As we cross the Palais’s spacious, striking foyer, Ekaterina inquires, ‘Are you enjoying your holiday with Miss Stacey Smith?’
She says it like she’s asking another question, but I’m not about to rise to it. Or sink to it, depending on your perception of tittle-tattle. ‘It’s not a holiday. It’s a Grand Tour. Englishmen in the seventeenth, eighteenth and nineteenth centuries would—’
‘Lounge around Europe and write poetry about it. I have heard of the Grand Tour, Mr Novak.’
‘It wasn’t just about verse. The journey was meant to arm people with a knowledge of classicism, art, antiquity. All that stuff. Getting to know the history and richness of other nations isn’t a bad thing, surely?’
‘Sounds like a rich boy’s gap year.’ We reach the long looping staircase that looks like it’s come straight out of an Escher print. ‘Is that what you were doing as you criss-crossed the Continent? Studying art and antiquity . . .’ She mimics my accent to add, ‘All that stuff.’
Her impression makes me smile. ‘Yeah. I suppose your talk of the Romanov jewels and treasure made me realise I’m unaccustomed to it. To its physicality, if you like.’ We start to wander up the curving steps. ‘So I visited some of the great palaces of Europe. The Belvedere in Vienna. Schwetzingen Palace in Baden-Württemberg. The Royal Palace of Aranjuez.’
‘And the Palace of Versailles?’
‘God, no. Far too touristy. Even for me. They have some fabulous markets in Versailles, though. I’d rather wander through the Saint Louis Market than the Saint Louis Chapel.’
‘Aren’t you clever?’
She’s teasing me this time, but I simply reply, ‘Yes.’ She laughs and I continue. ‘What can you tell me about Colonel Bulatov?’
‘He’s dangerous.’
‘Gee, thanks. Here’s me thinking he’s a vegan with a mania for pacifism.’
‘He works for Russian Intelligence. He’s pervasive. Powerful. Currently working in the UK.’
‘Is he? It’s quite the invasion.’
‘You think we’re invaders?’
‘Oh, we’re all invaders.’
‘I resent that. They call us refugees, now.’
‘Yeah, so I’ve heard.’
‘So, all these royal riches that you saw on your rich boy’s gap year, what did you think of them?’
‘Not much.’ I shrug. ‘The art’s all right, but all the finery and crown jewels . . . It’s just bling with a bit of reverence thrown in.’
We reach the top of the staircase. ‘And is that what you think the Romanov treasure is? Bling with a little reverence?’
‘No. It’s bling with a lot of bloodshed. And don’t look so cross, Ekaterina. We’re about to have cocktails overlooking the Seine. You could at least pretend to be happy.’
‘I’m Russian, Mr Novak. Angry and happy tend to run in tandem.’
*
As it’s out of season, the terrace section of the restaurant is officially closed, but Ekaterina – of course – knows the manager, who quickly ensures an outside table is prepared for us. The views are famously fantastic, with a postcard vista of the Seine and just beyond the Pont d’Iéna, the Eiffel Tower.
I plump for a Vesper Martini and Ekaterina, appropriately enough, goes for a Saint Petersburg. I also ask the waitress if she can whistle up a couple of blankets. Ekaterina looks amused by this request, but when two quilts are brought out, she swiftly cocoons herself in the thicker of the pair as I wrap mine around my shoulders.
Our drinks arrive and we clink glasses. Ekaterina says, ‘Za vstrechu!’
‘To your very good health.’
‘So, are you going to tell me how you found out who I really am? How you discovered I’m a Romanov? I covered my tracks well. You’re so old-school, I thought you would draw a blank. You had no background information about me. No photograph or details about any friendships.’
What she just said strikes me as peculiar, but I put it to the back of my mind to worry about later. ‘I had a phone number for you, but assumed you’d taken steps to make sure it was untraceable. However, I did have a photograph of you. Taken when you visited me.’
‘How? I thought the jammer—’
‘Oh, your jammer did the job on my internal security. Brought the Wi-Fi down so the data collected from the camera couldn’t be stored internally and I just got a whole load of nothing. My outside camera, however . . .’
‘Concealed?’
‘Of course. It’s 4K, but it’s wired directly to a DVR, so it can’t be jammed or hacked.’
‘My God! That’s virtually analogue.’
‘As you say, old-school, Miss Romanova.’
She raises her glass to me. ‘So, you have a photograph. What next?’
‘I contacted a friend.’ The friend I contacted is Molly Stone, the de facto head of a ragtag bunch of investigators known as the Next Time Crime Club. This group of former journos once helped out Frank Harvey when he in turn was assisting me on a case. ‘I gave my friend your photo.’
Ekaterina furrows her brow. ‘But what good is a picture? I mean – so what?’
‘You were carrying a Givenchy handbag and wearing a Balmain coat and Stuart Weitzman shoes that I’m guessing you didn’t get from your local Oxfam. You live in London. So I asked my friend to visit all the shops in the Smoke that sell clothes in that price bracket, and specifically those brands.’
‘There must be hundreds!’
‘There’s fewer than you think. But she found nothing.’
Ekaterina smiles. ‘I never shop in London. Too crowded.’
‘Next, my friend tried the best gyms and spas. Nothing. A few of the fancier restaurants and cocktail bars. Still zilch. I gave it up, but then I remembered a word you used.’
‘Go on.’
I take a sip of my Vesper and see it’s almost done. Cocktails are something I enjoy, but I’ve never understood why they come in measures that wouldn’t satisfy a Borrower.
‘You called your country “Mother Russia”. That was the telltale word. Mother.’
‘Which tells you nothing! I don’t understand.’
‘It struck me at the time. And thinking about it later, it felt like a term of affection and pride. It wasn’t forced. That’s really how you think of your nation.’
‘I don’t agree with everything the Russian government does. Just as you probably don’t agree with how your collection of crooks and liars run your country.’
‘That’s not what I’m driving at. Mother Russia. You’re proud of it. You probably idealise it a little. And I guessed you miss it.’
‘Of course.’
‘So you do what every holidaymaker, tourist or émigré does when they’re a long way from a home they think of fondly. You visit a restaurant that is a little haven of your country. In your case, you frequent a Russian eatery. I asked my friend to check out three such restaurants in London. First, Mari Vanna’s. I thought that’d be right up your cobbled street. The chandelier. The lace. All the tchotchke. It feels so homely! But no. Then I suggested Zima, in Soho. Fantastic vodkas, except for the horseradish vodka. Tried it once and—’
‘Get on with it!’
‘My third guess was the charm. Your favourite restaurant. My friend could see the waiter she spoke to recognised your photograph immediately. He tried to lie, but she met him after work and a bottle of Grey Goose later . . .’
Ekaterina shakes her head. ‘The guy drinks French vodka? That tells the whole story!’
‘He said you often dined there with a male friend. There was no suggestion of him being anything other than platonic, by the way. And the waiter remembered you both celebrated a shared milestone birthday over a long, boozy lunch. So that helped with the question of how could you know him. University friend, maybe? Seems a fair bet as you’re the same age. A little financial encouragement persuaded our friendly waiter to pull some records.’
‘I’ll have him fired!’
‘No, just be more careful, next time. Anyway, this friend of yours paid by card, so we had his name. It wasn’t too difficult to find where he studied. I think we got that from his Facebook page. We accessed the uni’s records for his year group. Everything still on file, including photo ID. And there you were. Ekaterina Romanova.’ I finish my Vesper and place the glass on the table. ‘Busted.’
She drinks a little more of her Saint Petersburg. ‘You did well.’
‘I had help from the best. And like I always say, teamwork makes the dodgy-as-hell scheme work. Why did you lie to me?’
‘I lie to the world. I’ve been Ekaterina Karpin for years. I couldn’t risk telling you the truth.’
‘And is that still the case?’
She bites her lip.
I lean forward. ‘Look, Miss Romanova. One of two things is about to happen. Either I’m going to leave and have dinner with Miss Smith at Scarlioni’s. I’m led to believe they do a very good Espresso Martini. Or you’re going to order us a bottle of wine and, as we drink it, you’re going to tell me exactly what the hell is going on.’
The waitress, spotting my empty glass, has wandered over to our table and asks if we want anything more.
I say to Ekaterina, ‘Your choice.’
She tugs her quilt more tightly around her body. Glances up at the waitress. ‘A bottle of my favourite. The Ruinart Blanc de Blancs, please.’ Looks at me. ‘Two glasses.’
I ask for a large vodka chaser. If Ekaterina is going to tell me the truth about her past and the Romanov treasure, and why she wants me involved so badly, I’ve a feeling I’m going to need it. As the waitress walks away, I ask her to make it Grey Goose and Ekaterina scowls at me.