The Baron sits in a white, circular room. There’s a table in front of him and he’s studying a solitary piece of art on the far wall. It looks to me like a Russian mountain range, but I could be wrong. His eyes flicker towards me and he offers an enthusiastic welcome.
‘Oh, it’s you.’ A mournful shake of the head. ‘What madness have you become entangled in this time?’
Well, enthusiastic for him, that is.
‘Oh, the usual.’ I walk towards him. ‘What madness have you created here?’
‘I got the idea years ago. I was at Pinewood Studios. Wandered onto the 007 stage. I wasn’t thinking or paying attention to where I was. This may sound foolish, but when I looked up, for a moment I really thought I was in the Louvre! The recreation of the gallery – for some film or other – was extraordinary. And now, using AI, detailed research and the best construction team in the world, we can replicate any room you care to mention. Barring churches and chambers of a certain size, you understand. All for a price, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘You’ve seen the rooms, but we’ll soon be upscaling. Bigger spaces. Bigger memories.’
I resist the temptation to say, ‘Bigger profits!’ because I’ve an important question on my mind. ‘Why are people so obsessed with the past?’ ‘I ask.’ ‘With reforging it?’
‘Perhaps we want to get it right this time.’
‘You never cease to startle me.’
I’m rewarded with a brief but genuine smile. ‘Sit down, Novak, sit down! And I didn’t create all of this venture. I was merely a partner with deep pockets.’
I take a chair beside the Baron. Reggie stands by the far wall looking too much like a sentry for my liking.
‘You know,’ the Baron continues, ‘if anyone ever approaches you to invest in a scheme to make rich people happy, and you can see that it will indeed bring them joy . . .’ He taps the side of his nose. ‘Sink as much money into the project as possible!’
‘There’s a definite logic to that.’
‘Experts always tell us to follow the money,’ the Baron opines. ‘I’m not sure why. We all know where it leads. Where it’s always led. To rich people.’
‘And this venture goes straight to source?’
‘Exactly.’ He gestures to an ice bucket on the table. ‘Help yourself to a drink. Pour me one while you’re at it. It’s only champagne. Crude and obvious, I know.’
I remove a bottle of rosé from the cooler. It’s one of those champagnes with a label that looks like it’s been hand-drawn by someone doing their art homework in a hurry. The maker’s intention is to suggest, ‘Hey, we don’t take ourselves too seriously! We have a sense of humour!’ but I’ve seen how much this wine costs and the price tag is no joke, believe me.
‘I wouldn’t worry. I’m a man with very obvious tastes when it comes to the finer things in life.’ Reggie shakes her head when I offer her a glass, so I fill two flutes, hand one to the Baron and sink into my chair, asking him, ‘How are you, my friend?’
‘Business is good. My health is bad. Doctors? Crooks and charlatans!’
‘What’s wrong with you?’
‘I don’t like to talk about it.’
He talks about it for ten minutes and eventually loops back to why I’m here.
‘So, how can I help you? You mentioned something about passports.’ I reach into my pocket and he adds, ‘One at a time, please.’
‘Sure, but there are four of them, though, so you . . .’ I trail off as I notice he’s closed his eyes. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Perfectly.’ He proffers his open palm. I place one of the passports in it. The Baron raises it to his nostrils and inhales. ‘Ah, yes . . .’ he murmurs.
I look across to Reggie, who shrugs in a way that suggests she’s seen this a thousand times.
I return my attention to the Baron. He’s running his fingertips over the cover, as if examining the texture.
‘You’re allowed to look,’ I tell him.
‘Don’t be insolent.’
‘Sorry.’
A minute later, with his eyes still shut, the Baron says, ‘It’s an American passport, of course. Or, at least, it purports to be. It’s a fake, but a very good one. It’s delightful, in fact. Absolutely delightful.’
‘Can you tell me who made it?’
His eyelids open to reveal a look of chagrin. ‘Impossible. Quite impossible.’
‘How long will it take you?’
‘That depends on how much I have to go off.’ He closes his eyes again. ‘Second passport, please.’
I place it in his outstretched hand. ‘No peeking.’
‘I told you not to be insolent.’
Reggie calls across, ‘It’s in his nature.’
‘She’s right,’ I admit, ‘for a change.’
Reggie pokes her tongue out at me and I smile.
We repeat the routine for all the passports and the Baron informs me, ‘They’re quite fascinating! And works of art, my friend. They should be displayed in the National Gallery for connoisseurs to admire, but, really, the public has no taste.’ He pulls a jeweller’s loupe from his pocket and uses it to examine the edges of the British passport. ‘The details are exquisite.’
‘Are there any telltale signs that indicate their provenance?’
‘Of course, of course. I had thought I’d need them to be analysed to draw a conclusion, but I’m quite certain I know who created these beauties.’
‘That’s incredible! You’ve surpassed yourself.’
Reggie chips in, ‘He ain’t half bad!’
The Baron wafts away our compliments. ‘Thank you, Regina . . . And Mr Novak. Where do you think these passports hail from?’
‘Honestly?’
‘Of course.’
I tell him truthfully, ‘MI5 or MI6. Not sure which. But I believe they were issued by British Intelligence.’
‘Not a bad assertion.’ He takes a sip of champagne. ‘But you’re quite wrong.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘One hundred per cent.’
‘Then who made them? Who issued this man with these forgeries?’
‘There’s no doubt whatsoever.’ The Baron hands me back the passports. ‘They were made and issued by the Russian Secret Service. That in itself may or may not surprise you. But there’s something else. Something much stranger.’
I glance at the passports. ‘And what’s that?’
‘Documents like those – I mean documents that are that good . . . they don’t come cheap. And the exceptional ones like those, well, they are not so easy to procure. Whoever those are for –’ he nods to the passports – ‘the individual they were crafted for is not simply some sleeper agent or a low-level operative, or even a mid-range officer. To have gone to that much trouble and expense . . .’ The Baron carelessly scratches his neck. ‘He’s someone the Russians care about. Maybe even love. Or fear.’