“My friends! Come in, come in!” A jubilant Pavel Rokovski ushered Alexander, Jeffrey, and Katya into his office. “Champagne is called for, but perhaps at this hour you would prefer tea.”
“Tea would be splendid,” Alexander replied for them all.
“One moment, then.” He soon returned and served them. “So much to tell, so very much. Where on earth to begin?”
“With the chalice,” Alexander replied. “Please tell me that the mystery is solved.”
“More than solved! Providence has been at work here, my friends.” Rokovski pulled up a chair, asked, “You heard of my discoveries?”
“About Karlovich, yes. But only that you discovered you were right to distrust him.”
“That man.” Rokovski shook his head. “He deserves to enjoy his retirement within a prison cell. He was in contact with a Vatican emissary—not a priest, however. What is the English word for niebieski ptaszek?”
“Literally it translates as a little bird,” Katya replied, and exchanged glances with Jeffrey. “But it really means a peon, a scoundrel. Someone who lives off the importance of others.”
“Thank you. Yes, we made several fascinating discoveries about this mysterious Vatican aparatchik, and these were what prompted me to travel to Rome. There, I had a most interesting visit with a certain Signor Buracci, the highest official within the Vatican museum system who is not a cleric. He answers directly to the cardinal. I asked him if he might shed light on a most curious set of circumstances.”
“I do wish I could have been a fly on the wall for that discussion,” Alexander murmured.
“I explained to him of our careful records,” Rokovski went on. “And I asked about certain things that surprised me no end. My attitude was one of requesting information, asking questions, seeking guidance.”
“Most politely.”
“And humbly,” Rokovski agreed. “These discoveries we have made were most confusing to a simple mind such as my own, and I simply sought his lofty guidance.”
“Including the confusing matters surrounding a certain curate.”
“Well, yes. That was one of my questions. Why was it, I asked, that our Mr. Karlovich traveled twice to Rome in the past year, and that a certain emissary, one Signor Danilo Disertori, visited Cracow three times? The first was two months before Karlovich loaned you the chalice, the second three days after it left for display in England, and the third the day after it was returned.”
“And discovered to be a fake.”
“I had a further question,” Rokovski continued, “about the transfer of funds from the Banco Sao Paolo to Karlovich’s account here in Cracow of fifty thousand dollars. The Banco Sao Paolo, as you may know, handles the Vatican’s commercial transactions.”
“About this time,” Alexander said, “I would imagine the good gentleman is finding his collar most constricting.”
“He did appear to have great difficulty in speaking,” Rokovski agreed.
“You didn’t involve the Pope.”
“Of course not,” Rokovski answered, hugely satisfied. “It was not even necessary to suggest that I would do so.”
“Everyone knew,” Katya offered.
Rokovski smiled her way. “And positively trembled at the thought.”
“So,” Alexander nodded, the sparkle back in his eyes. “What happens now?”
“Now there will be a vast public announcement of Poland’s magnificent gift, which will be displayed at the millennium celebration in Rome. It will then be returned with great fanfare to become the centerpiece of our new Museum for Religious Artifacts in Cracow, which will be officially opened in time for its arrival.” Rokovski’s gleam turned hard. “While all these mysterious documents will remain locked in a very safe place, and certain individuals in Rome and Cracow will be urged to consider an early retirement.”
“I shall not miss them,” Alexander declared.
“No, nor I,” Rokovski agreed, and his vast good humor returned. “There is more. In this great central hall will be displayed three outstanding paintings, loaned by the Vatican for an indefinite time, to commemorate this wonderful new museum. A Raphael, a Da Vinci, and a Michelangelo.”
“Magnificent,” Alexander proclaimed. “A worthy recognition of our nation’s new renaissance.”
“You know, of course, what will adorn the galley leading to this chamber.”
“Panels from the Amber Room,” Jeffrey breathed. “What an awesome place this is going to be.”
Rokovski nodded his agreement. “There is still more.”
“How so?”
“It appears that in their haste,” Rokovski explained, “our mysterious treasure hunters miscounted the number of chests.”
“Miscounted?”
“There happened to be seventy-three.” Rokovski watched their reaction with immense satisfaction. “Yes. And since no one outside my office knew exactly how many the Amber Room required, this last chest remains a secret known only to me and my most trusted allies.” The gleam in Rokovski’s dark eyes was blinding. “This extra chest, my friends, was filled with gold and jewelry and ornaments.”
“A treasure chest?” Alexander was at full alert.
“Much of secondary quality,” Rokovski replied, “at least from an art collector’s standpoint. Chosen in haste, no doubt, by one with an untrained eye who selected on the basis of their weight in gold and the size of the stones. There is very little that we shall want to display, but the remaining items would fetch a handsome sum on the open market. If only we might find a dealer in the West willing to represent us in the utmost confidentiality.”
“We accept,” Alexander replied with alacrity. “It will be an honor.”
“Splendid. The proceeds shall first go to repaying your most generous loan.” Rokovski stood. “Of course the personal debt shall remain with us always.”
“There is no debt,” Alexander replied. “Not between friends.”
Rokovski nodded his understanding and extended his hand. “Or patriots.”