Ekaterina looks at the picture of Frank Harvey. ‘Give it to me.’ I hand her my phone, and using her index finger and thumb, she expands the image until Frank’s face fills the screen. ‘No . . . no, I don’t remember ever meeting this man. Who is he?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
I slip my phone back into my pocket. Ekaterina is a pretty good liar, but I think she’s telling the truth when she claims she doesn’t recognise my friend. Her reaction when she studied the photograph suggested his face was unknown to her, so there goes another one of my theories. I take another sip of the champagne to console myself.
‘Go on with your story,’ I say. ‘What turned socialite and fledgling spy Ekaterina Romanova into former agent Ekaterina Karpin?’
‘There was a death.’
‘A murder?’
She nods. ‘It scared the hell out of me. Brought me to my senses. It was as though a mirror had been held to my face and I suddenly realised I was smuggling and gathering intelligence. My God, I was terrified!’
‘You asked to leave but they said no.’
‘Exactly! So I pretended it was fine. But I kept my eyes open after that.’
‘Tell me about the murder.’
‘I was pretty high up the network’s food chain, but whenever I met new people who were in the know, I pretended to have more information than I did. It made colleagues more willing to share information with me.’
‘Makes sense.’
‘So, one night I’m in Rome, drinking wine and vodka with a boy who moves high-end items around central Europe. And he says, “Hey! You’re a Romanov! They should have given you my job!” ’ Ekaterina shuffles her chair slightly closer to mine. ‘He told me he was transporting items that belonged to the Tzar and Tzarina! I thought he was drunk. Just trying to impress me for a lay, you know? And I was right, I think. About him wanting to screw me. But the idiot had taken photos of his consignment! Showed me! A Fabergé egg! And a tiara! I couldn’t believe it. I knew it was big, so I didn’t want to know.’
‘Hold on! You can’t just leave it at that! A Fabergé egg? A tiara?’
‘I think the Fabergé was the Alexander III Commemorative egg.’
I try to take this in. ‘One of the most sought-after relics in history . . . And the tiara?’
‘An item known as the Russian Beauty.’
‘Never heard of it.’
‘A pearl and diamond tiara that was created for the Empress Alexandra Feodorovna. Over two-dozen huge, natural pearls, hung from pointed diamond arches, floating over a gemstone base. Legend has it that the Empress Maria loved it so much that she used to wear it about the palace for no reason other than her fondness for it.’
‘How the other half live. OK. So what did you do after he showed you the pics of these dinky little trinkets?’
‘I plied him with more and more spirits so he would forget he’d let me see the evidence. Poured him into a cab and sent him on his way. I didn’t sleep that night, I can tell you. I was sick with worry!’
‘The boy who showed you the photos of the treasure. What was he called?’
‘They called him Mr Pitkin. I think it was a sort of joke, but I never understood.’
Despite everything, I give a short laugh. ‘This kid. Was he clumsy? Gauche?’
‘Yes.’ Ekaterina looks confused. ‘How did you know?’
‘Mr Pitkin is how Eastern Bloc countries knew Norman Wisdom. It was the name of a character he played in one of his early movies.’
‘Who’s Norman Wisdom?’
‘A comic actor. Massive in Russia. He holidayed in Moscow in the early sixties and was mobbed. The Albanian government declared a day of mourning when he died.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘Before your time. I just happen to like old movies. Anyway, go on. Did you get to know Mr Pitkin’s real name?’
‘When he was drunk, he told me it was Taras, but I think he was lying.’
‘Surname?’
She sighs. ‘I did not find out that evening and never got the opportunity to ask him. Mr Novak, less than one week after showing me the photos of the Romanov treasure, he was found hanging from the Ponte Milvio.’