Two hours earlier
I arrive back at the White Swan hours after I left, but most of the mourners are still here, drinking and reminiscing. The wake has evolved into a get-together. Slightly raucous. Very emotional. As I saunter through the downstairs bar, Émilie and her brother are laughing about something, although her smudged mascara implies she’s also been weeping. She spots me and points downwards in the time-honoured way of saying she wants me to come over. I make a gesture suggesting I’ll be five minutes and she mirrors it to convey both acceptance and a sense that she’s giving me no longer than five minutes.
I jog up the staircase and find Frank, Stacey and Sophie clustered around the same table as earlier. At least I assume there’s a table somewhere between them. If there is, it’s hidden below over a dozen or so empty glasses and a crumpled sheet of empty crisp packets.
Frank spots me and roars, ‘What the hell have you been up to?’
‘I was kidnapped.’
Stacey says, ‘Bloody hell, Novak! You’ll do anything to get out of buying your round!’
I retake my seat. ‘I’m serious.’
‘Shit!’ She plonks her pint glass on the table. ‘I thought you were joking!’
There’s a barrage of ‘Are you all right?’ type questions, which I interrupt with, ‘I’m fine, I’m fine.’
Sophie asks, ‘What happened?’
‘Well, I’ve good news and bad news.’
Frank says, ‘Let’s start with the bad.’
‘Fair enough. The bad news is, if I don’t find and hand over the Romanov Code within one week, the Russian Secret Service will murder everyone at this table and slaughter my entire family.’
There’s a horrified silence. Sophie breaks it with, ‘What’s the good news?’
I get to my feet. Look at my three friends. ‘It’s my round,’ I tell them. ‘What’s everyone on?’
*
When I get back to our table, I dish out the drinks and recount what happened with Colonel Bulatov. I leave no one in any doubt that the Russian will make good on his threat if we don’t find the Romanov Code.
‘Sorry to sound like the newbie,’ Stacey begins, ‘but how do we go about this? The book’s been missing for over a century and we’re supposed to locate it and seize it in less than seven days? It feels impossible.’
‘It’s not impossible,’ I tell her. ‘We now know a little about the Court. It’s probable that one of its number holds the Romanov Code. Helen told me that, very occasionally, some of their ranks convene. The meeting could take the form of a party, but it’s not unusual for business to be conducted at the same time.’
Stacey says, ‘Some form of bartering, you mean?’
‘Exactly. We’ve got two problems. We can’t just trigger a meeting. We’ve got no idea who’s part of the Court and what their etiquette is for these things.’
Sophie leans forward. ‘Look, if bartering is done at these parties, if they’re buying and selling lost masterpieces, isn’t it logical to assume that such meetings could be called by, say, crooked billionaire businessmen with an interest in making money out of stolen treasure?’
Frank gives her a withering look. ‘Aye. But do you happen to know any crooked billionaire businessmen with an interest in making money out of stolen treasure?’
As if oblivious to his sarcasm, Sophie beams her best smile. ‘As a matter of fact, I do!’
I narrow my eyes. ‘But could you convince him to convene a Court meeting?’
‘Oh,’ Sophie replies. ‘I can be very persuasive.’
Stacey chips in, ‘You said we’ve got two problems.’
‘Yeah, no matter who we know that could help us get an audience with the Court, we’ll need something to barter with. We can’t just turn up with a box of chocolates and a bottle of Prosecco. We need something that makes us look serious. Something that we can credibly suggest we can trade for the Romanov Code.’
‘You’re right,’ says Sophie. ‘That is a problem.’
‘One of the Romanov gems would be ideal,’ Frank opines.
I shrug. ‘Yeah, I’m sure I had one somewhere. I’ll check down the back of my settee.’
He smiles. ‘Cheeky bugger.’ Takes a mouthful of beer. ‘Sophie. If I got hold of the right bait, do you think your contact could set up the meeting?’
She nods. ‘Absolutement, mon chéri.’
‘Then let’s do this thing,’ he urges. ‘And do it fast.’
‘Whoa, Frank,’ I say. ‘Are you telling me you can get your hands on some of the Romanovs’ crown jewels?’
‘I am.’
‘At the risk of appearing over-curious,’ I reply, ‘how in God’s name are you going to manage that?’
He takes a sip of his drink. ‘You just leave that to me, lad.’