A Matter of Honor

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Petrova was now sitting on the edge of her seat, enjoying every moment of the unfolding drama. She had already anticipated exactly what was going to happen and was disappointed when Romanov turned to speak to her.

“You will wait outside,” was all he said. Petrova pouted and rose reluctantly to leave them, closing the door behind her.

Bischoff waited until he was certain the door was closed, then slid the file across the table. Romanov opened it gingerly. On the top of the first page was his grandfather’s name underlined three times. Below the name were printed row upon row of incomprehensible figures.

“I think you will find that we have carried out your grandfather’s instructions in maintaining a conservative portfolio of investments with his funds.” Bischoff leaned across and pointed to a figure showing that the bank had achieved an average increase of 6.7 percent per annum over the previous forty-nine years.

“What does this figure at the foot of the page represent?” asked Romanov.

“The total value of your stocks, bonds, and cash at nine o’clock this morning. It has been updated every Monday since your grandfather opened an account with this bank in 1916.” The old man looked up proudly at the three pictures on the wall.

“Bozhe Moi,” said Romanov, as he took in the final figure. “But what currency is it in?”

“Your grandfather only showed faith in the American dollar,” said Herr Bischoff.

“Bozhe Moi,” Romanov repeated.

“May I presume from your comment that you are not displeased with our stewardship?”

Romanov was speechless.

“It may also interest you to know that we are in possession of several boxes, the contents of which we have no knowledge. Your father also visited us on one occasion soon after the war. He appeared satisfied and assured me that he would return, but we never heard from him again. We were saddened to learn of his death. You might also prefer in the circumstances to return and investigate the boxes at another time,” the banker continued.

“Yes,” said Romanov quietly. “Perhaps I could come back this afternoon?”

“The bank will always be at your service, Your Excellency,” replied Herr Bischoff.

No one had addressed a Romanov by his title since the Revolution. He sat in silence for some time.

Eventually he rose and shook hands with Herr Bischoff. “I will return this afternoon,” he repeated before joining his companion in the corridor.

Neither uttered a word until they were back on the street outside the bank. Romanov was still so overcome by what he had learned that he failed to notice that the man he had so deftly avoided at the hotel was now standing in a streetcar line on the far side of the road.

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE PASTOR SAT at the table studying the document but didn’t offer an opinion for some considerable time. When he had heard Adam’s request he had invited the young man into the privacy of his little office at the back of the German Lutheran church.

It turned out to be a stark room dominated by a wooden table and several wooden chairs that didn’t match. A small black crucifix was the only ornament on the white washed walls. Two of the unmatching chairs were now occupied by Adam and the pastor. Adam sat bolt upright while the man of God, clad from head to toe in a black cassock, elbows on the table and head in hands, stared down at the copy of the document.

After some considerable time, without raising his eyes he offered, “This is a receipt, if I am not mistaken. Although I have little knowledge of such things, but I am fairly confident that Roget et Cie, who must be Swiss bankers based in Geneva, have in their possession an object described herein as ‘the Czar’s icon,’ of which, if I remember my history correctly, the original can be viewed somewhere in Moscow. It appears,” he continued, his eyes still fixed on the document, “that if the holder of this receipt presents himself in Geneva, he will be able to claim the aforementioned icon of Saint George and the dragon, deposited there by a Mr. Emmanuel Rosenbaum. I confess,” said the pastor, looking up for the first time, “that I’ve never seen anything like it before.” He folded up the copy of the document and handed it back to Adam.

“Thank you,” said Adam. “That has been most helpful.”

“I am only sorry that my superior the bishop is away on his annual retreat because I feel sure he would have been able to throw more light on the matter than I have.”

“You have told me everything I need to know,” said Adam, but couldn’t resist asking, “Are icons at all valuable?”

“Once again, I must confess that I am not the best man from whom to seek such an opinion. All I can tell you is that, as with all art, the value of any object can vary from one extreme to the other without any satisfactory explanation to us normal mortals.”

“Then there is no way of knowing the value of this particular icon?” asked Adam.

“I wouldn’t venture an opinion, but no doubt the art auctioneers Sotheby’s or Christie’s might be willing to do so. After all, they claim in their advertisements that they have an expert in every field waiting to advise you.”

“Then I shall put their claim to the test,” said Adam, “and pay them a visit.” Adam rose from his chair, shook hands with the pastor, and said, “You have been most kind.”

“Not at all,” said the pastor. “I was only too pleased to assist you. It makes a change from Frau Gerber’s marital problems and the size of the church warden’s marrows.”