up along the walls. There were three chaises longues from three different centuries, one green silk, one brocade, one red velour. A mahogany china cupboard stuffed to overflowing with heavy silver and gold-plate stood alongside a delicate satinwood secretary, and that next to a sixteenth-century corner cupboard which in turn was partially hidden behind a solid ebony desk.

Prince Markov walked toward Jeffrey with an outstretched hand. “You are no doubt wondering why a man who appears to have everything would be interested in another worldly possession.”

That being far kinder than what he was truly thinking, Jeffrey replied with a simple, “Yes.”

“Alexander Kantor has spoken so highly of you,” Katya fielded for him.

Markov kissed her hand. “Madame Sinclair, enchanté.” A slight blush touched Katya's cheeks, betraying her reaction to both her new name and to his old-world attention.

“Please be so kind as to follow me.” Prince Vladimir Markov had the sleek look of a high-level corporate chairman. He was balding, even-featured, manicured from head to toe, and frigidly aloof. The results of too many overly rich meals were hidden by a chin kept aloft and by suits carefully tailored to hide a growing bulge. His lips held to a polite smile that meant absolutely nothing. Intelligent eyes viewed the world as a hawk might view its prey.

Katya stopped before the wall beside his desk and said, “Look at these wonderful pictures.” They were enlarged sepia-colored prints of stern-looking men with square-cut beards and unsmiling women in bustles and trains.

Markov gave a tolerant smile. “Ah, well, they're actually what you might call family photographs.”

“And is this your father?” she asked, pointing to one of the figures, which bore a marked resemblance.

“Yes, my father as a young man. He was quite a remarkable gentleman. He loved to hunt. He loved art. And he absolutely loved the classics. He understood the world through mythology. He was in his twenties when he left Russia, never to return.”

“He left because of the October Revolution?”

“The Revolution, yes,” Markov mused, his eyes on the picture. “The Bolsheviks and their Revolution changed everything.”

“And who is this man here beside him?” Jeffrey asked.

“Ah, yes. That face may indeed look a little familiar. It is Czar Nicholas the Second. My father and he were distant cousins and quite close friends in their younger days.”

“A prince of the royal family of Russia,” Katya murmured.

Markov smiled dryly. “There were any number of princes and dukes in those days.”

“It must have been very difficult for your family to lose all that during the Revolution,” Jeffrey offered.

“At least my father was spared his life,” Markov evaded. “He was passing the summer here on the Riviera, as many Russians did at the time. He stayed a few weeks longer than most, and that sealed his fate. Word came from his own father not to travel back, that the situation was becoming too dangerous. Shortly thereafter, the czar and his family were taken prisoner. The Bolsheviks had overthrown the government. Nothing more was heard from my father's father or, for that matter, from anyone else in my family.”

He motioned them forward. “Shall we sit out on the terrace? Please watch your step here; these carpets were meant for my family's larger estate. As you can see, I have little space here for my remaining possessions.”

He led them out through great double glass doors onto a flagstone terrace. Below, the property plunged steeply toward the sparkling Mediterranean. Jeffrey stepped to the edge and took several deep breaths, feeling as if he had been searching for air back in that cluttered room.

“Perhaps Mr. Kantor told you I sold my somewhat larger estate,” Markov said, holding Katya's chair and waving Jeffrey to the seat opposite. “The palace was rather old, and required renovations that were outrageously expensive. Quite beyond the reach of an exiled prince, I assure you. What you saw inside, and of course what is contained in the other rooms, is all that I have left now of my family's glorious past.”

“Certainly some of your items are quite valuable,” Jeffrey ventured, wondering where the conversation was leading.

“It is not a question of price,” Markov replied. “I suppose it is a matter of sentimental attachment. There are stories, some shreds of family history associated with each of these things.

“But that is all in the past,” he continued, slapping his hand down on the tabletop. “And what matters about the past is
the use to which it is put in the future. Which brings me to my reason for asking you here. Circumstances in Russia have changed beyond any of our imaginings. And now the time has come to act.”

Markov's every action seemed to have the slightly forced quality of something carefully thought out, impeccably stage-managed down to the last detail. Jeffrey wondered whether this demeanor masked a hidden agenda, or was simply a product of an aristocratic upbringing. He had not met enough princes to know how they behaved under normal circumstances.

“What can we do for you?” he asked.

“I wish you to assist me in reclaiming what is rightfully mine,” Markov replied. “The time has come for our Saint Petersburg estate, which the Communists confiscated, to return to its rightful owners.”

“That is the acquisition you want us to manage?” Jeffrey asked. “You want us to go into Saint Petersburg and reclaim your family's estate?”

“That is correct. I wish for you to go and evaluate the circumstances, carefully examine and appraise the value of the estate, together with whatever may have remained of the original fittings, then report back to me.”

“If you don't mind my asking, why don't you go yourself?”

Markov shook his head emphatically. “Things in Russia are not as simple as they seem. Every local government is desperate for funds. As soon as they hear that a Markov is involved, someone who wants the property for reasons beyond a commercial interest, the price would immediately skyrocket. Not to mention that there is still great animosity toward the old monarchy. I would venture that the Saint Petersburg government would not be pleased with the sudden reappearance of a long-lost prince of the royal family.”

“You need a buffer,” Katya offered.

“One of the utmost confidentiality,” he confirmed. “To make the transaction a success, I must remain utterly unseen.”

“We have experience in antiques and works of art,” Jeffrey pointed out. “But none at all in international real estate.”

“Who has experience in lost Russian palaces? What I need more than anything is someone I can trust.” Markov was emphatic. “Your Mr. Kantor proved a most worthy business associate in the past. Since then I have made quite thorough checks into his background and his transactions. He is a man of impeccable standing. His knowledge of Eastern Europe is extensive. And he has recommended you most highly. In my humble opinion, I feel I could not ask for a more worthy representative.”

There wasn't anything humble within five miles of this guy, Jeffrey thought, and asked, “So whom do I say I am representing?”

“You shall be the official representative of Artemis Holdings Limited. It is my own company, one I founded many years ago. On its board sit some Swiss and British colleagues involved in international investments and the like. My name appears nowhere.”

Jeffrey replied as he thought Alexander would have wished. “I am greatly honored by your confidence, Prince Markov. Naturally, I will have to discuss this with Mr. Kantor, but with his approval I would be happy to act on your behalf.”

“Excellent.” Markov fingered his tie nervously. “With the Russian economy in chaos, it is hard to say exactly how the privatization of a palace will proceed. However, I understand that approval is most likely to be given to companies planning an ongoing business activity. The documents I have prepared include a business plan for an import-export operation. Associates of mine in the Artemis group are involved in the steel trade. I shall see to details of their business from an office in my palace.”

“I understand,” Jeffrey said, wishing that were the case.

“Splendid. Your fees will be transferred to you as and when you require.” Markov rose to his feet, their audience at an end. “I will send the dossier to London by private courier.”

“I can't tell you exactly when I'll be able to travel,” Jeffrey warned. “I have another trip planned to the Ukraine and—”

“I shall pay what is necessary to ensure the promptest possible attention,” Markov replied in his lofty manner. “This is, as you can imagine, a matter of enormous urgency.”

Chapter 13

Jeffrey called Alexander from Heathrow airport to report their safe arrival and to see if all was well. Alexander had just that morning returned home from the hospital.

“Thank you, my young friend. And the same to you. Yes, it is indeed wonderful to again be in my own flat. I cannot tell you how eager I am to return to the business of living.”

“I cannot tell you,” Jeffrey replied, “how great it is to hear you say that.”

“I take it you had a successful journey.”

“Extremely.”

“I was referring to the business matters,” Alexander commented dryly.

“Oh, sure. That, too. Is there anything we can do for you now?” he asked, half-wanting to check in on the old gentleman and half-hoping that they could go straight home.
Home
. The word carried an utterly thrilling new definition.

“Most certainly,” Alexander replied emphatically. “There is something I have been thinking about every day since my recovery.”

“What's that?”

“My dear boy,” Alexander said, his tone sharpening. “You really shouldn't offer unless you mean it.”