A Matter of Honor Read online

  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?”

  “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.�€