The romanov code, p.22
The Romanov Code, page 22
‘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.’
-75-
As I walk through the grounds of Ipatiev House, I straighten my tie clip. The place is defended like a fortress, with guards packing the place and – I glance upwards – a helicopter circling the estate.
It’s another cold day, but the moment I saw the property in front of me, it suddenly felt even chillier. I pause. Take it in. The ornate arched windows on the lower floor. The plain, rectangular casements above them. It’s a strange building, about thirty metres wide, built on the slope of a hill, so from some angles the ground floor remains hidden from sight. The intricate detail towards the top of its façade emphasises the swathes of plain stonework below.
The security guard who met me at the gates says, ‘Keep moving!’ so I stay still for a couple more moments, studying the site.
Ahead of me, I can see into the first-floor room that would have been set aside for Olga, Tatiana, Maria and Anastasia Romanova and, to its right, the chamber where their parents and brother, the Tsarevich Alexei, would have been confined. Below those two rooms, the basement where the last royal family of Russia and their friends were butchered.
I’m aware the building is simply a replica, but the realness of what I can see, its solidity and sheer presence, is unsettling.
Ekaterina Romanova appears at the front door. ‘Welcome to Ipatiev House, Mr Novak! What do you think?’
‘It’s quite an achievement,’ I reply truthfully, adding to the guard, ‘You can get back to your crossword, now.’
Ekaterina nods at him and he marches towards the gates. ‘Come inside, Mr Novak.’
I don’t reply. Neither do I move.
She smiles, not unkindly. ‘The ghosts of the past can’t harm you.’
‘It’s not the ghosts I’m afraid of.’
‘Then what?’
‘Honestly, Miss Romanova, I don’t know. But . . . This place looks like an exact replica of the original. Is the interior as accurate?’
She nods. ‘Of course. The amount of detail we were able to research meant duplicating the first House of Special Purpose was a task we could achieve with remarkable precision.’
‘But why would you want to? I don’t understand. This is a symbol of horror.’
And here’s that Ekaterina Romanova temper again, flaring like a firework. As sudden and striking as any rocket. ‘It is a symbol of what my family endured!’ she tells me. ‘It is a symbol of captivity! Not just of the Romanovs’ imprisonment, but the confinement of millions of my countrymen and women in the decades that followed the false revolution! You ask why it stands here.’ She’s so agitated she doesn’t notice an old woman appear at her shoulder. ‘It is a reminder because the people need reminding that—’
The woman gently interjects, ‘Calm yourself, Katta.’
Ekaterina pauses, but she still stares at me as though I’ve said something rude about her parents.
‘I didn’t mean to offend you with my question.’
She takes a breath. Turns to the person who’s joined us and softly replies, ‘I don’t want to be calm. We’ve all been too calm for too long.’
‘I know, I know . . .’ The woman looks at me. ‘You must be Marc Novak! I’ve heard a lot about you.’
‘Good or bad?’
‘A little of both. I preferred the bad.’ She beams at me. The kind of smile it’s hard not to return. I’d say she’s in her mid-seventies. Robust. Active. She has long, loose white hair which somehow contrasts with her smart check suit trousers and boyfriend blazer. ‘I’m Helen Merrydale.’ She offers me her palm and we shake hands.
‘Helen is the head of the Romanov Foundation,’ Ekaterina informs me.
‘You look surprised by that, Marc.’
Remind me never to play poker with Ms Merrydale. ‘I expected the organisation to be run by a Romanov. Or at least a Russian.’
‘You disappoint me! Here at the Foundation, we continue the spirit of the Romanovs’ work. They were pro-freedom right across the world.’
‘There are many examples,’ Ekaterina tells me. ‘Like it is conveniently forgotten that Catherine the Great played a major role in tipping the outcome of the American Revolution, freeing what is now the USA from Britain. Through non-military and diplomatic pressure, of course. Catherine refused the British request for troops on the ground and she acted favourably towards the so-called colonists by offering to provide them all that she could without compromising Russia’s neutrality.’
‘Well, it’s fairly obvious that a weakened Britain was better for Russia economically, but I take your point. Although I’d say it would have been more apposite to point out that Catherine the Great wasn’t even Russian. And wasn’t that great, to be honest. Didn’t “her” Russia invade what’s now known as Ukraine? That’s not something you’d approve of, is it, Ms Romanova?’
Ekaterina regards me with a slight air of annoyance.
Helen says, ‘You seem remarkably well informed, Marc.’
‘I watch a lot of Horrible Histories.’
‘Horrible . . .?’
Before I can reply, Ekaterina cuts in, ‘It’s a children’s television show. Ignore such comments. It’s his way of deflecting.’ And to me, ‘Let’s all go inside.’
*
I’m taken to the one room in the building that isn’t a match for the corresponding chamber in the original Ipatiev House.
‘We had no wish to recreate the offices of Yakov Yurovsky,’ Ekaterina explains. ‘A monster and a murderer.’
The room is large and modern, clashing with the rest of the building with its array of screens, PCs and laptops. Helen switches on an enormous television and shows me a ten-minute film that’s essentially a promo for the Romanov Foundation. The video is slick and convincing, highlighting the many worthwhile causes they’ve helped over the years, positioning the organisation as a global force for good, upholding the values of the Romanovs in the twenty-first century. I’m surprised at the level of buy-in that the film reveals. Sure, a lot of it shows people like Helen and Ekaterina meeting individuals on a grass-roots level, but several cutaways show the Foundation’s heads chatting with presidents and prime ministers.
As it fades to black, Helen asks, ‘What did you think?’
‘Genuinely impressive. I had no idea your reach was so extensive. And I had the impression – falsely it turns out – that your organisation would be persona non grata in Russia. But I noticed a few shots of you guys holding meetings in the Kremlin.’
Helen says, ‘Before the geopolitical climate became so heated, we had good relations with Moscow. We believe they’ll be rekindled when the current situation evens itself out.’
‘Why would any Russian leader have a problem with the Romanovs?’ Ekaterina asks the question as though she’s furious for having to do so.
‘They weren’t always so popular with the men in charge. This place is a testament to that.’
‘The history of Russia is the history of the Romanovs.’
I could argue with Ekaterina about her claim, but I turn my attention to Helen. ‘It was fascinating. Thank you.’
‘Our pleasure,’ she replies. ‘And I believe you had something you wished to discuss with us?’
‘Forgive me. My business is with Miss Romanova alone.’
Ekaterina says, ‘Anything you tell me, you can tell Helen. We have no secrets from each other. I am searching for the Romanov Code on behalf of the Foundation. I have been for years. It’s only right that Helen is kept fully up to date. All right . . . Did you find David Fenton?’
‘Yes. Yes, I did.’
‘Oh my God!’ Ekaterina looks delighted and begins to gabble. ‘How was he? How is he? What’s he up to?’
‘Well, to answer your questions in order. Annoyed. Dead. And not a great deal from hereon in.’
Her face falls. ‘Dead? Are you saying he’s dead?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘But . . . When did he die?’
‘About half an hour after we met.’
Helen can’t quite grasp it. ‘Was there some kind of tragedy?’
‘Almost.’
‘What?’
‘He tried to kill me.’
Ekaterina asks, ‘What exactly happened?’
‘I killed him.’
‘But why would he want to murder you?’
‘I didn’t think to ask. I was a little preoccupied at the time.’
The two women appear to be in shock.
After a couple of seconds, Ekaterina says, ‘David was a man of purpose and conviction. He wasn’t a murderer. He was . . . lovely. He was—’
‘Well, lovely David was back working for the Russian Secret Service.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous! He was like me! He ran away because he saw what they were capable of.’
I shrug. ‘Maybe they reminded him what they’re capable of, which is why he ran back.’
Helen inquires nervously, ‘Is that what you think happened?’
I could hazard a guess but don’t see the point. ‘The authorities have accepted I acted in self-defence. But there will be an investigation.’
‘Of course,’ says Helen. ‘A man has died, so . . .’ She tails off as the significance of my words hits home.
Ekaterina, to her credit, has put her grief on the backburner and is already more concerned with what the police might be cooking up. ‘Will the Foundation be dragged into this affair?’
‘Would that be a problem?’ I know damn well it would, but I want them to realise the full extent of the implications.
‘Would it be a problem?’ Ekaterina almost stammers with incredulity. ‘If the Romanov Foundation is seen to be mixed up in the murder of a Russian spy? We’d be pariahs in the West, with observers assuming we were connected to the agent, and outcasts in Russia because they’d suspect we were involved in the killing! Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!’
‘Either way,’ I agree, ‘it’s not a good look.’
Helen murmurs, ‘This is a nightmare.’
I allow the silence to simmer for a moment or two, then reveal, ‘I may be able to help you.’
Ekaterina looks suspicious. ‘Why would you?’
‘Because it’s what I do.’
The head of the Foundation reacts with more grace. ‘That would be marvellous. If there is any way you can keep our connection hidden . . . You’ve seen the work we do. We would be beyond grateful.’
‘I’ll do what I can.’
‘What’s your price?’ Ekaterina asks.
‘I don’t have a price. That always seems to fox you. But it’s really dead simple. I do what I believe to be right. It means I can sleep at night. It also means I do my clothes shopping in Cancer Research UK because I’m never going to be rich, but, hey, swings and roundabouts.’
‘Mr Novak.’
‘Yes, Miss Romanova?’
‘I don’t know why I like you so much.’
‘It’s my natural modesty. No one’s immune to it. But before we start playing footsie under the table, I’m going to need a few answers. Top of the list – what’s the Court?’
Helen and Ekaterina exchange glances and the latter replies, ‘I’ve no idea.’
‘If you’re going to lie to my face, please do me the courtesy of trying to sound at least moderately convincing.’
She blushes. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘OK, let’s take it from the top one more time. And this time I want an essay answer or I tell the police everything.’
Ekaterina pauses. ‘Yes. I’m sorry.’ She looks at Helen, who gives a tiny nod. ‘We’ll tell you everything we know.’
‘How glorious. So, what’s the Court?’
-76-
Helen pauses at the main entrance and says her goodbyes. Ekaterina walks me to my cab. I open one of its rear passenger doors and as I’m about to get in, she says, ‘Catherine the Great may not have been great in the modern sense of the word, but she ruled Russia and its empires for over three decades. She founded cities, theatres and universities. She conquered countless lands. Was responsible for untold deaths. She also established Europe’s very first state-financed higher education institute for women.’
‘What’s your point?’
‘In her early days, Catherine’s opponents often underestimated her because she was a woman. Mr Novak, because of her femininity, men couldn’t see her for what she truly was.’
‘And what was that?’
‘Enlightened. Efficient. Cultured. But a killer.’
‘I still don’t get your point, Miss Romanova.’
‘History repeats itself.’ And as she turns to re-join Helen, Ekaterina adds, ‘Catherine wasn’t her real name, you know. Goodbye, Mr Novak.’
As my cab pulls away from the outer gates of Ipatiev House, I remove my tie and tell the driver where we’re off to. I look back and see Helen and Ekaterina watching me depart. It’s hard to tell what’s worrying them the most. It’s even money on the fact that now Thomas Maughan, the con artist formerly known as David Fenton, is lying cold in a mortuary somewhere, the chances of finding the Romanov Code have dwindled to pretty much zero. And it’s even money again that the prospect of the Foundation being linked to the priest’s death tops their angst list.
And now I know the truth about the Court, there’s an outside bet that they’re most concerned with me and what I’ll do next.
To tell you the truth, I’m worried about all three, but for different reasons.
I face forward. Take a black tie from my suit pocket and loop it around my collar. I’m already half-regretting not asking Ekaterina to fulfil her side of our bargain, but I want to question her about the man I’m seeking in connection to Diana’s death when we’re alone. I’ve a feeling Helen Merrydale’s presence would have made her less than forthright.
The cabbie glances in his rear-view mirror and spots my tie. ‘You going to a funeral, mate?’
‘Yeah,’ I reply as I fashion a half-Windsor, ‘I’m just hoping it’s not my own.’
I pull my phone from my pocket and google ‘Catherine the Great’. Turns out her real name was Sophie.
