I mix myself a Gibson and re-join Stacey and Reggie at one of the central tables. Bulatov and Ekaterina have left with the operatives sent by Simmonds, and Frank and Molly are chatting in the corner of the room. I feel a mild sense of elation, although I know that further dangers await. But for now, at least, I’m content to chink glasses with my friends and enjoy a cocktail.
As I take a seat in the replica of the American Bar, I say to Reggie, ‘Please send the Baron my congratulations. And my thanks. Getting this whole thing ready so swiftly . . . We’d never have been able to pull it off without him.’
She replies, ‘Yeah, well, he had a bunch of teams working round the clock. The rooms themselves were straightforward. His people are the best in the business. Getting the vault from the manufacturers, then adding the modifications – not gonna lie to you, that was touch-and-go. The only other problem was the first room had to be elevated. I’m not sure the geography was 100 per cent . . .’
I shrug. ‘It was close enough.’
Stacey asks, ‘What about this place? The bar.’
‘Oh, this is for another client. We just placed your job next to it. We’ll be extending this room tomorrow.’ She sips her pale blue Midnight Kiss. ‘And that woman. Ekaterina. She thought she could rule Russia some day, just because of an old book? Genuinely?’
She pronounces the third syllable as wine, which I always enjoy.
‘The Romanov Code is a legend,’ I reflect. ‘Whoever holds the book holds the power of the Romanovs. Like Excalibur in the Arthurian histories. She was a Romanov and she really believed it was her destiny to restore her family’s position of supremacy. All her politicking, planning and murders were to that end. She had networks of people in her employ, of course, but she became fixated on the book. I mean, simply as a relic its financial value must be extraordinary. But she, and many before her, felt its real value was something more . . . transcendent.’
‘Baloney!’ Reggie chops her hand through the air as though to convey the absolute certainty of her words. ‘A thing is a thing is a thing!’
‘I’m not saying the FSB and their masters in the Kremlin all believe in the book’s power. But its reputation holds enough sway to ensure they aren’t taking any chances.’
‘No, it’s more than that.’ Stacey sounds uncharacteristically quiet. ‘My ma was Catholic,’ she says, and there’s a firmness in her voice. ‘She believed the wine in the chalice at mass became the blood of Christ. Not figuratively. Not symbolically. But the actual blood of Jesus. And that the wafer or bread handed to her by the priest was the real, honest-to-God flesh of Christ. That’s what the Church believes. It’s what millions believe. I guess it’s the belief that’s the important thing. In this case, for Ekaterina and the people she hoped to convince, it surely was. The book was some sort of totem. A sign and an assurance.’
Reggie looks sceptical. ‘What do you think, Novak?’
‘I think Ekaterina proved one thing. Like I always say, it’s my clients that kill me. Or at least try to.’
‘Sucks to be you, huh?’
‘Quite the contrary.’
Reggie finds herself holding an empty glass and declares, ‘Well, soldiers, I’m getting another drink!’ As she gets to her feet, she asks, ‘Anyone else want more ammunition?’
My Gibson is almost done. ‘Get us both one of what you’re having!’
‘Sure thing, sugar.’
She makes her way to the bar. I’m alone at the table with Stacey and for something like a minute there’s an easy silence between us. Perhaps it’s too easy. Too much like the ‘. . . and relax’ moment that follows anything that’s painfully endured. As if reading my thoughts, Stacey says, ‘Don’t worry. I know it’s not over yet.’
‘If anything, what I have to do next is the riskiest part of the process. But if I stand any chance of . . .’ I pause. Something strikes me. ‘Where’s Sophie?’
‘Sorry!’ Stacey replies. ‘She said to pass on her goodbyes. She had to shoot.’
‘Is she picking up the twins?’
‘I think so. She said it was about the children.’
That’s not quite the same thing. In fact . . .
I ponder the half-hints that Sophie Grace has given me about who, or what, she truly is, and for a moment, I wonder if she’s seeking vengeance on—
‘Ammunition, troops!’ Reggie has returned with a tray that’s pleasingly crowded with drinks. She dishes out some cocktails and I dive into one without waiting to hear what it is. Turns out it’s strong and it’s sharp and I like it. Before I can praise her mixology prowess, she points out, ‘You didn’t answer my question!’ She retakes her seat. ‘Do you think any of the Romanov treasure possesses otherworldly powers?’
Stacey scoffs, ‘Novak doesn’t believe in any of that blather!’
I hesitate. I’m recalling how my fingertips moved towards the Fabergé egg in the priest’s study. The overwhelming sense I had that touching it would be a terrible mistake. That the artefact held, if not a curse, then a kind of gathering of its own history, making it more than the sum of its physical parts.
‘Who knows?’ I feel myself shudder.
I’ve never completely believed in the supernatural, or in destiny for that matter. But if both are somehow at play, I feel that in the same way Maughan’s Fabergé egg was intrinsically not for me, then, conversely, the Romanov Code is waiting for me. Is it fanciful to suggest I might escape the curse of its namesakes because it offers me redemption?
But if I’m wrong . . .
I reach for my cocktail, because, frankly, that’s a possibility I don’t even want to consider.