A Matter of Honor Read online

  “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 streetcar line on the far side of the road.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  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 white washed 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, but 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 Czar’s icon,’ of which, 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 Saint 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.” Adam 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 church warden’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 toward the Ritz. He had read somewhere that Sotheby’s was on Bond Street, although he couldn’t remember having ever seen it.

  He walked another hundred yards before turning left, where he shortened his stride to check all the signs on both sides of the road. He passed Gucci’s, Cartier’s, Asprey’s, and was beginning to wonder if his memory had failed him and whether he should check in the telephone directory. He continued on past the Irish Tourist Board and Celine’s before he finally spotted the gold lettering above a little newspaper kiosk on the far side of the road.

  He crossed the one-way street and entered the front door by the side of the kiosk. He felt like a boy on his first day at a new school unsure of his surroundings and not certain to whom he should turn for advice. Most of the people who passed him went straight up the stairs, and he was just about to follow them when he heard a voice say, “Up the stairs and straight through, madam. The auction is due to start in a few minutes.”

  Adam turned and saw a man in a long, green coat. The name “Sotheby” was embroidered over his lefthand pocket.

  “Where do I go if I want something valued?” Adam asked.

  “Straight along the passage, sir, as far as you can go, and you’ll see a girl on the left-hand side in reception,” barked his informant. Adam thanked him, presuming that the guide’s former place of work could only have been on an Aldershot drill square. He walked along to the reception area. An old lady was explaining to one of the girls behind the counter that her grandmother had left the vase to her several years before and she wondered what it might be worth.

  The girl only glanced at the heirloom before asking, “Can you come back in about fifteen minutes? By then our Mr. Makepeace will have had time to look at it and give you an estimate.”

  “Thank you, my dear,” said the old lady expectantly. The girl picked up the large ornate vase and carried it to a room in the back. She returned a few moments later to be faced with Adam waiting.

  “May I help you, sir?”

  “I’m not sure,” began Adam. “I need some advice concerning an icon.”

  “Have you brought the piece with you, sir?”

  “No, it’s still abroad at the moment.”

  “Do you have any details?”

  “Details?”

  “Artist’s name, date, size. Or better still, do you have a photograph of the piece?”

  “No,” said Adam sheepishly. “I only know its title, but I do have some documentation,” he added, handing over the receipt he had shown the pastor.

  “Not a lot to go on,” said the girl, studying the German transcript. “But I’ll ask Mr. Sedgwick, the head of our Russian and Greek icon department, if he can help you.”

  “Thank you,” said Adam, as the girl picked up the phone.

  “Is Mr. Sedgwick able to advise a customer?” the girl inquired. She listened for a moment, then replaced the phone.

  “Mr. Sedgwick will be down in a few moments, if you would care to wait.”

  “Certainly,” said Adam, feeling something of a fraud. While the girl attended to the next customer Adam waited for Mr. Sedgwick and studied the pictures on the wall. There were several photos of items that had come under the auctioneer’s hammer in recent sales. A large painting by Picasso called Trois Baigneuses had been sold for fourteen thousand pounds. As far as Adam could make out the brightly colored oil was of three women on a beach. He felt confident they were women because they had breasts, even if these weren’t in the middle of their chests. Next to the Picasso was a Degas of a girl at a ballet lesson; this time there was no doubt it was a girl. But the painting that most caught Adam’s eye was a large oil by an artist he had never heard of called Jackson Pollock that had come under the hammer for eleven thousand pounds. Adam wondered what sort of people could afford to spend such sums on works of art.

  “Wonderful example of the artist’s brushwork,” said a voice behind him. Adam turned to face a tall, cadaverous figure with a ginger mustache and thinning red hair. His suit hung on him as if from a coathanger. “My name is Sedgwick,” he announced in a donnish voice.

  “Scott,” said Adam, offering his hand.

  “Well, Mr. Scott, why don’t we sit over here, and then you can let me know how I can help you.”

  “I’m not sure you can,” admitted Adam, taking the seat opposite him. “It’s just that I have been left an icon in a will, and I was hoping it might turn