Winter Palace (7 page)

“When all the people had passed and the young man did not return, Zosha and her friend walked to the nearest house, where a woman came out, took one look at them, and said, you're from the Warsaw Uprising. That was how strong an impact the events left on the innocent. The woman took them into her house and cooked the only food she had—rancid potatoes and black, grimy flour made into potato pancakes. My Zosha told me it was the finest meal she had eaten in her entire life.

“They stayed with the woman for two days, until the Germans began a house-to-house search for escapees. That resulted in a journey from home to home, village to village, by hay wagon and horse cart and lorry, sleeping in barns or vegetable bins or cellars or open fields, until one early dawn my Zosha arrived at our own doorstep in Cracow. She was so exhausted and weak that her hold on life was a bare thread. My family took pity on the poor girl, and instead of passing her on as would have been safe, they gave her Alexander's room. And I, in turn, gave her my heart.”

The taxi turned a corner, and instantly the city was exchanged for a narrow country lane. Verdant fields opened to either side. Wild flowers filled their car with the perfumes of summer. Gregor watched the line of ancient trees parade past their car.

“Alexander had been gone for seven months, as I said,” he continued quietly. “He returned as silently and suddenly as he had departed, riding the winds of danger and urgency with a strength and focused power that filled our little world. We had to escape, he said. All of us. There was no time for
discussion or debate. The Soviet noose was tightening and soon would close off all remaining channels to freedom.

“We did little to protest, as we could see the evidence of the Soviets' growing might all around us. So that very night we began a journey which took us the entire length of Poland, up to the Baltic Sea and across by boat to Scandinavia, and from there on to England. Every step of the way we were aided by silent, nameless friends whom Alexander had met in his time away from us. Every place we traveled, I saw how those strong men accepted my dear cousin as one of their own, a man who had fought the good fight, and I knew a pride so fierce I was sure it would burn eternal scars in my heart.”

The taxi turned through great stone gates into a quiet cemetery, stopping before a tiny chapel. The driver turned off the motor and waited patiently as Gregor sat where he was and went on, “But my darling Zosha had never recovered her strength from the trauma of the Uprising. Her weakness had not been evident when we departed; otherwise, I would never have attempted the journey. But as the days of endless toil and danger wore on, that same look of haunted exhaustion which she had worn upon her arrival at my home returned to her features.

“Still, we survived, all of us. In Sweden we rested, and again I hoped that all would be well. But it was not to be. About a year after our arrival in London, my Zosha went down with a fever, and she never rose from her bed again.”

With a long sigh, Gregor eased himself from the taxi. While Jeffrey arranged for the driver to wait, Gregor purchased a map and a great bouquet of lilacs and chrysanthemums from the flower stall by the cemetery chapel. Together they followed the cemetery map past progressively older tombstones, until they arrived at a carefully trimmed plot lined by flowers and bearing a simple black marble marker.

“This is Alexander's doing, bless his soul,” Gregor noted quietly. “He has seen to all these details since that very day, when I was too poor and too distraught to manage.”

Gregor stood for a long moment in bowed stillness while Jeffrey strolled along ways sheltered by ancient chestnuts. When he saw Gregor wave in his direction, he hurried back.

“It was good to come here once more, before—” He stopped, looked back at the grave site, and concluded. “It was good to come. I have Alexander to thank for this as well. Though I must confess to you, my young friend, that I feel no closer to Zosha at this moment than I have when seated alone in my tiny Cracow flat on many a winter's eve.”

Jeffrey thought of his own new love and was brought face-to-face with its fleeting fragility. He found himself with nothing to say as they made their slow way back to the waiting taxi.

Chapter 8

The following afternoon Katya walked cheerfully, though somewhat frazzled, into Alexander's room, where Jeffrey was visiting. She bestowed kisses and greetings on both men and asked, “Where is Gregor?”

“Back at Alexander's flat,” Jeffrey said glumly. “Packing.”

“You couldn't persuade him to stay?”

He shook his head. “I got about as far as you did.”

“Oh.” Her cheerfulness slipped several notches. “He did warn us. I just hoped—”

“Gregor's place is not here,” Alexander said kindly. “You as well as any have the perception to know that.”

“But the wedding is just six days off,” Katya complained, slipping into the seat Jeffrey offered.

“There is urgent relief work among the Cracow orphanages which simply will not wait,” Alexander replied. “He has explained it to us in great detail. And his work here is over.”

“You really are feeling better, aren't you?”

“My dear,” Alexander said, “Gregor's visit has positively transformed me. This and the news that you are relocating the wedding on my account.”

“Jeffrey told you, then.” She bestowed the fullness of her gaze on him. “Did he tell you it was his idea?”

“I did not because it was not,” he replied.

She nodded slowly. “Yes it was. You were just too smart to suggest it yourself.”

“Whoever is responsible,” Alexander said, “I thank you both. Your offer has done much to restore me. And I do hope that you still intend to hold your reception in my flat.”

“If you really think—”

“Nothing could bring me greater pleasure, except to be there myself,” Alexander pronounced gravely. “Know that I shall most certainly be there in spirit. As shall Gregor.”

“Well,” she said, turning brisk, “my last calm moment before the wedding was shattered by yet another call from our Mr. Markov. Whenever he phones, he seems to grow distressed by degrees. He starts off all cool and polished, ordering me in the most civilized manner to get you on the phone. When I insist that's not possible, he goes bright red.”

“You've seen him?” Jeffrey asked.

“I don't need to.” She smiled at him. “I'm just glad he waited to call until you had left to collect Gregor. I'd hate you to have a shouting match with somebody six days before our wedding.”

“Perhaps I should give him a call,” Alexander said thoughtfully.

“From the sounds of things,” Katya said, “whatever he has on his mind is quite urgent.”

“You do not speak French, do you, my dear?”

She shook her head. “It is a language I have always wanted to learn.”

“Well, perhaps the future shall afford you an opportunity. Be so good as to dial for me, would you?”

“Of course.” Katya placed the call, then handed him the phone. A woman's voice answered with, “La Residence Markov.”

“
Oui. Monsieur Markov, s'il vous plait
.”

“
Et vous etes Monsieur . . . ?
”

“Kantor. Alexander Kantor.”

A long moment's pause, then, “
Ici Markov
.”

Alexander switched to English. “Mr. Markov, this is Alexander Kantor returning your call.”

“Ah, yes, Mr. Kantor. Thank you so much for responding so quickly. I understand you have had a bout of ill health. Not anything serious, I hope.”

Alexander took in the bleak surroundings in a single sweeping glance, made do with a simple, “Thank you for asking.”

“I do apologize for disturbing you.”

“Not at all,” Alexander replied. “I understood that you
were under some time pressure, and I did not wish to delay you further.”

“But of course I would expect nothing less than a prompt response from a professional such as yourself.”

“You are too kind.” For the first time since his attack, Alexander felt a surge of his old acquisitive spirit. The familiar feeling lifted him enormously. “And how are you enjoying your life at Villa Caravelle?”

“Oh, it is a most splendid place. As you know, I fell in love with it the moment I saw it.”

“And you don't miss—” Alexander searched his memory for the name of Markov's former residence, one of the largest palaces along the Corniche, and was delighted when he came up with “Beau Rivage? That was certainly a magnificent residence.”

“Ah, yes. Beau Rivage. No, I must say I have had quite a number of other things on my mind these past two years. Which brings me to the reason for my call. I have a business proposition for you, Mr. Kantor.”

“Well, I don't know, Mr. Markov. Under the circumstances—”

“Mr. Kantor, I need a man of your discretion, honesty, and expertise. This matter positively will not wait and, I assure you, is of the utmost importance.” He leaned heavily on the words.

“It is just that I am in no position to be traveling—”

“Oh, I do love the way you play at being shrewd,” Markov replied. “Let me assure you, Mr. Kantor. You would find a visit to Monte Carlo most rewarding at this time.”

“For any number of reasons,” Alexander replied, “I am sure you are right. Regrettably, however, I am ringing you from a hospital bed.”

“
Mon Dieu!
It is not serious, I hope.”

“This, too, I shall survive,” Alexander replied. “The doctors tell me I am on the mend.”

“How excellent for you,” Markov said, clearly worried.
“I must say, however, this is indeed a disappointment. I am afraid my business interests require immediate attention.”

“May I ask if this is in reference to buying or selling a particular piece?”

“Buying. Yes. You might say I am interested in acquiring a very special property.”

“I see.” Alexander hesitated, then ventured, “The only suggestion I might make is for my assistant, Mr. Jeffrey Sinclair, to make himself available to aid you.”

Markov showed doubt. “Well, I am not sure, Mr. Kantor. I had hoped—”

It was Alexander's turn to press with all the force he could muster. “He is a young American. Very bright, very perceptive.”

“And you trust him?”

“With my life and all my earthly goods,” Alexander replied emphatically. “Like my own son.”

“Could I be assured of your close collaboration with him on this matter?”

“Absolutely,” Alexander replied. “It is one of the aspects of working with him that I find most pleasurable.”

Markov permitted himself to be persuaded. Reluctantly. “It is true that I have no one else whom I could trust with this.”

“The fact that my body chooses to remain inert,” Alexander went on, “does not mean that my mind cannot remain most active. I assure you that I shall take every interest in your affairs, Mr. Markov.”

“Fine,” Markov decided. “Please have your Mr. Sinclair call me to make further arrangements.”

“I shall do so,” Alexander replied. “Can you supply me with any details about the item in question? Is this a French acquisition?”

“I believe it is best to discuss such matters in person.” Markov hesitated, then continued, “But no, the item is not located here. My proposed acquisition is in former Soviet lands.”

“How fascinating.” Alexander made do with a minimum of formalities before hanging up.

“Thank you for the vote of confidence,” Jeffrey said when the old gentleman turned back to them. “And for the kindness of what you said.”

“You are most welcome,” Alexander replied. “All the essence of truth, I assure you. I would suggest that you contact Markov yourself first thing tomorrow. He will be expecting your call, and promptness will assist in establishing a positive impression with such a one as him.”

“What do you think he wants to talk about?”

“Whatever it is, he wants to discuss it personally. I therefore presume that it must be something quite large. Markov leans toward the extravagant.”

Jeffrey smiled. “Like your villa?”

“No doubt the most discreet purchase he has ever made,” Alexander replied sharply. “Now, back to the subject, if I may. He would not have contacted me unless his business concerned something out of the ordinary.”

“How well do you know him?” Katya asked.

“Not at all well. Primarily from the sale of my villa, and a fair amount based on hearsay. Markov is quite the clever gentleman. Cagey would perhaps be too strong a word, but certainly very clever. The gambler in me would say that Markov is a man with an ace up his sleeve.”

Alexander mused a moment, then asked, “I suppose the two of you have already made plans for your honeymoon.”

“We're taking our real honeymoon in December,” Jeffrey said. “Katya and I are going back to America together. That is, assuming the boss will let us have a month off.”

“We didn't want to do it any earlier,” Katya explained, “with so many of Jeffrey's family coming over here for the wedding.”

“So for right now we are planning a few days up in Scotland.” Jeffrey exchanged eager looks with Katya. “I've booked us a room in an inn built in the days of Bonnie Prince Charlie.”

“Do you have your heart set on Scotland?” Alexander asked.

“What do you mean?”

“If I may, I'd like to suggest a change of itinerary. That is, if you wouldn't mind combining your days of vacation with one day of work.”

“I suppose it would depend on where you want to send us.”

“How about Monte Carlo?”

Katya gasped. “Monte Carlo! I hear it's just fabulous.” She caught herself, turned to Jeffrey. “Oh, but maybe you had your heart set on Glasgow.”

“Edinburgh,” Jeffrey corrected.