A Matter of Honor Read online

  “Then I must do exactly what Goering did and retrace his steps by going direct to the banks. What has been their policy to date?” asked Romanov.

  “That differs from establishment to establishment,” said Petrova. “Some banks wait for twenty years or more and then try either by extensive research or advertising to contact the owner or their next of kin. In the case of the Jews who lost their lives under the Nazi regime, it has often proved impossible to trace a legitimate owner. Although I have been unable to prove it, I suspect they kept the rewards and split the proceeds among themselves,” said Petrova. “Typical capitalists.”

  “That is neither fair nor accurate, Comrade,” said Romanov, glad to show that he had also been doing some research. “Because that is another of the great myths perpetrated by the poor. In fact, when the banks have been unable to discover the rightful owner of any treasures left with them they have handed them over to the Swiss Red Cross to auction.”

  “But if the Czar’s icon had ever been auctioned wouldn’t we have heard about it through one of our agents?”

  “Precisely,” said Romanov. “And we’ve already checked through the inventory of the Red Cross: four icons have been disposed of but none of them is of Saint George and the dragon.”

  “Then that can only mean some unscrupulous bankers have disposed of the icon privately once they felt sure no one was going to make a claim.”

  “Another false premise, I suspect, Comrade Petrova.”

  “How can you be so certain?” the young researcher asked.

  “For one simple reason, Comrade. The Swiss banking families all know each other intimately and have never shown in the past any propensity for breaking the law. Swiss justice, in our experience, is as tough on corrupt bankers as it is on murderers, which is precisely why the Mafia was never happy about laundering its money through the established banks. The truth is that Swiss bankers make so much money dealing with honest people that it has never been in their best interests to become involved with crooks. There are remarkably few exceptions to this rule, which is the reason so many people are willing to do business with the Swiss.”

  “So if Goering stole the Czar’s icon and deposited it in a Swiss bank vault, it could be anywhere in the world by now,” said Petrova.

  “I doubt it.”

  “Why?” sighed Petrova, a little peeved that her deductions were now proving wide of the mark.

  “Because for the past three weeks I have had heaven knows how many operatives combing Europe for the Czar’s icon. They have spoken to nearly every major curator, keeper, dealer, and crook in the art world, and yet they still haven’t come up with a single lead. And why not? Because the only people who have seen the icon since 1917 were the Hesses and Goering, which leaves me with only one hope if it was not destroyed when the Grand Duke’s plane crashed,” said Romanov.

  “Namely?” asked Petrova.

  “That while the rest of the world is under the illusion that the original still hangs in the Winter Palace, it has for the past twenty years been lodged in a Swiss bank waiting for someone to claim it.”

  “A long shot,” said the researcher.

  “I am quite aware of that,” said Romanov sharply, “but don’t forget that many Swiss banks have a twenty-five-year rule before disclosure, some even thirty. One or two even have no deadline at all as long as enough money has been deposited to cover the housing of the treasure.”

  “Heaven knows how many banks there might be who fall into that category,” sighed Petrova.

  “Heaven knows,” agreed Romanov, “and so will you by nine o’clock tomorrow morning. And then it will be necessary for me to pay a visit to the one man in this country who knows everything about banking.”

  “Am I expected to start straight away, Comrade Major?” the researcher asked coyly.

  Romanov smiled and looked down into the girl’s green eyes. Dressed in the dull gray uniform of her trade, no one would have given her a second look. But in the nude she was quite magnificent. He leaned over until their lips nearly met.

  “You’ll have to rise very early, Anna, but for now, just turn out the light.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  IT TOOK ADAM only a few more minutes before he had checked over both documents. He put the original back in the faded envelope and replaced it in the Bible on his book shelf. Finally he folded his duplicate copy of Goering’s letter into three horizontal pieces and cut it carefully into three separate strips, which he placed in a clean envelope and left on his bedside table. Adam’s next problem was how to obtain a translation of the document and Goering’s letter without arousing unnecessary curiosity. Years of army training had taught him to be cautious when faced with an unknown situation. He quickly dismissed the German embassy, the German Tourist Board, and the German press agency, as all three were too official and therefore likely to ask unwanted questions. Once he was dressed he went to the hall and began to flick through the pages in the London E-K directory until his finger reached the column he had been searching for.

  German Broadcasting

  German Cultural Institute

  German Federal Railway

  German Hospital

  German Old People’s Home

  His eye passed over “German Technical Translations” and stopped at a more promising entry. The address was given as Bayswater House, 35 Craven Terrace, W2. He checked his watch.

  Adam left the flat a few minutes before ten, the three pieces of the letter now safely lodged in the inside pocket of his blazer. He strolled down Edith Grove and onto King’s Road, enjoying the morning sun. The street had been transformed from the one he had known as a young subaltern. Boutiques had taken the place of antiquarian bookshops. Record shops had replaced the local cobbler, and Dolcis had given way to Mary Quant. Take a fortnight’s holiday, and you couldn’t be sure anything would still be there when you returned, he reflected ruefully.

  Crowds of people spilled out from the pavement onto the road, staring or hoping to be stared at, according to their age. As Adam passed the first of the record shops, he had no choice but to listen to “I Wanna Hold Your Hand,” as it blared into the ears of everyone within shouting distance.

  By the time Adam reached Sloane Square the world had almost returned to normal—Peter Jones, W. H. Smith’s and the London underground. The words his mother had sung so often over the kitchen sink came back to him every time he walked into the square.

  And you’re giving a treat (penny ice and cold meat)

  To a party of friends and relations,

  They’re a ravenous borde, and They all came aboard

  At Sloane Square and South Kensington stations.

  He paid a shilling and threepence for a ticket to Paddington and, installed in a half-empty carriage, once again went over his plan. When he emerged into the open air at Paddington he checked the street name, and once he was sure of his bearings walked down to Craven Road until he came to the first available newsagent and then asked the directions for Craven Terrace.

  “Fourth road on the right, mate,” said the shopkeeper, not bothering to look up from a pile of Radio Times on which he was penciling names. Adam thanked him and a few minutes later found himself standing at the end of a short drive, looking up at the bold green-and-yellow sign: The German Young Men’s Christian Association.

  He opened the gate, walked up the drive, and strode confidently through the front door. He was stopped by a porter standing in the hallway.

  “Can I help you, guv’nor?″

  Adam put on an exaggerated military accent and explained that he was looking for a young man called Hans Kramer.

  “Never’eard of’im, sir,” said the porter, almost standing to attention when he recognized the regimental tie. He turned to a book that lay open on the desk. “‘e isn’t registered,” he added, a Woodbine-stained thumb running down the list of names in front of him. “Why don’t you try the lounge or the games room?” he suggested, gesturing with the thumb to a door on the right.