The Lost Symphony, page 7
Instead of moving on, she had turned to art to sustain her, and built a dark empire of shady art deals and questionable transactions where everything was possible, for a price.
Stolen paintings, antiquities and artefacts, books and manuscripts, even jewellery and rare musical instruments, would find their way to Malenkova from all over the world. Well known as someone who could find a buyer for almost anything – no questions asked – she was in great demand as a well-connected celebrity fence with access to the rich and powerful, prepared to pay handsomely for what she had to offer.
Secretive, manipulative and competitive by nature, Malenkova had channelled her energy and thwarted ambition into a different chase. Instead of chasing gold medals and fame, she now thrived on different challenges, often triggered by items she came across in unexpected ways. She was always on the lookout – usually for paintings, objets d’art and rare manuscripts – and had ‘spotters’ in many places.
Art galleries, libraries, universities, exhibitions, research institutes and the like around the world were all places of interest and part of her extensive network. Among the individuals she frequently did business with were archaeologists, university professors, art gallery curators, politicians, auctioneers, even palaeographers like Philippe. She always paid handsomely for leads and information she considered useful to her eclectic quests.
The physical challenge of her youth to attempt the impossible on ice, had been replaced by an intellectual challenge to unravel secrets and mysteries of the past that had eluded others, and profit from them along the way. Malenkova prided herself in being able to see what others couldn’t, and muster the resources and ingenuity needed to turn that knowledge into results. She pursued her objectives with a stubborn, ruthless determination, and would stop at nothing to achieve her ambitions. With excellent connections to the Paris underworld, she was able to call on muscle if needed, and use more heavy-handed tactics should that be necessary. Over the years, she had accumulated a considerable fortune, which allowed her to indulge her extravagant tastes and pursue her expensive ventures.
After her devastating accident that brought her illustrious career to a sudden end, she went over to the dark side and became her father’s assistant at Stasi. This gave her access to confidential material and intelligence concerning individuals and organisations only available to a privileged few. Over the years, she had carefully put aside some of that valuable intelligence and built up a small hoard of dossiers she intended to use in the future, when the time was right.
Then in 1989, the GDR collapsed, the Berlin wall came down and the hated Stasi disintegrated. Malenkova’s father returned to Russia and joined the KGB. Malenkova left Berlin and went to live in Paris.
Now in her late fifties, Malenkova looked ten years older than she was. She sat in her wood-panelled study where once an altar had provided spiritual solace to the faithful. Hunched over her desk, she looked like a dangerous spider waiting for unsuspecting prey to become ensnared in her web of intrigue and greed.
Surrounded by books and manuscripts, she was carefully studying the letter Philippe had alerted her to. It was, of course, only a photocopy, but sufficient to have immediately aroused her interest. Apart from the few fascinating titbits Philippe had told her about the letter, she found its provenance and the way it was discovered of particular interest. And then there had been the lunch at La Closerie des Lilas with Mademoiselle Darrieux, Countess Kuragin and that interesting man, Jack Rogan, the author.
Malenkova had come across Mademoiselle Darrieux before and knew of her work, especially her biographies. She had heard of Countess Kuragin and her chateau, but had never met her. As for Jack Rogan, he was unknown to her, until now. She had carefully studied all the available material on the internet, which was extensive and very informative, and was beginning to piece together a picture of Jack, the intrepid adventurer with a literary streak. But that was only one of the links. Much more important as far as Malenkova was concerned, was the connection between Jack and Madame Petrova and the music box.
Malenkova read a certain passage in The Darling of Swan Lake – Madame Petrova’s biography – a second time, and took off her glasses. Fascinating, she thought and underlined a short paragraph in the letter with a highlighter. She found that dividing a text, in this case a letter, into several distinct parts was a good way of analysing it and making sense of its content. An original letter from Empress Alexandra, the wife of Russia’s last tsar, would be interesting enough, she thought, but what made Malenkova particularly excited was the content, or rather the questions raised by the curious way the letter was constructed, and what it was insinuating and hinting at without spelling it out.
Less than an hour after discovering the letter, the countess and Rogan have lunch with Petrova’s biographer, thought Malenkova. Coincidence? Hardly. Malenkova didn’t believe in coincidences, only analytical deduction and reason. She looked again at the letter and slowly ran her fingertips along the passage she had underlined earlier. I wonder what it means? she thought, a wave of excitement washing over her. Then she sat back and rang the bell on her desk.
Moments later, her PA, a young Polish woman, entered.
‘Zuzanna, please tell me again exactly what happened yesterday from the moment you saw the two of them leave Dupree’s workshop.’
‘Certainly. They got into a waiting car and I followed them on my scooter to the restaurant.’
‘La Closerie des Lilas?’ said Malenkova.
‘Yes. Mademoiselle Darrieux was waiting inside. The countess and Mr Rogan were shown to her table. It was clear from the way they greeted one another that they are friends, or at least know each other very well.’
‘What happened next?’
‘Champagne. Lots of it.’
‘I want to know about the letter,’ Malenkova said impatiently, ‘not their drinking habits.’
‘Rogan showed it to Darrieux. She took her time reading it. After that, they had what looked like an animated discussion about it. The letter was on the table and Rogan held it up several times, obviously to make a point.
‘Then what?’
‘Rogan put the letter into his pocket and they had lunch. After an hour or so, they stood up, said goodbye, and went their separate ways.’
Malenkova nodded, looking pleased. ‘Now tell me about that phone call.’
‘I just spoke to Philippe again a short while ago. He wants to meet.’
‘Why?’
‘Apparently, there is more to all this.’
‘In what way?’
‘The letter wasn’t the only thing he found in the music box. There was something else.’
‘Oh? Did he say what it was?’
‘No. I got the impression he’s after more money, before—’
‘I see,’ interrupted Malenkova, frowning. It was obvious she was annoyed. ‘I think Philippe is playing a little game here. He could have told us this earlier.’
‘I thought that, too,’ said Zuzanna.
‘Very well. Philippe shall have his meeting, but not exactly what he had in mind. I don’t like games. We’ll do this my way,’ said Malenkova, steel in her voice, ‘and teach him a lesson he won’t forget. And at the same time, we send a message to others who might have similar ideas ...’
‘Sure. What do you want me to do?’
‘I’ll tell you later, but first I want you to find out everything you can about Jack Rogan and Mademoiselle Darrieux. I’ve already found a lot of information about Rogan on the Net. Fascinating man. I want you to pay particular attention to Darrieux, understood? I want to know everything about her, particularly her past. Everybody has a weak spot, something to hide, a secret, especially someone like Darrieux. I want you to find it. Clear?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Zuzanna, used to Malenkova’s devious ways and abrupt instructions. Investigating a person she had just come across was by no means unusual. To Malenkova, intelligence was power. She had learned that much from her father. ‘I will get onto it straight away,’ said Zuzanna.
‘You do that.’
‘Will that be all?’
‘Yes, for now.’
10
Enter Rasputin, Peterhof Palace, St Petersburg: 1 November 1905
Countess Bolkonskaya met Grigori Rasputin on the same day he was introduced to the tsar and his wife at Peterhof. This fateful meeting set in train a tragic chain of events with catastrophic consequences for the tsar, his family and Russia. The first of November 1905 was a cold and windy day. Part of the canal was frozen in patches and heavy fog hovered over the sea like a shroud. Rasputin had arrived in the afternoon, but his reputation preceded him. The simple peasant from the Siberian village of Pokrovskoye in Siberia had a meteoric rise during 1905 after his arrival in St Petersburg from Kazan. Doors seemed to open for him wherever he went and he rose from the bottom of the society ladder to the very top in less than a year, an unheard of accomplishment for a man like Rasputin in Imperial Russia at the time.
Hailed by some as a starets, or holy man and mystic with healing powers, he soon became the darling of the aristocratic elite – especially the women – who couldn’t get enough of him and flocked to every salon he was invited to, just to hear him speak. His magnetic personality and strange ways were the talk of St Petersburg, yearning for something new, and fascinated by spiritualism and the occult.
As soon as he entered the palace, Rasputin took off his heavy peasant coat and stopped briefly in front of a mirror, adjusted his hair and smoothed over his unruly beard, and then followed the guard up the stairs leading to the apartments occupied by the tsar and his family. The fact he was about to meet one of the most powerful and revered men in all of Russia didn’t seem to concern him.
As a seeker and man of God, all that mattered to him was his relationship with the Almighty, which dominated and defined his persona. Everything else came second. While many were put off by this arrogance and blind self-belief, and considered him nothing more than a charlatan, others were drawn to him because of these very character traits and revered him as a holy man and prophet. An eloquent, inspirational speaker with an exceptional knowledge of the scriptures and uncanny insights into human nature and behaviour, he mesmerised all who came in contact with him. This included senior clergy and the upper echelons of St Petersburg society, impressed by this simple, pious man of God, untarnished by the ways of a world ruled by jaded and cynical aristocrats, out of touch with the millions of ordinary people toiling in the fields, barely able to eke out a living.
Nicholas and Alexandra met with Rasputin in the small drawing room next to the tsar’s study on the first floor of the palace. The meeting lasted for almost three hours, and the royal couple were impressed by Rasputin and the surprising way he expressed himself and dealt with complex and sensitive, mainly spiritual subjects of great interest to them. Alexandra in particular, was instantly drawn to him and fell under his spell.
Countess Bolkonskaya had known about the meeting for days, and was anxious to meet Rasputin and see for herself what all the rage was about. An unexpected window of opportunity presented itself as Rasputin was leaving. As he was putting on his coat downstairs after the meeting, Bolkonskaya walked up to him and introduced herself. Rasputin just looked at her with those famous piercing eyes, which seemed to look straight into her soul. Bolkonskaya looked away and began to shiver. After a while, Rasputin embraced her and kissed her on both cheeks.
Instead of being shocked by this unexpected intimacy, Bolkonskaya found his touch comforting and was instantly at ease as a sense of peace washed over her. There was nothing indecent or offensive about the sudden embrace, only surprise and a feeling of wellbeing. Rasputin was well known for kissing and embracing when meeting people even for the first time. This was almost unheard of in aristocratic circles and viewed as crass and offensive behaviour only practised by simple, ignorant peasants.
‘Your soul is troubled and your heart is full of regrets,’ said Rasputin, his voice gentle. ‘But have no fear, God sends us mercy and is never far away. When our soul becomes despondent, our head is confused. If you turn to God and ask for guidance and forgiveness, all will become clear.’
Rasputin buttoned up his coat and looked at Bolkonskaya with his penetrating eyes. ‘We’ll meet again, of that I am sure. Should your soul still be troubled by then, I will show you the way ...’
Then, without saying another word, Rasputin turned and walked out into the cold, leaving Bolkonskaya sobbing.
How could he possibly know? she asked herself over and over. Since that fateful Borodin séance all those years ago, Bolkonskaya had been deeply troubled. It was as if the symphony entrusted to her by Tchaikovsky’s spirit and the promise she had made, were bringing her nothing but misery and anguish.
At first, she’d had every intention to deliver the Tchaikovsky score to the tsar as promised, and couldn’t wait to present it to him. As one of the first to extend the hand of friendship to a shunned and lonely Alexandra, a German, upon her arrival in Russia just before her marriage in 1894, Bolkonskaya’s friendship with Alexandra had begun to blossom. But when she became the tsarina’s confidante and was later appointed a lady in waiting, Bolkonskaya began to hesitate. How would she explain the way she had obtained the score in the first place? What would the tsarina’s reaction be? How would she view Bolkonskaya’s obsession with the supernatural and the occult? Could this endanger their friendship and threaten her position at court?
Deeply troubled by these questions, Bolkonskaya had made a fateful decision: instead of delivering the score to the tsar as promised, she took the coward’s way out and decided to do nothing. She ignored Davydov’s numerous attempts to get in touch with her, distanced herself from Borodin, and eventually put the entire matter out of her mind. However, the little accusing demons refused to be silenced, especially at night, and haunted her even in her sleep.
When Rasputin therefore appeared to allude to this very torment and gave her hope, Bolkonskaya instantly became one of his acolytes. If a stranger she had just met could look into the deepest recesses of her soul and discover her innermost secrets, she told herself, then surely he could become her saviour as he had promised: show her a way out, and bring peace. What Bolkonskaya couldn’t possibly have known at the time, was that instead of being her saviour, the self-proclaimed holy man from Siberia would become her nemesis and destroy her world and everything she held dear.
11
The fire in Dupree’s workshop, Montmartre: 9 January 2017
Just after ten pm there was a knock on the door. Claude Dupree, who was still working, went to the front of the shop, opened the door and looked at the young woman standing in a pale circle of light. ‘We are here to see Philippe,’ said the woman. A man stood behind her in the shadows, watching.
‘Philippe? At this hour? Is he expecting you?’ said Dupree, surprised.
‘Please tell him Le Fantôme would like to see him,’ said Zuzanna. She always used an alias when dealing with contacts like Philippe.
‘Le Fantôme? How curious. Please come in, I’ll get him.’
Dupree went to the back of the shop to get his son. Moments later, Philippe appeared, a concerned look on his face. ‘Not here!’ he hissed. ‘The usual place. I told you, tomorrow! Please leave.’
‘Why? We are here now,’ said Zuzanna, giving Philippe her best smile. ‘And you asked for a meeting. Madame couldn’t wait. You made her curious, you see. So, what’s this about?’
‘Come to the back and I’ll tell you,’ said Philippe, his eyes darting anxiously around the room.
‘Is everything all right?’ said Dupree and walked up to his son.
‘Yes, fine. Please leave this to me. A new job, that’s all.’
‘You must be Philippe’s father,’ said Zuzanna, extending her hand. ‘I always wanted to meet you, Mr Dupree.’
Looking alarmed, Philippe bit his lip. He certainly didn’t want his father to become involved and find out about his surreptitious business arrangements with Le Fantôme.
‘We are here about the music box,’ continued Zuzanna cheerfully. ‘Or to put it more accurately, about what was found inside it.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Dupree, looking confused.
‘I’ll explain later,’ said Philippe, stepping in. ‘Why don’t you go upstairs and leave this to me? Please?’
‘No, please join us,’ said Zuzanna. ‘I think you should hear what Philippe has to tell us.’
‘No!’ blurted Phillip, looking alarmed.
‘But I insist,’ said Zuzanna, enjoying Philippe’s discomfort. ‘And so does my friend here.’ Zuzanna pointed to the burly man with the boxer’s face standing behind her, chewing gum.
Philippe realised this was not the time to argue. ‘As you wish,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘This way.’ He pointed to the back of the workshop.
‘You may not be aware of this, Mr Dupree, but we have been doing business with your son for some time,’ said Zuzanna in a conspiratorial tone.
‘I don’t understand. What kind of business?’
‘He sells us information.’
‘What kind of information?’
‘You know, useful stuff about your customers, like that fascinating letter you found the other day in that music box.’
Dupree looked shocked. ‘Is that true, Philippe?’ he asked.
‘I’ll explain later,’ mumbled Philippe, brushing the question aside.
