‘Indeed, Captain.’ Popov appraised the speaker slowly from head to toe, his eyes indicating he wasn’t impressed with what he saw. ‘But many of us as young men, even as young as you are now, kept ourselves in enough physical trim to get in and out of an urn. One of your guards did it just now. You could do it couldn’t you, Lieutenant?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Dubenko had always taken Glinka for a crawler. He debated whether to say he could do it too, but decided against in case he was made to prove it: this sadist was capable of ordering him to leapfrog over rows of urns. There was not the slightest chance of promotion after this. He’d be lucky if he wasn’t demoted—or sent to Afghanistan. Except he’d do anything to avoid disgrace or blame, including flattering Popov.

  ‘Could the Comrade Investigator explain how he deduced this urn was used by the thief?’ Dubenko enquired with abject deference.

  ‘Good question, Captain. Lieutenant, fetch the evidence.’

  Glinka disappeared so quickly this time he forgot to click his heels. He returned with a wooden box which he offered to Popov who shook his head, indicating he should give it to Dubenko who took it gingerly.

  ‘You’ll see—DON’T TOUCH!’ the investigator screamed.

  Dubenko nearly dropped the box in fright. ‘I wasn’t going to,’ he lied.

  ‘The stuff could be covered in fingerprints,’ snapped the other without believing him. ‘You’ll see a chocolate wrapper, a broken packet of French chalk …’

  ‘And two plastic bags tied with string and full of yellow liquid,’ the captain put in to prove at least that his eyesight wasn’t defective.

  ‘He ate the chocolate. He used the chalk to improve the grip of his shoes. And what d’you think the liquid is, Captain?’

  Dubenko swallowed. There could be no doubt. ‘Bitch’s urine?’

  ‘Of course it isn’t. It’s human. It’s his. He was in that bloody great vase twice. You understand? First till three this morning, then for God knows how long after he got the picture. Brought the bags so he could relieve himself, and not have to sit in it after. Only thing if you’re stuck in an urn.’ He gave a bronchial cough. ‘Lieutenant, take the evidence to the lab yourself. Tell them I want a first findings report in my office in thirty minutes. Get someone here to fingerprint the urn too, inside and out. Except the chances are the swine wore gloves. Off you go.’

  As soon as Glinka was out of sight, Popov gripped the captain’s arm in so intimate a way it made him both uncomfortable and strangely apprehensive. The investigator glanced from side to side, and brought his face close to the other’s before he hissed: ‘Anything strike you about all this, Dubenko?’ He paused, but not long enough for the captain to come up with an answer. ‘The first time anyone’s pinched anything from the Hermitage? Professional job? A team at work? Money no object?’ Now he waited, eyes screwed up.

  ‘Inside job? A sub-curator did it? Or a group of sub-curators?’

  ‘No, no.’

  ‘Uh. One of the guards?’ In the spot he was in Dubenko would willingly have indicted his mother-in-law if there was a chance she’d go to Afghanistan instead of him.

  ‘Wrong again. Remember this picture’s worth millions. In the right market, of course. And which market d’you think that would be, my friend?’

  So now he was a friend: it was getting more suspicious. ‘Uh … Not Russia. I’d guess …’

  ‘Absolutely.’ The grip got even harder, but an explanation for the intimate advance was beginning to form in Dubenko’s fevered mind as the other went on: ‘Do I take it, then, we’re agreed this is all a Western capitalist plot, Captain? To steal part of the people’s cultural inheritance? An irreplaceable masterpiece? A picture every one of us prizes beyond measure?’ Popov frowned. ‘What’s it called again?’

  ‘The Conestabile Madonna by Raphael.’

  ‘Precisely. Now on its way to Frankfurt, Cairo, London or New York no doubt. Raped. Torn from its frame by some Western thieving bastard masquerading as a tourist. I don’t know why we let them in. Any of them. Do you?’

  ‘No. Certainly not. Nor why the authorities who let them can’t be made to protect the people’s property. But they ought to be responsible for getting it back. When it’s stolen.’ Now he completely understood what Popov was driving at—not only understood it but applauded it. Hope was in sight. The pall was lifting.

  Popov dropped the other’s arm. His attitude was cool and remote once again. There should be no hint of conspiracy in this.

  Quite simply, this investigator, who privately didn’t want any part of a mess that promised to continue as a mess well into the year of his retirement, and this guard captain, who privately saw no solution that could possibly reflect anything but ill upon himself, these two had to be seen independently to have reached the same professional conclusion.

  ‘I tell you, Comrade Captain, I shall report that in my view I should be exceeding my authority if I continued with this investigation. It clearly points to an international conspiracy, and a different authority should be alerted and involved.’ Popov coughed. ‘I shall commend your zeal,’ he ended, trying to invest the words with conviction and nearly succeeding despite himself.

  ‘With great humility, Comrade Investigator, I shall have to report the same. My men aren’t equipped in numbers or experience to combat international crime. Better to admit it immediately, I feel. Despite your brilliant direction, which I shall record in writing. The responsibility for the crime and its quick solution should be placed on shoulders broad enough …’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Popov interrupted, looking at his watch. ‘I’ll have my report before the Director in an hour.’

  ‘Mine will be with my commanding officer by then, Comrade Investigator.’

  Both men left the building sure that the Committee for State Security—otherwise known as the KGB, and responsible for all foreign miscreants—would be ordered to take over the investigation by morning, if not sooner.

  Chapter Five

  ‘Not the most fascinating plane trip I’ve ever made. But I’ve made worse.’ Mrs Effie Tate beamed up at Molly Treasure. They were standing side by side in one of two long lines of passengers waiting to have passports and visas examined in the stark immigration hall of Leningrad airport. ‘It was great sitting next to you and your husband, Molly,’ the spry if aged Australian added.

  ‘Nicer if you could have sat with your son.’

  ‘Oh he wasn’t far away. Flirting with a pretty little Pakistani girl, weren’t you Reggie?’

  ‘Talking mostly to her husband on the other side,’ Reggie Tate replied pointedly. ‘She gave me her butter at lunch, though.’

  The Tates were an incongruous pair. She was wizened, tiny and energetic with a strong antipodean accent. Her forty-five-year-old architect son was a spare, slightly effete six footer. He wore a well trimmed, reddish beard and rimless spectacles which helped to invest him with an air of quiet academicism. His very English accent was only distinguishable from that of Dirving or Wander because his tone was softer than either of theirs.

  The plane had been packed for the three hour journey—mostly with immigrant families returning on holiday to Karachi where the flight was due to end. The Baroque Circle members had been scattered through the aircraft with couples travelling together in some cases obliged to separate.

  ‘I hope Mr Blinton survived,’ said Treasure who was standing beside Reggie. ‘I still think he should have gone home after that heart attack. Or whatever it was.’

  ‘Heart-block. His wife said it wasn’t serious. Just a little fainting fit,’ said Mrs Tate with all the stoicism of an early colonial. ‘He’s been overdosing with pills to cure his arrhythmia. Slow pulse rate. She said he’s been told to get a pacemaker fitted, but he’s stubborn. Don’t blame him. Getting old’s a rotten business.’

  ‘But in … finitely more attractive than the alternative,’ observed Canon Emdon heavily. He was just behind Treasure. ‘The Blintons must have been first off that dreadfully crowded bus from the airplane. See, they’re in fro … nt of the other queue. And that’s … Nigel behind them.’ The American was squinting through the monocle he had just anchored in his left eye.

  The rectangular hall was fifty feet wide and three times that in length. On its far wall was a massive coloured picture of Lenin backed by the national flag. Underneath was a caption in Cyrillic letters.

  Passengers had to ascend a short flight of steps after entering, then more steps some ten paces further on. Eventually they were to file singly through one of the two separate but parallel booths set into a wooden, waist-high barrier running across the width of the area. Stony-faced, uniformed immigration officers were sitting inside the booths. Another evidently official person but wearing a civilian raincoat and a trilby hat stood in the centre of the area beyond the barrier eying passengers as they passed, before they turned left into the baggage collection and customs hall.

  The London flight had coincided with the arrival of one from Paris. The two lines of passengers stretched back to the entrance doors and beyond, into the open air. The Treasures and the others had just moved to the top of the second short flight of steps. It had taken them twenty minutes to get that far.

  ‘We seem to be doomed to slow-moving queues,’ said Treasure. He was manipulating the dial of his wristwatch. ‘So, with a two hour difference the time now is seven-eleven.’

  ‘Guess I’ll leave my watch the way it is,’ Mrs Tate offered, peering closely at it—a surprisingly substantial piece adorned with several buttons on the side. ‘It’s digital,’ she announced further. ‘Runs away with me whenever I fiddle with it.’

  ‘Shall I do it for you, Mother?’

  ‘Thanks no. I’ll rely on you and Mr Treasure for the essentials. Like getting me to meals on time. It’s only for three days.’

  ‘I don’t see anyone else from our group in the other queue.’ Molly ran her eye down the line of people to their left as she spoke. ‘Probably a few ahead of us this side.’

  ‘Candy Royce and Ed … wina Apse are in front of us,’ affirmed the canon in a resigned voice. ‘The last people on that bus were the first off.’

  ‘Thus will the first be last, and the last first. St Matthew, chapter twenty,’ quoted Mrs Tate, her long vowels somehow enhancing the sense of the scripture. ‘Never did understand the fairness in that parable. The one about the labourers in the vineyard.’

  ‘The Wanders are w … ell in front.’ The canon was clearly not to be lured into a debate about the injustices of Holy Writ. ‘It wouldn’t have pleased Sir Jeremy not to be ahead, of course,’ he concluded drily.

  ‘We haven’t seen Edwina at all yet,’ said Molly. ‘I think she must have been at the very back in the plane. Really, it was so crowded there was no incentive to leave one’s seat to look for people.’

  ‘Oh, ab … solutely,’ agreed the canon with feeling. ‘I resisted an imperative to go to the wa … sh room.’ He swallowed. ‘A second time,’ he added lamely.

  ‘These immigration people are slower than the ones in New York,’ Treasure complained. He had stepped out of the line towards the centre of the hall and was watching the officials who were visible through glass windows at the sides of their booths.

  ‘They’re not that swift in London. Unless you’re fortunate enough to possess a British passport,’ the American cleric said with a smile. ‘I recall on one occasion …’

  The woman’s scream did more than halt the canon’s observation: it riveted the attention of everyone present through its sheer dramatic quality. It came from the area beyond the booths. Both uniformed officials stopped what they were doing and stood up looking agitated. The one on the left opened the door on the far side of his booth and peered out, but didn’t leave his station. The plainclothes man disappeared within the growing knot of people assembling a few feet beyond that booth. Then the woman screamed again.

  ‘Stand back everyone. Give him air. Move back please. Is there a doctor here?’ came the unmistakable, penetrating intonations of Jeremy Wander who had taken charge, accenting his status as an 11th baronet and an ex regular officer. He was visible as well as audible to some, like Treasure, tall enough to be observing over the barrier and to witness his actually pushing back the plainclothes official who, instead of showing anger, thereupon inexplicably turned on his heel and marched from the scene altogether. Close by, Lady Wander had her arm around the shoulder of Gloria Blinton who was clearly in great distress and the source of the screaming.

  A tall, burly man hurried past from behind Treasure calling ‘Je suis un médecin.’ When he reached the left-hand booth he attempted to press on through it, except that he was physically restrained by the uniformed official who leaped across his counter and grabbed him with both hands. Undeterred, and with much Gallic gesticulation and vehement protest, the muscular French doctor was demanding to be allowed through. His cause was soon being supported by Jeremy Wander who took up the protest from the other side.

  In the face of what was threatening to become an international incident, and conscious that assistance had diminished not increased, the perplexed officer made a compromise. First he demanded and received the doctor’s passport, then, stepping out of his booth, he called the other man through, closing and locking the passenger gate beside the booth after him. In the process it became clear that the official was a much shorter person than he had appeared when sitting on a high chair in his domain. Standing he was diminutive, and handicapped in his effort to maintain the dominance he’d been displaying earlier. His intention to take the big Frenchman’s arm and to lead his movements suffered a sort of reverse as he was yanked along behind the doctor like a recalcitrant child resisting the parental pace.

  Treasure, who had meantime returned to the queue, had been able to identify the patient earlier when the people separated to allow the doctor through. ‘It seems Mr Blinton’s had another turn,’ he said to the others. ‘He’s sitting on the floor looking dazed but recovered. As he did after the Heathrow event. One assumes it’s a repetition of the same thing.’

  ‘But why did his wife scream like that?’ asked Molly. ‘In London she rather dismissed the whole thing.’

  ‘This time it may have seemed more serious,’ commented the canon, ‘in London he did rather l … ook as if he’d quite ex … pired. Given up the ghost. Maybe it was just un … nerving. For Mrs Blinton. To have it happen again.’

  ‘He seems to have recovered here just as quickly,’ Treasure observed.

  ‘Well I’m glad he’s all right. But he’s going to be a bit of a responsibility if he keeps dropping dead every few hours,’ said Molly ruefully.

  ‘Don’t think that’ll happen.’ This was Mrs Tate in her confident tone. ‘Air travel upsets people. Makes them tense up. Even subconsciously. He’ll probably be fine from now on.’

  ‘Or until we go back,’ said her son Reggie.

  ‘Meantime he seems to be spoiling our queue,’ complained Molly.

  With the left-hand booth still closed, business at the other one had been resumed, but frustrated members of the deserted line were abandoning it and crossing the floor. Their numbers included a scowling Nigel Dirving, disconsolately pulling his hat forward over his eyes.

  ‘Looks as if we firsters are going to be lasters again,’ said Mrs Tate giving the canon a purposeful look of mild admonition. ‘Never did see the justice in that parable,’ she completed firmly.

  The attractive young Russian woman with the rich, clipped tone and charming accent, heavy on the letter ‘r’, was saying very fast into the microphone what sounded like: ‘Ever-ryone-u in these coach is from Ba-rr-oque Cirr-cle in Lorndon only, yes? No other personus allowed, pleese. Not for the whole of youru stay in USSR. Thank you.’ She smiled her assurance on everyone from where she was standing next to the coach driver. She was petite, very dark, with long straight hair that spilled to the shoulders of the belted, western-style black leather top coat. She was holding a clipboard in one hand while she counted all present with a ballpen poised in the other like a conductor’s baton. She waited for the Treasures who were the last aboard to take their seats near the rear of the vehicle before she spoke again. That’s fourteen persons. It should be fifteen, I think?’—except the first number tripped out engagingly as ‘for-rut-eenu’.

  ‘Canon Emdon’s gone to the gents’,’ boomed Candy Royce from one of the front seats and without benefit of microphone or the need for one. ‘Be here in a jiff.’

  ‘Is Mr Frenk here?’ Molly called over the buzz of general conversation and looking about her. She hadn’t met Frenk yet and felt as President of the Circle she should have done.

  ‘That’s me,’ called the fair young man in the aged British-warm overcoat. He was sitting two rows behind the Treasures, on the very back seat with Nigel Dirving and Edwina Apse.

  ‘Sorry. Should have introduced you,’ called Edwina. She had spoken with Molly for the first time that day only moments before, as they had been coming out of the airport building.

  ‘No chance, was there?’ Molly called back and nodded behind at the three. She gave Frenk an especially warm smile, while noting his fresh, healthy countenance and feeling a stab of sympathy for what appeared to be the blotchy red birthmark over his left eyebrow. ‘I didn’t notice the Blintons when we got on. Should have spoken to them,’ she said later to her husband who had gone back to shake hands with Frenk after dropping his hand baggage on the intervening empty row of seats, as others had done already.

  ‘I talked to them,’ he said, as he sat down. ‘They’re at the front. He was peeling an apple with that boy scout knife of his. He’s quite recovered. Full of apologies to everyone. Looked a bit pale still, but ebullient with it.’

  ‘Glad somebody is.’ Molly glanced at the time. It was already a few minutes after eight. She had just about recovered her composure after being piqued by a particularly officious customs man. He had insisted she open her bag and had taken what seemed suspiciously like lascivious pleasure in slowly upsetting the carefully packed contents—especially the frilliest, most feminine contents. It was why she and Treasure had been last out of the customs hall—a tiny, cramped area where baggage collection, inspection and clearance had been conducted like a football scrum. ‘That man obviously didn’t like me. Didn’t open other people’s bags,’ she said loudly, frowning at the memory.

 

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