A Matter of Honor

“I see,” said Sedgwick, folding up his glasses. “But can you tell me anything of its provenance?”

“A little. It is known as ‘the Czar’s icon,’ and the subject is Saint George and the dragon.”

“How strange,” said Sedgwick. “Someone else was inquiring after that particular painting only last week, but he wouldn’t leave his name.”

“Someone else wanted to know about the Czar’s icon?” said Adam.

“Yes, a Russian gentleman, if I wasn’t mistaken.” Sedgwick tapped his glasses on his knee. “I checked on it extensively for him but found little that wasn’t already well documented. The man wondered if it had ever passed through our hands, or even if we had heard of it. I was able to explain to him that the great work by Rublev remains in the Winter Palace for all to see. One can always be certain that it’s an original from the Winter Palace because the Czar’s silver crown will be embedded in the back of the frame. Since the fifteenth century many copies of Rublev’s masterpiece have been made, and they vary greatly in quality and value; but the one he seemed interested in was a copy made for Czar Nikolai by a court painter circa 1914. I was unable to find any trace of such an icon in any of the standard works on the subject. Do you have any documentation on your icon?” Sedgwick inquired.

“Not a lot,” said Adam. “Although I do have a copy of the receipt that was left to me in the will,” he added, and handed it over.

Mr. Sedgwick once again unfolded his glasses before studying the paper for several moments. “Excellent, quite excellent,” he said eventually. “It seems to me that, as long as Roget et Cie will release it, a copy of the Czar’s icon painted by the court painter of the time belongs to you. But you will have to go and pick it up yourself, that’s for certain.”

“But is it worth all that trouble?” asked Adam. “Can you give me any idea of its value?”

“Hard to be precise without actually seeing it,” Sedgwick said, returning the document.

“So what is the lowest figure I might expect to get for it?”

The older man frowned. “Ten,” he said, after considerable thought. “Perhaps fifteen, but with an absolute top of twenty.”

“Twenty pounds,” said Adam, unable to hide his disappointment. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time, Mr. Sedgwick.”

“No, no, no, Mr. Scott, you misunderstand me. I meant twenty thousand pounds.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

“A LITTLE MORE caviar, Comrade?” inquired Petrova across the lunch table.

Romanov frowned. His pretense at “strictly confidential information” only to be passed on at the highest level had merely elicited a knowing smile from his companion, who was also not inclined to believe that her boss had a pressing appointment at the consulate that afternoon, an appointment that he had forgotten to mention to her before.

Anna held out a spoon brimming with caviar and pushed it toward Romanov as if to feed a reluctant baby.

“Thank you—no,” said Romanov firmly.

“Suit yourself,” said the young woman before it disappeared down her own throat. Romanov called for the bill. When he was presented with the slip of paper he couldn’t help thinking that for that price he could have fed a Russian family for a month. He paid without comment.

“I will see you back in the hotel later,” he said curtly.

“Of course,” said Petrova, still lingering over her coffee. “What time shall I expect you?”

Romanov frowned again. “Not before seven,” he replied.

“And do you have any plans for me this afternoon, Comrade Major?”

“You may do as you please,” said Romanov, and left the table without further word. Once on the street, he set off in the opposite direction to the bank, but he doubted he had fooled the researcher, who was still eyeing him suspiciously through the restaurant window, or the agent, who had waited patiently on the farside of the road for nearly two hours.

By three o’clock Romanov was once again seated in the private room on the fifth floor looked down on by the three photographs of the Herr Bischoffs, and with the fourth Herr Bischoff sitting opposite him and the fifth Herr Bischoff standing behind him.

“We are in possession of,” began Herr Bischoff, in the same deliberate, formal way that had dictated the pace of the morning session, “five boxes which have remained unopened since your father visited us in 1945. Should it be your desire to inspect the contents …”

“Why else would I have returned?” asked Romanov, already made impatient by the measured voice and studied ritual.

“Indeed,” said Herr Bischoff, seemingly unaware of any discourtesy. “Then all we now require is that you sign a disclaimer in order to legalize the situation under Swiss law.” Romanov looked apprehensive. “It is only a formality.” The Russian still didn’t speak. “You can rest assured, Your Excellency, that you are not the only one of your countrymen who from time to time sits in that chair.”

Herr Bischoff slid a sheet of paper across the table. There were over twenty clauses of German, all in small print. Romanov scrawled his signature between the two x’s with the proffered gold pen. He made no attempt to discover what he was signing. If they hadn’t stolen his grandfather’s heritage already, why should they be bothering to try now? he thought.

“Perhaps you will be kind enough to accompany me,” said Herr Bischoff, quickly passing the sheet of paper to his son, who left immediately. He rose and led Romanov silently back to the corridor. But on this occasion they traveled down in the chairman’s private lift all the way to the basement.