Goddess of Death (18 page)

Kovlinksi glanced at Arnold, as though he could sense what was going through the mind of his guest. ‘I asked you to join me here because I have been placed in a certain difficulty. Almost all these artefacts here have been purchased by me over the years, in each case after carefully discovering the true provenance. But recently, a particular item, one of great value, has been given to me, as a gift. What is your English saying … one should not look a gift horse in the mouth? Even so, while it might seem churlish for me to question the provenance of an item given to me, apparently
freely, nevertheless all my instincts demanded that I should make enquiries. Extensive enquiries. And it is as well that I made use of my networks … and the result is why I felt constrained to call upon you.’

Kovlinski moved away, walked forward into the room. As before pressure points in the floor caused various pedestals to be highlighted, spotlights illuminating busts, ancient shields, Nigerian artwork. At the far end of the room he stopped, pointed with a bony finger. His hand was shaking slightly. His voice dropped in its register, and a harsh note crept into his tone.

‘This is an item that was given to me recently. It was a gift. But I am fully aware of the motives behind the gift. So naturally I felt compelled to research the item, look into its provenance. And when I traced the steps that led this ancient item to my home, I was, in a sense, presented with another gift. But that is of no matter as far as you are concerned.’ He turned, facing Arnold. ‘It is merely that, in respect of this item, now that I am aware of its provenance, I am unable in all conscience to retain it. I would ask that I be allowed to keep it here, for perhaps a few weeks, in order that I might enjoy it, briefly. But then, I would wish that you take charge of it, and discuss the matter with your colleagues … Miss Cacciatore, is it not?’

Arnold stepped forward staring at the artefact highlighted on the pedestal in the angle of the wall. As he did so he heard the ring tone of a mobile phone. Kovlinski took the phone out of his pocket, snapped in open, listened briefly. His tone was curt as he said, ‘Thank you. I will see him in the library. We shall be down in a few minutes.’

Arnold was barely aware of the conversation, for his eyes were fixed on the artefact that Kovlinski had received as a gift.

It was perhaps eighteen inches high. A bronze statuette. He had seen its like recently, and had known it as a fake. But this statuette – he felt it in his bones – was no fake.

He admired the tight coil of hair, the unstrung bow, the bared
breast. The dagger lay against the smooth, lissome thigh emerging from the short tunic. The feet were bare; the features lit up in triumph.

He recognized it as the ancient statuette of Artemis, famed as the Huntress. And sometimes, as Goddess of Death.

A
LAN
S
TACEY
WAS
standing in front of the tall window in the library, gazing out over the manicured lawns to the distant lake as they entered the room. He was elegantly dressed in a dark grey Savile Row suit, white shirt, blue tie; his handsome face was tanned, his thick hair, greying at the temples, was swept back smoothly. But as he turned to face the owner of Leverstone Hall the smile on his lips was not reflected in his eyes. A politician’s smile. And the uneasy frown of a troubled but determined man.

He came forward, raising his hand to greet the Russian oligarch, but almost as though he was unaware of the gesture of politeness Kovlinski half turned, to glance at Arnold. ‘Ah, Minister, I think you will already have met Mr Landon?’

The hand dropped. Stacey’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yes, of course, we’ve met.’ The tone was false, an assurance that was worth nothing, the professional, polished response on meeting a vaguely recalled stranger but Arnold was aware of something else. Stacey was saying, politely, that their paths had crossed, he knew not where, but he was lying: Arnold could sense it. Stacey knew very well who he was. And where they had met. Here, at Leverstone Hall, but also in the minister’s room at Whitehall, when Arnold had first visited James Hope-Brierley.

Somewhat stiffly, his glance sliding away dismissively from Arnold, Stacey said, ‘I was expecting that we would have a private interview, Kovlinski.’

The Russian businessman moved past him with a studied indifference, to take a seat at the long library table. His tone was cool. ‘Mr Landon is an
invited
guest, Minister.’ Arnold noted the deliberate emphasis the Russian oligarch placed on the word. ‘I can hardly turn him away simply because of the unexpected arrival of a government minister.’

There was a short silence as the contemptuous tone bit into Stacey. The politician and the owner of Leverstone Hall stared at each other. It was clear there was no love lost between them. At last Stacey cleared his throat, and said, ‘I’ve been trying to get in touch with Adriana.’

‘So I understand,’ Kovlinski replied, caressing his throat.

‘She hasn’t returned my calls.’

‘That is surely her business, not mine,’ Kovlinski murmured affably.

‘Is she here? I would like to talk to her.’

Kovlinski shook his head. ‘I regret that is not possible. She is not here.’

Disconcerted, Stacey snapped, ‘Well, where the hell is she?’

Kovlinski’s eyes were cold. ‘If she chooses not to tell you of her whereabouts, I see no good reason why I should interfere. But, since you have taken the trouble to come up here from London, and I do not doubt that you are a busy man, I will tell you. I have business interests in Vienna. I recently talked things over with my daughter. After some reflection, she has agreed it is time she took more interest in my commercial affairs, rather than indulging in the rather hedonistic activities that had demanded her attention of late. She is, you may say, now learning the ropes, against the day she may play a full part in the business affairs that are currently my responsibility.’

‘Why couldn’t she tell me that herself?’ Stacey expostulated.

‘If you must know, I advised her against it.’

Alan Stacey was rigid with suppressed anger. Kovlinski seemed unmoved. He turned his glance to Arnold, silently
standing just inside the door. ‘I’m sorry that you should be witness to a domestic matter of this kind, Mr Landon, but it is perhaps as well that you are here.’

Stacey turned his head to glare at Arnold. ‘What has my private life got to do with Landon?’

‘Ahh …’ Kovlinski spread his hands wide and smiled at Arnold. ‘I think it is as well, Mr Landon, in view of our recent conversation, that you should know that the statuette you have just admired upstairs was a gift, unsolicited, and freely bestowed upon me, by this gentleman here, my would-be son-in-law Mr Alan Stacey.’

Arnold felt as though a cold knot was forming in his stomach. He remained silent, listened as Kovlinski addressed himself once more to the government minister.

‘But let’s deal first with Adriana. You are aware, of course, Mr Stacey, that she is my only daughter, the product of my second marriage, the only child of my declining years … and my heir. You are also aware that her life until now has been what you English might describe as rather … rackety? I think you took advantage of that. Flattered her with your attention, used your position, made full use of your greater experience of the world to turn a young woman’s head.’ The glint in his eyes had
hardened
. ‘And a man in my position, you would surely expect that I would be careful, ultra careful, with regard to the man who was hoping to marry my daughter.’

‘Our engagement—’

‘Was never approved by me,’ Kovlinski interposed firmly. ‘And I am, shall we say, a little old-fashioned about such matters.’

‘You raised no objections!’ Stacey snapped.

‘Publicly, no. But my private feelings were another matter. And you must surely have been aware of a certain coolness on my part towards the projected alliance.’ He was silent for a little while as Stacey stood before him, fists clenched impotently at his
sides. ‘After all, that is probably why you gave me the statuette. In an attempt to gain my approval. But I should explain that well before matters came to a head, with the so-called engagement, I had already put in train certain enquiries regarding my daughter’s …
lover
.’

Kovlinski rose from his seat, walked towards the window, and stood gazing out for a little while as the silence became heavy in the room. His hands were locked behind his back. His shoulders had straightened, his chin was raised, his attitude determined. ‘I am sure you are both aware, Mr Stacey, Mr Landon, that a man of my wealth is in a position to open many locked doors. Informants can easily be discovered, money buys information and the sources of information are considerable in this modern technological age. And as a careful man I would naturally wish to discover all I could about the man my daughter proposed to marry. But one of the things that quickly intrigued me in my initial enquiries, Mr Stacey, was that your background – which seemed so simple, impeccable and obvious at first glance, Eton, Cambridge, the Guards, a political career – was also, in part clouded with a certain vagueness. Some of the obvious sources for information were closed to me.’

‘As a Minister in the Government,’ Stacey snarled, ‘I am inevitably protected by security services, against uncalled for digging into my private family life!’

‘Yes, indeed,’ Kovlinski nodded, ‘this I can understand. And you will be relieved to know that the system works, and that what emerged, of course, was an upper-middle-class
background
, a father who was a senior civil servant, now dead but well honoured it seems, for services which were, shall we say, rather vaguely acknowledged.’

‘He worked in British Intelligence!’ Stacey’s anger was barely controlled.

‘So I understand. And the veils of secrecy are closely drawn over such men, when it is deemed necessary. It has always been
so. It was so in Russia, just as it is here in England. But of course, things have become different in my homeland of recent years. Changes of regime, of political bias, of accommodation with the West, of facing the past … You must be aware, as a politician, that
glasnost
led to a considerable amount of information flooding out into the public domain at last. Many of the OGPU files, those of the NKVD, the Cheka secret police, and their modern successor the KGB became open to inspection … provided one had the money and connections to open the relevant doors.’ Kovlinski turned, folded his arms across his chest and stared at the two men facing him.

‘I must admit,’ he continued, ‘when I started making enquiries about you I had felt a considerable frustration in delving into your family background, Minister. All seemed so clean, sweet, tidy. There was nothing to which I could take exception, no reason I could find to talk seriously to my daughter, tell her how bad a mistake she was making. Your character, as it was revealed to me, seemed normal enough. Ambition, yes, I could recognize that in you. Greed, possibly, for I am a rich man and were you to marry Adriana you would naturally enhance your financial situation. A certain
ruthlessness
, of course: all politicians, if they are to be successful, must be ruthless. And … miserly with the truth.’

Kovlinski walked across the room towards the drinks cabinet standing against the far wall. He selected a glass, poured himself a measure of vodka, offering nothing to Stacey, his uninvited guest, but raising his eyebrows in Arnold’s direction. Arnold shook his head: he felt ill at ease, was not certain he even wanted to be in this room while Kovlinski continued baiting the government minister who wanted to marry his daughter. Kovlinski sipped at his drink with relish, then glanced at Stacey. ‘No, I found nothing which would give me a lever … and then you made a bad mistake.’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Stacey demanded, barely managing to control his angry frustration.

‘You made an unsolicited gift to me, of the statuette. I wonder, are you not aware that it is of perhaps inestimable value? To give away such a priceless object! But what of that if you were to marry into riches? We are both aware that the gift was by way of a sweetener: you knew I was a secretive collector of ancient
artefacts
, and with this unsolicited gift you might curry favour with me. Persuade me to give up my objections to this relationship with Adriana. But I began to wonder … was there perhaps another reason, in addition?’

Stacey stared at him, impotently. But there was also an
uneasiness
in his bearing.

‘Perhaps you had reason to be concerned about its
provenance
,’ Kovlinski continued. ‘Perhaps it had become an embarrassment to you. You must have become aware that it was an item long missing, but actively sought. By giving it to me you could perhaps believe it would then be buried out of sight of prying eyes, as well as make me, the impassioned collector, more likely to look upon the impending marriage proposal with favour. But, as I said, it was a mistake. It opened the door to Russia for me.’

‘What have I to do with Russia?’ Stacey asked impatiently.

‘Personally, I suppose, nothing … other than oversight of whatever commercial interests your government department might have in that direction. But my diligent enquiries, or those of my informants when they were told of the Artemis statuette, were able to advise me on the matter of its provenance. Were you really not aware that it formed part of a hoard of Nazi loot, shipped to Moscow at the end of the war … and then stolen again?’

Alan Stacey had paled under his tan. But his gaze was hard. ‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’

‘Then I will explain to you, my friend,’ Kovlinski said softly. ‘After the fall of Berlin, loot grabbed by the Nazis was in turn acquired by Stalin’s Trophy Brigades. A considerable treasure kept in the Berlin Zoo was flown to Moscow. But there was a
light-fingered army major in charge of the operation who took to himself a number of items, in order to pay his way out of the Russia he had come to hate. He never managed to escape. He was betrayed by a British intelligence officer; not only betrayed, but robbed, in addition.’

The room was silent but the atmosphere was tense.

‘It would seem that the intelligence officer had agreed to help the major and his family flee Russia for the West. In return he was to be given some of the loot removed from the clutches of the Trophy Brigade. Unfortunately the English officer concerned lacked loyalty or scruples: he acquired the payment, which included the statuette of the Huntress, but then betrayed the Russian major who was killed, along with his family.’

‘Not entirely,’ Arnold said quietly. It was his first intervention and Alan Stacey glared at him angrily, clearly still nettled that Arnold had remained in the room where he had been hoping to have a private conversation. ‘The major was called Kopas; one of his sons managed to escape to the West.’

Kovlinski nodded thoughtfully, eyeing Arnold with interest. ‘That is correct. The English intelligence officer found his own position rather precarious after that and within a short time of the betrayal of Kopas he himself disappeared. With the loot he had acquired from the unfortunate major. My informants were unable to tell me where he went immediately: probably on another intelligence mission—’

‘He went to Spain,’ Arnold said. ‘He was given a new identity under the Franco regime. He became, ostensibly, a Spanish
businessman
by the name of Zamora. Under which pseudonym he probably carried on with his espionage activities.’

There was a glint of appreciation in Kovlinski’s eyes. ‘Well, well, Mr Landon, perhaps you and I should have pooled our resources earlier. I knew nothing of the Spanish interlude. My informants were able to trace the intelligence officer only after his return to England some ten years later.’

‘My enquiries regarding his return from Spain to England hit a brick wall,’ Arnold said. He glanced at the angry features of Alan Stacey. He remembered the manner in which Hope-Brierley had avoided answering his questions and he recalled the close relationship the civil servant seemed to have enjoyed with the government minister now facing him. Things were now falling into place. His enquiries had been deliberately obstructed.

‘Unlike mine,’ Kovlinski said softly. ‘I was able to obtain information from highly placed sources, in Moscow and London, eager to maintain my co-operation in various business ventures. When he was in Russia, the name he went under, this intelligence officer … do you know it?’

Arnold nodded. ‘Stoneleigh.’

‘That is so. And after his period as … Zamora, you said? When he was finally recalled to England?’

The knot had hardened in Arnold’s stomach. ‘I was unable to obtain a name.’

‘Ha. So we can collaborate on our individual information. The fact is, Stoneleigh was an assumed name, like this Zamora you mention. On his return to England the officer was promoted, given a desk job in Whitehall, and allowed to revert to his real name. He enjoyed a successful, less adventurous end to his career, in Whitehall, being respected and honoured by officialdom. For services rendered, no doubt. Nothing seems to have been done about his … nefarious activities regarding Major Kopas. Perhaps they were not known; perhaps hushed up by complaisant colleagues; perhaps even regarded as the natural spoils due to a man working at the edge of danger in foreign countries. But he died, much respected. And his son benefited from the man’s status.’