The researcher looked back in the direction of the hotel, but all she could see was a mass of anonymous people walking up and down the pavement.
Romanov remained on the streetcar for about a mile before he jumped off and hailed a passing taxi going in the opposite direction.
“Bischoff et Cie,” he said as he waited for his puffing assistant to join him.
The cab headed back in the direction of the hotel, winding in and out of the morning traffic, until it came to a halt in front of a large brown granite building that filled the entire block. Romanov paid off the driver and stood in front of imposing double doors made of thick glass and covered in wrought iron welded to look like the branches on a tree. By the side of the door, carved inconspicuously into the stone and inlaid with gilt, were the words “Bischoff et Cie.” There was no other clue as to what kind of establishment lay within.
Romanov turned the heavy wrought-iron knob, and the two Russians stepped into a spacious hall. On the left-hand side of the hall stood a solitary desk behind which a smartly dressed young man was seated.
“Guten morgen, mein Herr,” he said.
“Good morning,” said Romanov in German. “We have an appointment with Herr Dieter Bischoff.”
“Yes, Herr Romanov,” said the receptionist, checking the list of names in front of him. “Will you please take the lift to the fifth floor, where you will be met by Herr Bischoff’s secretary.” When the two of them stepped out of the lift they were greeted by a lady in a neat plain suit. “Will you please follow me,” she said, without any trace of accent. The two Russians were escorted alon
g a picture-lined corridor to a comfortable room that more resembled the reception room of a country house than a bank.
“Herr Bischoff will be with you in a moment,” the lady said, withdrawing. Romanov remained standing while he took in the room. Three black-and-white framed photographs of somber old men in gray suits, trying to look like somber old men in gray suits, took up most of the far wall, while on the other walls were discreet but pleasant oils of town and country scenes of nineteenth-century Switzerland. A magnificent oval Louis XIV table with eight carved mahogany chairs surrounding it dominated the center of the room. Romanov felt a twinge of envy at the thought that he could never hope to live in such style.
The door opened and a man in his mid-sixties, followed by three other men in dark gray suits, entered the room. One look at Herr Bischoff, and Romanov knew whose photograph would eventually join that of the other three gray, somber men.
“What an honor for our little bank, Mr. Romanov,” were Bischoff’s first words as he bowed and shook the Russian by the hand. Romanov nodded and introduced his assistant, who received the same courteous bow and handshake. “May I in turn present my son and two of my partners, Herr Muller and Herr Weizkopf.” The three men bowed in unison, but remained standing while Bischoff took his seat at the head of the table.
At his gesture both Romanov and Anna sat down beside him.
“I wonder if I might be permitted to check your passport?” asked Bischoff, as if to show that the formal business had begun. Romanov took out the little blue passport with a soft cover from his inside pocket and handed it over. Bischoff studied it closely, as a philatelist might check an old stamp, and decided it was mint. “Thank you,” he said, as he returned it to its owner.
Bischoff then raised his hand, and one of the partners immediately left them. “It will only take a moment for my son to fetch the icon we have in safekeeping,” he confided. “Meanwhile perhaps a little coffee—Russian,” he added.
Coffee appeared within moments, borne by yet another smartly dressed lady.
“Thank you,” said Petrova, clearly a little overawed, but Romanov didn’t speak again until Herr Bischoff’s son reappeared with a small box and handed it over to his father.
“You will understand that I have to treat this matter with the utmost delicacy,” the old man confided. “The icon may not turn out to be the one your government is searching for.”
“I understand,” said Romanov.
“This magnificent example of Russian art has been in our possession since 1938 and was deposited with the bank on behalf of a Mr. Emmanuel Rosenbaum.”
Both visitors looked shocked.
“Nevozmozbno,” said Anna, turning to her master. “He would never …”
“I suspect that’s exactly why the name was chosen in the first place,” Romanov said curtly to Anna, annoyed at her indiscretion.”Can’t you see? It makes perfect sense. May I see the icon now?” said Romanov, turning back toward the bank’s chairman.
Herr Bischoff placed the box in the center of the table. The three men in gray suits each took a pace forward. Romanov looked up. “Under Swiss law we must have three witnesses when opening a box in someone else’s name,” explained the old man.
Romanov nodded curtly.
Herr Bischoff proceeded to unlock the metal box with a key he produced from his pocket, while his son leaned over and undid a second lock with a different key. The little ceremony completed, Herr Bischoff pushed up the lid of the box and turned it round to face his guests. Romanov placed his hands into the box like an expectant child does with a Christmas stocking and drew out the icon. He stared at the beautiful painting. A small wooden rectangle that was covered in tiny pieces of red, gold, and blue making up the mosaic of a man who looked as if he had all the worries of the world on his shoulders. The face, although sad, still evoked a feeling of serenity: The painting Romanov held in his hand was quite magnificent, as fine as any he had seen at the Winter Palace. No one in the room was quite sure what would happen next as Romanov offered no opinion.
It was Anna who finally spoke.
“A masterpiece it is,” she said, “and undoubtedly fifteenth century, but as you can see it’s not Saint George and the dragon.”
Romanov nodded his agreement, still unable to let go of the little painting. “But do you know the origin of this particular icon?” Romanov asked.
“Yes,” Anna replied, glad to be appreciated for the first time. “It is the icon of Saint Peter, you see he holds the keys … painted by Dionisiy in 1471, and although it is undoubtedly one of the finest examples of his work, it is not the Czar’s icon.”