Heads You Win Read online

  Alex remembered his hours of training. First, make sure the enemy are no longer a threat. He and the Tank checked the sixteen bodies. Fifteen were dead, but one lay writhing in agony, blood pouring from his mouth and stomach, aware that death was only moments away. Alex remembered the second order; he raised his gun and pointed it directly at the young man’s forehead, but although it might have been described in the handbook as a mercy killing, he couldn’t pull the trigger.

  The third order was to check your own men, and evacuate the wounded, followed by the dead, who must be returned to their homeland and buried with full honors, not left to rot on a foreign field. And then the final order. The officer in command and any non-commissioned officers must be the last to leave the battlefield.

  Alex left the dying North Vietnamese soldier and rushed to Lowell’s side. The lieutenant was unconscious. Alex checked his pulse, a faint beat. The Tank lifted him gently onto his shoulder and carried him through the undergrowth to the waiting helicopter, before coming back to assist the walking wounded to safety. When he returned to the scene of the battle, he found Alex kneeling over the bodies of Baker and Boyle. They were the last to be placed aboard the second helicopter before it rose into the air.

  The rest of the unit struggled up the hill toward a small open space as the third helicopter came in to land. Alex waited until everyone was on board, before he turned around to make a final check of the battlefield.

  That was when he saw him. Somehow the one surviving Vietcong had managed to haul himself onto his knees and was aiming his rifle directly at Alex.

  The Tank leaped off the helicopter and ran down the hill toward him, firing at the same time. Alex could only watch as the lone Vietcong soldier was jolted backward, a full clip of bullets hitting him, but he still managed to pull the trigger once.

  As if he was watching in slow motion, Alex saw the Tank fall to his knees and collapse on the ground next to the dead Vietcong soldier. Moments later Alex was bending over his friend. “No!” he screamed. “No, no, no!”

  It took four men to carry the lifeless body back up the hill and place it inside the third helicopter. Alex was the last to climb on board and felt ashamed that he had allowed his closest friend to die.

  22

  SASHA

  London

  When the elderly lady entered the drawing room, few would have doubted that Countess Molenski was a genuine aristocrat. Her long black pencil skirt and high-necked jacket were of another age, but it was her bearing and demeanor that could not have been taught, even at drama school. She was simply old-school, and both Sasha and Mike rose automatically when she entered the room. As did Elena.

  Mr. Dangerfield had choreographed the meeting so that nothing would be left to chance. The countess was guided to the only empty place, on the couch next to Sasha, while Elena and the rest of the family were seated on the other side of a table on which the egg was displayed. Once Mrs. Dangerfield had poured the countess a cup of tea, and offered her a slice of Madeira cake, which she declined, Sasha opened by asking her in her native tongue, “How long have you been living in England, countess?”

  “More years than I care to remember,” she replied. “But it’s always a joy to come across a fellow countryman. May I ask where you are from?”

  “Leningrad. And you?”

  “I was born in Saint Petersburg,” replied the countess, “which rather shows my age.”

  “Did you live in one of those magnificent palaces on the hill?”

  “There are no hills in Leningrad, Mr. Karpenko, as you well know.”

  “How silly of me,” said Sasha. “I apologize.”

  “No need. But as you’ve clearly been sent on a fishing expedition, are there any more hoops you’d like me to jump through?”

  Sasha was so embarrassed he couldn’t think of a reply.

  “Shall I begin by telling you about my dear father, Count Molenski? He was a close personal friend of the late Tsar Nicholas the Second. Not only did they share private tutors in their youth, but several mistresses in later years.”

  Once again, Sasha was silenced.

  “But what I’m sure you really want to know,” continued the countess, “is how I came into possession of the masterpiece you see before you, and even more important, how I am certain it was fashioned by the hand of Carl Fabergé, and not an impostor.”

  “You’re right, countess, I would be fascinated to know.”

  “There is no need for you to address me quite so formally, Mr. Karpenko. I long ago accepted that those days are over, and that I must now live in the real world, and like anyone else who finds herself in impoverished circumstances, recognize that I have no choice but to part with some of my family heirlooms if I hope to survive.” Sasha bowed his head. “My father’s private art collection was acknowledged as second only to the tsar’s, although Papa only owned one Fabergé egg, as it would have been considered disrespectful to attempt to outdo the tsar.”

  “But how can you be sure that this particular egg was executed by Fabergé himself, and is not, as I believe several experts claim, a fake?”

  “Several experts with a motive,” said the countess. “The truth is, I can’t prove it, but I can tell you that the first time I saw the egg was when I was twelve years old. Indeed, it was my youthful clumsiness that was responsible for a tiny scratch on the base, which is almost invisible to the naked eye.”

  “Assuming that it is the original,” said Sasha, looking at the egg, “I’m bound to ask why you offered the piece to Mr. Dangerfield, whose expertise couldn’t be more English—Sheraton, Hepplewhite, and Chippendale are his daily fare, not Fabergé.”

  “Reputation is not easily acquired, Mr. Karpenko, but has to be earned over many years, and honesty can no longer be taken for granted, which is why I allowed the egg out of my possession for the first time in twenty years. Had I entrusted it to one of our countrymen, they would have only needed a few days to replace my masterpiece with a fake. I have become aware that such a thought would never cross Mr. Dangerfield’s mind. So it is his advice that I shall be taking.”

  Sasha folded his arms, the agreed sign that his mother should take his place, and continue the conversation in Russian. He stood up, gave the countess a slight bow, and walked across the room to sit between Charlie and her father.

  “Well?” said Mr. Dangerfield, once the countess was deep in conversation with Elena. “What do you think?”

  “I have no doubt that she’s exactly who she claims she is,” were Sasha’s opening words.

  “How can you be so sure?” said Mr. Dangerfield, whose tea had long since gone cold.

  “She speaks a form of Russian court language that is frankly from another age, and that you rarely come across today outside the pages of Pasternak.”

  “And the egg, is that also out of the pages of Pasternak?”

  * * *

  Sasha seemed to be the only person who was surprised when he was elected—by a landslide—as the next president of the Union.

  Fiona clearly didn’t enjoy having to read out the result to a packed audience. Ben finally made treasurer, and he and Sasha spent their Christmas holiday planning the next term’s debates. They were delighted when the Education Secretary, Mrs. Thatcher, agreed to speak in defense of the government’s policies for the opening debate, because there were several leading politicians who were only too happy to oppose the “milk snatcher.”

  Full terms at Cambridge are eight weeks long, and although Sasha attempted to survive on as little sleep as possible, he still couldn’t believe how quickly his fifty-six days in office as president passed. No sooner had he stepped down from the high chair, than his supervisor reminded him that finals were fast approaching.

  “And if you’re still hoping for a first,” Dr. Streator reminded him, “I suggest you now devote the same amount of energy to your studies as you did to becoming president of the Union.”

  Sasha heeded Dr. Streator’s advice, and continued to survive on