“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.
The elderly-looking man took his place at
the back of the taxi queue. 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 grey 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. 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, Simon
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 theatre and New York’s yellow cabs a westside
bar.
When the old man arrived at his destination
he took some time sorting out which coins to pay with. 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 Daiimier. 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 closed 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 at 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 recognised the Israeli passport immediately. Everything seemed to
be in order. 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.
“I don’t think we have ever met, Herr
Rosenbaum,” said the chairman courteously. “You must have dealt with my father.”
“No, no,” said Mr Rosenbaum. “I dealt with
your grandfather, Helmut.”
A look of respect came into Herr Daumier’s
eyes.
“I saw your father only on the one occasion,
and was sad to learn of his premature death,” added Rosenbaum. “He was always
so considerate. You do not wear a rose in your lapel as he did.”
“No, sir, a tiny
rebellion.”
Rosenbaum tried to laugh but only coughed.
“I wonder if you have any further proof of
identity other than your
passport?
” Herr Daumier asked
politely.
Emmanuel Rosenbaum raised his head and,
giving Herr Daumier a tired look, turned his wrist so that it faced upwards.
The number 712910 was tattooed along the inside.
“I apologise,” said Daumier, visibly
embarrassed. “It will take me only a few minutes to bring your box up, if you
will be kind enough to wait.”
Mr Rosenbaum’s eyes blinked as if he were
too tired even to nod his agreement. The two men left him alone. They returned
a few minutes later with a flat box about two feet square and placed it on the
table in the centre of the room. Herr Daumier unlocked the top lock while the
other partner acted as a witness. He then handed over a key to Rosenbaum
saying, “We will now leave you, sir. Just press the button underneath the table
when you wish us to return.”
“Thank you,” said Rosenbaum, and waited for
the door to close behind them. He turned the key in the lock and pushed up the
lid. Inside the box was a package in the shape of a picture, about eighteen by
twelve inches, covered in muslin and tied securely. Rosenbaum placed the
package carefully in his old suitcase. He then shut the box and locked it. He
pressed the button under the table and within seconds Herr Daumier and the
junior partner returned.
“I do hope everything was as you left it,
Herr Rosenbaum,” said the chairman, “it has been some considerable time.”
“Yes, thank you.” This time the old
gentleman did manage a nod.
“May I mention a matter of no great
consequence?” asked Herr Daumier.
“Pray do so,” said the old man.
“Is it your intention to continue with the
use of the box? The funds you left to cover the cost have recently run out.”
“No, I have no need for it any longer.”
“It’s just that there was a small charge
outstanding. But in the circumstances we are happy to waive it.”
“You are most kind.” Herr Daumier bowed and
the junior partner accompanied their client to the front door, helped him into
a taxi and instructed the driver to take Mr Rosenbaum to Zurich airport.
At the airport, the old man took his time
reaching the check-in desk, because he appeared to be frightened of the
escalator,
and with the suitcase now quite heavy the flight
of steps was difficult to negotiate.
At the desk he produced his ticket for the
girl to check and was pleased to find that the passenger lounge was almost
empty. He shuffled over towards the corner and collapsed on to a comfortable
sofa. He checked to be sure he was out of sight of the other passengers in the
lounge.
He flicked back the little knobs on the old
suitcase and the springs rose reluctantly. He pushed up the lid, pulled out the
parcel and held it to his chest. His fingers wrestled with the knots for some
time before they became loose. He then removed the muslin to check his prize.
Mr Rosenbaum stared down at the masterpiece. ‘The Cornfields’ by Van Gogh – which
he had no way of knowing had been missing from the Vienna National Gallery
since 1938.
Emmanuel Rosenbaum swore, which was out of
character. He packed the picture safely up and returned it to his case. He then
shuffled over to the girl at the Swissair sales desk and asked her to book him
on the first available flight to Geneva. With luck he could still reach Roget
et
Cie before they closed.
The BEA Viscount landed at Geneva airport at
eleven twenty-five local time that morning, a few minutes later than scheduled.
The stewardess advised passengers to put their watches forward one hour to
Central European Time.
“Perfect,” said Adam. “We shall be in Geneva
well in time for lunch, a visit to the bank and then back to the airport for
the five past five flight home.”
“You’re treating the whole thing like a
military exercise,” said Heidi, laughing.
“All except the last part,” said Adam.
“The last part?” she queried.
“Our celebration dinner.”
“At the Chelsea Kitchen
again, no doubt.”
“Wrong,” said Adam. “I’ve booked a table for
two at eight o’clock at the Coq d’Or just off Piccadilly.”
“Counting your chickens before they’re
hatched, aren’t we?” said Heidi.
“Oh, very droll,” said Adam.
“Droll? I do not understand.”
“I’ll explain it to you when we have that
dinner tonight.”
“I was hoping we wouldn’t make it,” said
Heidi.
“Why?” asked Adam.
“All I have to look forward to tomorrow is
the check-out counter at the German Food Centre.”
“That’s not as bad as a work out with the
sergeant major at ten,” groaned Adam. “And by ten past I shall be flat on my
back regretting I ever left Geneva.”
“That will teach you to knock him out,” said
Heidi. “So perhaps we ought to stay put after all,” she added, taking him by
the arm. Adam leant down and kissed her gently on the cheek as they stood in
the gangway waiting to be let off the plane. A light drizzle was falling out on
the aircraft steps. Adam unbuttoned his raincoat and attempted to shelter Heidi
beneath it as they ran across the tarmac to the Immigration Hall.
“Good thing I remembered this,” he said.
“Not so much a raincoat, more a tent,” said
Heidi.
“It’s my old army trenchcoat,” he assured
her, opening it up again. “It can hold maps, compasses, even an overnight kit.”
“Adam, we’re just going to be strolling
around Geneva in the middle of summer, not lost in the Black Forest in the
middle of winter.”
He laughed. “I’ll remember your sarcasm
whenever it pours.”
The airport bus that travelled to and from
the city took only twenty minutes to reach the centre of Geneva.
The short journey took them through the
outskirts of the city until they reached the magnificent still lake nestled in
the hills. The bus continued alongside the lake until it came to a halt
opposite the massive single-spouting fountain that shot over four hundred feet
into the air.
“I’m beginning to feel like a day tripper,”
said Heidi, as they stepped out of the bus, pleased to find the light rain had
stopped.
Both of them were immediately struck by how
clean the city was as they walked along the wide litter-free pavement that ran
alongside the lake. On the other side of the road neat hotels, shops and banks
seemed in equal preponderance.
“First we must find out where our bank is so
that we can have lunch nearby before going to pick up the booty.”
“How does a military man go about such a
demanding exercise?” asked Heidi.
“Simple. We drop in at the first bank we see
and ask them to direct us to Roget
et
Cie.”
“I’ll
bet
your little arm must have been covered in initiative badges when you were a Boy
Scout.”
Adam burst out laughing. “Am I that bad?”
“Worse,” said Heidi. “But you personify
every German’s image of the perfect English gentleman.” Adam turned, touched
her hair gently and leaning down, kissed her on the lips.
Heidi was suddenly conscious of the stares
from passing strangers. “I don’t think the Swiss approve of that sort of thing
in public,” she said. “In fact, I’m told some of them don’t approve of it in
private.”
“Shall I go and kiss that old prune over
there who is still glaring at us?” said Adam.
“Don’t do that, Adam, you might turn into a
frog. No, let’s put your plan of campaign into action,” she said, pointing to
the Banque Populaire on the far side of the avenue.
When they had crossed the road Heidi
enquired of the doorman the way to Roget
et
Cie. They
followed his directions, once again admiring the great single-spouted fountain
as they continued on towards the centre of the city.
Roget et Cie was not that easy to pinpoint,
and they walked past it twice before Heidi spotted the discreet sign chiselled
in stone by the side of a high wrought-iron and plate-glass door.
“Looks impressive,” said Adam, “even when it’s
closed for lunch.”
“What were you expecting – a small branch in
the country? I know you English don’t like to admit it but this is the centre
of the banking world.”