“What an honour for our little bank, Mr
Romanov,” were Bischoff’s first words as he bowed and shook the Russian by the
hand. Romanov nodded and introduced his assistant, who received the same
courteous bow and handshake. “May I in turn present my son and two of my
partners, Herr Muller and Herr
Weizkopf.
” The three
men bowed in unison, but remained standing while Bischofftook his seat at the
head of the table.
At his gesture both Romanov and Anna sat
down beside him.
“I wonder if I might be permitted to check
your passport?” asked Bischoff, as if to show that the formal business had
begun. Romanov took out the little blue passport with a soft cover from his
inside pocket and handed it over. Bischoff studied it closely, as a philatelist
might check an old stamp, and decided it was mint. “Thank you,” he said, as he
returned it to its owner
Bischoff then raised his hand and one of the
partners immediately left them. “It will only take a moment for my son to fetch
the icon we have in safe-keeping,” he confided. “Meanwhile perhaps a little
coffee – Russian,” he added.
Coffee appeared within moments borne by yet
another smartly dressed lady.
“Thank you,” said Petrova, clearly a little
overawed, but Romanov didn’t speak again until Herr Bischoff’s son reappeared
with a small box and handed it over to his father.
“You will understand that I have to treat
this matter with the utmost delicacy,” the old man confided. “The icon may not
turn out to be the one your Government is searching for.”
“I understand,” said Romanov.
“This magnificent example of Russian art has
been in our possession since 1938, and was deposited with the bank on behalf of
a Mr Emmanuel Rosenbaum.”
Both visitors looked shocked.
“Nevozmozhno,”
said Anna, turning to her
master. “He would never...”
“I suspect that’s exactly why the name was
chosen in the first place,” Romanov said curtly to Anna, annoyed at her
indiscretion. “Can’t you see? It makes perfect sense. May I see the icon now?”
said Romanov, turning back to the bank’s Chairman.
Herr Bischoff placed the box in the centre
of the table. The three men in grey suits each took a pace forward. Romanov
looked up. “Under Swiss law we must have three witnesses when opening a box in
someone else’s name,” explained the old man.
Romanov nodded curtly.
Herr Bischoff proceeded to unlock the metal
box with a key he produced from his pocket, while his son leaned over and undid
a second lock with a different key. The little ceremony completed, Herr
Bischoff pushed up the lid of the box and turned it round to face his guests.
Romanov placed his hands into the box like an expectant child does with a
Christmas stocking, and drew out the icon. He stared at the beautiful painting.
A small wooden rectangle that was covered in tiny pieces of
red, gold and blue making up the mosaic of a man who looked as if he had all
the worries of the world on his shoulders.
The face, although sad, still
evoked a feeling of serenity. The painting Romanov held in his hand was quite
magnificent, as fine as any he had seen at the Winter Palace. No one in the
room was quite sure what would happen next as Romanov
offered
no opinion.
It was Anna who finally spoke.
“A masterpiece it is,” she said, “and
undoubtedly fifteenth century but as you can see it’s not St George and the
Dragon.”
Romanov nodded his agreement, still unable
to let go of the little painting. “But do you know the origin of this
particular icon?” Romanov asked.
“Yes,” Anna replied, glad to be appreciated
for the first time. “It is the Icon of St Peter, you see he holds the keys...
painted by Dionisiy in 1471, and although it is undoubtedly one of the finest
examples of his work, it is not the Tsar’s icon.”
“But does it
belong
to the Russian people?” asked Romanov, still hopeful of some reward for all his
trouble.
“No, Comrade Major,” said the researcher
emphatically. “It belongs to the Munich Gallery, from where it has been missing
since the day Hitler was appointed Reichschancellor.”
Herr Bischoff scribbled a note on a piece of
paper in front of him. At least one bank in Munich was going to be happy to do
business with him in the future.
Romanov reluctantly handed back the icon to
Herr Bischoff, only just managing to say, “Thank you.”
“Not at all,” said Herr Bischoff
imperturbably, replacing the icon in the box and turning his key in his lock.
His son completed the same routine with his own key and then departed with the
unclaimed treasure. Romanov rose, as he considered nothing more could be gained
from the meeting – although he believed he had discovered Goering’s alias, or
one of them.
“I wonder if I might be permitted to have a
word with you in private, Herr Romanov,” asked the elderly banker.
“Of course.”
“It is rather a delicate matter I wish to
put to you,” said Herr Bischoff, “so I thought you might prefer your associate
to leave us.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Romanov,
unable to think of anything Bischoff might have to say that he wouldn’t later
need to discuss with Petrova.
“As you wish,” said Bischoff. “I am curious
to discover if there was any other reason behind your request to see me.”
“I don’t understand what you mean,” said
Romanov.
“I felt perhaps I knew the real reason you
had selected this bank in particular to start your enquiry.”
“I didn’t select you,” said Romanov. “You
were only one of-” he stopped himself.
“I see,” said Bischoff, himself now looking
somewhat bemused. “Then may I be permitted to ask you a few questions?”
“Yes, if you must,” said Romanov, now
impatient to get away.
“You are Alexander Petrovich Romanov?”
“You must already believe that or we would
not have proceeded this far.”
“The only son of Peter
Nicholevich Romanov?”
“Yes.”
“And grandson of Count Nicholai
Alexandrovich Romanov?”
“Is this to be a history lesson on my family
tree?” asked Romanov, visibly irritated.
“No, I just wanted to be sure of my facts as
I am even more convinced it would be wise for your associate to leave us for a
moment,” the old man suggested diffidently.
“Certainly not,” said Romanov. “In the
Soviet Union we are all equal,” he added pompously.
“Yes, of course,” said Bischoff, glancing
quickly at Anna before continuing. “Did your father die in 1946?”
“Yes. He did,” said Romanov, beginning to
feel distinctly uncomfortable.
“And you are the only surviving child?”
“I am,” confirmed Romanov proudly.
“In which case this bank is in possession...”
Bischoff hesitated as a file was put in front of him by one of the men in grey.
He placed a pair of gold, half-moon spectacles on his nose, taking as long as
he could over the little exercise.
“Don’t say anything more,” said Romanov
quietly.
Bischoff looked up. “I’m sorry, but I was
given every reason to believe your visit had been planned.”
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.” BischofT leaned across and pointed to a figure
showing that the bank had achieved an average increase of 6-7 per cent 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
English pound,” 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 tram queue on the far side of the road.
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 blank whitewashed 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, 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 Tsar’s Icon’.
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 St 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.” He 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 churchwarden’s marrows.”
Adam took a bus up to Hyde Park Corner and
jumped off as it turned left into Knightsbridge. He walked through the subway
and continued briskly down Piccadilly towards the Ritz. He had read somewhere
that Sotheby’s was in Bond Street, although he couldn’t, remember having ever
seen it.