A Matter of Honor

When the doors opened Romanov might have thought they had entered a jail had the bars not been made of highly polished steel. A man who was seated behind a desk on the far side of the bars jumped up the moment he saw the chairman and turned the lock on the steel door with a long-shafted key. Romanov followed Herr Bischoff through the open door, then waited until they were both locked inside. The guard preceded them down a corridor, not unlike that of a wine cellar with temperature and humidity gauges every few yards. The light was barely bright enough to ensure that they did not lose their footing. At the end of the corridor, they found Herr Bischoff’s son waiting in front of a vast circular steel door. The old man nodded, and the younger Herr Bischoff placed a key in a lock and turned it. Then the chairman stepped forward and undid a second lock. Father and son pushed open the nine-inch-thick door, but neither made any attempt to enter the vault.

“You are in possession of five boxes. Numbers 1721, 1722, 1723, 1724—”

“And 1725, no doubt,” interrupted Romanov.

“Precisely,” said Herr Bischoff, as he removed a small package from his pocket and added, “This is your envelope, and the key inside it will open all five boxes.” Romanov took the envelope and turned toward the open cavern. “But we must open the bank’s lock first before you proceed,” said Herr Bischoff. “Will you be kind enough to follow us?” Romanov nodded and both Herr Bischoffs proceeded into the vault. Romanov ducked his head and stepped in after them. Young Mr. Bischoff opened the upper lock of the five boxes, three small ones above two larger ones, making a perfect cube. “Once we have left, Your Excellency,” said the old man, “we shall pull the door closed, and when you require it to be opened you have only to press the red button on the side wall to alert us. But I must warn you that at five o’clock the va

ult locks itself automatically, and it cannot be reopened until nine the following morning. However, a warning alarm will sound at four forty-five.” Romanov checked the clock on the wall: three-seventeen. He couldn’t believe he would need close to two hours to find out what was in the five boxes. The two Herr Bischoffs bowed and left.

Romanov waited impatiently for the vast door to close behind him. Once alone in Aladdin’s cave he looked around the room and estimated there must have been two or three thousand boxes filling the four walls, giving them the appearance of a library of safes. He suspected there was more private wealth in that one vault than most countries on earth could call on. He checked the numbers of his own boxes and stood waiting like an orphan who has been told there will be second helpings.

He decided to start with one of the small boxes. He turned the key and heard the lock click before pulling out the stiff drawer to discover it was full of papers. He flicked through them to find they were title deeds to many large tracts of land in Bohemia and Bulgaria—once worth millions, now controlled by Socialist states. As he checked each document, the old saying “not worth the paper they were written on” sprang to mind. Romanov moved to the second box, which he discovered contained the bond certificates of companies once managed by His Excellency Count Nikolai Alexandrovich Romanov. The last time they had declared a profit was 1914. He cursed the system he had been born under as he moved on to the third box, which contained only one document, his grandfather’s will. It took only moments to discover that all had been left to his father and therefore he was the lawful owner of everything—and nothing.

Dismayed, Romanov knelt down to study the two larger boxes, both of which looked big enough to hold a cello. He hesitated before placing his key in the lock, turning it and pulling out the vast container.

He stared down in anticipation.

It was empty. He could only presume that it had been that way for over fifty years unless his father had removed everything, and there was no reason to believe that. He quickly unlocked the fifth box and in desperation pulled it open.

The box was split into twelve equal compartments. He raised the lid of the first compartment, and stared down in wonder. Before him lay precious stones of such size, variety, and color that would have made anyone who was not royal gasp. Gingerly he lifted the lid off the second compartment, to find it contained pearls of such quality that one single string of them would have transformed a plain girl into a society beauty. As he opened the third box, his amazement did not lessen, and he understood for the first time why his grandfather had been considered one of the most enterprising merchants of the century. And now it all belonged to Alex Romanov, an impecunious government official, who was already wondering how he could possibly enjoy such riches.

It took Romanov a further hour to go through the contents of the remaining nine compartments. When he reached the last one—almost an anticlimax, in that it contained nothing but gold coins—he felt thoroughly exhausted. He checked the clock on the wall: four-thirty. He began to replace the lids on each of the compartments, but during the treasure hunt he had come across one object of such magnificence that he could not resist removing it. He paused as he held up the long heavy gold chain weighted by a medallion, also made of solid gold, that hung from it. On one side was an engraved picture of his grandfather—Count Nikolai Alexandrovich Romanov, a proud, handsome man—while on the other was a profile of his grandmother, so beautiful that she surely could have worn any of the jewelry in that treasure trove with distinction.

For some time, Romanov held the chain in his hand before finally placing it over his head and letting the medallion fall from his neck. He gave the piece one last look before tucking it under his shirt. When he had replaced the lid on the last compartment he slid the box back into place and locked it.

For the second time that day Romanov’s thoughts turned to his father and the decision he must have made when faced with such a fortune. He had gone back to Russia with his secret. Had he planned to rescue Alex from the life of drudgery that was all he could look forward to? What had been his plans, and had they included Alex? His father had always assured him that he had an exciting future but that there were secrets he was too young to share, and he, in turn, had passed that information on to the authorities. His reward had been a place at the Komasol. But his father must have taken that secret to the grave, because Alex would never have learned of the fortune if it had not been for … Poskonov.

His mind turned to the old banker. Had he known all along, or was it a coincidence that he had been sent to this bank first? Members of his chosen profession didn’t survive if they believed in coincidence.

A false move and the State would not hesitate to send him to the same grave as his father and grandfather. He would have to be at his most skillful when he next came into contact with the old banker, otherwise he might not live to choose between power in his homeland or wealth in the West.

“After I have found the Czar’s icon I will return,” he said quite audibly. He turned suddenly as the alarm bell’s piercing sound rang out. He checked the clock on the wall and was surprised by how much time he had spent in the locked room. He walked toward the vault door and on reaching it pressed the red button without looking back. The great door swung open to reveal two anxious-looking Herr Bischoffs. The son stepped quickly into the vault, walked over to the five boxes, and made safe the bank’s locks.

“We were beginning to get quite worried about the time,” said the old man. “I do hope you found everything to your satisfaction.”

“Entirely,” said Romanov. “But what happens if I am unable to return for some considerable time?”

“It’s of no importance,” Herr Bischoff replied. “The boxes will not be touched again until you come back, and as they are all hermetically sealed, your possessions will remain in perfect condition.”

“What temperature are the boxes kept at?”

“Fifty degrees Fahrenheit,” said Herr Bischoff, somewhat puzzled.

“Are they airtight?”

“Certainly,” replied the banker. “And watertight, not that the basement has ever been flooded,” he added quite seriously.

“So anything left in them is totally safe from any investigation?”

“You are only the second person to look inside those boxes in fifty years,” came back the firm response.

“Excellent,” said Romanov, looking down at Herr Bischoff. “Because there is just a possibility that I shall want to return tomorrow morning, with a package of my own to deposit.”

“Can you put me through to Mr. Pemberton, please?” said Adam.

There was a long pause. “We don’t have a Mr. Pemberton working here, sir.”

“That is Barclays International in London, isn’t it?”