A Matter of Honor

“Yes, sir.”

“Mr. Lawrence Pemberton. I feel certain I’ve got the right branch.”

The silence was even longer this time. “Ah, yes,” came back the eventual reply. “Now I can see which department he works in. I’ll see if he’s in.” Adam heard a phone ringing in the background.

“He doesn’t seem to be at his desk at the moment, sir, would you like to leave a message?”

“No, thank you,” said Adam, and replaced the receiver. He sat alone, thinking, not bothering to switch on the light as the day grew darker. If he was to carry through the idea, he needed some information that Lawrence as a banker should find easy to supply.

A key turned in the door, and Adam watched Lawrence enter and switch the light on. He looked startled when he saw Adam seated in front of him.

“How does one open a Swiss bank account?” were Adam’s first words.

“I can’t imagine one would find it that easy if all you have to offer is next week’s unemployment check,” said Lawrence. “Mind you, they usually keep a code name for English customers,” he added, as he put his copy of the Evening News on the table. “Yours could be ‘pauper.’”

“It may surprise you to learn that it was a serious question,” said Adam.

“Well,” said Lawrence, taking the question seriously, “in truth, anyone can open a Swiss bank account as long as they have a worthwhile sum to deposit. And by worthwhile I mean at least ten thousand pounds.”

“Yes, but how would you go about getting the money back out?”

“That can be done over the phone or in person, and in that way Swiss banks don’t differ greatly from any bank in England. Few customers, however, would risk the phone, unless they’re resident in a country where there are no tax laws to break. In which case why would they need the gnomes of Zurich in the first place?”

“What happens when a customer dies and the bank can’t be sure who the rightful owner of the assets is?”

“They would do nothing, but a claimant would have to prove that he was the person entitled to inherit any deposits the bank held. That’s not a problem if you’re in possession of the correct documentation such as a will and proof of identity. We deal with such matters every day.”

“But you just admitted that it’s illegal!”

“Not for those clients resident overseas, or when it becomes necessary to balance our gold deposits, not to mention the bank’s books. But the Bank of England keeps a strict watch over every penny that goes in and out of the country.”

“So, if I were entitled to a million pounds’ worth of gold left to me by an Argentinian uncle deposited in a Swiss bank, and I was in possession of the right legal documents to prove I was the beneficiary, all I would have to do is go and claim it?”

“Nothing to stop you,” said Lawrence. “Although under the law as it currently stands, you would have to bring it back to this country and sell the gold to the Bank of England for the sum they deemed correct, and then pay death duty on that sum.” Adam remained silent. “If you do have an Argentinian uncle who has left you all that gold in Switzerland, your best bet would be to leave it where it is. Under this government, if you fulfilled the letter of the law, you would end up with about seventeen and a half percent of its true value.?

?

“Pity I haven’t got an Argentinian uncle,” said Adam.

“He doesn’t have to be Argentinian,” said Lawrence, watching his friend’s every reaction closely.

“Thanks for the information,” said Adam and disappeared into the bedroom.

The last pieces of the jigsaw were beginning to fit into place. He was in possession of Roget’s receipt of the icon originally meant for his father; all he needed now was a copy of the will to show that the document had been left to him. He could then prove that he was the owner of a worthless/ priceless—he still had no way of being sure which—copy of the Czar’s icon. He lay awake that night recalling the words in his father’s letter. “If there is anything to be gained from the contents of this envelope, I make only one request of you, namely that your mother should be the first to benefit from it without ever being told how such good fortune came about.”

When Romanov returned to the hotel, via the Russian consulate, he found Petrova in her room dressed in jeans and a bright pink jersey, sitting in a corner reading, her legs dangling over the side of the chair.

“I hope you had a fruitful afternoon?” he inquired, politely.

“I certainly did,” Anna replied. “The galleries in Zurich are well worthy of a visit. But tell me about your afternoon: did it also turn out to be fruitful?”

“It was a revelation, my little one, nothing less. Why don’t we have a quiet supper in my room so I can tell you all about it while we celebrate in style?”

“What a magnificent idea,” said the researcher. “And may I be responsible for ordering dinner?”

“Certainly,” said Romanov.

Petrova dropped her book on the floor and began to concentrate on the extensive à la carte menu that had been left by Romanov’s bedside table. She spent a considerable time selecting each dish for their banquet, and even Romanov was impressed when it finally appeared.