Brilliant (17 page)

T  H  I  R  T  Y  -  S  E  V  E  N

Owen was on the phone, behind closed doors. I stuck my head in and he gave me a big smile and blew me a kiss. I gave him a tight smile in return. Nope. This will not continue. Period. The end. Was I going to let a little attention make me lose years, decades, a lifetime of equilibrium? No! Then it dawned on me that my problem was I needed some sleep. I was a completely exhausted wreck.

My interoffice phone rang. “Miss Keswick speaking.”

“Miss Keswick,” the guard said. “There’s a gentleman here asking for Sir Cramner. And he said if Sir Cramner wasn’t here, he’d like to see you.”

“What’s his name?”

“He prefers not to say.”

It’s not especially unusual that a client prefers to keep his identity to himself. After all, Privacy and Trust, with a capital “P” and capital “T,” are cornerstones of our business. “Ask Alcott to bring him to the first-floor conference room.”

“Right.”

Poor old soul, I thought as I touched up my makeup, added concealer over the stupid hickey, and smoothed my hair, happy to see that even though I was dead tired, I didn’t look it. I looked like a damn rose. I started to giggle. I was turning into a complete idiot.

Poor old soul, I started again. Although Sir Cramner died over three years ago, every now and then one of his few surviving, old regimental buddies shows up, having forgotten.

Who I found in the conference room was not an ancient regimental relic but a well-dressed man in his thirties. Black hair and blue eyes, a bladelike nose in a taut face. He stood up when I entered, and we shook hands. His grip was firm.

“Miss Keswick?” His accent was unidentifiable—maybe a little Eton mixed with something mid-Atlantic. “My name’s Dimitri Rush.”

“Good morning, Mr. Rush. Please have a seat. Tell me, how can Ballantine & Company be of service to you?”

“Is Sir Cramner available?”

“I’m sorry, he’s been gone for quite a while now.”

“You mean gone as in . . . ”

“Dead.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I was given his name as well as yours. Well, that’s neither here nor there, is it?” He smiled briefly. His lips were well- defined, and his teeth were white and straight. He had a winning, well-exercised air about him.

“How can I help you, Mr. Rush?”

“I’m here about a matter of the utmost secrecy, and I’ve been given to understand that I can trust you.”

“Of course you can. As long as you aren’t bringing us stolen goods or asking us to do anything illegal.” I am such a hypocrite, sometimes I amaze myself.

“Most assuredly not. It’s family property. But if news of our conversation were to reach the public before we’ve come to terms, it could cause an international incident.”

“Mr. Rush, Ballantine & Company has not been in business for almost 250 years by betraying confidences.” Oh, God, may lightning strike me dead. “Whatever you divulge will stay here within these walls. You have my guarantee.”

“That’s what I needed to hear. Do you mind if I smoke?”

“Please.” I slid an ashtray across the table. He fiddled around with his lighter, sipped his coffee. I checked my watch. “Mr. Rush?” I smiled at him with what I hoped looked like encouragement and not impatience. “I’m ready when you are.”

Based on my experience, I was pretty sure all this fiddling around would turn out to be over another set of hunting prints. He looked the type. Here to sell great-great-great-grandfather’s etchings—maybe there’d even turn out to be a small Rembrandt pencil sketch or a Holbein miniature among the lot—he was dying of guilt. “But,” he would tell me any minute, “it simply
has
to be done, they have to be sold, because the manor house needs a new roof.” Heaven forbid he, or any member of his elbow-patched, broken-down family, should actually get a job.

He gave another quick, slightly apologetic, smile. “I’m sorry, this is such a momentous occasion for me and my family. The responsibility is somewhat awesome.”

“I understand, sir. But if you don’t tell me what it is, we can’t help you.” We’d been at this for about five minutes. I stifled a yawn.

“Tell me, Miss Keswick, did Sir Cramner ever mention to you any- thing about the missing Romanov Treasury? The jewels that disappeared during the Russian Revolution?”

Well, that got my attention quicker than a cold shower. The mist in my head evaporated like fog. I sat straight up and shivered. Goose bumps covered my arms. “Yes, as a matter of fact, he did. A number of times.”

“Good. Good. What did he tell you?”

“He said one day we’d hear from someone about selling them. Are you saying you’re that someone?”

Mr. Rush nodded. His expression was grave. “Yes. He met with my great-great-grandmother, Dowager Empress Marie Feodorovna, and told her to talk to no one but himself, and later, long after she was gone—he’d stayed in contact with my grandfather and then my father—he added your name to his. So”—he examined his hands— “the time has come to sell them. The proceeds will enable us to reclaim our properties.”

I now studied him very closely. This was what Sir Cramner had insisted would happen one day, and all of a sudden, here it was. Right out of the blue. We never know, do we, when life will change.

Just bang, whole different picture of the world. In the blink of an eye, our perspective is shifted forever.

This could be the golden parachute Ballantine’s so desperately needed—Sir Cramner’s final gift to the firm he loved so much. My mind spun from one end of the spectrum: From a bonanza of spectacular publicity—Bertram would be positively orgasmic on the podium, gaveling us to higher and higher records. The publicity would be unstoppable. To the other: We would be blamed for launching World War III—Bertram would resign, and the government would close us down and sue us for ending the world.

“Forgive me, Mr. Rush, to say this is a momentous occasion is extraordinary understatement. It’s mind-boggling.” I knew I needed to say something, ask some sort of intelligent question. “When you say ‘reclaim our properties,’ what exactly does that mean? Reestablish the monarchy?”

He shook his head vehemently. “No. No. We’d never make such a presumptuous, or ridiculous, claim. In spite of what some loyalists may proclaim over the Internet—and believe me, they’re everywhere—restoration of the monarchy in Russia is completely unfeasible, if not impossible. It’s not even desirable, unless, of course, the people were to clamor for it, which they’re not. Unfortunately.” That self-deprecating smile again. “No, what I’m talking about is that, during the revolution, all of my family’s possessions, our estates, furnishings, everything, except those small items they could carry out with them—if they were lucky enough to escape—were appropriated by the state.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but Dimitri Rush held up his hand. “If I may,” he said. “Let’s face the truth: Many of those palaces, properties, jewels, and furnishings are, in fact, rightfully the possessions of the Russian people. And should remain so. They’re national treasures. But many others aren’t. Some were gifts to family members; others were bought legitimately and legally. It’s those properties we want to buy back, because they’re rightfully ours. We have deeds and bills of sale to prove it.”

“What about the jewelry? What is the condition of the provenances?”

“Unimpeachable. These are family, not state, pieces, and each one is fully documented.”

Well, first of all, when a family is the monarchy of a country, there is a not-so-fine line between what’s “family” and what’s “state.” If you were a regular citizen, especially in Imperial, pre-Revolutionary Russia, nobody went around giving you fabulous gems or estates. And when it came to the money? Well, that was another big part of the problem in Russia: The monarchy was keeping all the money—they might have bills of sale for certain goods or properties, but they’d bought them at fire sale prices because the people who’d owned them didn’t have any choice but to sell. If they wanted to thrive, survive, or live. Maybe if the Romanovs had reinvested a little of that cash in the economy, they’d still be in power.

Plus, the chances of having verifiable provenances of a collection that has been through what this one has would be slim, at best. Although—and I had to remind myself that “althoughs” are what make exceptional things happen—the personal jewelry that the Dowager Empress had brought with her to England when she fled, and sold to today’s royal family in order to pay for her upkeep, was fully documented. Some of the pieces could be traced back to the 1400s. So it was possible this collection was in the same condition.

“I’m sorry to sound skeptical, Mr. Rush, but as we’ve all seen over the last years, keeping the provenance intact on something as big and singular as a painting that went through World War II has proved almost impossible in many cases. So to have an entire collection of jewelry that survived not only the Russian Revolution and World War II, securely documented, seems unlikely.”

“I know. But it’s true.” Mr. Rush wasn’t defensive. He was relaxed and confident.

“Where is the collection now? When can we see it?”

“I have it with me. It’s in the back of my car.”

“In the back of your car,” I repeated. “I see.” It occurred to me Mr. Rush was a crackpot who’d somehow stumbled on Sir Cramner’s fantastic claim.

He sensed what I was thinking. “Hidden in plain sight, Miss Keswick. It’s always the best way. It’s what’s kept them safe all these years.”

“Where is your car?”

“At the front door.”

“Okay. I’m going to call the loading dock—I think it’d be a good idea to move the car inside before we unload it.”

Mr. Rush shook his head. “Not necessary. No one knows what’s in there. Besides, I’ve got guards—believe me, nobody can get past them.”

This was a tricky game. If he were legit, then this was the first of what would become many, many negotiations, large and small. If I were to dig in now, he could very easily get in his car and drive a block or two to Christie’s, or across the way to Sotheby’s, and they’d welcome him with open arms.

“Believe me, miss, my family has been responsible for the safe- keeping of this treasury for more than eighty years. I’m certain I can get it across the sidewalk and through your front door.”

“All right, I’ll notify security. Please tell me you won’t mind if I do that.”

“By all means. We’ll need a couple of strong backs and dollies as well.”

T  H  I  R  T  Y  -  E  I  G  H  T

A mud-splattered, slightly dented, aged, white Range Rover—the perfect car for a country gentleman living on fumes—was parked at the bottom of the steps under the watchful eye of our elegant doorman, Winston. He’d come to us from Claridge’s, seduced by one of Bertram’s irresistible offers, and now classed up our establishment in his black-and-gold livery. Watching him greet the early-bird arrivals for the morning’s auctions, it seemed he knew everyone in the world by name. Winston was a London institution. I doubted Owen knew how lucky we were to have him.

Two Airedales sat patiently looking out the smudged, Range Rover windows—one in the driver’s seat, one directly behind. I’m not a dog expert by any means, but these looked to me to be the perfect standards for the breed, with large intelligent eyes, alert expressions, cocked ears, and dark black saddles with rich tan legs and faces. They were an ideal choice for guardians—the fearlessness and brute strength of the breed was legendary. The minute they saw their owner, they stood up and wagged their tails.

Dimitri Rush opened the rear cargo door, snapped on the dogs’ leads, and let them leap out, where they automatically took up their duty stations next to him. Then he leaned into the cargo area and pushed aside a jumble of athletic, hunting, and fishing equipment and tossed back a black tarp, revealing six black metal, padlocked, tackle boxes—each about three feet long, a foot and a half wide, and a foot tall. I don’t know how much each case weighed, but it required two of our burly furniture movers to lift them from the bed of the wagon and muscle them onto the dollies. Armed guards stood by as the cases were stacked.

That done, Mr. Rush and the dogs, who I noticed had not taken their eyes off the cases, followed closely as the carts were rolled down a service ramp into what was known as Cellar A (Ballantine’s had four basement levels). Once we were all in, a three-inch-thick, solid steel door clanged shut and was bolted behind us.

Life in an auction house is dynamic, the backstage activity is non-stop, and Cellar A was the center of the action. We proceeded through an alley of storage lockers with open-slatted walls, their contents visible inside. Moving men swarmed on and off ancient service elevators while supervisors in headsets called out directions for what went into which bin. Today was Monday, and goods were being organized for Wednesday’s auctions. The names of the consignees, time of auction, assigned room, and auctioneer, were displayed at the door to each bin. As soon as today’s sales were over and the goods moved out, these items would be moved up to the showrooms tonight for tomorrow’s exhibitions.

No one paid much attention to our silent parade moving through the maze and maelstrom and onto an empty elevator. We ascended to the mezzanine and went directly to a windowless conference room accessible only by passing behind my desk. The fireproof room, itself a safe of sorts, was reserved for review of highly sensitive or fragile goods, such as documents, illuminated manuscripts, or ancient books; or small items, such as fine jewelry, coins, or stamps. Items that were easily pocketed.

The movers gently hefted the cases onto the baize-covered table, and left.

The guards closed the door and took up their watch, and I locked the door from the inside and pushed the rheostats of the track lights and the air-conditioning thermostat up to high. The lights would force the temperature up in the close little chamber, and it would quickly become unbearably hot. But, the intense lighting was essential. Close examination of the goods would quickly show us what we had in terms of the gems—the real thing or a pig in a poke.

The atmosphere was charged with anticipation. I needed to go get Owen, but I also felt Mr. Rush needed some time to gather himself. I’d recognized in our brief meeting that he was a deliberate, thoughtful man, so I watched quietly from the door while he and the dogs slowly circled the table, his hand sliding familiarly across the boxes. He seemed almost to embrace them. His face was pale. He was about to change history by opening these boxes, to step into the spotlight, and assume a perilous mantle. So aware that I was a witness to the occasion—the last anonymous moment of this man’s life—I remained silent, respectful. His posture was ramrod straight, his shoulders square. There was no fear or trepidation there, only duty.

Shortly, I said, “If you’re ready, I’m going to get Mr. Brace.”

“Mr. Brace?”

“Chairman of the board of Ballantine’s.”

“Ah. Yes. I suppose we have to tell someone sooner or later.” His lips tilted.

“It’s going to be all right,” I said, knowing I didn’t have the slightest idea what I meant by that, and while he didn’t look to me as though he could use an encouraging word or two, I knew it wouldn’t hurt. “I’ll be back in a second.”

Bertram’s office was empty, and Owen’s door was closed. I rapped on it and walked in. He was on the phone. His feet, in their thin-soled, glossy black, banker’s shoes, were propped on the edge of the Edwardian desk. He was leaning back in his chair, a hand covering his eyes as though he were trying to concentrate on every word and it was taking every ounce of his energy. We were both suffering from sleep deprivation and running on sheer will, but I now had the advantage of adrenaline.

Bertram sat across from him, his laptop on the edge of Owen’s desk. He was studying a spreadsheet.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” I said, “but something urgent has come up.” Owen lifted his hand and frowned.

“Seriously. This is important.” I removed his jacket from the coat rack and held it open for him to slip on.

“Okay, Gil.” He sat up and swung his feet to the floor. “I’ve got to go. Keep me posted.” He hung up the phone. “What?”

“You both need to come into the small conference room.” I could scarcely contain myself. “You aren’t even going to believe it.”

“What?”

“Do you remember that night when you came to my apartment, the night of Tina’s press conference, and you were thumbing through a book about Russian crown jewels and I told you the story about Sir Cramner? That he said one day someone would show up at Ballantine’s with an even bigger collection of Imperial jewels?” I smoothed the jacket along the top of his shoulders.

“Vaguely.”

“Well, he just showed up.”

“Who just showed up?” Bertram asked.

“The Czar of Russia.”

They both returned to what they’d been doing.

“Listen to me. Did I steer you wrong about Lady Melody? No. I gave you good advice, and I’m telling you right now that there’s a man in the vault room with a half dozen cases he claims are full of Romanov jewelry that belonged to his great-great-grandmother the Dowager Empress. Now, you both can just stay in here like a couple of nincompoops, or you can come in and meet him and see what he’s got.”

“Quite right,” Bertram said, and got to his feet and straightened his tie. “No harm, no foul. Heaven forbid I should ever be accused of being a nincompoop.”

“Whatever.”

The dogs went on full alert when the three of us entered, growling deep in their throats, and waiting for instructions.

Once I’d made the introductions and Mr. Rush repeated the circumstances, I realized how completely preposterous it sounded. Owen kept looking back and forth between us, as though we were speaking Swahili.

Bertram just nodded his gray head, like a psychiatrist pretending to listen but trying to remember when his tee time was.

“Sir, will you excuse us a moment?” Owen took my elbow and guided me out of the room and into his office. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“No.” I couldn’t help but laugh. I was as bemused as he was. “It’s just what I said. I mean, I don’t know if he’s telling the truth, but I told you what Sir Cramner said would happen, and you’ve heard what Mr. Rush has to say. For all I know, the boxes could be full of sandwiches, but on the chance he’s the real thing, you need to be there.”

“Who else knew about this besides you and Sir Cramner?”

“I haven’t got the slightest idea. But I’m pretty sure no one else in the firm knew about it. No one that I know of.”

Owen jammed his hands in his pockets and shook his head. “I don’t know what the hell’s happening, but I feel like I jumped off a cliff forty-eight hours ago and terra firma is nowhere in sight. You have completely turned my world upside down. Every time I get near you, something happens.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Did I say I didn’t like it? All right. Let’s go back and see what he’s got.”

When Mr. Rush unlocked the boxes and opened them up, and as those halogen lights hit that jewelry, it was blinding. The contents were beyond imagination. Other than the English crown jewels, this was, without question, the most fabulous collection ever assembled.

For once, neither Owen nor Bertram had anything to say.