The Son’s Story
Frank met Marius in the foyer of the National Gallery. They shook hands, then embraced.
‘We couldn’t have done it without you, Mya. I still don’t know how you got your people to create the replica of Ipatiev House so quickly. And so brilliantly!’
‘I only work with the best! Aside from you, of course!’
‘And the Red Diamond gave Novak access to the Court. I think—’
Marius interrupted, ‘Speak of the devil . . .’
‘And he shall appear.’
Novak reached them. Shook Marius’s hand. ‘I don’t have the words to sufficiently thank you . . .’
Later, across the road from the National, the three men sat in a booth at the Chandos. They drank beer and swapped improbable stories.
Marius rose. ‘And now, I think, one for the road!’ He walked to the bar without waiting for a response.
Novak nudged his friend. ‘He still won’t give me his real name. I don’t think anyone knows it. I’m not even sure he does.’
Frank shrugged. ‘Maybe he just comes from a cautious family.’
‘Maybe.’ Both men tipped back their glasses and drained their pints. ‘You never did tell me, by the way.’
‘Tell you what?’
Novak nodded to Marius. ‘How do you know the Baron?’
*
Jeremy Simmonds’ assistant, Beryl, held the envelope aloft. ‘I found this in your out-tray, but you hadn’t addressed it, so I didn’t know whether you wanted me to forward it or . . .’
She paused. Simmonds seemed more interested in the jiffy bag she’d handed him moments earlier. He ripped it open, tipped it to one side and caught the hip flask that fell from it. ‘So, he did return it. At last.’ He looked up. Although she didn’t know it, Beryl was holding his letter of resignation.
‘What shall I do with it?’
‘Let me ponder for a moment . . .’ Deep in thought, he idly turned over the hip flask. Paused. Smiled. Laughed. ‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ He grinned at his assistant. ‘Get your coat on! We’re going for that drink we’re always saying we should have!’ He stood, placed the flask on his desk and brushed past Beryl. ‘I’ll just get my coat!’ He hesitated. ‘The American Bar? Novak recommended it.’
‘But what should I do with this letter?’
‘Just bin it, Beryl!’ He strode into the corridor. ‘I was having a bad day when I wrote it!’
She nodded. Tiptoed over to the desk and took a peek at the flask. She frowned, uncertain what had changed his mood. It was just his usual hip flask, although she’d never noticed the inscription on its side before.
To Jeremy. With heartfelt thanks. N.
Beryl tossed the resignation letter into the bin and called after Simmonds, ‘The American Bar will do very well!’
*
It fell to Frank to return the Red Diamond. He arrived at the old people’s home at noon, and was greeted by a couple of members of staff who knew him by sight. He asked, ‘How is he this morning?’
‘Today is a good day! He complained about his eggs Benedict and ordered a second portion!’
Frank laughed. ‘Good to hear!’
He walked to room 6. Knocked on the door.
‘Come in, Frank!’
He entered. Smiled. ‘You’re looking well!’
It wasn’t a lie. The home’s most distinguished resident was one hundred and five years old and, although frail, remained mentally alert. He wore grey trousers, a crisp white shirt, offset by a burgundy cravat and the inevitable blue blazer. ‘Do you mind if I don’t get up?’
He sat in a wicker chair by a large and ancient gleaming brass telescope and French doors that overlooked a rose garden.
‘You stay right where you are!’ Frank approached him. Dropped to his haunches. ‘It’s always good to see you, old friend.’
‘Who are you calling old?’
He chuckled. ‘Fair play. I wanted to return something. And to let you know something important.’ Frank felt overawed. He hesitated. ‘Your father was right.’
‘He was a good soul. I still miss him.’
‘Aye. You’re not the only one. On the same day the Romanovs were murdered, he put the Red Diamond in your hand . . .’
The older man nodded. ‘I’ve told you the story many times. As many times as he told it to me. My father said, “I believe that one day it will do great good.’’ ’
‘Well, thanks to your son and some other friends of mine . . .’ Frank took the Red Diamond from his pocket. Pressed it into his friend’s palm. ‘It really has done, Georgy. It really has done.’
‘Thank God, and thank you . . .’ The eyes of the son of Leonid Pavlovich Kiselyov filled with tears. ‘Tell me how.’