‘Thank you,’ said Sasha, trying to recall the name of Charlie’s uncle. By the time the man had moved on, so had the countess. But her instructions couldn’t have been clearer.
Sasha mingled with the guests while his wife – he wondered how long it would take him to get used to that – went up to her room to change into her going-away outfit. When she reappeared on the staircase forty minutes later, he was reminded of the first moment he’d seen her at Ben’s party nearly four years ago. Did she have any idea how he had prayed that she was heading towards him? Only recently she’d confessed to Ben that she’d been hoping he wouldn’t turn up at the party with another girl.
It was another half hour before they were able to bid their final farewells and climb into Sasha’s old MG, having abandoned the Rolls-Royce. They arrived at Victoria station only just in time to board the Orient Express for Venice.
They both burst out laughing when they discovered that their sleeping compartment only had two narrow single beds.
‘We ought to claim half our money back,’ said Sasha, as he squeezed in alongside his wife and turned out the light.
*
‘There’s only one thing I insist on,’ said Tremlett once his son had fully briefed him on the sale of 154 Fulham Road.
‘And what’s that, Dad?’
‘Under no circumstances will you allow the property to fall into the hands of the Karpenkos.’
‘That’s unlikely to happen with the price at four hundred thousand.’
‘Agnelli could afford it.’
‘At his age, Agnelli’s a seller, not a buyer,’ said Maurice. ‘Besides, I know he hasn’t been well of late.’
‘I’m glad to hear that,’ said Tremlett. ‘Because I need you to handle the sale while I concentrate on getting planning permission for the block of flats in Stamford Place.’
‘Any more news on that front?’
‘Councillor Mason tells me there’ll be an announcement next week, which is why I’ve invited him to join us on our yacht at Cannes for the weekend.’
‘That should clinch the deal,’ said Maurice.
‘Especially as the unfortunate man is going through an unusually messy divorce case. For the second time.’
*
Mr and Mrs Karpenko returned from Venice a fortnight later, and among the first things Sasha did on arriving back in London was to phone the countess. She invited him to join her for tea the following afternoon.
He knocked on the door of her basement flat in Pimlico just before three, not quite sure what to expect. The door was opened by a maid who was almost as ancient as her mistress. She led him through to the sitting room, where the old lady was seated in a winged armchair, with a rug over her lap.
The flat was spotless, and every surface was crowded with silver-framed sepia photographs of a family who would never have considered living below stairs. She waved Sasha into the seat opposite her and asked, ‘How was Venice?’
‘Wonderful. But if we’d stayed any longer, I’d be bankrupt.’
‘I visited it several times as a child,’ said the countess. ‘And often I enjoyed a chocolate gateau and a glass of lemonade in St Mark’s Square – the drawing room of Europe, as Napoleon once described it.’
‘It’s now crowded with tourists like myself who I feel sure Napoleon would not have approved of,’ said Sasha as the maid reappeared carrying a tray of tea and biscuits.
‘Another man who underestimated the Russians, and lived to regret it.’
Once the maid had poured the tea and departed, the countess moved on to the purpose of the meeting.
Sasha listened attentively to every word she had to say, and couldn’t help feeling that if this formidable woman had been born in the twentieth century, she would have been a leader in any field she had chosen. By the time she came to the end of her audacious proposal, he wasn’t in any doubt that the Russian ring had met their match.
‘Well, young man,’ she said. ‘Are you willing to assist me in my little subterfuge?’
‘Yes, I am,’ said Sasha without hesitation. ‘But don’t you consider Mr Dangerfield is far better qualified to pull it off?’
‘Possibly. But he has the British weakness of believing in fair play, a concept we Russians have never really grasped.’
‘My timing will need to be spot on,’ said Sasha.
‘It most certainly will,’ said the countess. ‘And more importantly, knowing when to stop will be the biggest decision. So let’s run through the details again, and don’t hesitate to interrupt if there’s something you don’t fully understand, or think you can improve on. Before I begin, Sasha, do you have any questions?’
‘Yes. Where’s the nearest telephone box?’
*
The auction house was almost full by the time Mr Dangerfield and the countess took their reserved seats in the third row.
‘Your egg is lot eighteen,’ said Dangerfield after turning several pages of the catalogue. ‘So it won’t come up for at least half an hour. But then it should only be a few moments before we discover if the experts consider it a fake or a masterpiece.’ He turned and glanced at a group of men who were standing in a huddle at the back of the room. ‘They’ve already decided the answer to that question,’ he added. ‘But then, it suits their purpose.’
‘It doesn’t help that the Soviet Ambassador issued a press statement this morning claiming that the egg was a fake and the original is on display at the Hermitage,’ said the countess.
‘A piece of propaganda that even Goebbels would have been embarrassed by,’ said Mr Dangerfield. ‘And you’ll notice that despite his words, His Excellency is sitting a couple of rows behind us. Don’t be surprised if he tries to pick up your egg at a reduced price, and then overnight it’s suddenly recognized as a long-lost masterpiece.’
‘The revolution may have killed my father,’ said the countess, turning round to glare at the ambassador, ‘but its heirs are not going to steal my egg.’
The ambassador didn’t acknowledge her presence.
‘What does POA mean?’ the countess asked, looking back down at her catalogue.
‘Price on application,’ explained Dangerfield. ‘As Sotheby’s are unwilling to offer an opinion on its value, they will leave it to the market to decide. I’m afraid the ambassador’s intervention won’t have helped.’
‘Bunch of cowards,’ said the countess. ‘Let’s hope they’re all left with egg on their faces.’ Mr Dangerfield would have laughed, but he wasn’t sure if the pun had been intended. ‘So what happens next?’ she asked.
‘At seven o’clock precisely, the auctioneer will climb the steps to the podium, and open proceedings by offering lot number one. Then I’m afraid you’ll have a rather long and anxious wait before he reaches lot eighteen. At that point it will be in the hands of the gods. Or possibly,’ he added, glancing around at the ring, ‘the infidels.’
‘Who are those casually dressed men behind that rope near the podium?’
‘The gentlemen of the press. Pencils poised, hoping for a story. You’ll either make the front pages or be relegated to a footnote in the arts column.’
‘Let’s hope it’s the front pages. And the smartly dressed ones on the platform to our right?’
‘That’s the home team. It’s their job to help the auctioneer spot the bidders. That also applies to those assistants manning the phones to your right, who will be bidding on behalf of clients who are either calling from abroad, or wish to remain anonymous.’
At precisely seven o’clock a tall, elegantly dressed man wearing a dinner jacket and black bow tie entered the auction room from a door behind the podium. He slowly climbed the steps, and smiled as he surveyed the packed audience.
‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the Russian sale. I shall start proceedings with lot number one in your catalogue. A Winter’s Evening in Moscow by Savrasov. I shall open the bidding at ten thousand pounds. Do I see twelve?’
Although the countess considered the work inferior to the Savrasov that had hung in her father’s library, she was nevertheless pleased when the hammer came down at ￡24,000, well above its high estimate.