CHAPTER 2

WEDNESDAY 17 OCTOBER 1920, LONDON

Poppy Denby shuffled along the row with apologies to the gentlemen who rose to allow her to pass. Why Ike couldn’t have chosen a seat on the edge of the press pit, she didn’t know. But as she sat on the reserved seat next to the West Indian political editor, she realized he had positioned them perfectly: three rows back and slap-bang in the middle. The man addressing the press briefing would not have to crane his neck up, down, left or right to see them. But why should she be surprised? Rollo would not have given Ike Garfield the most senior and influential position at The Globe – apart from his own job of managing editor – if he wasn’t more than capable.

Poppy chastised herself for second-guessing the man and wondered if she still harboured a little jealousy that he had been given the job she had coveted. She who had only been a journalist five months! She smiled at her colleague – who was wearing a tartan bow-tie and tweed jacket – and whispered: “Sorry I’m late. Drama at the theatre.”

Ike chuckled. “Don’t worry. These diplomatic types never start on time. Now how diplomatic is that?” Poppy laughed with him as she took off her coat and hung it on her chair. As she settled into her seat she felt something poke the small of her back. She turned around to see what it was and came eyeball to eyeball with the arts and entertainment editor of The Globe’s rival newspaper, The London Courier.

The ferret like face of Lionel Saunders sneered at her and she noticed the toe of his highly polished shoe was poking into the back of her chair.

“Excuse me, Mr Saunders; if you don’t mind…”

He curled back his lip to meet his moustache and said: “Why ever would I mind, Miss Denby?” and poked his toe further into the back of the chair.

Poppy was just about to put him in his place when Ike turned around and growled: “Back off, Saunders.”

Saunders removed his foot. Poppy pursed her lips and bit back the “Thanks for the help but I had that in hand” retort, took a calming breath and retrieved her notebook and pencil from her satchel.

This was Poppy’s first visit to the Russian embassy and as arts and entertainment editor she had been surprised when Rollo instructed her to accompany Ike. Politics wasn’t her patch, but apparently the press call had included an invitation to “cultural journalists” too. So the plush room, decorated with the calibre of art usually found in the National Gallery, was filled with journalists from a dozen newspapers eager to hear what combination of political and cultural news the Bolshies were going to serve up today. On the bus over from the West End Poppy had done some background reading and learned that the embassy was officially being run by representatives of the Russian Provisional Government – a coalition of Whites and Reds – but in reality the Whites, loyal to the monarchy, were being forced out. And if news from the Crimea of the White army’s imminent defeat was anything to go by, the embassy would soon be entirely Bolshevik.

The hubbub in the room subsided as a man with a black goatee and slicked-back grey hair entered and took his place behind the lectern. He opened a file and placed some notes before him. Then, as if he were not keeping nigh on thirty journalists from his host country’s media waiting, he picked up the notes, shuffled them and then repositioned them again, patting them this way and that until he was finally satisfied. A murmur rose in the room and one or two men coughed their dissatisfaction.

The man with the goatee did not respond but reached into his jacket pocket and removed a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles that he carefully placed on his nose. Then he perused his notes.

“Well I never. Outrageous manners!” Poppy recognized Lionel’s voice.

“Get on with it!” someone else shouted.

Then one or two of the men started to get up to leave.

“I have summoned you here today…” The speaker’s Russian accent was pronounced, but his English fluent. He did not look up and he did not issue a word of apology.

The men who were standing continued to stand with their arms folded, but did not leave.

“I have summoned you here today…”

“Summoned? Summoned?” It was Lionel again.

“To issue a statement from my government in Moscow – the Central Committee – that the planned exhibition of stolen Russian art at the Crystal Palace is an insult to the Russian people.”

“What do you intend to do about it?” Lionel called out.

“The Central Committee has requested the British government declare the exhibition illegal.”

“But the exhibition is being held at the behest of the royal family. The government will not interfere.” Lionel again.

This time the man with the goatee looked up. “They can and they must – if they want the new Russian government to sign the Anglo-Soviet trade agreement.”

“And you have told Mr Lloyd George this?” Lionel’s partner at The Courier enquired.

“I have. No doubt 10 Downing Street will be issuing a statement about this soon.”

“And the palace?” Ike piped up.

“I have no interest in what the monarchists have to say. This is an issue between the people of Russia and the people of Great Britain, and their elected representatives.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but the Soviet government has not been elected. You have taken over by force!” It was a voice from the back of the room. Poppy couldn’t see who it was, but she thought it was the political editor from The Times.

“You are indeed wrong. The Central Committee has been elected by representatives of the people of Russia. And – as you say here in England – it’s a jolly lot more democratic than the autocracy we had before.”

A volley of questions was then fired from the floor and the man with the goatee answered them.

“Is that Vasili Safin?” Poppy whispered to Ike. “The People’s Commissar for Foreign Trade?”

“It is,” Ike whispered back, then rose to his feet. His basso profundo voice soon drowned out his fellow journos. “So, Mr Safin, to sum up: you have brought us here today to put pressure on our government to shut down the Crystal Palace exhibition. Is that correct?”

“I have brought you here today to –”

“But what if the exhibition goes ahead? What if the prime minister is unable – or unwilling – to convince the palace to withdraw their support? Will that put the Trade Agreement in jeopardy?”

Safin removed his spectacles and pointed them at Ike. “Those are your words, Mr Garfield, not mine, but if that’s the line The Globe wants to take…” He gave a humourless smile. “Now, if there are no further questions I will –”

“I have a question,” Poppy interjected, her voice loud, clear and high. If Safin was surprised, he didn’t show it.

“Yes, the lady at the front.”

“Poppy Denby, arts and entertainment editor at The Daily Globe.” The snort from Lionel did not throw her, nor did the lone wolf-whistle from the back of the room. She continued: “If, in your view, the worst case scenario happens and the British government is unable or unwilling to shut down this exhibition, what contingency plans have you in place to reclaim your national treasures?”

“Well, I –”

“Because that is the point of all this, isn’t it? These jewels and works of art are in the hands of private individuals – loyal to the late tsar and his family – and you believe they should be returned to Russia. Is that not correct, Mr Safin?”

Safin straightened up and nodded. “Indeed that is correct, Miss Denby. They are our treasures and we will reclaim them.”

“And what lengths are you prepared to go to to get them?” All heckling stopped. Every man in the room looked at the young blonde woman in the red dress.

Safin smiled. Poppy didn’t know if it was out of respect or condescension. She didn’t really care as long as he answered her question.

“Let’s just say we will not rest until they are finally returned to the people of Russia. We are indeed hopeful that the British government will co-operate with us on this. However, if they prove to be too weak to stand up to an old woman and her spineless son, we will demand the strictest security is implemented at the exhibition until such a time as we can negotiate their repatriation. And to that end may I introduce Comrade Andrei Nogovski, chief of security.”

A tall, dark-haired man in his mid-thirties, dressed in a slate-grey suit, white shirt and black tie, emerged from the wings as if in a theatrical performance. He shook hands with Safin and they exchanged a few words in Russian. Then Nogovski turned to the assembled journalists and announced in perfect, Oxbridge English: “The Commissar has other business to attend to, so from now on – in relation to the exhibition – I will be your point of contact at the embassy.” He raised both hands as if bestowing a spiritual blessing, and as he did, two secretarial assistants emerged, each carrying a pile of dossiers. They passed them out to the journalists.

“You are now being handed an overview of the security plan which will come into play if – as Miss Denby has pointed out – your government fails to stop this insult to the people of Russia from taking place.” His coal-black eyes found Poppy’s in the crowd and he continued speaking while holding her gaze, explaining the highlights of the plan. Poppy felt a red flush rising from her neck to her face but refused to look away. Andrei Nogovski was probably the most handsome man she had ever seen. He radiated a self-assurance that was both disarming and alluring. She found herself wondering if he were married and then stopped herself immediately. What was she thinking? She and Globe photographer Daniel Rokeby were just beginning to get their relationship off the ground after a number of false starts. Yes, life in the romance department was more than rosy, so if…

“Poppy, are you all right?” Ike interrupted her thoughts.

Poppy turned from Nogovski to her colleague and gave a wan smile. “Yes, of course. I was just wondering why the Russians have gone to the trouble of having this security dossier printed for us if they are convinced they can influence Lloyd George to stop the exhibition.”

“Exactly the question I will ask the prime minister when I see him later today.”

“You have an interview with the prime minister?”

The West Indian man grinned broadly, showing a set of teeth to rival Stonehenge. “Indeed I do. Marjorie Reynolds set it up.”

“What does she want in return?”

Ike laughed. “Ah, so I gather you’ve met the fearsome lady MP.”

“She’s a friend of my aunt.”

“And why doesn’t that surprise me?”

Poppy was just about to reply when a voice from the front announced: “I see Miss Denby and Mr Garfield are already bored with proceedings, so there’s no need to drag things out. If you have any questions, contact my office; the number’s in the dossier.”

And with that Comrade Nogovski breezed out of the briefing room without a backward glance, leaving Poppy to nurse a curious sense of abandonment and disappointment. It must have shown on her face because Ike looked at her quizzically as he helped her into her coat. “Are you sure you’re all right, Poppy?”

“Yes!” she said, in a voice far more blithe than she felt. “Can you give me a lift back to the office?”

“Of course. Not mobile yet?”

Poppy groaned. “My aunt’s insurance company have declared I’m not yet competent to drive.”

“Again?”

“Again.”

Ike laughed and offered Poppy his arm. “So Miss Poppy Denby is not a natural at everything she turns her hand to.”

“Of course not! Who says that?”

“Everyone,” said Ike in a conspiratorial whisper and then cast a sideways glance at Lionel Saunders, who glowered back at his rivals. “Well, nearly everyone.”