The Property of a Lady (12 page)

She had chosen to live on the Ile St-Louis because it was just like a tiny moated village in the very heart of Paris; it was exactly eight hundred yards long, it had only eight streets, and everybody knew everybody else. And even though her face was a famous one, nobody bothered her. To her neighbors and the other
insulaires
, or islanders, she was just “Leyla.”

As she walked along the Quai de Béthune, the watery light from the Seine softened the façades of the seventeenth-century mansions to pale blue-gray; seabirds wheeled overhead and a barge slid silently under the graceful arch of the Pont-Marie, but Leyla didn’t notice the beauty around her. Normally she could not resist Bertillon’s wild strawberry ice cream, but today she passed by without even a second glance; she picked up some yogurt from Lecomte’s
crèmerie
without a word and dropped off her fine linen sheets at old Madame Parraud’s hand laundry on Rue la Regrettier, with only a quick
“bonjour.”
The assistant at Monsieur Turpins’ Fruits de France shook his head resignedly as he noticed her worried frown; Mademoiselle Leyla’s mind was obviously on more important matters than merely passing the time of day.

Leyla hurried back along the Quai de Béthune still thinking about the news report she had seen on television last night. They had said it was like an international convention at the Hotel Richemond with reporters from all over the world, and she had sat frozen with fear while they described the history of the jewel, the rumors surrounding the mysterious “Lady,” and the speculation as to the identity of the secret buyer. They had shown glimpses of a handsome young Soviet diplomat and a stern-eyed American from the State Department in Washington, hurrying unsmiling from the sale room. “No jewel in history has ever caused such a furor,” they said, and Leyla’s heart had sunk.

“Who would have thought it?” she had whispered to
herself. “Who would ever have imagined that this would happen?”

Of course she and Anna had known the old reason for secrecy, but they had treated it lightly. It was just an old story, so much time had passed, so much water under the bridge, things were different now…. How could there possibly be any real danger? When they had sold the diamond at auction without any fuss or scandal, they had congratulated themselves on their cleverness. Only now it seemed they had been
too
clever,
too
confident. They had allowed their success to lull them into recklessness. Even cut, the Ivanoff emerald had been too easily recognizable.

She hurried up the steps into her apartment building, glancing nervously behind her as she stepped into the tiny cage lift, quickly pressing the button to take her to the top floor. She could hear her telephone ringing but it stopped before she could reach it and she stamped her foot angrily. A red light blinked on her answering machine. She pushed the message playback button and a familiar voice said, “Leyla, it’s Anna. We are in big trouble. I don’t know exactly what happened but suddenly the whole world wants the emerald. I must talk to you. Meet me tomorrow morning at ten-thirty by the pyramid entrance at the Louvre. Oh, Leyla, what have we done? I know you’re probably busy, flying off to Milan or somewhere, but I have to talk to you. Please, please don’t let me down….”

The machine clicked off, leaving the sound of the woman’s voice still hanging in the air, and Leyla slumped despairingly into a chair.

“Oh, Great-grandfather Tariq Pasha,” she whispered, tears trickling down her cheeks, “it’s all your fault. All your talk of the Kazahns’ old bond of loyalty to the Ivanoffs, making all your children and your grandchildren promise to keep your vow. Now look what you’ve got me into.” She had a strange feeling that somehow Tariq knew what she was thinking and he was telling her to remember
why
, besides love, they owed their loyalty to the Ivanoffs … even after all these years.

Russia, 1917

Sofia paced the small room that had been her prison for more than a month, thinking of what to do, where they might go.

The long train journey south had been another nightmare, best forgotten. She had thought everything would be all right once they got to Yalta; they would go to the Ivanoff villa, where friends would organize a passage for them on a boat to Constantinople, and from there to Europe. But she knew the Ivanoffs could not simply run away to their Paris apartment or their villa at Deauville and seek help from old friends. Misha had warned her that the Cheka would hunt them down like animals, and if they were captured they would be tortured until they gave the Bolsheviks the Ivanoff fortune. And once the Bolsheviks had it, they would all be killed.

It had been nighttime when they finally reached Yalta, and they breathed the sweet sea air gratefully. Unlike the arctic north, the air still held a hint of summer and smelled fresh and clean, like the air of a free country. They smiled at each other as they followed the crowd out of the station, and even Azaylee skipped a little as they walked along.

“Madame, madame!” Sofia had swung around at the sound of a familiar voice. It was the Stationmaster, who was almost as old as she was and who had known her all her married life. But until now he had never called her anything but “Your Highness.”

“Ma’am,” he whispered urgently, his gray beard wiggling with agitation, “I’m sorry to greet you with such lack of respect, but now even the walls have ears. Everything has changed, ma’am, there are spies and danger everywhere.
Your villa … He paused, shaking his head sadly. “It has already been requisitioned and now it’s filled with Cheka, though they are pretending to be something else. If they see you they will arrest you. Oh, ma’am.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “Where will you go now?”

Sofia could think of only one place. As it was dangerous to take a taxi, they trudged for two hours up the switchback roads into the hills to the cottage she had given her old coachman and his wife on their retirement fifteen years ago.

She had knocked on the door, waiting apprehensively for a reply. After fifty years in the Ivanoff household, she would never doubt her old servant’s devotion, but she also knew that fear can be a stronger master than loyalty. Her doubts melted into relief as the door was flung open and they were welcomed instantly.

Still, she knew their days at the cottage were numbered because, faithful though he was, the old coachman was afraid. She saw it in his eyes every time he brought them food and the latest reports on the war now raging in the Crimea. Only this morning he had told her nervously that the navy had mutinied and gone over to the Bolsheviks. Time was running out fast and, along with it, their options.

Sofia Ivanoff stopped her pacing and stared out of the window across the wide blue curve of the bay to the green hills beyond. She could not see the Ivanoff villa because of the trees, but she could remember it as clearly as if she were there: its white columned porticos and green tiled domes, its immaculate gardens and the marble terraces dotted with urns of brightly blooming flowers, the fountains and pools and the sprawling parklike grounds, thick with blossoming trees and shrubs and teeming with every kind of beautiful wild bird and animal. It was so close, just over there in the hills, and yet it might as well have been a thousand miles away. Closing her eyes, she imagined
herself back there, happy again with her family. She could hear their carefree laughter mingling with the bird calls and the faint whisper of the sea; she could smell the springtime orange blossoms and the summer roses and oleanders, the autumn scents of mint and wild thyme…. Sighing, she opened her eyes again to reality. She would never enter the Ivanoff villa again.

A crackle of gunfire echoed suddenly across the quiet bay and she peered anxiously from the window. She never left the cottage, but Missie and Azaylee ventured out every now and again, in their new roles as the foreign widow Mrs. O’Bryan and her daughter. She jumped as the gunfire started again. It was coming from the hills near the old domed church where Missie had taken the child for a walk. Sofia’s hands flew to her face in horror. “Oh, no,” she prayed. “Not my little granddaughter, not Missie. Spare them please, God, they are so young. I beg you, take me instead.” And sinking to her knees, for the first time she wept.

The soft ripeness of the long Crimean autumn had faded, but the early December days were still balmy. Missie was sitting on an old marble headstone chewing on a blade of grass and watching Azaylee darting through the pretty little churchyard, kicking up her heels like a spring lamb in the warm sunshine with Viktor bounding at her side, barking with delight at his freedom.

She hoped that if any spirits still lingered in this peaceful place, the sight of the two enjoying themselves would gladden their souls. Yet though her father’s grave was here, somehow she knew his spirit was not, and she knew she would always think of him at home in England, working at his desk, waiting for her….

Yalta lay far below, a crescent of white buildings bordering the palm-fringed ink-blue sea. Sandy roads led steeply back into the green hills and the sumptuous holiday villas of the nobility, and here and there among the
umbrella pines and acacias, tall cypress trees pointed like dark exclamation marks at the pale-blue sky.

The crackle of gunfire ripped suddenly across the peaceful scene and Viktor stopped his leaping; a tremor ran through his body as another burst shattered the silence. After grabbing Azaylee, Missie hurled her to the ground behind a large pink marble headstone. There was more gunfire and this time she heard a voice shouting orders, coming from the trees at the top of the hill only a couple of hundred yards from where they were hiding.

There was a burst of answering fire and suddenly she saw them. There were three men, Tartars in their traditional wrapped headdresses, wide-sleeved blouses and sheepskin vests, manning a machine gun. There was no sign of the Bolsheviks, but she guessed they must be hidden in the trees.

She knew that if the fighting came down the hill toward them they would be caught in the crossfire. They would have to make a run for it. “Azaylee,” she whispered, “we are going to play a game.”

Azaylee looked back at her confidently and her heart sank. The soldiers would shoot anything that moved. What if Azaylee was to fall?

She glanced back up the hill. The Tartar soldier in command of the machine gun had spotted them and was motioning her angrily to stay where she was. She sank behind the headstone again, sandwiching Azaylee between her body and the cool pink marble, whispering to Viktor to be still.

“Is this the new game, Missie?” Azaylee asked as the machine gun rat-tatted again from the trees, echoing around the hills and across the silken blue bay. Missie peered from the headstone, watching as the Tartar made his move. Now he had located exactly where the Bolshevik gunfire was coming from. He aimed his machine gun unhurriedly in that direction, feeding the ribbons of cartridges through with precise speed as he began to fire.

Missie clutched Azaylee’s face against her breast, but she couldn’t turn her own eyes away. She saw the Bolsheviks run from the trees, their hands held high in surrender. The Tartars showed no mercy. Their bullets sent the fleeing men spinning and twisting down the hillside, ripping them to bloody ribbons.

After sending one of his men to reconnoiter the woods to make sure all the enemy had been routed, the Tartar officer made his way toward her. He was tall and arrogant, and as well as a rifle he carried a huge old sword in an elaborate leather scabbard.

Missie flinched as his angry blue eyes inspected first her and then the child, wondering if this was the end. Then to her surprise Viktor stopped growling. Wagging his tail, he flopped at her feet and put his nose peacefully on his paws.

“Don’t you know it is dangerous to walk in the hills these days?” he shouted in heavily accented Russian. “You might have been killed!”

“So might you,” she retorted bitterly.

He grinned, showing a perfect set of dazzling white teeth. “That’s my job. And I don’t need any foreigners getting in the way.” Putting his head on one side, he stared at Azaylee. “Xenia?” he said, surprised.

She stared back at him doubtfully. “Remember me?” he asked. “I used to make you and your brother laugh when I did this.” Crouching beside her, he wiggled his mustache and pulled a funny face.

“Tariq!” She laughed delightedly as she flung her arms around his neck. “It’s Tariq!”

He glanced at Missie and said, grinning. “My name is Tariq Kazahn. My father was head gardener at the Ivanoff villa. Misha and I used to play together as children whenever the family was down here on holiday. Of course I have not seen him in a long time. The army posted me to the Baltic, and then, when the troubles came, back down here, to Sevastopol. And now we are
reduced to skirmishing in the hills!” His vivid blue eyes looked tired as he flashed her that white grin. “But we are not beaten yet.” he added confidently. “This sword has been in my family since the time of Genghis Khan. It has killed many men in the name of freedom. We Tartars will fight to the end—and we shall win!”

Missie heaved a sigh of relief. He was a friend after all; maybe he could help them. She told him quickly what had happened.

Tears rolled down the Tartar’s strong face but he made no move to wipe them away. “The prince was my friend,” he said quietly. “I would willingly have died in his place.”

“Please help us,” she begged, “We need to get to Constantinople but it is dangerous. We have no papers and Princess Sofia might be recognized. The banks were taken over by the revolutionaries before we could get any money out, and now we have nothing, we are living on the charity of two old servants.” She fell silent, waiting for his answer.

His blue eyes met hers steadily. “Trust me,” Tariq Kazahn said softly. “It will be done.”

Tariq Kazahn was a true Tartar. His bloodline went back to the sixteenth century, before Ivan the Terrible reduced the race to homeless nomads, forever roaming the bleak Russian steppes. Some of his ancestors had returned to Turkey, but others had settled near the Black Sea, where domed Islamic Tartar temples dotted the southern hills alongside Russian Orthodox churches.