A Matter of Honor

“The most obvious of reasons,” replied Poskonov. “Other interests exert a stronger influence. If, for example, your major source of income emanates from the leading Jewish families, or alternatively the Americans, no amount of pressure will ever allow you to deal with the Soviet Union.” Romanov nodded his understanding. “That being the case,” continued Poskonov, “there still has to be an outside chance that one of these two banks is in possession of the Czar’s icon, and as they are never going to admit as much to Mother Russia, I am not sure what I can recommend you do next.”

The banker sat back and waited for Romanov to take in his news.

“You are unusually silent,” Poskonov ventured, after he had lit another cigarette.

“You have given me an idea,” said Romanov. “I think the Americans would describe it as a long shot.” But if I’m right, it will be the Russians who will get the home run.”

“Baseball is a game that I’ve never understood, but I am glad, however, to have been of some use today. Although I suspect you will still need this, whatever your long shot.” Poskonov removed a single piece of paper from his file and handed it over to Romanov. On it were the words:

DAUMIER ET CIE, ZURICH (refused)

ROCET ET CIE, GENEVA (refused).

“No doubt you will be returning to Switzerland very soon.”

Romanov stared directly at the banker.

“I wouldn’t recommend you visit Bischoff et Cie on this trip, Alex. There will be time enough for that in the future.”

Romanov straightened his fingers.

The old man returned his stare. “You won’t find me as easy to get rid of as Anna Petrova,” he added.

CHAPTER TEN

THE ELDERLY LOOKING man took his place at the back of the taxi line. It was hard to estimate his height because he looked so bent and frail. A large overcoat that might have been even older than its wearer reached almost to the ground, and the fingers that could only just be seen peeping through the sleeves were covered in gray woollen mittens. One hand clung on to a little leather suitcase, with the initials E. R. in black, looking so worn that it might have belonged to his grandfather.

One would have had to bend down or be very short to see the old man’s face—a face that was dominated by a nose that would have flattered Cyrano de Bergerac’s. He shuffled forward slowly until it was his turn to climb into a taxi. The operation was a slow one, and the driver was already drumming his fingers against the wheel when his passenger told him in guttural tones that he wanted to be taken to the bankers, Daumier et Cie. The driver moved off without asking for further directions. Swiss taxi drivers know the way to the banks in the same way as London cabbies can always find a theater and New York’s cabs a West Side bar.

When the old man arrived at his destination he took some time sorting out with which coins to pay. He then pushed himself slowly out on to the pavement and stood gazing at the marble building. Its solidity made him feel safe. He was about to touch the door when a man in a smart blue uniform opened it.

“I have come to see—” he began in stilted German, but the doorman only pointed to the girl behind the reception desk. He shuffled over to her and then repeated, “I have come to see Herr Daumier. My name is Emmanuel Rosenbaum.”

“Do you have an appointment?” she asked.

“I fear not.”

“Herr Daumier is in conference at the moment,” said the girl, “but I will find out if there is another partner available to see you.” After a phone conversation in German she said, “Can you take the lift to the third floor?” Mr. Rosenbaum nodded with obvious signs of reluctance, but did as he was bid. When he stepped out of the lift, only just before the door close

d on him, another young woman was standing there ready to greet him. She asked him if he would be kind enough to wait in what he would have described as a cloakroom with two chairs. Some time passed before anyone came to see him, and the old man was unable to hide his surprise by the age of the boy who eventually appeared.

“I am Welfherd Praeger,” said the young man, “a partner of the bank.”

“Sit down, sit down,” said Mr. Rosenbaum. “I cannot stare up at you for so long.” The young partner complied.

“My name is Emmanuel Rosenbaum. I left a package with you in 1938, and I have returned to collect it.”

“Yes, of course,” said the junior partner, the tone of his voice changing. “Do you have any proof of your identity, or any documentation from the bank?”

“Oh, yes,” came back the reply, and the old man handed over his passport and a receipt that had been folded and unfolded so many times it was now almost in pieces.

The young man studied both documents carefully. He recognized the Israeli passport immediately. Everything seemed to be in order; and the bank’s receipt, too, although issued in the year of his birth, appeared authentic.

“May I leave you for a moment, sir?”

“Of course,” said the old man, “after twenty-eight years I think I can wait for a few more minutes.”

Shortly after the young man had left the woman returned and invited Mr. Rosenbaum to move to another room. This time it was larger and comfortably furnished. Within minutes the junior partner returned with another man, whom he introduced as Herr Daumier.