Heads You Win

17 Alex

Brooklyn

Alex was left alone in a small dark room below a naked light bulb that barely illuminated the table where he was seated. Two empty chairs that stood on the other side of the table were the only other pieces of furniture in the room. A large mirror covered the wall in front of him, and he wondered how many people were standing on the other side observing him.

His brain began to work overtime. Why had he been arrested? What were they charging him with? What law had he broken? Alex couldn’t believe the police were interested in the small pickings he made playing chess at the weekends, and although he now owned four stalls, and was making a reasonable profit, it surely wouldn’t have been enough to interest even the lowliest tax inspector. And there was no way they could know about the hundred dollars a week Ivan was paying him, because it was always in cash. It couldn’t be anything to do with the university, because they had their own security, and in any case, the dean had recently suggested that he should apply for a place at Harvard Business School. Although he was flattered by the idea, Alex rather hoped he’d end up as a case study, not a student.

His thoughts were interrupted when the door suddenly opened and two well-dressed men entered. He recognized them both immediately, but said nothing. They sat down opposite him. He had never forgotten their first meeting, and wondered which of them would be playing the good cop. At least it couldn’t be worse than the Soviet Union, where they only had a bad cop, bad cop routine. He waited for one of them to speak.

‘My name is Matt Hammond,’ the older man said, ‘and this is my colleague, Ross Travis. You might recall that we met at your home some time ago.’

‘When you claimed to work for Border Patrol,’ said Alex, more calmly than he felt.

‘We’re with the CIA,’ said Hammond, producing his badge, ‘and hoped you’d be able to help us with an assignment we’re currently working on.’

Assignment, not investigation, thought Alex. Wasn’t I need to see my lawyer always the first sentence uttered by criminals when faced with this situation in the movies? But he wasn’t a criminal, so he remained silent. The next sentence Hammond delivered took him completely by surprise.

‘We’re hoping you’ll feel able to work alongside us, Mr Karpenko.’ Alex thought back to their first meeting. ‘For the past six months,’ continued Hammond, ‘two of our agents have been watching you day and night while you’ve been working as a courier for a man known as Ivan Donokov, who we’ve had under surveillance for some time.’

‘But Ivan assured me he wasn’t dealing in drugs,’ said Alex.

‘And he isn’t,’ said Hammond.

‘Then what?’ asked Alex, feeling nervous for the first time.

‘Donokov is a senior KGB operative, who runs a network of agents right across the country.’

A long silence followed, until Alex said, ‘But he hates the communists even more than I do.’

‘He knew that was exactly what you wanted to hear.’

‘But we met playing chess...’

‘It wasn’t a coincidence,’ said Travis, ‘that Donokov was sitting at a chessboard with an empty seat opposite him when you first walked into Players’ Square.’

‘How could he possibly have known that—’

‘We think Major Polyakov tipped him off after you and your mother escaped from Leningrad.’

‘But he didn’t know that I played chess, and—’ Alex stopped in mid-sentence.

‘No, it was probably your friend Vladimir who supplied Polyakov with that piece of information,’ said Hammond.

Another long silence, that neither Hammond nor Travis interrupted.

‘What a complete fool I’ve been,’ said Alex.

‘To be fair, Donokov is an old pro who’s been around for a long time, and once you got yourself into debt, frankly you were willing to believe anything he told you.’

‘Am I going to be sent back to Leningrad?’

‘No, that’s the last place we need you to be,’ said Hammond.

‘So what do you expect me to do?’

‘Nothing too demanding to begin with. After all, we don’t want to let your friend Donokov know that we’re on to him. Keep delivering his messages, and occasionally one of my agents will make discreet contact with you. Just let him know what that day’s message is, and then carry on as normal.’

‘But Ivan’s no fool. It won’t take him long to work out what you’re up to, and then he’ll drop me like the proverbial hot potato.’

‘Or worse,’ said Hammond. ‘Because I have to make it clear that your life would be in danger if Donokov were to discover that you were working with the CIA.’

‘But on the other hand,’ Travis added, ‘with your help, we might just be able to break the ring and put Donokov and his gang behind bars for a very long time.’

‘What makes you think I’d even consider taking such a risk?’

‘Because it was Ivan Donokov who ordered your father’s death.’

‘No, you’re wrong about that,’ said Alex. ‘I can prove it was Polyakov.’

‘Polyakov is just a pawn on the KGB’s chessboard. Donokov moves the pieces.’

Alex was speechless, then said, almost to himself, ‘That would explain why he’s always so well informed.’ It was some time before he asked, ‘How did you blow his cover?’

‘We have an agent working for us in Leningrad who detests the KGB even more than you do.’

Alex returned home later that evening. Now he had yet another secret he couldn’t share with his mother, or even Dimitri. Could it be possible that Dimitri was also working for Donokov? He had, after all, recommended he visit Players’ Square. Or was he a CIA operative? One thing Alex knew for certain — he couldn’t risk asking him.

He tried to continue working for Ivan as if nothing had happened, but of course it had, and he was sure it would only be a matter of time before he was found out.

It was about a fortnight after his meeting with the two CIA agents that the first interception took place. Alex was standing on the platform at Queensboro Plaza, waiting for a train to Lexington Avenue, when a voice behind him said, ‘Don’t look round.’

Alex obeyed the simple command, although his whole body was shaking. A few moments later the voice whispered, ‘What’s today’s message?’

‘A package will be arriving from Odessa on Thursday, dock seven. Make sure you pick it up.’

The man left without another word. Alex delivered Donokov’s message as usual.

For the next few weeks, agents would appear on the subway, on buses, and once when he was crossing a busy intersection. He always passed on whatever message Ivan had given him that day, and then, like the morning mist, they evaporated into thin air, never to be seen again.

Alex could only wonder how long it would be before Ivan worked out that he was serving two masters. But he had to admit, if only to himself, he enjoyed the challenge of trying to convince the KGB man that he had no idea what he was really up to, although he accepted that Ivan was as good a chess player as he was, and his queen was exposed.

He couldn’t have missed him. In fact it worried Alex just how obvious he was, standing on the subway platform wearing a smart charcoal grey suit, white shirt and blue tie. He even smelt CIA.

Perhaps it was just a coincidence. Never believe in coincidences, Hammond had warned him. He smiled at Alex, something no other agent had ever done, which only made him more suspicious. Perhaps he was mistaken, and it was just someone who thought he recognized him.

Alex moved away, but the man followed him down the platform. His first mistake. If he had been a CIA agent, he would have disappeared, assuming he’d been spotted. Alex looked down and noticed his second mistake. Although his shoes were highly polished, they were slip-ons, frowned upon by the CIA, who insisted on laces. Such a trivial error.

Alex heard the rumble of an approaching train, and decided to try the jump on/jump off routine, to see if he could lose his shadow. As the train emerged from the tunnel, Alex moved towards the edge of the platform and waited. Suddenly, without warning, he felt two massive hands in the middle of his back, and with one tremendous shove he was propelled towards the track.

He had no way of stopping himself from falling in front of the train. If anything flashed through his mind at that moment, it was that he was about to die, and not a pleasant death. He didn’t notice a young black man racing towards him, who tackled him at the last possible moment, as if he was trying to prevent a touchdown.

The young CIA agent left Alex spreadeagled on the platform, while he set off in pursuit of the assailant. Another tackle, as he felled the man halfway up the steps. A moment later a second agent pinned him to the ground and handcuffed him. The assailant turned and looked at Alex, who was pushing himself up from the platform. Despite the noise and clamour of the train doors opening and the passengers streaming off, Alex didn’t need to translate his mouthed words, ‘You’re dead.’

18 Sasha

Cambridge

Sasha sat alone in a small, badly lit basement room that he’d previously only read about in a Harry Clifton novel. He wanted to turn the page and find out what was going to happen next.

The door swung open and DS Warwick, accompanied by a female officer, entered the room and took their places on the opposite side of the table.

‘I need to ask you a few questions,’ said Warwick, switching on a tape recorder by his side. ‘A serious allegation has been made against you, but I want to hear your side of the story before I decide how to proceed.’

The one thing Sasha did remember from Harry Clifton novels was that Derek Matthews, the bent barrister whose regular clients were all too familiar with this predicament, always instructed them to say nothing until he arrived. But Sasha wasn’t a criminal, and he had nothing to hide. He waited impatiently to discover what the ‘serious allegation’ was, aware that by withholding that vital piece of information, the detective was trying to make him feel uneasy and nervous. He was succeeding.

‘A Miss Fiona Hunter,’ said Warwick eventually, ‘has made a statement that on Thursday, November the sixteenth — last Thursday — you climbed the fire escape outside her room in Newnham College around ten o’ clock, entered her study on the third floor and stole a confidential file.’ He stared directly at Sasha. ‘What do you have to say about this accusation?’

‘What’s in the file?’ said Sasha.

The detective ignored the question. ‘Miss Hunter claims that she has proof you entered the country illegally after escaping from prison, having murdered a police officer.’

‘I did escape,’ said Sasha, ‘from the biggest prison on earth. I didn’t murder the KGB officer, but only wish I had.’

‘That may all be true, Mr Karpenko, but as Miss Hunter has made such a serious accusation, we are bound to follow it up. So to start with, where were you on Thursday evening around ten o’clock?’

Sasha knew exactly where he’d been on Thursday night. After attending a debate in the Union, he’d accompanied Charlie back to Newnham, and while she’d entered the college by the front door and gone straight up to her room, he’d made his way around to the back of the building, climbed the fire escape to the second floor and spent the night with her.

He had woken just before five the following morning, and after they had made love again, he had got dressed, climbed down the fire escape, and walked back to Trinity. He was in his room just before six, and spent the next couple of hours working on an essay that needed to be polished in time for his morning tutorial.

The only problem with Sasha’s cast-iron alibi was that if Charlie was to confirm his story, under Newnham College regulations she would automatically be rusticated, and sent home for the rest of term, making it impossible for her to sit her finals until a full investigation had been carried out, which was bound to conclude that she had indeed broken the rules. Not least because Fiona would be happy to report what she had seen, should her other ruse fail.

‘Last Thursday evening,’ said Sasha, ‘I attended a debate at the Union, and after I’d accompanied Mr Anthony Barber to the University Arms, where he was staying overnight, I returned to my college just before eleven. I went down to breakfast around eight the following morning.’

‘So none of the fingerprints we’ve found on the fire escape of Newnham College will match yours?’ said Warwick, raising an eyebrow.

Sasha suddenly wished he’d obeyed Derek Matthews’s golden rule, and remained silent. He pursed his lips and said, ‘I have nothing more to say until I’ve spoken to a lawyer.’

Warwick closed his file. ‘In that case, Mr Karpenko, I will require a set of your fingerprints before you leave. You will report back to this station with or without your lawyer at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.’

Sasha was surprised when, after turning off the tape recorder, Warwick added, ‘That should give you more than enough time to sort this out.’

The next surprise came when Sasha left the interview room to find Dr Streator sitting on the narrow wooden bench in the corridor waiting for him.

‘Don’t say anything,’ he said, ‘until we’re in my car.’ He led his pupil out of the police station and across the road, where an ancient Volvo was parked. ‘Now,’ he said, once Sasha had closed the passenger door, ‘tell me what this is about, and don’t spare me the gory details.’

Sasha had almost come to the end of his story by the time they reached the fellows’ car park at Trinity.

‘Clearly the detective sergeant doesn’t believe a word of Miss Hunter’s story, otherwise he wouldn’t have released you. I suspect Miss Hunter spotted you climbing into Miss Dangerfield’s bedroom and saw an opportunity to derail your chances of becoming president of the Union,’ Streator said, as they climbed the steps to his study.

‘Could Fiona really be that ruthless?’ said Sasha.

‘Don’t think of her as Fiona, but as Sir Max Hunter’s daughter, and then you’ll know the answer to that question. But all is not lost. No doubt Miss Dangerfield will corroborate your story, which will make Miss Hunter look extremely foolish.’ Streator was clearly enjoying the prospect.

‘But I’ve already lied to Warwick in order to protect Charlie,’ said Sasha. ‘Why would he believe me if I suddenly change my story?’

‘He’ll be enough of a man of the world to understand why you did that,’ said Streator as he opened his study door.

‘But I don’t want Charlie to be rusticated, and unable to sit her exams.’

‘I expect Fiona was well aware of that, but if you don’t tell Warwick the truth, it will be you who’s rusticated, which will mean Fiona Hunter will have knocked out her only rival for the presidency. And even when you’re eventually proved innocent, there will always be those who believe there’s no smoke without fire, especially if you’re considering a career in politics.’

‘But I have to protect Charlie.’

‘You say you left her room around five-thirty?’ said Streator, ignoring the comment. ‘And returned to college immediately?’ Sasha nodded. ‘Did you see anyone you knew on the way?’

‘No. There weren’t too many people around at that time in the morning.’

‘Didn’t Mr Perkins spot you when you sneaked back into college?’

‘I’m afraid not. He was fast asleep, which I was pleased about at the time.’

‘Was he indeed?’ The phone on Streator’s desk began to ring. He picked it up and listened for a few moments before saying, ‘It’s Perkins. He says he needs to have a word with you.’

Sasha grabbed the phone as if it were a lifeline.

‘Sorry to disturb you, Mr Karpenko,’ said Perkins. ‘But your mother has just called and says she needs to speak to you urgently.’

‘It’s all over the Union,’ said Ben, as he sat down on the end of the bed in Sasha’s study.

‘Don’t spare me.’

‘You were arrested during a supervision this morning, handcuffed, dragged out of Dr Streator’s study, thrown into the back of a police car, driven to the nearest nick, charged with breaking and entering a female undergraduate’s room and stealing a confidential file, and left to rot in a prison cell while you await trial.’

‘Then this must be the cell,’ said Sasha.

‘Fair point. Which is why we need to go straight to the Union and be seen having a pint at the bar together, looking as if you haven’t got a care in the world.’

‘I don’t think that will be possible.’

‘It has to be if you’re going to have any chance of becoming president of the Union.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Sasha, ‘but I have to go to London. My mother needs to see me urgently.’

‘What could possibly be more urgent than gathering evidence to prove you’re innocent of any charge?’

‘I don’t even know what the problem is,’ admitted Sasha, ‘but the last time my mother used the word “urgent”, was when Mr Moretti died.’

‘Then at least let me tell Charlie what’s happened, so we can expose Fiona for what she is and clear your name.’

‘Now listen carefully, Ben. You are not to go anywhere near Charlie, unless you want to find out just how close that KGB officer got to having his throat cut.’

Ben froze, and it was some time before he managed, ‘Just be sure you’re back by nine tomorrow, because you can’t afford to miss your appointment with Sergeant Warwick. Otherwise you could be the first president of the Union to be elected while in prison.’

When Elena heard the knock on the door she assumed it must be Sasha. She was already regretting phoning during term time, and bothering him with her problems. It would be just like him to drop everything and try to help. She stopped packing and opened the door to find Gino standing there.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said as he embraced her. ‘I just wanted you to know that I’ve handed in my notice, along with five of the kitchen staff and three of my waiters.’

‘You mustn’t do that, Gino. I don’t want to be responsible for you all being out of work.’

‘Most of us realize we wouldn’t have survived too long with that bastard Tremlett. And in any case, my motives aren’t entirely pure, as I’ve already been offered another job.’

‘Who with?’

‘Matteo Agnelli.’

‘The enemy!’ said Elena, laughing.

‘No longer. There’s an old Italian saying: My enemy’s enemy is my friend. But Mr Agnelli only offered me the job on one condition.’

‘And what was that?’

‘That you’ll come with me.’

‘And Betty?’

‘I’m sure he’d agree to that.’

‘But where would I live?’ asked Elena. ‘Because there isn’t a flat above Mr Agnelli’s restaurant.’

‘You can always come and shack up with me until you find your own place.’

‘But what about your partner?’

‘He’d only object if you were a man,’ said Gino. ‘So, are you willing to cross the road and join me at Osteria Roma?’

‘You should have been christened Coriolanus,’ said Elena.

‘Corio... who?’

Sasha had to admit that losing both one’s job and the roof over one’s head could certainly be described as an emergency. He only wished he’d known about Gino’s proposal before he got on the train. But he’d been left with no choice once the operator told him his mother’s phone had been cut off. He spent a sleepless night on Gino’s sofa, and took the first train back to Cambridge the following morning. He had to fork out almost a pound on a taxi to make sure he arrived at the police station at 8.54 a.m. A young constable took him straight through to Detective Sergeant Warwick’s office, and not an interview room.

‘Miss Hunter has withdrawn her allegation,’ said Warwick, once Sasha had sat down.

‘Please tell me Charlie hasn’t been to see you.’

‘Charlie who?’ asked Warwick innocently. ‘No, it was a simple piece of detective work that caused Miss Hunter to have second thoughts. We were able to point out to her that your fingerprints on the fire escape stopped at the second floor, and as she also claimed that you left her room within minutes of stealing the file, it’s difficult to explain why it took you five and a half hours to get back to your college, unless of course you were tucked up in bed on the floor below.’

‘But the college porter, Mr Perkins, wouldn’t have been able to confirm the time I returned to college, because he was fast asleep.’

‘Turned a blind eye, would be a more accurate description,’ said Warwick. ‘If you’d been seen coming in at five-thirty in the morning, he would have had to enter your name in his log book for breaking college regulations, and then you would have needed to explain to the proctors where you’d been all night.’

‘So has Fiona got away with it?’

‘Not entirely. Miss Hunter has been cautioned for wasting police time. Frankly, I’d have banged her up overnight if her father hadn’t had a word with the chief constable. Still, you’d better be off, as I understand you have a busy day ahead of you.’

‘As you know, Elena, I’ve wanted you to join me for some time,’ said Mr Agnelli, ‘but you made it clear that there was no point in asking while you were still working for Mr Moretti.’

‘And there still might not be any point,’ said Elena.

‘My previous offer still stands. I’d make you head chef, and I can promise that you’ll never see me in the kitchen. I’ll double what Mr Moretti paid you, and you’ll also receive ten per cent of the restaurant’s profits. But you’d have to find your own accommodation.’

‘And can Betty join me?’ asked Elena. Agnelli nodded. ‘And will Gino be the maître d’?’

‘Yes. I’d already agreed that with him. Is there anything else you were hoping for?’

After listening to Elena’s final request Mr Agnelli said, ‘I’ll need to think about it.’

‘It’s a deal breaker,’ said Elena, repeating Sasha’s exact words.

When Sasha left the police station, he ran all the way to the Union, where he found his campaign manager trying to explain to a voter where the candidate had been for the past forty-eight hours.

‘The voting’s already started,’ said Ben, after Sasha joined him at the bar and told him the latest news. ‘We haven’t got a moment to waste, because Fiona’s been telling everyone you’ve spent the past two days in a police cell. You’ve got to admire her nerve.’

‘Not to mention her timing.’

‘Pity Warwick didn’t lock her up for the day. That would certainly have helped our chances. But we can still win.’

They began to work the room. Several members shook Sasha’s hand warmly, while others turned their backs on him — one or two of whom he’d considered supporters, even friends. He tried to speak to everyone who hadn’t yet voted, even if he knew they had no intention of backing him. It was clear that some people still believed Fiona’s story, or wanted to, while others admitted to him that their own fingerprints might well be on that fire escape. Sasha didn’t stop until the last vote had been cast at six o’clock, when he joined Ben and Charlie at the Union bar. Fiona’s supporters occupied one side of the room, while Sasha’s filled the other half.

‘When will you find out the result?’ asked Charlie as she sipped a lager.

‘Around seven,’ said Ben. ‘So not long to wait.’

Ben’s prediction turned out to be wrong, because it was nearer eight when the retiring president, Chris Smith, entered the bar and made his way to the centre of the room, a single sheet of paper in his hand. He waited for complete silence before he spoke.

‘I would like to begin by explaining why we’ve taken so long to announce the result. Three recounts were required before the tellers were able to agree on the outcome. So I can now tell you that, by a majority of three votes, the next president of the Cambridge Union will be...’

19 Alex

Vietnam, 1972

Alex read the letter a second time, before he showed it to his mother. Elena wept, because she knew exactly what her son would do.

‘If only we’d gone to England, this would never have happened,’ she said, and couldn’t help thinking they’d climbed into the wrong crate.

Many young men who were reading the same letter that morning would already be on the phone to their fathers’ lawyers, or paying a visit to the family doctor, while others would simply tear up the draft, hoping the problem would go away. But not Alex.

Elena wasn’t the only person who cried. Addie begged him to at least try and get a deferral, pointing out that as he was in his final year at NYU, they would surely allow him to complete his degree. Although she cried all night, Alex wasn’t persuaded.

He still had one pressing problem that needed to be solved before he could pack his bags and leave home. His eleven stalls were now making a handsome profit, and he certainly didn’t want to sell any of them. But who could run his burgeoning empire while he was away? To his surprise, it was his mother who came up with the solution.

‘I’ll give up my job at Mario’s, and Dimitri and I will take them over until you come back.’

No one raised the subject of what would happen if he didn’t return.

Alex happily accepted their offer, and on 11 February 1972 he boarded a train for Fort Bragg, North Carolina, to begin an eight-week course of basic training, before being shipped out to Vietnam.

The lights went on. ‘Up, up, up!’ shouted a staff sergeant at the top of his voice as he marched down the corridor between the sleeping recruits, his pace-stick striking the end of every bunk. One by one the young men were rudely awakened, and, unaccustomed to the hour, blinked and rubbed their eyes, with one exception. By four in the morning, Alex would already have been on his way to the market.

‘The Vietcong are charging towards you,’ yelled their instructor, ‘and they’ll kill the last man who puts his feet on the ground!’

Alex was already heading towards the showers, towel in hand. He turned on a tap that offered no choice between cold and cold.

‘Anyone who hasn’t showered, shaved and dressed in fifteen minutes, won’t be fed before lunch.’ Suddenly bodies were racing towards the showers.

Alex was the first to be seated on one of the long wooden benches in the mess hall. He had quickly become aware how his mother had spoiled him over the years. It wasn’t until the third morning, by which time he’d become so desperate, that he accepted a breakfast of lumpy porridge, greasy bacon, burnt toast and a hot black liquid the army called coffee.

When he was introduced to the parade ground, followed by the gym, route marches, and wading across a freezing river holding a rifle above his head, he quickly discovered he wasn’t quite as fit as he’d imagined. However, he did manage to stay a yard or two ahead of most of his fellow recruits, who until then had considered Saturday evenings were for drinking and Sunday mornings for sleeping it off. The staff sergeant gently reminded them that the Vietcong don’t take the weekends off.

While Alex continued to hold his own in the gym, on the shooting range and in the hills during night operations, he excelled in the classroom, where the education officer attempted to explain why America had become embroiled in a war in the Far East.

Alex became fascinated by the history of Vietnam, and how the north and south had been united since AD 939, but were now at each other’s throats.

‘But why are we sacrificing our soldiers’ lives for a small country on the other side of the world?’ asked Alex.

‘Because if the communists in the north took control of the whole of Vietnam, who would fall next?’ replied the education officer. ‘Laos? Cambodia? And would the enemy even stop when they reached Australia? It’s the domino effect. Allow one to topple, and others will follow.’

‘But Vietnam is still on the other side of the world,’ said Alex.

‘You can’t be sure of that,’ said the EO. ‘With Cuba in the hands of Fidel Castro, the communists are only a stone’s throw from the US coast, and if they were to get their hands on anything other than bows and arrows, Florida could be next in line.’

Alex didn’t ask any more questions, as he was well aware of how the Red Army had occupied the whole of Eastern Europe while the Allies sat and watched.

Alex quickly made friends among his fellow recruits, some of whom were, like him, first-generation immigrants. He helped them write letters to their families and girlfriends, fill in forms, and even taught one of them how to tie his shoelaces. However, there was one — there’s always one — who took against Alex from the first bugle call.

Big Sam, also known as the Tank, was 6 foot 4, and the scales didn’t stop until they’d reached 226 pounds, most of it taut muscle. He certainly didn’t consider Private Karpenko the unit’s natural leader. Most of the other recruits avoided Big Sam, and even one or two of the staff sergeants were wary of him. Alex also kept his distance, but he couldn’t avoid Big Sam when, during one gym session, the two of them were ordered into the boxing ring for a friendly bout. Big Sam didn’t do friendly. All the other recruits crowded round to witness the inevitable slaughter.

‘I am the greatest,’ Alex whispered without conviction as he climbed through the ropes, hoping the words of Cassius Clay would inspire him, and he might at least survive the three three-minute rounds.

For the first round, Alex danced nervously around the ring while his opponent threw punch after punch, none of them hitting the target. Alex somehow made it to the end of the second round, even hitting Big Sam a couple of times, not that he noticed. But Alex’s legs were quickly turning to lead. This wasn’t a slow waltz at a local dance hall with a young lady as your partner.

About halfway through the third round Sam managed to land a glancing blow on the side of Alex’s head. Alex wobbled long enough for Sam to hit him a second time, on the chin, when he collapsed in a heap onto the canvas. A wiser man might have stayed put. But not Alex. He attempted to haul himself to his feet as the referee counted, ‘Five, Six, Seven...’ He was still only resting on one knee when the next punch landed squarely on his nose. All he could see in front of his eyes were stars and stripes, and far more than fifty. Big Sam would have been disqualified if it had been a championship bout but, as the staff sergeant pointed out, no one would have time to explain the Queensberry Rules to the Vietcong.

When he came round a few moments later, Alex was horrified to see Big Sam standing over him. He braced himself for the next blow, but Big Sam took off his glove and helped Alex to his feet; his new best friend.

In week two, they were introduced to the rifle range and stationary targets.

‘Tomorrow the targets will move,’ said the staff sergeant. ‘And once you’ve got used to that, they’ll shoot back.’

During week three, day became night. No food, no sleep, and if you weren’t dead, you wished you were. Week four was hand-to-hand combat, but only after they hadn’t eaten or slept for fourteen hours. When they were finally allowed to collapse onto their bunks, they hadn’t even fallen asleep before they were ordered back on their feet and told the Vietcong had just launched a counter-attack. ‘And don’t forget, for them, it’s a home game.’

No one was surprised when in week five, Alex was made up to corporal and put in charge of a dozen of his fellow recruits. He immediately chose Big Sam as his second in command.

By the end of the sixth week, Alex’s squad were regularly outperforming their rivals. Every one of them would have followed him over a cliff.

In the seventh week their platoon commander, Lieutenant Lowell, took Alex to one side after morning parade.

‘Karpenko, have you considered applying for a transfer to officer training school? Because if you did, I’d be happy to support your application.’ He was disappointed by Alex’s reply.

‘I’m a street trader, sir. I have no desire to be an officer. I’ll stay and fight with my unit, if that’s all right with you.’

Over the next few weeks Lieutenant Lowell made several attempts to get Karpenko to change his mind, but he always received the same uncompromising response.

On their final day at Fort Bragg, Alex’s platoon received a commendation from the commanding officer. Big Sam accepted the award on their behalf.

‘You’re one of the finest units I’ve ever had under my command,’ said the general as he handed over the pennant.

‘Show me the others,’ said Big Sam. The general burst out laughing.

On 5 June 1972, Lieutenant Lowell, Corporal Karpenko and the enlisted men of the 116th Infantry Division climbed aboard a dozen trucks in the middle of the night before being shipped out of Fort Bragg and driven to an airport that didn’t appear on any map. Fourteen hours later, after three brief stops when the plane was refuelled and they weren’t, the troops finally landed on a heavily guarded runway somewhere in South Vietnam. They were no longer recruits, but trained infantrymen ready for war.

Not all of them would return.

The 116th spent a couple of weeks settling in to their makeshift barracks, and another fortnight preparing for their first assignment. By then, every one of them was more than ready. But ready for what?

‘Our orders are clear,’ said Lieutenant Lowell at his morning briefing. ‘We’ve been assigned to patrol the area around Long Binh. The Vietcong occasionally stray close by in the hope of finding a weak spot in our defences. If they’re foolish enough to do so, it’s our job to make sure they regret it, and send them packing.’

‘And will we get the chance to take the fight to them?’ asked Alex.

‘It’s unlikely,’ said Lowell. ‘That’s left to the professionals — the Marines and the US Army Rangers. Only in exceptional circumstances would we be called on to assist them.’

‘So we’re no more than traffic cops,’ said the Tank.

‘Something like that,’ admitted Lowell. ‘They also serve who only stand and wait.’ Alex would have to look up the quote when he was next in a library, which might not be for a couple of years. ‘The good news,’ continued Lowell, ‘is that every six weeks you’ll have a few days’ R&R, when you can visit Saigon.’

A small cheer went up.

‘But you can’t afford to relax even then. You’ll have to assume that anyone who approaches you is a Vietcong agent. Be particularly wary of attractive young women, who’ll offer you sex in the hope of extracting what you might consider a trivial piece of information.’

‘Couldn’t we just have the sex and keep our mouths shut?’ suggested a soldier.

Lowell waited for the laughter to die down. ‘No, Boyle,’ he said firmly. ‘Whenever you’re tempted, just remember it might cause the death of one of your comrades.’

‘I’m not sure I can go six weeks without a woman,’ said Boyle. Although the rest of the unit burst out laughing, they clearly agreed with him.

‘Don’t worry, Boyle,’ said Lowell. ‘The army’s made a provision for soldiers like you. We have our own designated brothel on the outskirts of the camp. It’s run by a lady called Lilly, and all the girls have been carefully vetted. On the only occasion that Lilly discovered one of her girls was working for the Vietcong, she was found floating in the river the next morning. Every unit in the camp has been allocated one night a week on which its men can visit Lilly’s establishment. Ours is Wednesday.’

No one needed to make a note.

Alex found patrolling boring at best, and pointless at worst. It was five weeks before they spotted a Vietcong patrol. Lieutenant Lowell immediately gave the order to advance and fire at will, but they failed to hit anything other than the odd tree, and within seconds the enemy had melted back into the jungle.

When Alex described the incident in a long letter to his mother, he tried to reassure her that he was more likely to be killed crossing Brighton Beach Avenue than on patrol. This observation was redacted by the censors.

Alex received regular letters from his mother. Bernie had finally retired, and Elena confessed that since he’d left, they were just about breaking even. Alex didn’t have to read between the lines to realize that neither his mother nor Dimitri were natural traders. Elena told him they couldn’t wait for him to get back, although Alex had to accept that it wouldn’t be for at least another year. As the long weeks turned into longer months, he wondered if he shouldn’t have taken Addie’s advice and applied for a deferral. He would have completed his final year at NYU and, more importantly, asked Addie to be his wife. He even had the ring.

20 Sasha

London, 1972

‘I would like to request your permission, sir, to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage.’

‘How gloriously old-fashioned,’ said Mr Dangerfield. ‘But, Sasha, don’t you think you’re both a little young to be considering marriage? Shouldn’t you wait a little longer before you make such an irrevocable decision?’

‘Why wait, sir, when you’ve found the one woman you want to spend the rest of your life with?’

‘I’d ask if you were confident my daughter feels the same way about you, if I didn’t already know the answer.’ Sasha smiled, well aware that Charlie was sitting in the next room. ‘So, as your prospective father-in-law, I think I’m meant to ask about your prospects?’

‘I’ve had three job offers for when I leave Cambridge, sir. My problem is that I can’t make up my mind which one to choose.’

‘An embarrassment of riches,’ said Mr Dangerfield.

‘Without any guarantee of riches,’ admitted Sasha. ‘And what makes it worse, none of them is what I really want to do.’

‘Now you do have me intrigued.’

‘Trinity has offered me a prize fellowship, provided I get a first.’

‘Congratulations.’

‘Thank you, sir. But I don’t think I’m cut out to be a don. I prefer the battlefield to the classroom.’

‘Any particular battlefield?’

‘A mandarin from the Foreign Office has approached me and suggested I sit their entrance exam. But I’m not sure if they want me to be a diplomat or a spy.’

‘I didn’t realize there was a distinction,’ said Dangerfield. ‘But I’ve no doubt you’d do both well. And the third job?’

‘Mr Agnelli, the owner of Elena’s restaurant, where my mother is head chef, has asked me to join him. He has no children of his own, and has hinted that in time I could take over.’

‘Cambridge don, spy master or restaurateur. You couldn’t have a more eclectic choice, although a restaurateur would be the closest to the battlefield, and probably the best paid.’

‘Not only would it be better paid, but I’m quite well qualified for the job. For the past five years I’ve worked in a restaurant during my holidays. I started out as a washer-up, moved on to laying tables, before having spells as a barman and a waiter. It sometimes felt as if I was taking two degrees at the same time.’

‘But you say that none of the three jobs is what you really want to do.’

‘No, sir. Like my father, I’m a politician at heart, and Cambridge has only made me more determined to become a Member of Parliament.’

‘And have you decided yet which party’s colours you will be flying under?’

‘No, I haven’t, sir. The truth is, I’ve never cared for either extreme. I prefer the centre ground, as I often find myself agreeing with the other person’s point of view.’

‘But you’ll eventually have to jump one way or the other if you’re hoping to pursue a political career,’ suggested Dangerfield. ‘Unless of course you decide to join the Liberals.’

‘No, sir,’ laughed Sasha. ‘I don’t believe in lost causes.’

‘Neither do I, and I’ve voted Liberal all my life.’

Sasha turned bright red, and said, ‘I apologize, sir.’

‘No need, dear boy. I think you’ll find my wife agrees with you.’

‘Before I make a complete fool of myself, sir...’

‘Susan’s a life-long Conservative, although she sometimes has to hold her nose when she goes to the polls. So she’s even worse than you. But didn’t Charlie tell me that after you failed to become president of the Union, you promised her you would never stand again?’

‘Never lasted for about a week, sir. Much to her dismay I’ll be standing for president again next term.’

‘But being practical for a moment,’ said Dangerfield, ‘if you were to take up Mr Agnelli’s offer, where would you and Charlie live?’

‘My mother has recently bought a large flat in Fulham, with more than enough room for the three of us.’

‘Enough for four, possibly five?’ said Dangerfield, raising an eyebrow.

‘Both of us feel we should be established in our careers before we think about starting a family. Once Charlie has her PhD, she hopes to find a job that will make it possible for us to earn enough for two, never mind three or four. Only my mother disagrees with me.’

‘I look forward to meeting her. She sounds quite formidable. But tell me, how does she feel about her only son getting married at such a young age?’

‘She adores Charlie, and doesn’t approve of us living in sin.’

‘Ah, so that’s where you’ve inherited those old-fashioned values.’

‘It would help if you knew which party you belonged to,’ said Ben. ‘Although I’m confident you can still win as an independent, it would make my life a lot easier if you joined either the Tories or the Labour Party. Preferably the Tories.’

‘That’s the problem,’ said Sasha. ‘I still don’t know which party I support. By nature I believe in free enterprise, and less state intervention, not more. But as an immigrant, I feel more at home with the philosophy of the Labour Party. The only thing I’m certain of is that I’m not a Liberal.’

‘Well, don’t tell anyone that, until the last vote has been cast. As an independent, you’ll need the support of voters from all three parties.’

‘Do you have any beliefs or convictions?’ asked Sasha.

‘One can’t afford such luxuries until after you’ve won the election.’

‘Spoken like a true Tory,’ said Alex.

‘I’m glad we’re spending the weekend with my parents,’ said Charlie, ‘because I know my father has something he wants to ask your advice about.’

‘What could I possibly advise him on? I know nothing about antiques, and he’s considered a leader in the field.’

‘I’m just as interested to find out as you are. But I did warn him that you don’t know the difference between Chippendale and Conran.’

‘I know which one I can afford,’ said Sasha.

‘You should read more Oscar Wilde,’ said Charlie, ‘and less Maynard Keynes. By the way, will your mother be joining us? You know how my parents are looking forward to meeting her.’

‘She plans to come on Saturday morning. Which should give me enough time to warn them that she’s already chosen the names of our first three children.’

‘Have you warned her that that might not be for some time?’

When Ted Heath sat down at the end of the debate, Sasha was no nearer to deciding which party he felt more in sympathy with. The Prime Minister’s speech had been competent and workmanlike, but lacked passion, even though he was speaking on a subject he felt passionately about. Despite the recent success of his campaign to secure Britain’s membership of the Common Market, some people were unable to stifle the occasional yawn, including one or two of his own supporters.

Michael Foot, who opposed the motion on behalf of the Labour Party, was in a different class altogether. His brilliant oratory mesmerized the undergraduates, although he clearly didn’t have the same detailed knowledge of the subject as the proposer of the motion.

Sasha, like Heath, believed in a stronger Europe as a counterforce to the communist bloc, so he ignored Ben’s advice and voted for the motion, not the man.

‘I thought Heath was brilliant,’ said Ben as they left the building following the post-debate dinner.

‘No, you didn’t,’ said Sasha. ‘He may have known the subject backwards, but Foot was by far the more persuasive of the two.’

‘But who would you rather have running the country?’ demanded Ben. ‘A brilliant orator or a—’

‘A grocer?’ said Sasha. ‘The jury’s still out, so I’ll stand as an independent.’

‘Then we’ve got a busy weekend ahead of us.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Delivering your manifesto to every college, putting up posters on all the noticeboards, and when no one’s looking, removing your rivals’.’

‘You can forget that, Ben. As you well know, it’s against Union rules to take down or deface your opponents’ posters. If you were stupid enough to do that, I could be disqualified. And I wouldn’t put it past Fiona to produce a photograph of you caught in the act, because nothing would give her greater pleasure than to see me fail a second time.’

‘Then we’ll have to be satisfied with putting your posters on top of your opponents’.’

‘Ben, you’re not listening, and what’s worse, I won’t be around to keep an eye on you.’

‘Why not?’

‘Charlie and I are spending the weekend with her parents to celebrate our engagement, and my mother will be meeting them for the first time.’

‘Where’s this historic meeting taking place?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because I’ve only experienced your mother’s cooking once, and I can’t wait to be invited to sample it a second time.’

‘You won’t have long to wait, because you’re going to be best man at our wedding.’

Sasha enjoyed the rare experience of his closest friend being lost for words.

‘Call me Mike,’ said Mr Dangerfield.

‘That may take a bit of getting used to, sir,’ said Sasha, as his host closed the study door and ushered him to a seat by the fire.

‘I’m glad to be able to have a moment alone with you, Sasha, because I need to seek your advice.’

‘I hope it’s nothing to do with antiques, sir, because I’ve only recently learnt how old a piece has to be before it can even be described as an antique.’

‘No, it doesn’t concern an antique, but a client of mine who may be in possession of what we in the trade call a once-in-a-lifetime discovery.’ Sasha was intrigued, but said nothing. ‘I recently had a visit from a Russian countess, who offered to sell me a family heirloom that, if it’s genuine, would set the antique world alight.’ Mr Dangerfield rose from his chair, crossed the room and bent down in front of a large safe. He turned the dial first one way, and then the other, before he pulled open its heavy door, reached inside and extracted a red velvet box that he placed on the table between them. ‘Open it, Sasha. Because I can assure you, you won’t need any knowledge of antiques to realize you’re in the presence of genius.’

Sasha tentatively flicked up the clasp and opened the box to reveal a large golden egg encrusted with diamonds and pearls. His mouth fell open, but no words followed.

‘And that’s only the wrapping,’ said Mr Dangerfield. He leant forward and split the egg open to reveal an exquisite jade palace, surrounded by a moat of blue diamonds.

‘Wow,’ Sasha managed.

‘I agree. But is it, as the countess claims, an original Fabergé, or a brilliant copy?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Sasha.

‘I didn’t think you would. But after meeting her, you might be able to tell me if the countess is an original or a fake.’

‘The Anastasia problem,’ said Sasha.

‘In one. I’ve already visited the British Museum, the V & A, and the Soviet Embassy, and there’s no doubt that the original egg was owned by a Count Molenski. But is the countess really his daughter, or just an accomplished actress trying to palm me off with a copy?’

‘I can’t wait to meet her,’ said Sasha, unable to take his eyes off the egg.

‘And even if she convinces you she’s the real thing,’ said Dangerfield, ‘why would she have chosen me, a small trader from Guildford, when she could have gone to any number of leading specialists in the West End?’

‘I presume you’ve already asked her that question, sir.’

‘I did, and she told me that the London dealers were not to be trusted, and she feared they’d form a cartel to act against her.’

‘I’m not sure I understand what she’s suggesting,’ said Sasha.

‘A cartel is when a small group of traders join together at an auction with the sole purpose of keeping the price of a valuable object down so one of them can purchase it for less than its real value. They then re-sell the piece for a handsome profit, and split the proceeds between them. It’s sometimes referred to as a concert party.’

‘But surely that’s against the law?’

‘It most certainly is. But such cases rarely end up in the courts, because if there aren’t any witnesses, it’s almost impossible to prove.’

‘If this is the original,’ said Sasha, his eyes returning to the egg, ‘are you able to put a value on it?’

‘The last Fabergé egg to come on the market was auctioned at Sotheby Parke Bernet in New York, and the hammer price was just over a million dollars. And that was a decade ago.’

‘And if it’s a fake?’

‘Then she’ll be lucky to get more than a couple of thousand pounds for it, possibly three.’

‘When do I get to meet her?’

‘She’s joining us for tea tomorrow afternoon.’ Mr Dangerfield looked at the egg once again. ‘If she’s the real thing, the time may have come for me to do something quite out of character.’

‘And what might that be, sir?’

‘Take a risk,’ said Mr Dangerfield.

Ben spent his weekend pinning VOTE KARPENKO posters on all twenty-nine college noticeboards, and even on the occasional fence along the way, despite being aware that Sasha’s opponents could legally tear down any fly postings.

As he moved from college to college, he grew more confident that Sasha was going to win, because whenever anyone stopped to chat, they either gave him a thumbs up, or assured him that they would be supporting his candidate this time. No one raised the subject of Fiona’s false accusations at the last election, and one or two admitted they now regretted not voting for Sasha the last time around. Just two of you would have been enough, Ben wanted to remind them.

He reluctantly had to admit, to everyone except Sasha, that Fiona had turned out to be a rather good Union president. Thanks to her father’s connections in the House of Commons, the list of guest speakers had been impressive, and her firm chairing of the committee, coupled with some innovative ideas, had been acknowledged by friend and foe alike.

Although she and Sasha rarely spoke, Fiona had recently suggested to Ben that the three of them should have dinner, and let bygones be bygones.

‘An olive branch?’ suggested Ben.

‘More like a fig leaf,’ said Sasha. ‘So you can tell her not until I’m sitting in the president’s chair.’

21 Alex

Vietnam, 1972

‘What do you plan to do when you get back home?’ asked Lieutenant Lowell as he and Alex sat in a dugout and shared what passed as lunch.

‘Complete my economics degree at NYU, and then build an empire to rival Rockefeller’s.’

‘My godfather,’ said Lowell matter-of-factly. ‘I think you’d like him, and I know he’d like you.’

‘Do you work for the great man?’ asked Alex.

‘No, I’m chairman of a small bank in Boston that bears my family name. But to be honest, I’m chairman only in name. I prefer to concentrate on my first love, politics.’

‘Do you want to be president one day?’ asked Alex.

‘No thanks,’ said Lowell. ‘I’m not as ambitious as you, corporal, and I’m well aware of my limitations. But when I get back to Boston I plan to run for Congress, and possibly one day for the Senate.’

‘Like your grandfather?’ Lowell was taken by surprise and certainly wasn’t prepared for Alex’s next question. ‘Why didn’t you try to defer? You must have all the right connections to make sure you didn’t end up in this hellhole.’

‘True, but my other grandfather was a general, and he convinced me a spell in Vietnam wouldn’t do my political career any harm, especially as most of my rivals will have made sure they avoided the draft. But you’re right, every other member of my year at Harvard found some excuse not to be called up.’

Alex dug the last bean out of the bottom of the can, and devoured it slowly, as if it was one of his mother’s most delicious morsels.

‘Well, I guess it’s time to go in search of the enemy,’ said Lowell.

‘Some hope,’ said Alex.

On Wednesday evenings, while the rest of the unit went off to Lilly’s, Alex could be found in the canteen, his only companion a book. He had already exhausted Tolstoy, Dickens and Dumas in their own languages, and had recently turned his attention to Hemingway, Bellow and Cheever.

Addie wrote every week, and Alex hadn’t realized just how much he would miss her. He would have proposed, but not in a letter. However, once he was back...

Big Sam kept pressing him to join the boys on the brothel bus, but Alex continued to resist, even showing the Tank a photo of Addie.

‘You wouldn’t have to tell her,’ said Sam, with a huge grin.

‘But I would have to tell her,’ said Alex, as Presley crooned away on the canteen jukebox: You were always on my mind.

‘I think you’d like Kim,’ said Big Sam, refusing to give up.

‘I had no idea you liked Kipling,’ said Alex, returning his grin.

‘Do you ever give any thought to the futility of war?’ asked Alex.

‘Not if I can help it,’ said Lowell. ‘It might weaken my resolve, which wouldn’t help the men under my command if we ever had to face a real battle.’

‘But there must be young North Vietnamese soldiers sitting in dugouts nearby who, like us, just want to go home and be with their families. Doesn’t history teach us anything?’

‘Only that politicians should think a lot more carefully before they commit the next generation to war. How’s your mother coping without you?’ asked Lowell, wanting to change the subject.

‘As well as can be expected,’ said Alex. ‘My eleven stalls are just about breaking even, but the truth is, she can’t wait for me to come home. It’s almost time to renew my licences, and my mother will be no match for Mr Wolfe.’

‘Who’s he?’

‘My landlord.’

‘Can’t Dimitri deal with him? He sounds like a pretty tough guy.’

‘Frankly, he’s way out of his depth. Dimitri’s much happier when he’s on the high seas.’

‘Well, you’ve only got a few more months before we’ll be demobbed, which will please everyone except the Tank.’

‘Why? Doesn’t he want to go home?’

‘No, he’s requested a transfer to the Marines, which I will happily support. He wants to stay in the military when his year is up. If he had your brain, he’d end up a general.’

‘If we had to go into battle,’ said Alex, ‘I’d rather have him by my side than any general.’

The platoon were on a routine patrol when the order came through. They only had seventeen days to serve before they would be shipped back to the States, having completed their tour of duty.

Lieutenant Lowell asked HQ to repeat the order before he put down the field phone and gathered his men around him. ‘There’s been a skirmish nearby. One of our patrols was ambushed, and we’ve been ordered to go and support them.’

‘At last,’ said the Tank. His comrades didn’t look quite so convinced. Like Alex, they had been ticking off the days.

‘Three Huey helicopters are already on their way to the combat area with orders to evacuate the wounded and transport the dead back to HQ.’ The word ‘dead’ heightened Alex’s awareness that the 116th was about to take part in its first serious mission.

The Tank was first on his feet, with Corporal Karpenko only a yard behind, while the rest of the platoon quickly formed a crocodile, with Private Baker bringing up the rear.

‘No one speaks except me,’ said Lowell as they entered no-man’s-land. ‘Even a cough could alert the enemy and put the whole unit in danger.’

For an hour they edged slowly and cautiously through the undergrowth and into enemy territory. Lieutenant Lowell checked his compass against the grid reference on his map every few minutes. Suddenly, the sound of gunfire made the map redundant. They fell to the ground and crawled on their bellies towards the battlefield.

Alex looked up to see the first of the three Hueys circling above, searching the dense tropical forest for a patch of flat ground on which they could land.

On, on they crept. Never in his life had Alex felt so alert. Even so, he couldn’t help wondering where he might be in an hour’s time. At least he no longer felt he’d wasted a year of his life.

He suddenly spotted the enemy about a hundred yards ahead of him. They hadn’t seen the approaching American platoon, because their attention was focused on the helicopter onto which the first of the wounded were being carried on stretchers by the medevac team, who were completely unaware that the Vietcong were hidden in the undergrowth only yards away from them.

Lowell raised his hand to indicate that the platoon should change direction, and circle the enemy. Each one of them knew that surprise was their best weapon. But as they edged closer and closer, Baker knelt on a fallen twig. It snapped, producing a noise that sounded like a firecracker. The soldier bringing up the rear of the Vietcong unit swung round and stared into Lowell’s eyes.

‘Kẻ thù!’ he cried.

The lieutenant leapt to his feet and began firing his M16 as he charged towards the enemy, with the rest of his unit following closely behind. Almost half the Vietcong were killed before they could return fire, but the lieutenant was hit, and fell face down in the marshy swamp. Alex immediately took his place, with the Tank by his side.

The battle, if that’s how you could describe it, only lasted for a few minutes, and the Vietcong unit had been wiped out by the time the first helicopter rose slowly into the air and headed back to base. The second was still hovering overhead, waiting to take its place.

Alex remembered his hours of training. First, make sure the enemy are no longer a threat. He and the Tank checked the sixteen bodies. Fifteen were dead, but one lay writhing in agony, blood pouring from his mouth and stomach, aware that death was only moments away. Alex remembered the second order; he raised his gun and pointed it directly at the young man’s forehead, but although it might have been described in the handbook as a mercy killing, he couldn’t pull the trigger.

The third order was to check your own men, and evacuate the wounded, followed by the dead, who must be returned to their homeland and buried with full honours, not left to rot on a foreign field. And then the final order. The officer in command and any non-commissioned officers must be the last to leave the battlefield.

Alex left the dying North Vietnamese soldier and rushed to Lowell’s side. The lieutenant was unconscious. Alex checked his pulse, a faint beat. The Tank lifted him gently onto his shoulder and carried him through the undergrowth to the waiting helicopter, before coming back to assist the walking wounded to safety. When he returned to the scene of the battle, he found Alex kneeling over the bodies of Baker and Boyle. They were the last to be placed aboard the second helicopter before it rose into the air.

The rest of the unit struggled up the hill towards a small open space as the third helicopter came in to land. Alex waited until everyone was on board, before he turned around to make a final check of the battlefield.

That was when he saw him. Somehow the one surviving Vietcong had managed to haul himself onto his knees and was aiming his rifle directly at Alex.

The Tank leapt off the helicopter and ran down the hill towards him, firing at the same time. Alex could only watch as the lone Vietcong soldier was jolted backwards, a full clip of bullets hitting him, but he still managed to pull the trigger once.

As if he was watching in slow motion, Alex saw the Tank fall to his knees and collapse on the ground next to the dead Vietcong soldier. Moments later Alex was bending over his friend. ‘No!’ he screamed. ‘No, no, no!’

It took four men to carry the lifeless body back up the hill and place it inside the third helicopter. Alex was the last to climb on board and felt ashamed that he had allowed his closest friend to die.

22 Sasha

London

When the elderly lady entered the drawing room, few would have doubted that Countess Molenski was a genuine aristocrat. Her long black pencil skirt and high-necked jacket were of another age, but it was her bearing and demeanour that could not have been taught, even at drama school. She was simply old school, and both Sasha and Mike rose automatically when she entered the room. As did Elena.

Mr Dangerfield had choreographed the meeting so that nothing would be left to chance. The countess was guided to the only empty place, on the couch next to Sasha, while Elena and the rest of the family were seated on the other side of a table on which the egg was displayed. Once Mrs Dangerfield had poured the countess a cup of tea, and offered her a slice of Madeira cake, which she declined, Sasha opened by asking her in her native tongue, ‘How long have you been living in England, countess?’

‘More years than I care to remember,’ she replied. ‘But it’s always a joy to come across a fellow countryman. May I ask where you are from?’

‘Leningrad. And you?’

‘I was born in Saint Petersburg,’ replied the countess, ‘which rather shows my age.’

‘Did you live in one of those magnificent palaces on the hill?’

‘There are no hills in Leningrad, Mr Karpenko, as you well know.’

‘How silly of me,’ said Sasha. ‘I apologize.’

‘No need. But as you’ve clearly been sent on a fishing expedition, are there any more hoops you’d like me to jump through?’

Sasha was so embarrassed he couldn’t think of a reply.

‘Shall I begin by telling you about my dear father, Count Molenski? He was a close personal friend of the late Tsar Nicholas II. Not only did they share private tutors in their youth, but several mistresses in later years.’

Once again, Sasha was silenced.

‘But what I’m sure you really want to know,’ continued the countess, ‘is how I came into possession of the masterpiece you see before you, and even more important, how I am certain it was fashioned by the hand of Carl Fabergé, and not an impostor.’

‘You’re right, countess, I would be fascinated to know.’

‘There is no need for you to address me quite so formally, Mr Karpenko. I long ago accepted that those days are over, and that I must now live in the real world, and like anyone else who finds themselves in impoverished circumstances, recognize that I have no choice but to part with some of my family heirlooms if I hope to survive.’ Sasha bowed his head. ‘My father’s private art collection was acknowledged as second only to the Tsar’s, although Papa only owned one Fabergé egg, as it would have been considered disrespectful to attempt to outdo the Tsar.’

‘But how can you be sure that this particular egg was executed by Fabergé himself, and is not, as I believe several experts claim, a fake?’

‘Several experts with a motive,’ said the countess. ‘The truth is, I can’t prove it, but I can tell you that the first time I saw the egg was when I was twelve years old. Indeed, it was my youthful clumsiness that was responsible for a tiny scratch on the base, which is almost invisible to the naked eye.’

‘Assuming that it is the original,’ said Sasha, looking at the egg, ‘I’m bound to ask why you offered the piece to Mr Dangerfield, whose expertise couldn’t be more English — Sheraton, Hepplewhite and Chippendale are his daily fare, not Fabergé.’

‘Reputation is not easily acquired, Mr Karpenko, but has to be earned over many years, and honesty can no longer be taken for granted, which is why I allowed the egg out of my possession for the first time in twenty years. Had I entrusted it to one of our countrymen, they would have only needed a few days to replace my masterpiece with a fake. I have become aware that such a thought would never cross Mr Dangerfield’s mind. So it is his advice that I shall be taking.’

Sasha folded his arms, the agreed sign that his mother should take his place, and continue the conversation in Russian. He stood up, gave the countess a slight bow, and walked across the room to sit between Charlie and her father.

‘Well?’ said Mr Dangerfield, once the countess was deep in conversation with Elena. ‘What do you think?’

‘I have no doubt that she’s exactly who she claims she is,’ were Sasha’s opening words.

‘How can you be so sure?’ said Mr Dangerfield, whose tea had long since gone cold.

‘She speaks a form of Russian court language that is frankly from another age, and that you rarely come across today outside the pages of Pasternak.’

‘And the egg, is that also out of the pages of Pasternak?’

Sasha seemed to be the only person who was surprised when he was elected — by a landslide — as the next president of the Union.

Fiona clearly didn’t enjoy having to read out the result to a packed audience. Ben finally made treasurer, and he and Sasha spent their Christmas holiday planning the next term’s debates. They were delighted when the Education Secretary, Mrs Thatcher, agreed to speak in defence of the government’s policies for the opening debate, because there were several leading politicians who were only too happy to oppose the ‘milk snatcher’.

Full terms at Cambridge are eight weeks long, and although Sasha attempted to survive on as little sleep as possible, he still couldn’t believe how quickly his fifty-six days in office as president passed. No sooner had he stepped down from the high chair, than his supervisor reminded him that finals were fast approaching.

‘And if you’re still hoping for a first,’ Dr Streator reminded him, ‘I suggest you now devote the same amount of energy to your studies as you did to becoming president of the Union.’

Sasha heeded Dr Streator’s advice, and continued to survive on six hours’ sleep a night while he spent every waking hour revising, studying past examination papers, translating long passages of Tolstoy, and rereading his old essays right up until the moment he climbed the steps of the examination hall to sit his first paper.

Charlie and Ben joined him for a quick supper every evening to discuss their own efforts, and what they thought might come up the following day. Sasha would then return to his room and continue revising, often falling asleep at his desk, and feeling less and less confident as each day passed.

‘The harder I work,’ he told Ben, ‘the more I realize how little I know.’

‘That’s why I don’t work at all,’ said Ben.

When Sasha handed in his final paper to the examiners on Friday afternoon, the three of them opened a bottle of champagne and celebrated long into the small hours. Sasha ended up in bed with Charlie, although it had proved quite an effort to climb up the fire escape, and he fell asleep even before she’d turned out the light.

There then followed that agonizing period when undergraduates have to wait for the examiners to decide which class of degree they consider them worthy of. A fortnight later, the three of them trooped across to the Senate House to learn their fate.

As 10 a.m. struck, the senior proctor, in his long black gown and mortarboard, walked sedately along the corridor, bearing the results in his hand. A hush descended on the undergraduates, who parted to allow him to pass, as if he were Moses approaching the Red Sea.

With considerable ceremony, he pinned several sheets of paper to the noticeboard, before turning and progressing as slowly as before in the opposite direction, only just avoiding being trampled in the stampede that followed.

Sasha protected Charlie as they made their way towards the front. Ben didn’t move, remaining at the back of the scrum, not at all sure he wanted to know the examiners’ opinion of his efforts.

Long before Sasha had reached the front, several new graduands who passed him on their way back, doffed their mortarboards, while a few even applauded. A starred first was rare enough in any subject, and only one name appeared at the head of the list for the Modern and Medieval Languages tripos.

Charlie threw her arms around Sasha, having checked his result before looking for hers. ‘I’m so proud of you,’ she said.

‘And what did you get?’ he asked.

‘An upper second, which is about as much as I could have hoped for. It means I’ll still have a chance of being offered a research post at the Courtauld.’

They looked around to see that Ben still hadn’t moved. Charlie turned back and ran a finger down the land economy list. It was some time before she reached the name Cohen.

‘Will you tell him,’ she said, ‘or shall I?’

Sasha marched up to his friend, shook him firmly by the hand and said, ‘You got a third.’ He didn’t add that the name of Cohen, B. S. appeared near the foot of the table.

Ben let out a sigh of relief. ‘Should anyone ever ask,’ he said, clutching the lapels of his jacket, ‘I shall tell them I graduated with honours, and will be joining my father at Cohen and Son.’

Their laughter was interrupted by raucous cheers coming from a small group on the other side of the hall, who were throwing their mortarboards in the air and toasting their heroine with champagne.

‘Fiona obviously got a first,’ said Ben. ‘I have a feeling you two will continue to be rivals long after you’ve left Cambridge.’

‘Especially as I’ve decided to join the Labour Party,’ said Sasha.

23 Alex

Brooklyn

Alex looked out of the cabin window as the plane began its slow descent over Manhattan. A break in the clouds allowed him a fleeting glance at the Statue of Liberty, and as they’d never been properly introduced, he gave her a mock salute.

When he’d first sailed up the Hudson, he’d been unable to pay his compliments to the lady as he and his mother had been locked in the ship’s galley. But thanks to a resourceful Chinese man and the courage and determination of Dimitri, they had escaped and been able to begin a new life in America.

Staff Sergeant Karpenko had sat at the back of the plane and spent most of the flight home thinking about what he would do once he was back on American soil. If only to please his mother, he would complete his studies at NYU. She had made so many sacrifices to make sure he graduated. Although in truth, he knew that the path he wanted to tread was not one that required any letters after his name, not that he would ever be able to explain that to his mother.

He would have to devote every spare moment to his eleven stalls, and make sure they were quickly back up to scratch, and then find out if any more were available. When he had left for Vietnam they had been making a handsome profit, and expansion had been uppermost in his mind. Perhaps one day he would buy out Mr Wolfe and own the whole of Market Square.

And then there was Addie. Had she missed him as much as he’d missed her?

Troop plane after troop plane landed on a runway that even New Yorkers didn’t know existed.

The 116th Infantry Division, together with a thousand of their comrades, disembarked and assembled on the tarmac for their final parade. Along with many of his comrades, when he stepped onto the runway Alex fell to his knees and kissed the ground, relieved to be back home.

It was the first time he’d thought of America as home.

They all waited to be dismissed so they could return to their homes across the United States, civilians once again. But there was to be a surprise that morning that Alex hadn’t anticipated.

When Colonel Haskins had finished his speech of welcome, he called out one name. Staff Sergeant Karpenko marched up, came to a halt in front of his commanding officer and saluted.

‘Congratulations, sergeant,’ said the colonel, as he pinned the Silver Star on his uniform.

Before Alex could ask what for, the colonel announced to the assembled gathering that at the height of the battle of Bacon Hill, Staff Sergeant Karpenko had taken the place of his unit commander after he had fallen, led an attack that wiped out an enemy patrol, and been responsible for saving the lives of several of his comrades.

And caused the death of my closest friend, was Alex’s only thought as he marched back to join his unit.

He had wanted to protest that the award should have been given posthumously to the Tank, who had made the ultimate sacrifice. Alex would visit Arlington National Cemetery in Virginia, and lay a wreath on the grave of his friend, Private First Class Samuel T. Burrows.

Once the parade had been dismissed, Alex was surrounded by his comrades, who congratulated him, while they all celebrated friendships forged by war. He wondered if he would ever see any of them again, after they’d disappeared in fifty different directions.

As the men broke up, they went in search of their families and friends who had been waiting patiently behind a barrier at the far end of the airfield. Alex hoped Addie would be among them. Her letters hadn’t been quite as frequent recently, but Alex had no doubt that, along with his mother, they would both be among those waving and cheering. His mother had dutifully written to him every week, and although Elena never once complained, it was clear that she and Dimitri were not enjoying their roles as temporary entrepreneurs. Now Elena could return to what she did best, and Dimitri could sign on for the next ship bound for Leningrad.

Alex joined an excited group of exuberant young men as the impatient crowd broke ranks and began running towards them.

He searched the vast crowd for Addie and his mother. But with so many people jumping up and down, waving flags, and pointing, it was some time before he spotted Elena making her way through the dense mob, Dimitri a pace behind, but no sign of Addie.

Elena threw her arms around her son and clung on to him, as if wanting to make sure he was real. When she finally released him, he shook hands with Dimitri, who couldn’t take his eyes off the Silver Star.

‘Welcome home,’ he said. ‘We’re all so proud of you.’

There were so many questions Alex wanted to ask, and so many things he needed to tell them, that he didn’t know where to begin. As they walked away from the crowded runway, it was hard to hear anything above the joyful, exuberant noise that was coming from every direction.

It wasn’t until they had settled into the back of a bus bound for Brooklyn that Alex noticed that all the joy had disappeared from his mother’s face, and Dimitri’s head was bowed, like an errant schoolboy who’d been found playing truant.

‘It can’t be that bad,’ said Alex, in an attempt to cheer them up.

‘Worse,’ said Elena, ‘far worse than you can possibly imagine. While you’ve been away fighting for your country, we’ve lost almost everything you’d managed to build.’

Alex took her hand. ‘It can’t be worse than seeing your closest friend killed in front of you. So tell me, what should I expect when I get home?’

Elena offered a weak smile. ‘We only have one stall left, and it’s barely making a profit.’

‘How can that be possible?’ said Alex. He knew from her letters that Elena and Dimitri had been experiencing difficult times, but he hadn’t realized things were quite that bad.

‘I’m to blame,’ said Dimitri. ‘I wasn’t always around when your mother most needed me.’

‘Yes he was,’ said Elena. ‘I wouldn’t have survived without his wages while you were away.’

‘But surely that was enough to get by until...’

‘Not nearly enough for Mr Wolfe.’

‘So what’s the old crook been up to in my absence?’

‘Whenever one of your licences expired, he doubled the rent,’ said Elena. ‘We simply couldn’t afford to pay what he was demanding, so we ended up losing all but one of the stalls. The final licence comes up for renewal in a couple of months, and recently he’s been tripling the price for a new one.’

‘It’s been the same for everyone,’ said Dimitri. ‘When you get home, you’ll see that the market has become a ghost town.’

‘But that doesn’t make any sense,’ said Alex. ‘Those stalls are Wolfe’s main source of income, so why...’ but he didn’t finish the sentence.

‘What makes it even more strange,’ said Elena, ‘is that he’s agreed to extend the licence on Mario’s pizza house with a reasonable rent increase.’

‘That’s the first clue,’ said Alex.

‘I don’t understand,’ said Elena.

‘Mario’s isn’t in Market Square.’

Once Alex had discarded his uniform, taken a bath and put on his only suit, he left the house and headed straight for the goodwill store. Addie couldn’t hide her excitement when he walked in, although she was shocked by his crew cut.

‘Your news first or mine?’ said Alex, as he threw his arms around her.

‘Mine. Your mother has kept me well informed of what you’ve been up to. I’m just relieved you made it back alive.’

‘I shouldn’t have,’ said Alex without explanation.

‘Come with me,’ she said, taking his hand. ‘I have a surprise for you.’ She led him through to the storeroom at the back of the shop. Alex wasn’t sure what to say when his eyes fell on a rack of suits, jackets, and a blazer as well as a smart black topcoat. ‘I’ve already had the trousers altered, so they should fit perfectly. Mind you,’ she added, taking a closer look at him, ‘you’ve lost some weight.’

‘How can I begin to thank you?’ he said. He hoped he also had a surprise for her, although it would have to wait until his mother agreed.

‘That’s only the beginning,’ said Addie, as she pointed to a shelf behind the clothes rack, piled high with a dozen shirts that hadn’t been taken out of their boxes, a dark green cashmere sweater, three pairs of leather shoes and half a dozen ties that looked as if they’d never been worn.

‘What more could a man ask for?’ said Alex.

‘Wait, it’s not over yet,’ said Addie, picking up a brand-new leather attaché case. ‘Just what an up-and-coming businessman needs when attending important meetings.’

‘Where’s all this come from?’

‘Everything came from the same source, a man who, frankly, has more than enough.’

‘How much do I owe you?’

‘Not a penny. It’s no more than a conquering hero deserves. We’re all so proud of you being awarded the Silver Star.’

‘Well, the least I can do is take you to dinner tonight,’ said Alex, leaning down to kiss her. But just as their lips were about to touch, Addie turned away, and he ended up brushing her cheek.

‘I’m afraid I’m not free tonight,’ she said.

‘Tomorrow night then?’

‘Tonight or any other night.’ She began to fold up the clothes and pack them into bags.

‘Why not?’

‘Because I’m going to marry the man who has too many suits,’ said Addie, holding up her left hand.

Alex was coming out of a lecture at NYU when he saw them standing in the corridor, conspicuously failing to blend in. They would have been hard to miss, dressed in their dark, well-cut suits and polished shoes among a group of students wearing faded jeans, scruffy T-shirts and well-worn sneakers.

Alex recognized one of them straight away. Not a man he could easily forget.

‘Good morning, Mr Karpenko,’ said Agent Hammond. ‘You’ll remember my partner, Agent Travis. Could we have a word with you in private?’

‘Do I have a choice?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Hammond.

Alex placed his hands behind his back and whispered, ‘Arrest me. Handcuff me, and read me my rights.’

‘What are you talking about?’ said Travis.

‘It will at least give me some credibility with this lot,’ dissed Alex, as several students stopped to stare at them.

‘If you’re not going to cooperate, Karpenko, you’ll have to come with us,’ said Travis at the top of his voice. He then grabbed Alex by the arm and marched him down the corridor to accompanying jeers and cheers. They stopped at a door with the word DEAN stencilled in black on its pebbled-glass window. Travis opened the door and pushed Alex inside.

There was no sign of the dean or his secretary. The CIA did seem to have a gift for making people disappear, thought Alex. Travis released him the moment the door had closed behind them, and they sat down at a small square table in the centre of the room.

‘Thank you,’ Alex said. ‘Now at least one or two of them might still talk to me.’

‘What’s their problem?’ asked Hammond.

‘If you’ve served in Vietnam, don’t take drugs, never get drunk, and actually hope to come out of this place with a degree, not many of them want to know you. So what can I do for you gentlemen?’

‘First,’ said Hammond, extracting the inevitable files from his briefcase, ‘we’d like to bring you up to date on what happened to your former chess partner, Ivan Donokov, while you were away in Vietnam.’

At the mention of Donokov’s name, Alex felt sick, and tried to stop himself trembling.

‘Thanks to you, we were able to arrest him, along with several of his associates. They’re now all safely behind bars.’

‘For how long?’

‘Ninety-nine years, in Donokov’s case,’ said Travis, ‘without parole.’

‘Let’s hope his cell mate’s a Grand Master, otherwise he’s going to get very bored,’ said Alex. The three men laughed for the first time. ‘That can’t be the only reason you wanted to see me.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ said Hammond. ‘We felt we owe you one. We know you’re now down to your last market stall, and its licence comes up for renewal next month. We also know that the landlord, Mr Wolfe, will try to extract a price you can’t afford.’

‘But more important,’ said Alex, ‘do you know why?’

‘Yes,’ said Hammond. ‘Our colleagues in the FBI have a cabinet full of files dedicated to Mr Wolfe, but they’ve never been able to lay a finger on him. However, they’ve passed on some information that might be of interest to you.’ He nodded towards his colleague, who proceeded to explain exactly why Wolfe needed to be in possession of the licences for every stall in Market Square by midday on 17 June. ‘And yours is now the only one left.’

‘Thank you,’ said Alex. ‘Although I should have worked it out for myself.’

‘And, by the way,’ said Travis, ‘there’s something else you’ve probably worked out by now.’

‘Dimitri is one of the good guys,’ said Alex.

Alex put on one of the suits Addie had given him, along with a white shirt and a blue silk tie he would never have been able to afford. He opened the attaché case and checked that everything was in place, before glancing at his watch. This was one meeting he wasn’t going to be late for.

He couldn’t resist whistling as he walked slowly along Brighton Beach Avenue. He reached 3049 Ocean Parkway a few minutes before nine, opened the door and walked into the reception area to be greeted by Molly, the long-suffering receptionist, known among the market traders as the devil’s gatekeeper.

‘Have a seat, Mr Karpenko. I’ll let Mr Wolfe know you’ve arrived.’

‘Don’t bother,’ said Alex, not breaking his stride or stopping to knock before he marched into Wolfe’s office.

Wolfe looked up from his desk. He didn’t attempt to hide his annoyance at being taken by surprise. ‘I’ll have to call you back,’ he said, slamming down the phone. ‘Good morning, Mr Karpenko,’ he said, pointing to the seat opposite him. Alex remained standing. Wolfe shrugged. ‘I’ve drawn up the new licence for your stall.’

‘How much?’

‘A thousand dollars a week for the next three years,’ said Wolfe matter-of-factly. ‘And of course, I’ll expect a month’s payment in advance. Should you fail at any time to pay the full amount, the licence will automatically revert to me.’ He smiled, confident that he knew exactly what Alex’s response would be.

‘That’s grand larceny,’ said Alex. ‘I don’t need to remind you of the clause in our contract that says any rise in rent must reflect current market conditions.’

‘I’m glad you mentioned that particular clause,’ said Wolfe, allowing himself a wry smile, ‘because another stallholder recently took me to court claiming I was over-charging and cited that clause as proof. I’m happy to say the judge came down in my favour. So precedent has been set, Mr Karpenko.’

‘How much did that cost you?’

Wolfe ignored the comment as he pushed a familiar document across the table and, pointing to a dotted line, said, ‘Sign there, and the stall will be yours for another three years.’

Once again he looked as if he knew what Alex’s response would be. But to his surprise Alex sat down and began to read slowly through the contract clause by clause. Wolfe leant back, selected a cigar from the box in front of him, lit it and had taken several puffs before Alex picked up the pen on his desk and signed the agreement.

The cigar fell out of Wolfe’s mouth and landed on the floor. He quickly picked it up and brushed some ash off his trousers before saying, ‘Don’t forget that will be four thousand dollars in advance.’

‘How could I forget,’ said Alex. He opened his attaché case and extracted forty hundred-dollar bills. Every cent he, his mother and Dimitri possessed. He placed the cash on the blotting pad in front of Mr Wolfe, then put the contract in his attaché case, stood up and turned to leave. He was just about to open the door when Wolfe spluttered, ‘Don’t be in such a rush, Alex. Let’s talk this over like reasonable people.’

‘There’s nothing to talk over, Mr Wolfe,’ said Alex. ‘I’m looking forward to operating my stall for the next three years, and whatever the rent is when this licence expires, I’ll pay it.’ He touched the door handle.

‘I’m sure we can come to an arrangement, Alex. What if I were to offer you fifty thousand dollars to tear up the contract? That’s far more than you could hope to make even if you were running a dozen stalls.’

‘But nowhere near as much as the million dollars a year rent you’d be raking in if I were to tear the contract up.’ Alex opened the door.

‘How did you find out?’ said Wolfe, glaring at his back.

‘It’s not important how I learnt that the council will be granting you planning permission for a new shopping mall on June the seventeenth, only that I did. In the nick of time, I might add.’

‘How much do you want?’

‘I won’t settle for anything less than a million,’ said Alex. ‘Otherwise the bulldozers won’t be making their way onto your site for at least another three years.’

‘Half a million,’ said Wolfe.

‘Seven hundred and fifty thousand.’

‘Six hundred.’

‘Seven hundred.’

‘Six fifty,’ blurted Wolfe.

‘Agreed.’

Wolfe managed a half smile, feeling he’d still got the better of the bargain.

‘But only if you throw in the freehold for Mario’s Pizza Parlour on the corner of Players’ Square,’ added Alex.

‘But that’s daylight robbery,’ Wolfe protested.

‘I agree,’ said Alex. He sat down, opened his attaché case and took out two contracts. ‘If you sign here, and here,’ he said, pointing to a dotted line, ‘the builders can start work on the super-mall next month. If not...’

24 Alex

Brooklyn

‘Do you think I’m capable of that?’ said Elena.

‘Of course you are, Mama. Your problem is that you’ve spent your whole life underestimating yourself.’

‘That’s certainly never been one of your problems.’

‘Frankly, you’re too good to be working in a pizza parlour,’ said Alex, ignoring her reprimand. ‘But with my help we could build the brand, turn it around, sell it on and then set you up in your own restaurant.’

‘Great restaurants aren’t run by chefs, Alex, but by first-class managers, so before you risk one cent of your money on me, you must find an experienced manager.’

‘Good managers are two a penny, Mama. Great chefs are a far rarer commodity.’

‘What makes you think I’m a great chef?’

‘When you first got the job at Mario’s, I could always get a table, at any time of day. Now there are queues outside from eleven o’clock in the morning. And I can assure you, Mama, they are not queuing to meet the manager.’

‘But it would be such a risk,’ said Elena. ‘Perhaps you’d be wiser to put your money on deposit in a bank.’

‘If I did that, Mama, the only one making a profit would be the bank. No, I think I’ll risk a little of my new-found wealth on you.’

‘But not before you find a manager.’

‘Actually, I’ve already got someone in mind.’

‘Who?’ demanded Elena.

‘Me.’

Elena stared at the gold-embossed invitation card that Alex had put on the mantelpiece for all to see.

‘Who’s Lawrence Lowell?’ she asked as he sat down for breakfast.

‘You remember Lieutenant Lowell. He was the officer in command of my unit in Vietnam. Frankly I’m surprised he even remembered my name, let alone found out where I lived.’

‘Aren’t we coming up in the world?’ Elena teased, as she poured him a cup of coffee. ‘I don’t suppose there’ll be that many pizza parlour managers among his guests. Will you accept?’

‘Of course I will. I’m the manager of Elena’s, the most exclusive pizza house in New York.’

‘Exclusive in this case means there’s only one.’

Alex laughed. ‘Not for much longer. I’ve already got my eye on a second site a few blocks away.’

‘But we’re not making a profit at the first one yet,’ Elena reminded him as she put two eggs on to boil.

‘We’re breaking even, so it’s time to expand.’

‘But—’

‘But,’ said Alex, ‘my only problem is what to buy a man who has everything for his thirtieth birthday — a Rolls-Royce, a private jet?’

‘A pair of cufflinks,’ said Elena. ‘Your father always wanted a pair of cufflinks.’

‘I have a feeling Lieutenant Lowell just might have several pairs of cufflinks.’

‘Then make them personal.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Have a pair made with his family crest, or his club’s emblem, or even your old regiment.’

‘Good idea, Mama. I’ll have a pair engraved with a donkey.’

‘Why a donkey?’ asked Elena, as the egg timer buzzed to indicate four minutes.

‘Are you sure?’ said Alex as he looked at himself in the full-length mirror.

‘Couldn’t be more sure,’ said Addie. ‘It’s all the rage. By this time next year, everyone will be wearing wide lapels and bell bottoms. You’ll be the toast of Broadway.’

‘It’s not Broadway I’m worried about, but Boston, where I suspect it still won’t be the fashion even the year after next.’

‘In which case you’ll be a trend setter, and all the other guests will envy you.’

Alex wasn’t convinced, but he still bought the suit, and a frilly sky-blue shirt that Addie insisted went with it.

The following morning Alex rose early, but instead of heading straight for the market to select the day’s toppings, he went to Penn station, where he bought a return ticket to Boston. Once he’d found a seat on the train, he placed his small suitcase in the overhead rack and settled down to read the New York Times. The stark headline shouted: ‘NIXON RESIGNS’.

By the time the train pulled in to South station four hours later, Alex was wondering if President Ford would pardon the former president. He grabbed a cab and asked the driver to take him to a sensibly priced hotel. Despite his new-found wealth, Alex still considered it a waste of money to pay for a suite when you could sleep just as well in a single room.

Once he’d checked into the Langham, he took a shower before trying on the two suits he’d brought with him. In one, he felt like Jack Kennedy; in the other, he looked like Elvis Presley. But on the cover of Vogue on his bedside table was a photo of Joan Kennedy wearing a sky-blue ballgown, which Vogue was predicting would be this year’s colour. Alex changed his mind yet again. One last check of the time on the invitation, 7.30 for 8.00 p.m. He left the hotel just after seven, hailed a cab and told the driver the address.

After driving around the Common, Alex noticed that as they climbed higher towards Beacon Hill, the houses became grander. They came to a halt at the entrance of a magnificent townhouse, where he was met by two security guards, who gave him a long hard look before demanding to see his invitation.

‘Maybe he’s part of the cabaret,’ one of them said, loud enough for Alex to hear as the cab turned in to the long driveway and continued on its journey up to the front of the house.

Alex knew he’d made a mistake the moment he stepped into the oak-panelled hall and joined a long queue of guests waiting to be greeted by their host. He wanted to turn round, go back to his hotel and change into the more conservative suit, but then he would have been late. He wasn’t sure which would cause more offence. He couldn’t help noticing that several of the guests were turning to take a second look at him.

‘It’s wonderful to see you again, Alex,’ said Lowell, when he finally reached the front of the queue. ‘I’m so glad you could make it.’

‘It was kind of you to invite me, sir.’

‘Lawrence, Lawrence,’ his host whispered, before turning to greet his next guest. ‘Good evening, senator.’

Alex made his way through to a large drawing room packed with guests, almost all of the men wearing dinner jackets. He grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter before disappearing behind a large marble pillar in one corner of the room, from where he stared at a painting by someone called Pollock. He didn’t move or attempt to speak to anyone, until a gong sounded, when he made sure he was among the last to enter the dining room. He was surprised to find he’d been placed on the top table, between an Evelyn on his left and a Todd on his right.

Alex quickly sat down, relieved that at least no one could now see his bell bottom trousers.

‘How do you know Lawrence?’ asked the young woman on his left, after grace had been delivered by the Cardinal Archbishop of Boston.

Alex found himself stuttering for the first time in his life. ‘I served... I served under Lieutenant Lowell in Vietnam.’

‘Ah yes, Lawrence mentioned that he’d invited you, but he wasn’t sure if you’d come.’

Alex was already wishing he hadn’t.

‘And what do you do now, Alex?’

‘I own a string of pizza parlours,’ he blurted out, immediately regretting his words.

‘I’ve never eaten a pizza,’ she said, which Alex didn’t find hard to believe. After a long silence, he asked, ‘And how do you know Lieutenant Lowell?’

‘He’s my brother.’ Another long silence followed before Evelyn turned to the person on her left and began telling him when she would be returning to her villa in the south of France.

When the first course was served, Alex was uncertain which knife and fork to pick up from the large array in front of him. He followed Evelyn’s lead, before turning to the man on his right, who said, ‘Hi, Todd Halliday,’ and shook him by the hand.

‘How do you know Lawrence?’ asked Alex, hoping he wasn’t his brother.

‘We were at Choate together,’ said Todd.

‘And are you also in banking?’ asked Alex, as he had no idea who or what Choate was.

‘No. I manage a small investment company that specializes in start-ups. And you?’

‘I own a couple of pizza parlours, and have my eye on a third site. We’re not Pizza Hut yet, but it can only be a matter of time.’

‘Are you looking for any capital?’

‘No,’ said Alex. ‘I’ve just sold my old company for over a million, so I won’t be needing any outside finance.’

‘But if you’re hoping to rival Pizza Hut, the right partner could speed the whole process up, and if you were interested...’

Todd wasn’t able to complete his sentence as he was interrupted by a familiar figure whom Alex immediately recognized, who rose from his place to propose Lawrence’s health. Alex admired the relaxed way the senior senator from Massachusetts addressed the gathering, without once referring to a note, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the woman seated next to the senator, who he’d just seen on the cover of a glossy magazine in his hotel. He only wished he looked half as good in sky blue.

When the senator sat down to warm applause, Lawrence rose to reply. ‘I’m delighted,’ he began, ‘that so many of my family and friends have been able to join me this evening to celebrate my thirtieth birthday. I’m particularly honoured that Teddy was able to break away from his busy schedule to propose my health. I hope that one day, and in the not too distant future, he’ll consider standing as the Democratic candidate for president.’

Several of the guests joined in the applause, which allowed Lawrence the chance to turn to the next page of his speech.

‘I am equally delighted to welcome to my home the man who made tonight possible, because if he hadn’t saved my life, one thing is for sure, this party would not be taking place. As you all know, when I was serving in Vietnam, I was wounded and could have been left for dead, but fortunately my second in command didn’t hesitate to take my place, and because of his leadership and courage, not only was an entire Vietcong unit wiped out, but he didn’t leave the battlefield until every American soldier had been rescued. As a result of his actions that day, Staff Sergeant Alex Karpenko was not only awarded the Silver Star, but made it possible for me to deliver this speech tonight.’

Lawrence turned to Alex as he raised his glass, and everyone in the room stood and joined in the applause, although Alex’s immediate thought was of the Tank, and the fact that he still hadn’t visited his grave in Virginia.

There was an even louder cheer when Lawrence announced that he would be standing for Congress as a Democratic candidate at the next election. When he finally sat down the assembled guests broke into a raucous, out-of-tune rendition of ‘Happy Birthday, dear Lawrence...’

Once the laughter and applause had finally died down, Todd turned to Alex and continued where he’d left off. ‘If you do decide to expand, keep in touch. Yours is just the sort of company I like backing.’ He took a business card out of his wallet and handed it to Alex, who was about to ask what sum he had in mind, when he was distracted by a hand resting on his thigh.

‘Do tell me more about your little empire, Alex,’ said Evelyn, leaving her hand in place.

For a second time he found himself struggling for words as he stared into her green eyes.

‘I’ve just sold it.’

‘I do hope you got a good price.’

‘Just over a million,’ he said, enjoying the attention.

‘Are you going to introduce me, Evelyn?’ said a voice from behind him.

Alex leapt to his feet when he saw the senator standing by his chair. Evelyn introduced them, and Teddy Kennedy immediately put him at ease as they chatted about Vietnam.

‘You know, Alex,’ Kennedy whispered, ‘if you could spare a little time to help Lawrence during his campaign, it might make all the difference, and I know he’d appreciate it.’

It had never crossed Alex’s mind that he could actually help Lawrence do anything. ‘I’d be only too happy to do whatever I can, senator,’ he heard himself saying.

‘That’s good of you, Alex. Let’s keep in touch.’

Kennedy’s words gave Alex a little more confidence, and made him more determined to press Todd on how much he might consider investing in Elena’s, and what he would expect in return. But when he looked around, he saw Todd standing behind him, deep in conversation with Evelyn. Alex felt he couldn’t interrupt them.

When he sat back down he was surprised to find a queue of guests had formed, all of them wanting to speak to him and shake his hand. He answered every one of their questions, not least because it ensured he wouldn’t have to venture onto the dance floor and make a complete fool of himself. When he noticed the first guests departing just before midnight, Alex decided that after he’d had a word with Todd, he’d also slip away, but first he asked a passing waiter where the restroom was.

‘Follow me,’ said Evelyn, who’d appeared from nowhere.

Alex happily obeyed. She took his hand and led him up a wide marble staircase to the first floor, and opened a set of double doors into a bedroom that was larger than Alex’s flat in Brighton Beach.

‘Use my private bathroom,’ she said, gesturing towards a door on the far side of the room.

‘Thank you,’ said Alex, as he disappeared into a room that had a bath and a shower. He smiled as he washed his hands and straightened his tie, now confident enough to ask Evelyn if she would call a taxi to take him back to his hotel. But when he returned to the bedroom, he couldn’t see her. He assumed she must have gone back downstairs to the party, until he heard a voice say, ‘I’m over here, Alex.’ He swung round to see her sitting up in bed, her magnificent ballgown lying on the floor. ‘Come and join me,’ Evelyn said, tapping the covers.

Alex couldn’t believe what was happening, but after hesitating for a moment, he nervously discarded his suit and shirt, and climbed into bed beside her. She immediately took him in her arms and began kissing him. He wondered if it was obvious that she was only the second woman he’d ever slept with. She finally leant back, let out a loud sigh and said, ‘I can see why the enemy didn’t have a chance.’

Moments later she fell asleep in his arms.

When Alex woke the following morning, and looked at Evelyn lying beside him, he still couldn’t believe this beautiful and sophisticated woman had given him a second look. He feared that the moment she woke, the bubble would burst and he would have to return to the real world.

He began to gently stroke her long red hair. She slowly woke and lazily stretched her arms, before pulling him towards her. After they’d made love a second time, Evelyn rested her head on his shoulder.

‘Can I ask you something?’ said Alex.

‘Anything, my darling,’ she replied.

‘What can you tell me about Todd Halliday, the guy who was seated on the other side of me last night?’

‘Extremely wealthy, old money, but he likes to invest in new companies.’

‘Do you think he might be interested...’

‘I suspect that’s why Lawrence put him next to you,’ said Evelyn.

‘But my company is so small—’

‘Todd likes to get in at the beginning. He says that’s how the real money is made. I only wish I’d listened to him when he told me to invest in Coca-Cola, McDonald’s and Walt Disney.’

‘What sort of sum does he usually invest?’

‘Ten, fifteen million, and I’ve even known him put up as much as twenty-five if he really believes in the person, and I could see he was impressed by you.’

‘But what would he expect in return?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Evelyn, ‘but I’m not going to miss out this time.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I shall be among the first to back.’

‘You’d be willing to invest in my company?’

‘Not in your company,’ said Evelyn, ‘in you. Todd always says there are bullshitters and bulls, and he wasn’t in any doubt which you were, so I asked him to put me down for half a million. In fact,’ she added as she stepped out of bed and put on a silk dressing gown, ‘if Todd is willing to back you, I’m going to have to sell the Warhol my grandfather left me in his will.’ Evelyn stood in front of a portrait hanging on the wall. ‘It’s known as the Blue Jackie, and it captures that poignant moment when she realized her husband was dead.’

‘I couldn’t let you do that,’ said Alex as he followed her into the bathroom.

‘Don’t give it a second thought,’ said Evelyn as her robe fell to the floor and she stepped into the shower. ‘It’s worth over a million, and there are several New York dealers who’d be only too happy to give me half a million, possibly more. And I’ll let you into a little secret, I’ve never really liked it.’

Alex couldn’t concentrate when she turned on the shower and handed him the soap. Another first. It wasn’t until he was drying himself that he said, ‘I couldn’t let you sell the Warhol, not least because Lawrence would never forgive me.’

‘I won’t tell him if you don’t,’ said Evelyn, as she strolled back into the bedroom and opened a walk-in wardrobe to reveal row upon row of dresses, skirts, blouses and shoes. She took her time selecting an outfit. Alex didn’t enjoy putting his old clothes back on as he watched her getting dressed.

‘Why don’t we cut out the dealers?’

‘Can you zip me up, darling?’

Alex walked across the room, zipped up the dress, and bent down to kiss her on the shoulder as he did so.

‘I’m not sure I understand,’ said Evelyn, turning to face him.

‘I’ll act as the dealer, but with a difference. I’ll buy the picture for half a million, which you can then invest in my company, and I’ll return the Warhol when you repay me.’

‘But why take the risk?’ said Evelyn.

‘There’s no risk, while the picture’s worth a million,’ said Alex.

‘And you wouldn’t tell Lawrence?’

‘Not a word.’

‘Then we have a deal,’ said Evelyn as she removed the small painting from the wall.

‘No, I won’t need to take it until the deal is closed.’

‘Then it won’t be possible, because I’m off to the south of France for six weeks, and if I know Todd, he’ll have closed a deal with you long before I get back.’ Evelyn handed over the picture. ‘I trust you enough to keep your end of the bargain.’

Alex reluctantly took the painting, sat down, wrote out a cheque for five hundred thousand dollars, and handed it to Evelyn.

‘Thank you,’ she said, leaving it on the bedside table. ‘Why don’t you come back to Boston next weekend? We can go sailing, and celebrate our new partnership,’ she added before kissing him gently on the lips.

Alex couldn’t believe she wanted to see him again, and simply said, ‘I’d like that.’

‘I think it’s time for us to have some breakfast,’ said Evelyn. ‘But not a word to Lawrence about our little deal.’

‘I’d rather not, dressed like this,’ said Alex. ‘It was embarrassing enough last night, and it would be even worse at breakfast. In any case, are you sure you want your brother to know I stayed the night?’

‘I don’t think he’d give a damn.’

‘But I do.’

‘You’re so beautifully old-fashioned,’ said Evelyn. ‘But if you insist, you can slip down the back stairs and out of the tradesmen’s entrance. That way no one will see you.’

‘I do insist.’

Evelyn shrugged her shoulders and walked across to the bedroom door. She opened it, looked up and down the corridor, and beckoned to Alex to join her. She pointed to a staircase at the far end of the corridor. ‘Don’t forget the painting,’ she said, handing over the Warhol.

He reluctantly took it, and headed to the far end of the corridor.

‘Look forward to seeing you next weekend then, darling,’ Evelyn said as they went in opposite directions.

Once he was out of sight, Evelyn strolled down the broad staircase to the dining room and joined Lawrence for breakfast.

‘Good morning, Evelyn,’ he said as she walked in. ‘I hope you slept well.’

On the train back to New York, Alex couldn’t resist the occasional glance at the painting. Of course he’d heard of Warhol, but he’d never imagined he would ever own one, even if it was only for a short time. He already felt guilty about holding on to a picture that Evelyn’s grandfather had left her in his will. He couldn’t wait to give it back once she returned his half a million.

When he arrived at Penn station, he took a cab to Brighton Beach, as he certainly wasn’t going to travel on the subway with a Warhol. Even before he showed his mother the painting, he told her, ‘I’ve met the woman I’m going to marry.’

Evelyn arrived at the Mayflower Hotel just after eleven. Todd immediately rose from his place in the alcove and waved. She walked quickly across to join him. Like the Cheshire Cat, she couldn’t stop grinning.

‘From the expression on your face, my darling, I assume you’ve sampled the cream,’ said Todd as she sat down opposite him.

‘A large dollop,’ said Evelyn, handing him a cheque for $500,000.

‘Bravo,’ he said after pocketing it. ‘Any problems?’

‘None. You’d set him up perfectly. But we can’t hang about, because if my brother were to find out...’

‘I’m booked onto a two forty-five flight out of Logan that lands in Geneva just before seven tomorrow morning. I’ll present the cheque the moment the bank opens its doors.’

‘Just be sure you ask for immediate clearance, and call me the moment the money’s been transferred into my account. Then I’ll fly over and join you in Monte Carlo, and we can celebrate.’

‘What are you going to do for the next couple of days while I’m away?’

‘Make sure I’m available whenever Alex calls. At least until the cheque’s cleared.’

Todd leant over and kissed his wife. ‘You’re so clever,’ he said.

That afternoon, Alex phoned Evelyn, and they chatted for nearly an hour. He had to assure her several times that nothing would stop him joining her in Boston for the weekend.

On Tuesday morning, he caught her just before she left the house to go shopping. She promised to call back, and it was only later that he remembered she didn’t have his number. On Wednesday he rang her first thing in the morning — first thing in the morning for her, at least, because he’d already been to the market and selected the freshest vegetables and the finest cuts of meat before delivering them to Elena’s.

She was full of news. Todd was thinking of investing at least ten million, possibly fifteen, in his company, and would be in touch with him later in the week. Evelyn wondered if he’d like to go sailing at the weekend. ‘We could visit my uncle Nelson in Chappaquiddick, and enjoy the finest clam chowder on earth.’

‘Sounds great. What should I wear?’ he asked, not wanting to admit that he’d never been on a yacht.

‘Don’t worry, I’ve already been shopping and picked out a couple of outfits for you.’

Later that morning, Alex’s bank manager called to say they’d received a cheque made payable to cash for $500,000, with a request for immediate transfer. As it was such a large amount, the manager said, he was checking to make sure Alex wanted it cleared.

‘Immediately,’ said Alex without hesitation.

‘It will leave your current account with a balance of $17,269,’ said the manager.

Which will soon be several million, Alex wanted to tell him, but he satisfied himself with, ‘Please clear the cheque immediately.’

Evelyn picked up the phone.

‘The money has been transferred and I’ll be taking the next plane down to Nice. When do you think you’ll be able to join me?’

‘With a bit of luck I’ll be in Monte Carlo in time for dinner tomorrow evening,’ said Evelyn. ‘But first I have to let my brother know the sad news.’

‘One does have to feel a little sorry for Mr Karpenko,’ said Todd.

‘But not too sorry. I have a feeling he’ll cope just fine in jail, and then we can forget all about him. By the way, Todd, don’t forget to book our usual table.’

The butler hadn’t seen Evelyn running down the stairs since she was a small child.

‘Have you seen my brother?’ she shouted long before she’d reached the bottom step.

‘He’s just gone in to breakfast, Miss Evelyn,’ Caxton said, hurrying across the hall to open the dining room door for her.

‘Whatever’s the matter, Eve?’ asked Lawrence as his sister burst into the room.

‘Have you moved the Warhol from the Jefferson bedroom?’ she asked, still out of breath.

‘What are you talking about?’ said Lawrence, putting down his coffee.

‘The Warhol, it’s gone. It’s not there.’

Lawrence leapt up from his place and walked quickly out of the room. He took the stairs up to the first floor two at a time, before making his way along the landing and into the Jefferson room. He found a bare hook on the wall where the Warhol had once hung.

‘When did you last see it?’ he asked as Evelyn stared at the faint outline of where the picture had been.

‘I can’t be sure. I’ve just got so used to it being there. But I do recall seeing it on the night of your party.’ A long silence followed before she added, ‘I feel ashamed, Lawrence, because I think it could be my fault.’

‘I’m not sure I understand.’

‘I got a little drunk on the night of your party, and allowed someone to join me in my room.’

‘Who?’

‘Your friend Alex Karpenko.’

‘Did he stay the night?’

‘Certainly not. He’d left by the time I woke in the morning. I just didn’t think...’

‘You never do,’ said Lawrence. ‘But if anyone’s to blame, it’s me.’

‘Perhaps I should try and contact him, and see if I can get the picture back?’

‘That’s the last thing you should do. If anyone’s going to speak to Alex, it will be me.’

‘Will you have to inform the police?’

‘I don’t have any choice,’ said Lawrence. ‘As you well know, the picture doesn’t belong to me, it’s part of our grandfather’s bequest, and as it’s worth a million, possibly more, I’ll have to report the theft to the police, as well as to the insurance company.’

‘But he saved your life.’

‘Yes, he did. So if he returns the painting immediately, perhaps I won’t press charges.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Evelyn. ‘He seemed such a nice guy.’

‘You never can tell about anyone, can you?’ said Lawrence.

That afternoon, Alex called Evelyn, and the phone was picked up by the butler, who told him Miss Lowell had left the house around eleven, and he couldn’t be sure when she would be returning. She didn’t call back, so Alex rang again in the evening. This time Lawrence answered the phone.

‘What a wonderful party, Lawrence. You’re a great host, and I’m looking forward to seeing you and Evelyn tomorrow.’

‘I didn’t know you were coming to Boston for the weekend.’

‘Didn’t Evelyn tell you?’

‘Evelyn left this morning for her home in the south of France, and I’m visiting my mother in Nantucket.’

‘But we’d agreed that I should join you both for dinner on Friday evening, and go sailing on Saturday.’ There was such a long silence, Alex thought the line must have gone dead. ‘Are you still there, Lawrence?’

‘I apologize for asking you this, Alex, but when you left the house on Sunday morning, the butler said you were carrying a package under your arm.’

‘A Warhol,’ said Alex, without hesitation. ‘Somewhat reluctantly, I might add. But Evelyn insisted I take it as security.’

‘Security for what?’

‘I loaned her half a million to invest with Todd Halliday, who intends to back my company.’

‘Todd Halliday is her husband, and doesn’t have a penny to his name.’

‘Evelyn is married?’

‘Has been for years,’ said Lawrence.

‘But she told me Todd specializes in start-ups.’

‘Todd only specializes in break-downs that always involve other people’s money,’ said Lawrence. ‘Yours on this occasion.’

‘But Evelyn assured me he was considering investing ten, possibly fifteen million in Elena’s.’

‘I’m not sure Todd could afford to invest ten dollars, let alone ten million, in anything. I hope you haven’t given him any money.’

‘Her,’ said Alex. ‘My cheque was cashed this morning.’ Lawrence was glad Alex couldn’t see the expression on his face.

‘But don’t worry, I still have the Warhol as security,’ Alex added.

Another long silence followed before Lawrence said, ‘That picture wasn’t hers to give. It’s part of the Lowell family collection, which is held in trust, and always left to the first-born son, who then passes it on to the next generation. I inherited the collection when my father died a couple of years ago, and although Evelyn is next in line, until I have a son, my father made it clear in his will that if I were to die in Vietnam, the collection was to be bequeathed to the Boston Fine Arts Society, and not a single work was to go to Evelyn.’

‘I’ll return the painting immediately,’ said Alex.

‘And I’ll pay you back your half a million dollars,’ said Lawrence.

‘No, you will not,’ said Alex firmly. ‘My agreement was with Evelyn, not you. Let’s give her the benefit of the doubt and assume she’s invested my money in a blue chip company.’

‘The only blue chips that woman ever invests in are to be found in casinos. In future, whenever she comes to stay, I’ll have to nail every picture to the wall. But that doesn’t stop us working as a team just as we’ve done in the past, and see if we can find a way of getting your money back.’

‘I’ll do anything I can to help,’ said Alex. ‘And of course I’ll return the painting. I’m only sorry to have caused you so much trouble.’

‘You should have left me to die on the battlefield, Alex. Then you would never have met my sister.’

‘Mea culpa,’ said Alex. ‘Jezebel, Lucrezia Borgia, Mata Hari, and now Evelyn Lowell. She knew a sucker when she saw one.’

‘You’re not the first, and you probably won’t be the last. What’s more, I’m afraid I’ll be away for the next month, as Mother and I always spend August in Europe. Why don’t I send you a cheque now, and you can return the painting as soon as I get back. Then we can go sailing, and leave Evelyn on dry land.’

‘No,’ said Alex. ‘You can give me the cheque but only when I return the painting.’

‘If you insist. Just make sure you don’t lose it, because if you do, Evelyn will deny ever having given it to you.’

‘Lawrence, can I ask why you assumed I was the innocent party, and you didn’t immediately take your sister’s side?’

‘Form. When I was nine, Evelyn used to steal my pocket money, and when she was caught red-handed she blamed it on our nanny, who got the sack. And after a string of similar incidents at school, my dear father had to build a new library to prevent her being expelled.’

‘But that doesn’t prove I’m innocent. Don’t forget, I’ve still got a painting that’s worth over a million.’

‘True, but Evelyn made a mistake when she cast you as nanny on this occasion.’

‘How come?’

‘She told me you’d left the house before she woke on the morning after the party, despite the fact that she joined me for breakfast at around eight-thirty.’

‘You’ve lost me.’

‘But you hadn’t left, because you asked Caxton to call a cab around that time to take you back to your hotel. Much as I admire your nerve, courage, chutzpah, call it what you will, Alex, even you wouldn’t have the gall to walk out of the house with a Warhol under your arm and expect the butler to hold open the door of a taxi for you.’

Alex laughed. ‘So what are you going to do about your sister?’

‘I’ll wait for her to make her next mistake,’ said Lawrence, ‘which, given her past record, shouldn’t be too long.’

25 Sasha

London

‘I now pronounce you man and wife,’ said the vicar. ‘You may kiss the bride.’

Sasha took Charlie in his arms and kissed her as if they were on a first date. The congregation of nearly a hundred people burst into applause.

The bride and groom progressed slowly down the aisle and out into the churchyard where a photographer, tripod already set up, awaited them. The first picture he took was of the new Mr and Mrs Karpenko, followed by group shots with their parents, the rest of the bride’s family, and finally with the best man and the ushers.

The newly-weds were then driven back to Barn Cottage in a Rolls-Royce. On the way, Sasha admitted to his wife that he was a little nervous about his speech.

‘I’d be a lot more nervous about Ben’s speech, if I were you,’ said Charlie. ‘When I heard him rehearsing it in the kitchen before supper last night, I felt quite sorry for you.’

‘That bad?’ said Sasha. When they arrived back at the house, they were surprised to find Elena already checking the canapés.

‘How did she get here before us?’ whispered Charlie as she straightened her husband’s tie, and removed a hair from his jacket.

‘Silly question,’ said Sasha, as the guests began to arrive in dribs and drabs before making their way through to the marquee for lunch.

Sasha quite forgot about the speeches until the plates had been cleared, coffee had been served and Ben rose to deliver his offering.

‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen,’ he began.

‘Where are the lords?’ shouted one of the ushers.

‘Just thinking ahead,’ said Ben, placing a hand on Sasha’s shoulder.

‘Hear, hear!’ cried some of his Cambridge Union contemporaries.

‘You may ask,’ said Ben, ‘how a pathetic illegal immigrant from Leningrad could possibly have captured the heart of a beautiful English girl. Well, he didn’t. The truth is that Charlie, being a good-hearted thing, took pity on him when they first met at a party given at my home to celebrate the end of our school days. Because Charlie is a liberal and therefore a supporter of lost causes, Sasha was in with a chance. But even I didn’t think he’d get that lucky, and end up marrying such a bright and beautiful creature.

‘But there’s a downside, Sasha, that I must warn you about. Charlie was captain of hockey at Fulham High School, and I’m reliably informed that with stick in hand she thought nothing of mowing down any opponent within reach. So stick to chess, old friend. And don’t forget that while the queen can range freely around the board, the king can only move one square at a time.’

Ben waited for the laughter and applause to die down before he continued. ‘To say I was proud to be invited to act as Sasha’s best man would be an understatement, because I have known for some time that I was destined to walk in this man’s shadow, and just occasionally be allowed to bask in his limelight. I have watched in awe as he won a scholarship to Cambridge, became president of the Union, captained the varsity chess team and ended his time at Trinity with a starred first. But put all of those things together, and still they’re nothing compared to capturing the heart of Charlie Dangerfield. Because with her by his side, it will be possible for him to scale even higher mountains. But then, behind every great man... is a surprised mother-in-law.’

Once again, Ben waited for the laughter to die down before he said, ‘But I have not entirely given up hope for myself, as none of you can have failed to notice the four beautiful bridesmaids who accompanied Charlie down the aisle. I’ve already asked three of them out.’

‘And all three turned you down!’ shouted another usher.

‘True,’ said Ben, ‘but don’t forget there are four, so I still live in hope.’

‘Not if she’s got any sense!’

‘Despite that, I ask you to rise and toast the health of Sasha and Charlie.’

Everyone stood, raised their glasses and cried, ‘Sasha and Charlie!’

‘Would you be kind enough to remain standing,’ continued Ben, ‘so that I can always remind Sasha in the years to come, that when I gave the best man’s speech at his wedding, I received a standing ovation.’

The applause that followed made Sasha realize just how hard his old friend had worked on the speech that he was now expected to follow. He understood why Charlie had warned him he should be nervous.

He rose slowly to his feet, aware that his friend had raised the bar.

‘I would like to begin by thanking Mr and Mrs Dangerfield, not only for their generosity in being such wonderful hosts, but even more for welcoming this pathetic refugee into their antique English family. This, despite the fact that I have yet to visit Wimbledon, Lord’s or Twickenham, and don’t know the meaning of foot-fault or leg-before, let alone hooker. Not only that, I’m still not sure if you should pour the milk into a cup before or after the tea. And will I ever get used to warm beer, waiting patiently in queues, and Maypole dancing? Remembering all this, you may well ask how I got so lucky as to marry the quintessential English rose, who blossoms in all seasons.

‘The answer is that there has always been another, equally remarkable, woman in my life. I am referring of course to my mother, Elena, without whom none of this would have been possible.’

The prolonged applause allowed Sasha to gather his thoughts. ‘Without her, I would have had no moral compass, no guiding star, no path to follow. I never thought I would meet her equal, but the gods —’ he looked up to the sky — ‘were to prove me wrong, and excelled themselves when they introduced me to Charlie.’

‘It wasn’t the gods,’ interrupted Ben, ‘it was me!’ Which was met with raucous laughter.

‘Which reminds me,’ continued Sasha, ‘to warn the fourth bridesmaid, who seems to be a sensible and charming young lady, to emulate her three colleagues and reject Mr Cohen out of hand. She can do so much better.’ Hear, hears echoed around the room. ‘But I can’t,’ concluded Sasha, raising his glass, ‘so I invite you all to join me in a toast to the bridesmaids.’

‘The bridesmaids!’

It was some time before the audience resumed their seats.

Ben leant across to Sasha. ‘Well done,’ he said. ‘Especially as you had such an impossible act to follow.’ Sasha laughed and raised a glass to his friend. ‘As soon as you’re back from your honeymoon,’ continued Ben, suddenly sounding more sober, ‘we have to start to plan the next move on your journey to the House of Commons.’

‘That might not be so easy for a pathetic refugee,’ said Sasha.

‘Of course it will — especially if you have me as your campaign manager.’

‘But you’re a member of the Conservative Party, Ben, just in case you’ve forgotten.’

‘And will remain so in every other constituency, apart from the one in which you’re standing. With Charlie by your side, nothing can stop you. And I have another little piece of information to share with you before you disappear off to Venice. I know Charlie won’t thank me for discussing business on your wedding day, but a surprise package turned up on my desk yesterday, which could turn out to be an unexpected wedding gift.’ Sasha put down his glass. ‘The freehold for 154 Fulham Road has come on the market.’

‘Tremlett’s restaurant? How come?’

‘As you probably know, it’s been losing money for the past couple of years. I suspect his old man has finally had enough, and decided to cut his losses and sell up.’

‘How much?’

‘Four hundred thousand.’

Sasha took another sip of champagne. ‘Way out of our league,’ he eventually managed.

‘That’s a pity, because I’ve no doubt your mother would only have to cross the road to turn the place around in no time.’

‘I agree, but it’s still too soon for us.’

‘Well, at least you can be thankful that your greatest rival has bitten the dust. And at that price, it’s unlikely to be another restaurant that will replace it. Help,’ he said, ‘I see a formidable woman bearing down on me, clearly not pleased that I’ve been monopolizing the groom. Forgive me while I disappear!’

Sasha laughed as his friend leapt up and melted into the crowd. He stood as the elderly lady approached.

‘What a magnificent occasion,’ said the countess, sitting down in Ben’s empty chair. ‘You are indeed a lucky man. Thank you for inviting me.’

‘We were delighted you could join us,’ said Sasha. ‘My mother was particularly pleased.’

‘She’s even more old-fashioned than I am,’ whispered the countess. ‘But there’s another reason I wanted to speak to you.’ Sasha didn’t refill his glass. ‘As you know, my Fabergé egg comes up for auction at Sotheby’s in September. I wonder if you’d be kind enough to pay me a visit when you return from your honeymoon, as there’s something I need to discuss with you.’

‘I’d be delighted to,’ said Sasha. ‘Any clues?’

‘I think,’ said the countess, ‘that between the two of us we might just be able to defeat both the Russians and the English. But only if you felt able to...’

‘Damned good speech, Sasha. But then, I wouldn’t have expected anything less,’ said a voice behind him, who clearly hadn’t left his glass unfilled.

‘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.

‘Lot number two,’ declared the auctioneer. ‘A watercolour by...’

‘I was hoping that Sasha might be joining us,’ said Mr Dangerfield. ‘But he did warn me that he had a party booking at the restaurant and wasn’t sure if he’d be able to get away in time.’

The countess made no comment as she turned the page of her catalogue to lot three, which didn’t make the low estimate. Mr Dangerfield glanced around, to see that the ring was celebrating its first killing. He looked back to find the countess tapping her fingers agitatedly on her catalogue, which surprised him, because he’d never known her to show any emotion.

‘That picture belonged to an old family friend,’ she explained. ‘He needed the money.’

When the auctioneer offered the next painting, Mr Dangerfield noted that the countess was becoming more and more nervous as each lot was offered up for sale. He even thought he spotted a bead of sweat on her forehead by the time the auctioneer had reached lot sixteen.

‘A pair of Russian dolls. Shall I open the bidding at ten thousand?’ No one responded. The auctioneer stared down at the impassive sea of faces and suggested, ‘Twelve thousand,’ but Mr Dangerfield knew he was plucking bids off the wall. ‘Fourteen thousand,’ he said, trying not to sound desperate. But there was still no response, so he brought down his hammer and mumbled, ‘Bought in.’

‘What does that mean?’ whispered the countess.

‘There was never a bidder in the first place,’ said Mr Dangerfield.

‘Lot number seventeen,’ said the auctioneer. ‘An important portrait by the distinguished Russian artist Vladimir Borovikovsky. Do I see a bid of twenty thousand?’ No one responded until a member of the ring shouted, ‘Ten thousand!’

‘Do I see twelve thousand?’ asked the auctioneer, but still no one else took any interest, so he reluctantly brought down his hammer and said, ‘Sold, for ten thousand pounds, to the gentleman at the back,’ although he wasn’t entirely sure which gentleman.

Dangerfield felt this didn’t bode well for his client, but he didn’t proffer an opinion.

‘Lot number eighteen.’ The auctioneer paused to allow a porter to enter the room carrying the egg on a velvet cushion. He placed it on a stand beside the podium, and withdrew. The auctioneer smiled benevolently down at his attentive audience, and was about to suggest an opening price of £50,000 when a voice from the back of the room shouted, ‘One thousand pounds,’ which was followed by laughter and a gasp of disbelief.

‘Two thousand,’ said another voice, before the auctioneer could recover.

‘Ten thousand,’ said someone two rows behind the countess. The bewildered auctioneer looked hopefully around the room, and was just about to bring his hammer down and say, ‘Sold to the Russian Ambassador,’ when out of the corner of his eye he saw the hand of one of the assistants on the platform to his left shoot up. He turned to face a young woman on the phone, who said firmly, ‘Twenty thousand.’

‘Twenty-one thousand,’ said the first voice from the back of the room.

The auctioneer looked back at the young woman, who appeared to be deep in conversation with her telephone client.

‘Thirty thousand,’ she said after a few seconds, which had felt like a lifetime to the countess.

‘Thirty-one thousand.’ The same voice from the back.

‘Forty thousand,’ said the assistant on the phone.

‘Forty-one thousand,’ came back the immediate response.

‘Fifty thousand,’ the assistant.

‘Fifty-one thousand,’ the man at the back.

There was another long silence as everyone in the room turned towards the young woman on the phone.

‘One hundred thousand,’ she said, causing a loud outbreak of chattering, which the auctioneer studiously ignored.

‘I have a bid of one hundred thousand pounds,’ he said. ‘Do I see one hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds?’ the auctioneer enquired as his eye returned to the leader of the ring, who stared back at him in sullen silence.

‘Do I see one hundred and twenty-five thousand?’ the auctioneer asked a second time. ‘Then I’ll let it go to the phone bidder for one hundred thousand pounds.’ He was just about to bring down his hammer, when a hand in the fifth row rose reluctantly. Clearly the Russian Ambassador now accepted that his press statement had failed to achieve the desired result.

A flurry of bids followed, once the ambassador had acknowledged the egg had indeed been crafted by Carl Fabergé, and was not a fake. When the price reached half a million, Mr Dangerfield noticed that the young woman on the phone was having an intense conversation with her client.

‘The next bid will be six hundred thousand,’ she whispered. ‘Do you want me to continue bidding on your behalf, sir?’

‘How many bidders are left?’ he asked.

‘The Russian Ambassador is still bidding, and I’m fairly sure the deputy director of the Metropolitan Museum in New York is showing an interest. And a dealer from Asprey is tapping his right foot, always a sign that he’s about to join in.’

‘Fine, then I’ll wait until you think we’re down to the final bidder.’

When the bidding reached one million, the young woman whispered into the phone, ‘We’re down to the last two, the Russian Ambassador and the deputy director of the Met.’

‘One million, one hundred thousand pounds,’ said the auctioneer, turning his attention back to the Russian Ambassador, who sullenly folded his arms and lowered his head.

‘We’re down to one,’ she whispered over the phone.

‘What was the last bid?’

‘One million one.’

‘Then bid one million two.’ Her right hand shot up.

‘I have one million two on the phone,’ said the auctioneer, looking back down at the deputy director of the Met.

‘What’s happening?’ asked the voice on the other end of the line. He sounded quite anxious.

‘I think you’ve got it. Congratulations.’

But she was wrong, because the hand of the Met’s representative rose once again, if somewhat tentatively.

‘No, wait. There’s a bid of one million three. But I’m confident it would be yours if you were to bid one four.’

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ said the voice on the other end of the line, ‘but I’m afraid I’ve reached my limit. Thanks anyway,’ he said before he put the phone down. He stepped out of the telephone box, and dodged in and out of the traffic as he crossed Bond Street.

The auctioneer continued to stare hopefully at the young assistant, but she shook her head and put the phone down. The auctioneer brought down his hammer with a thud, and said, ‘Sold, for one million three hundred thousand pounds to the Metropolitan Museum in New York.’

The audience burst into spontaneous applause, and even the countess allowed herself a smile as Sasha came dashing into the room. He walked quickly down the aisle and took the only empty seat, next to his father-in-law.

‘I’m afraid you’ve missed all the drama,’ said Mr Dangerfield.

‘Yes, I know. Sorry, I got held up.’

Sasha leant across and congratulated the countess. She gave his hand a gentle squeeze and said, ‘Thank you, Sasha,’ as she turned to the next page of her catalogue.

‘Lot number nineteen,’ said the auctioneer once the audience had settled. ‘A fine marble bust of Tsar Nicholas II. I have an opening bid of ten thousand pounds.’

‘Eleven,’ said a familiar voice from the back of the room. The countess didn’t bother to turn round, but simply raised her gloved hand slowly. When she caught the attention of the auctioneer she said, almost in a whisper, ‘Fifty thousand,’ which was followed by a gasp from all those around her. But then she considered it a small price to pay for a masterpiece she’d last seen on the desk in her father’s study. She also knew which member of the family had put it up for sale, and accepted that he needed the money even more than she did.

26 Sasha

London

‘You’re looking very smart, Mama,’ said Sasha. ‘Is that a new suit?’

Elena didn’t look up from the reservations book.

‘And as it’s three in the afternoon, you must either be meeting a friend for tea or going for a job interview.’

Elena pulled on a pair of gloves, while continuing to ignore her son.

‘I hope it’s not a job interview,’ teased Sasha, ‘because frankly we couldn’t run the place without you.’

‘I’ll be back long before we open this evening,’ said Elena tersely. ‘Is the first sitting fully booked?’

‘Except for tables twelve and fourteen.’

Elena nodded. Although the restaurant was often booked out days in advance, Mr Agnelli had taught Sasha to always keep two of the best tables in reserve for regulars, and not to release them before seven o’clock.

‘Have a good time, Mama, wherever it is you’re off to.’ In fact he had already worked out exactly where she was going.

Elena left the restaurant without another word. She walked for a hundred yards down the road before turning right at the corner and hailing a taxi. She didn’t want Sasha to see her being extravagant. She would normally have caught a bus, but not in her smart new Armani outfit, and in any case, there are no bus stops in Lowndes Square.

‘Forty-three Lowndes Square,’ she told the cabbie.

Elena had been touched when the countess had sent a handwritten note inviting her to tea, which would give her the opportunity to see the new flat. The Fabergé egg had changed all their lives. Mike Dangerfield had split his commission with Sasha and Charlie, which had allowed them to buy a flat just around the corner from the restaurant. Elena was sad that they no longer lived with her, but she understood that a young married couple would want a home of their own, especially if they were planning to start a family.

Sasha worked all the hours in the day, and several during the night, as he attempted to juggle working in the restaurant with attending the course he’d signed up for at the London School of Economics, not to mention, or at least not to Charlie or Elena, that he had recently joined the local Labour Club. Chess nights had bitten the dust.

Elena’s was going from strength to strength, not least because when Tremlett’s restaurant closed, Elena had been able to pick up their best waiters and kitchen staff. The Tremletts, père and fils, had moved to Majorca and opened an estate agency soon after Councillor Tremlett had resigned, citing ill-health following an inquiry into the council’s decision to grant planning permission for a proposed new block of flats in Stamford Place. Sasha didn’t need to read between the lines of the local paper’s report to realize they wouldn’t be coming back.

While Elena oversaw the kitchen, and Gino ran front of house, Sasha kept a tight rein on income and expenditure, an area where his mother was completely at a loss, although he had tried to explain to her the difference between tax avoidance and being tax efficient. He ploughed most of the profits back into the business, and they had recently acquired two double-decker freezers, an industrial dishwasher, and sixty new linen tablecloths and napkins. He planned to build a bar at the front of the restaurant, but not until they could afford it.

As she sat in the back of the taxi, Elena thought about the countess, whom she hadn’t seen recently. Her unsocial hours at the restaurant meant that she had little time for a private life, so the invitation to tea was a pleasant break from her normal routine. And she was looking forward to seeing the new apartment.

When the taxi drew up outside number 43 Lowndes Square, Elena gave the cabbie a handsome tip. She had never forgotten Mr Agnelli telling her, you can hardly expect to be tipped yourself, if you’re not generous to those who give you service.

She checked the four names printed neatly beside the doorbells, before pressing the button for the top floor.

‘Please come up,’ said a voice that was obviously expecting her.

A buzzer sounded, and Elena pushed open the door and made her way to the lift. When she stepped out on the fourth floor, she saw a maid standing by an open door.

‘Good afternoon, Mrs Karpenko. Let me take you through to the countess.’

Elena tried not to stare at the photographs of the tsar and tsarina on holiday with the countess’s family on the Black Sea, as she was taken through to a drawing room full of the most beautiful antique furniture. A marble bust of Tsar Nicholas II rested on the centre of the mantelpiece.

‘How kind of you to take the time in your busy life to visit me,’ said the countess, waving her guest to a large comfortable chair opposite her. ‘There’s so much we have to talk about. But first, some tea.’

Elena was pleased to find the countess was now living in luxury, compared with the cramped basement flat in Pimlico.

‘And how is Sasha?’ was the countess’s first question.

‘When he’s not working in the restaurant, he’s studying accountancy and business management at the LSE, which can only benefit our burgeoning business.’

‘Not burgeoning for much longer, I’m told. When I last saw Sasha, he mentioned rumours that—’

‘But only rumours, countess,’ said Elena, ‘although Gino’s sure he spotted two of the judges having lunch at the restaurant quite recently. But we’ve heard nothing definite.’

‘I’ll keep my fingers crossed,’ said the countess as the maid returned bearing a large silver tray laden with tea, biscuits and a chocolate cake, which she placed in the centre of the table.

‘Milk, no sugar, if I remember correctly,’ said the countess as she began to pour.

‘Thank you.’

‘Sasha also tells me he’s considering standing for the local council. I hear a vacancy has arisen recently.’

‘Yes, he’s been shortlisted for the seat, but he’s not confident they’ll select him.’

‘Be assured, Elena, Fulham Council will be nothing more than a stepping stone on his inevitable path to the House of Commons.’

‘Do you really think so?’

‘Oh yes. Sasha has all the qualities and failings necessary to make an excellent Member of Parliament. He’s bright, resourceful, cunning, and not averse to taking the occasional risk if he believes the cause is worth it.’

‘But don’t forget he’s an immigrant,’ said Elena.

‘Which may even be an advantage in the modern Labour Party.’

‘Don’t let him know,’ said Elena, ‘but I’ve always voted Conservative.’

‘Me too,’ admitted the countess. ‘But in my case I don’t think it would come as much of a surprise. Enough of Sasha, how is Charlie getting on at the Courtauld?’

‘She’s almost completed her thesis on “Krøyer: the unknown master”. So it won’t be too long until she’s Dr Karpenko.’

‘And are there any signs of—’

‘Unfortunately not. It appears that the modern generation think it’s important to establish a career before you have children. In my day...’

‘I do believe, Elena, you are more old-fashioned than I am.’

‘Sasha certainly thinks so.’

‘My dear, I can assure you, he admires you above all women,’ said the countess, offering her guest a slice of Black Forest gateau. She paused and took a sip of tea, before saying, ‘Now, I must confess, Elena, that I had an ulterior motive for asking to see you.’

Elena put down her fork and listened carefully.

‘The truth is, I have a secret I want to share with you.’ She paused for effect. ‘Thanks to Mr Dangerfield’s diligence and expertise, and your son’s ingenuity, I received far more for my egg than I had originally thought possible.’

‘I had no idea Sasha was involved,’ said Elena.

‘Oh yes, he played a crucial role, for which I will be eternally grateful. Not only did the sale allow me to purchase a short lease on this charming flat, but also to buy several fine pieces of furniture from a certain antique dealer from Guildford.’ Elena smiled. ‘However, I still have the problem of how to invest the rest of the money, because there is a considerable amount left over. My father used to say, always invest in people you can trust, and you won’t go far wrong. So I’ve decided to invest in you.’

‘I’m not sure I understand,’ said Elena.

‘For the past month, I’ve been negotiating the purchase of a freehold property in the Fulham Road.’

Elena’s hand was shaking so much she spilt her tea. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.

‘It’s of no importance,’ said the countess, ‘compared to finding out if you would feel comfortable with the idea of running two restaurants at the same time.’

‘I’d have to talk to Sasha before I can make a decision.’

‘No, I’m afraid you can’t,’ said the countess firmly. ‘In fact, you must never mention our conversation to Sasha, for reasons I will explain. The seller I’ve had to deal with is a Mr Maurice Tremlett, so you can’t say anything to Sasha as I got the strong impression that he and your son are not on good terms. He is clearly envious of the success you’ve made of Elena’s.’

‘It goes back a lot further than that,’ said Elena, ‘to the days when they were at school together, and Sasha was the First Eleven goalkeeper.’

‘No doubt Tremlett was relegated to the Second Eleven, which doesn’t surprise me, as that’s exactly what I intend to do with him, once the contract has been signed. During our negotiations Tremlett asked me twice, if not three times, if I was a front for Mr Karpenko, and I was able to truthfully say no. So please don’t say anything to Sasha until I’ve put down the deposit. If Tremlett were to find out what I was up to, I’ve no doubt the deal would be off. Now, I have to ask again, Elena, do you think you can run two establishments at the same time?’

‘I’ve run that restaurant once already, so it shouldn’t be difficult to get it back up to scratch, especially as I’m already employing the only good kitchen staff and waiters they ever had.’

‘And you’re confident you could do that while running Elena’s at the same time?’

‘It will just be a hundred and thirty covers instead of seventy. Of course I may have to build a bridge or dig a tunnel under the Fulham Road between Elena One and Elena Two.’

‘Then that’s settled,’ said the countess.

‘Can I ask what you’ll expect in return for your investment?’

‘I would become a fifty-fifty partner in the new restaurant, and be allowed to dine at either establishment whenever I wish, at no charge. There are several Russian émigrés in London who appreciate fine cooking, Elena, but no longer experience it as regularly as they used to. However, you have my word that I will only bring them along one at a time.’

‘In that case you must have your own table at both restaurants,’ said Elena, ‘which no one else will be allowed to book. So when can I tell Sasha?’

‘Not until the contract has been signed and the ink is dry, because I must tell you, Elena, if Mr Maurice Tremlett had been born in the Soviet Union, he would undoubtedly be working for the KGB.’

Elena shuddered, but couldn’t disagree. ‘Thank you for tea,’ she said, ‘and, more important, thank you for your confidence in me. Now I must get back to the restaurant, as I like to be in the kitchen a full hour before the first customer arrives.’

‘What a good investment I’m about to make,’ said the countess. ‘And I have one more request of you before you leave.’

‘Anything, countess.’

‘That in future, you’ll call me Natasha.’ Elena looked uncertain. ‘If you don’t, I’ll make it a condition of the contract.’

27 Sasha

London

‘Do we know anything about them?’ asked Elena. ‘The name Rycroft doesn’t mean anything to me.’

‘Only that the lady who called, a Mrs Audrey Campion, told me there would be three of them travelling up from Surrey to discuss a private matter.’

‘Then it’s probably a special birthday or anniversary party of some kind that they wish to celebrate. What time are you expecting them?’

‘In about ten minutes,’ said Sasha, glancing at his watch. ‘Do you want to join us for the meeting, Mama?’

‘No, thank you,’ said Elena. ‘You’re so much better at these things than I am. Just be sure to check both diaries.’

‘I already have,’ said Sasha. ‘Elena One is fully booked for March the thirteenth.’

‘And Elena Two?’

‘If it’s for twenty or less, we could just about manage it.’

‘It seems as if you have everything covered, so I’ll get back to work. I need to discuss today’s specials with the sous-chef.’

Sasha smiled, well aware that his mother would do almost anything to avoid having to deal directly with customers, but was transformed the moment she entered the kitchen. How different she was from him. He avoided the kitchen at all costs, so the division of labour suited them both ideally.

Sasha was considering which menu options he should offer when the front doorbell rang.

He sat down at the popular alcove table at the back of the room as Gino opened the door to let the three of them in. As he accompanied them over to the table, Sasha tried, as he always did, to assess his potential customers.

From their ages, they could have been father, mother and son, but not from their pedigrees. He rose to greet them, taking a closer look at the younger man, who he could have sworn he’d seen somewhere before.

‘Good morning, I’m Sasha Karpenko.’

‘Alf Rycroft,’ the older man replied, shaking him firmly by the hand.

‘And I’m Mrs Campion,’ said the woman. ‘You’ll remember I called you,’ she added, sounding as if she was used to getting her own way.

‘Indeed I do.’

‘Hi,’ said the younger man, ‘I’m—’

And then Sasha remembered. ‘Nice to see you again, Michael. How are you?’

‘I’m well, thank you. And touched that you remember me. But then, I told Alf and Audrey on the journey up to London how you demolished the entire Oxford chess team single-handed, so perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised that you could recall my name.’

‘So what are you up to now?’ asked Sasha. ‘Didn’t you read Jurisprudence?’

A waiter appeared, and once they’d ordered coffee, Michael answered Sasha’s question.

‘I’m a solicitor in Merrifield. But that isn’t the reason we wanted to see you.’

‘Of course not. So let me start by asking what sort of party you had in mind.’

‘The Labour Party,’ said Alf.

Sasha looked puzzled.

‘Allow me to explain,’ said Audrey Campion, in the same no-nonsense voice. ‘As I’m sure you know, until recently the Member of Parliament for Merrifield was Sir Max Hunter.’

‘Fiona’s father,’ said Sasha. ‘How could I possibly forget? I saw that he died of a heart attack while out fox hunting.’

‘That’s correct. But what you won’t know is that last night the local Conservative Association selected his daughter to fight the by-election.’

Sasha remained silent for some time before muttering, ‘So Fiona will be the first of my contemporaries to sit on the green benches.’

‘You can hardly be surprised by that,’ said Michael, ‘because we all assumed it would be either you or her who would be the first to climb the greasy pole.’

‘But I still don’t understand why you’ve come all this way to tell me something I can read about in tomorrow’s papers.’

‘I’m the association chairman of the Merrifield Labour Party,’ said Alf Rycroft. ‘And Audrey is the party agent.’

‘Unpaid, I might add,’ she said firmly.

‘And my committee,’ continued Alf, ‘couldn’t think of anyone better qualified to take on Miss Hunter.’

‘But surely it would be wiser to select someone with more experience, who has at least some knowledge of the constituency.’

‘We don’t have the time to go through the normal selection procedure,’ said Alf. ‘We assumed the Conservatives would at least have the decency to wait until Sir Max was buried before they announced the date of the by-election, but they took advantage of the fact that we don’t have a candidate in place.’

‘How typical of Fiona,’ said Sasha as the waiter returned with their coffee, which allowed him a moment to gather his thoughts. ‘I’m flattered,’ he said once the waiter had left, ‘but my problem is I simply don’t have the time...’

‘The by-election will be held three weeks from today, on Thursday, March the thirteenth,’ said Alf. ‘And as Sir Max had a majority of 12,214, you have absolutely no chance of winning.’

‘Then why should I waste my time?’

‘Because,’ said Mrs Campion, ‘if you were to reduce the majority in a Tory stronghold, it would look good on your CV when you eventually apply for a seat that you might actually win.’

‘But you’re a local man, Michael, why don’t you stand?’

‘Because Fiona Hunter always terrified the life out of me, but if she discovers that you’re the Labour candidate, she’ll be the one who’s on the back foot for a change. Besides which, you know more about her than any of us.’

‘I’ll need a little time to think about it,’ said Sasha. ‘How long have I got?’

‘Ten minutes,’ said Alf.

‘The motion before the association is that Sasha Konstantinovitch Karpenko be selected as the Labour Party candidate for the constituency of Merrifield. Those in favour?’ said the chairman, looking around the assembled gathering. Twenty-three hands shot up. ‘Those against?’ Not a single hand was raised. ‘Then I declare the motion carried unanimously,’ Alf Rycroft announced to as loud an ovation as twenty-three people could manage.

By the time Sasha boarded the last train back to London, he knew all twenty-three of their names, and not one of them thought he had a chance of winning.

‘Another woman?’ said Charlie as he crept into the bedroom just after midnight, determined not to wake her.

‘Just over twenty-eight thousand of them,’ said Sasha, as he placed his head on the pillow and explained why he’d travelled down to Merrifield that morning and returned in the evening as the Labour candidate for a by-election. ‘So you won’t be seeing much of me during the next three weeks.’

‘Congratulations, darling,’ said Charlie. She switched on the bedside light, and threw her arms around him. ‘What do you know about your opponent?’

‘Everything.’

‘How come?’

‘It’s Fiona Hunter.’

Charlie caught her breath and sat bolt upright before saying, ‘You have to beat her this time.’

‘Not possible, I’m afraid. They don’t count the Conservative votes in Merrifield, they weigh them.’

‘Not this time, they won’t,’ said Charlie, ‘because I’ll be on that train with you tomorrow morning, so she’ll have to beat both of us.’

‘But you’ve got your thesis to finish.’

‘I handed it in last week.’

‘And you didn’t tell me?’

‘I wanted to wait until I heard the result.’ She leant across and kissed her husband. ‘Sleep well, my darling,’ she said, before placing her head back on the pillow. ‘You must be exhausted.’

But Sasha couldn’t sleep, as his mind was racing with all that had happened in such a short space of time. He’d thought he was preparing for a party booking, and had ended up being booked by a party.

Sasha and Charlie caught the 6.52 from Victoria to Merrifield the following morning, and arrived at the local Labour Party headquarters just before 8 a.m.

The chairman was sitting outside in his Ford Allegro waiting for them.

‘Jump in,’ he said, once Sasha had introduced his wife. ‘Nice to meet you, Charlie, but we’ve no time to waste.’ He put the car into first gear, set off at a leisurely speed, and gave a running commentary as they drove down the high street and out into the countryside.

‘There are twenty-six villages in the Merrifield constituency. They’re the people who give the Tories their majority, and Fiona Hunter has a branch office in every one of them.’

‘How about us?’ asked Charlie.

‘We have one branch office,’ said Alf, ‘and the chap who runs it is seventy-nine. But the town of Roxton, with its population of sixteen thousand and a paper mill, guarantees that we never lose our deposit.’

‘Any good news?’ asked Sasha.

‘Not a lot,’ admitted Alf. ‘Although Sir Max wasn’t universally popular in the constituency, he built a reputation for having the ear of the minister, and being able to get things done. He had a gift for finding out what was about to happen, and then taking the credit for it. Classic example, the building of a new hospital, which was part of the last Labour government’s long-term infrastructure programme, but just happened to be completed during a Conservative administration. By the time the health minister opened the hospital, you’d have thought it was Sir Max’s idea in the first place, and he’d personally laid the first brick.’

‘A gift his daughter has inherited,’ said Charlie, with some feeling. ‘So how’s she going down?’

‘They like her,’ admitted Alf, ‘but then they’ve known her since the days when she was wheeled around the constituency in a pram. Rumour has it that her first words were “Vote Hunter!”, and it wouldn’t surprise me if Sir Max had left her the constituency in his will. It doesn’t help our cause that the same name will appear on the ballot paper.’

‘So what’s my line when the locals accuse me of being a carpetbagger?’

‘Labour has never had a better chance of winning the seat,’ said Alf.

‘But you’ve already admitted we haven’t got a hope in hell,’ said Sasha.

‘Welcome to the world of realpolitik,’ said Alf, ‘or at least the Merrifield version of it.’

‘So what’s your first impression?’ asked Michael when Sasha and Charlie joined the rest of the team for lunch at the Roxton Arms.

‘The Conservatives may have all the best constituencies, but Labour still have all the best people,’ he said as he ate a ham sandwich that his mother wouldn’t have given plate space to.

‘Right,’ said Mrs Campion after Sasha had devoured a pork pie, washed down with half a pint of Farley’s. ‘The time has come to foist you upon an unsuspecting public. Our posters and leaflets haven’t been printed yet, so we’ll have to wing it for the first couple of days. And just remember, Sasha, there’s only one sentence you have to deliver again and again until you’re repeating it in your sleep,’ Audrey added, as she pinned a large red rosette to his lapel.

Sasha, accompanied by his chairman, agent and a couple of party workers, ventured out onto the high street. When he encountered his first constituent, Sasha said, ‘My name’s Sasha Karpenko, and I’m the Labour candidate for the by-election on Thursday, March the thirteenth. I hope I can rely on your vote?’ He thrust out his hand, but the man ignored him and kept on walking. ‘Charming,’ muttered Sasha.

‘Shh!’ said Mrs Campion. ‘It doesn’t necessarily mean he won’t be voting for you. He could be deaf, or in a hurry.’

His second attempt was a little more successful, because a woman carrying a bag of shopping at least stopped to shake hands.

‘What are you going to do about the closing of the cottage hospital?’ she asked.

Sasha didn’t even realize Roxton had a cottage hospital.

‘He’ll do everything in his power to get the council to reverse their decision,’ said Alf, coming to his rescue. ‘So make sure you vote Labour on March the thirteenth.’

‘But you haven’t got a hope in hell,’ said the woman. ‘A donkey wearing a blue rosette would win Merrifield.’

‘Labour has never had a better chance of winning the seat,’ said Sasha, trying to sound confident, but the woman didn’t look convinced as she picked up her bag and walked off.

‘Hello, I’m Sasha Karpenko, and I’m the Labour candidate—’

‘Sorry, Mr Karpenko, I’ll be voting for Hunter. I always do.’

‘But he died last week,’ protested Sasha.

‘Are you sure?’ said the man, ‘because my wife told me to vote Hunter again.’

‘Is it true that you were born in Russia?’ asked the next man Sasha approached.

‘Yes,’ said Sasha, ‘but—’

‘Then I’ll be voting Conservative for the first time,’ the man said, not breaking his stride.

‘Hi, I’m Sasha Karpenko—’

‘I’m voting Liberal,’ said a young woman pushing a pram, ‘and even we’ll beat you this time.’

‘Hi, I’m Sasha—’

‘Good luck, Sasha, I’ll be voting for you, even though you haven’t got a chance.’

‘Thank you,’ said Sasha. Turning to Alf he said, ‘Is it always this bad?’

‘Actually, you’re doing rather well compared to our last candidate.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘Her. She had a nervous breakdown a week before the election, and didn’t recover in time to vote.’ Sasha burst out laughing. ‘No, it’s true,’ said Alf. ‘We’ve never seen her since.’

‘And to think I was the only man you wanted!’ said Sasha.

‘You’ll be grateful to us when you find a safe seat, and become a minister,’ said Audrey, ignoring the sarcasm. It was the first time Sasha had considered he might one day be a minister.

‘Look who I see on the other side of the road,’ said Charlie, nudging Sasha in the ribs.

Sasha looked across to see Fiona, surrounded by a team of supporters who were handing out leaflets and holding up banners that declared VOTE HUNTER FOR MERRIFIELD.

‘They haven’t even had to print new posters,’ said Alf bitterly.

‘It’s time to confront the enemy head-on,’ said Sasha and immediately marched across the high street, dodging in and out of the traffic.

‘My name’s Fiona Hunter, and I’m—’

‘What are you going to do about the Roxton playing fields being turned into a supermarket, that’s what I want to know.’

‘I have already spoken to the leader of the council concerning the issue,’ said Fiona, ‘and he’s promised to keep me informed.’

‘Just like your father, full of promises, with bugger-all results.’

Fiona smiled and moved on, leaving a local councillor to deal with the problem.

‘Will the Tories increase my pension?’ said an old woman, jabbing a finger at her. ‘That’s what I want to know.’

‘They always have in the past,’ said Fiona effusively, ‘so you can be sure they will again, but only if we win in the next election.’

‘Jam tomorrow should be your slogan,’ said the woman.

Fiona smiled when she saw Sasha heading towards her, hand outstretched.

‘How nice to see you, Sasha,’ she said. ‘What are you doing in Merryfield?’

‘My name’s Sasha Karpenko,’ he replied, ‘and I’m the Labour candidate for the by-election on March the thirteenth. I hope I can count on your vote?’

The smile was wiped off Fiona’s face for the first time that day.

28 Alex

Brooklyn

‘When you return the Warhol to Lawrence and he gives you back your money, are you still sure you ought to be investing even more in Elena’s?’

‘Yes I am, Mother,’ said Alex. ‘But after making such a fool of myself, I’ve decided to go back to school.’

‘But you already have a degree.’

‘In economics,’ said Alex, ‘which is fine if you want to be a bank manager, but not an entrepreneur. So I’ve signed up for night school. I’ll be doing an MBA at Columbia, so that when I come across another Evelyn, I won’t make the same mistake. Meanwhile, I’m going to get a job at Lombardi’s in Manhattan.’

‘But why support the opposition?’

‘Because Lawrence told me they make the best pizzas in America, and I intend to find out why.’

September was a busy month for Alex. He enrolled at night school to do his MBA, and despite working during the day at Lombardi’s, he never once missed a lecture. His essays were always handed in on time and he read every book on the set texts list, and many that weren’t. Ironically, Evelyn had managed to achieve what his mother hadn’t.

His learning also progressed during the day, because Paolo, the manager of Lombardi’s, showed him how the restaurant had earned its reputation. With Paolo to advise him, Alex began to make some small changes to Elena’s, and later some larger ones. He would like to have purchased a rollover oven from Antonelli in Milan, which would have made it possible to produce a dozen fresh pizzas every four minutes, but he couldn’t afford it until he’d returned the picture and Lawrence had handed over the half million. He would miss her. The Warhol, not Evelyn.

Alex was on his way to night school when he saw her for the first time.

She was standing on the platform at 51st Street wearing a smart blue suit and carrying a leather briefcase. It was her neatly cropped auburn hair and deep brown eyes that captivated him. He tried not to stare at her, and when she glanced in his direction, he quickly looked away.

When the train pulled into the station, he found himself following the vision and sitting in the empty seat beside her even though she was going in the wrong direction. She opened her briefcase, took out a glossy magazine, and began reading. Alex glanced at the cover to see a painting by an artist called de Kooning. He could have sworn he’d seen a similar one in Lawrence’s home, but decided I own a Warhol wouldn’t be a good chat-up line.

‘Did de Kooning paint the same subject again and again?’ he asked, his eyes remaining fixed on the picture.

She looked at Alex, then at the cover of her magazine, before saying, ‘Yes, he did. This one is from his Woman series.’

Her clipped accent reminded him of Evelyn, although nothing else did. He hesitated before saying, ‘Could I have seen one in a private collection?’

‘It’s possible. Although there are very few in private hands. There are several examples of his work in MoMA, so there’s a chance you might have seen one there.’

‘Of course,’ said Alex, although he’d never entered the Museum of Modern Art, and only had a vague idea where it was. ‘You’re right, that’s where I must have seen it.’ When the train pulled into the next station, he hoped she wouldn’t get off. She didn’t.

‘Who’s your favourite artist?’ he ventured as the doors closed.

She didn’t respond immediately. ‘I’m not sure I have a favourite among the Abstract Expressionists, but I think Motherwell is underrated, and Rothko overrated.’

‘I’ve always admired Pollock’s Moon Woman,’ said Alex, rather desperately. The painting he’d had to stare at for half an hour while he hid behind a pillar at Lawrence’s birthday party.

‘It’s supposed to be one of his best, but I’ve only ever seen a photograph of it. Not many people have been lucky enough to see the Lowell Collection.’

The train pulled into the next station, and once again, she didn’t get off. Lawrence Lowell is a personal friend of mine, so if you’d like to see his collection... he wanted to say, but he was afraid she’d think she was sitting next to a lunatic.

‘Do you work in the art world?’ he ventured.

‘Yes, I’m a very junior assistant in a West Side gallery,’ she said, closing her magazine.

‘That must be fun.’

‘It is.’ She put the magazine back in her briefcase, and stood up as the train pulled into the next station.

He leapt up. ‘My name’s Alex.’

‘Anna. It was nice to meet you, Alex.’

He stood there like a statue as she got off the train. He waved as she walked down the platform, but she didn’t look back.

‘Damn, damn, damn,’ he said as the doors closed and she disappeared from sight. He’d have to get off at the next stop, turn round and go back to 51st Street. It would be the first time he’d missed a lecture.

‘Paolo, I need some advice.’

‘If it’s about how to run a pizza joint, there’s not much more I can teach you.’

‘No, I have a woman problem. I only met her once, and then I lost her.’

‘You’re way ahead of me, kid. Better you start at the beginning.’

‘I met her on the subway. Well, met would be an exaggeration, because my attempt to open a conversation with her was pathetic. And just as I got going, she left me standing there. All I can tell you is her first name, and that she’s an assistant in an art gallery on the West Side.’

‘OK, let’s start with the station where you first saw her.’

‘51st Street.’

‘Expensive shops, lots of galleries. Let’s try and narrow down the field. Do you know which period the gallery specializes in?’

‘Abstract Expressionism, I think. At least that’s what it said on the cover of her magazine.’

‘There must be at least a dozen galleries that specialize in that period. What else can you tell me about her?’

‘She’s beautiful, intelligent...’

‘Age?’

‘Early twenties.’

‘Build?’

‘Slim, elegant, classy.’

‘Then what makes you think she’d have any interest in you?’

‘I agree. But if there was the slightest chance, I—’

‘You’re a much better catch than you realize,’ said Paolo. ‘You’re bright, charming, well educated, and I suppose some women might even find you good-looking.’

‘So what should I do next?’ Alex asked, ignoring the sarcasm.

‘First, you have to realize that the art world is a small community, especially at the top end. I suggest you visit the Marlborough on 57th Street, and talk to an assistant who’s about the same age. There’s a chance they’ll know each other, or at least have met at some opening.’

‘How come you know so much about art?’

‘The Italians,’ said Paolo, ‘know about art, food, opera, cars and women, because we have the best examples of all five.’

‘If you say so,’ said Alex. ‘I’ll start first thing tomorrow morning.’

‘Not first thing, that would be a waste of time. Art galleries don’t usually open before ten. The sort of clients who can afford to pay half a million dollars for a picture aren’t early risers like you and me. And another thing, if you turn up looking like that, they’ll think you’ve come to collect the trash. You’ll have to dress and sound like a prospective customer if you want them to take you seriously.’

‘Where did you learn all this?’

‘My father is a doorman at the Plaza, my mother works in Bloomingdale’s, so I was educated at the university of life. And one more thing. If you really want to impress her, perhaps you should...’

Alex was up, dressed and bargaining in the vegetable market by four-thirty the following morning. Once he’d delivered his purchases to the restaurant, he returned home and had breakfast with his mother.

He didn’t tell her what he had planned for the rest of the morning, and waited for her to leave for work before he took a second shower and selected a dark grey, single-breasted suit, white shirt and a tie his mother had given him for Christmas. He then carefully took the Warhol down from the wall and wrapped it in some brown paper before placing it in a carrier bag.

He took a taxi into Manhattan, a necessary expense as he couldn’t risk carrying such a valuable painting on the subway, and asked the driver to take him to West 57th Street.

When he arrived at the Marlborough Gallery, the lights were just being switched on. He studied the painting displayed in the window, which was by an artist called Hockney. When a young woman sat down behind the desk, he took a deep breath and strolled in.

Don’t be in a hurry, Paolo had told him. The rich are never in a hurry to part with their money. He walked slowly around the gallery, admiring the paintings. It was like being back in Lawrence’s home.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ He turned to find the assistant standing by his side.

‘No, thank you. I was just looking.’

‘Of course. Do let me know if I can help you with anything.’

Alex fell in love for a second time, not with the assistant, but with a dozen women he wished he could take home and hang on his bedroom wall. After being mesmerized by a small canvas by Renoir, he remembered that he had originally come in for a reason. He walked across to the assistant’s desk.

‘I recently met a girl called Anna who works at a gallery on the West Side that specializes in Abstract Expressionism, and I wondered if you’d come across her?’

The young woman smiled and shook her head. ‘I only began working here a week ago. Sorry.’

Alex thanked her, but didn’t leave the gallery until he’d taken another look at the Renoir. He didn’t waste his or her time asking the price. He knew he couldn’t afford her.

He moved on to a second gallery, and then a third, and spent the rest of the morning fruitlessly entering a dozen other establishments, and asking a dozen other young assistants the same question, but with the same result. When the bells of St Patrick’s Cathedral rang out once, he decided to take a break for lunch before continuing his quest. He spotted a small queue waiting outside a sandwich bar, and headed towards it, still clutching his Warhol. And then he saw her through a restaurant window.

She was sitting in a corner booth, chatting to a handsome man who looked as if he knew her well. His heart sank when the man leant across the table and took her hand. Alex retreated to a nearby bench, where he sat despondently, no longer feeling hungry. He was just about to go home, when they came out of the restaurant together. The man leant over to kiss her, but Anna turned away, not smiling. Then she walked off and left him standing there without another word.

Alex jumped up from the bench and began to follow her along Lexington, keeping his distance until she disappeared into an elegant art gallery. As he walked past N. Rosenthal & Co. he looked inside and saw her taking a seat behind a desk. He waited for a few moments before turning back. He then sauntered into the gallery without even glancing in her direction. A customer was speaking to her, and he pretended to be interested in one of the paintings. Eventually the chatty woman left, and Alex walked across to the desk. Anna looked up and smiled.

‘Can I help you, sir?’

‘I hope so.’ He took the Warhol out of the carrier bag, removed the wrapping and placed it on the desk. Anna took a careful look at the painting, and then at Alex. A flicker of recognition crossed her face.

‘I was hoping you might be able to value this picture for me.’

She studied it once again before asking, ‘Is it yours?’

‘No, it belongs to a friend of mine. He asked me to get it valued.’

She took a second look at him before saying, ‘I don’t have enough experience to give you a realistic valuation, but if you’d allow me to show the painting to Mr Rosenthal, I’m sure he could help.’

‘Of course.’

Anna picked up the painting, walked to the far end of the gallery and disappeared into another room. Alex was admiring a Lee Krasner called The Eye is the First Circle, when a distinguished-looking grey-haired gentleman wearing a double-breasted dark blue suit, pink shirt and red polka-dot bow tie emerged from his office carrying the painting. He placed it back on Anna’s desk.

‘You asked my assistant if I could value this picture for you?’ he said, looking closely at Alex. The words ‘slow’ and ‘measured’ came to mind. This was not a man in a hurry. ‘I’m afraid I have to tell you, sir, that it’s a copy. The original is owned by a Mr Lawrence Lowell of Boston, and is part of the Lowell Collection.’

I’m well aware of that, Alex wanted to tell him. ‘What makes you think it’s a copy?’ he asked.

‘It’s not the painting itself,’ said Rosenthal, ‘which I confess had me fooled for a moment. It was the canvas that gave it away.’ He turned the painting over and said, ‘Warhol couldn’t have afforded such an expensive canvas in his early days, besides which, it’s the wrong size.’

‘Are you certain?’ asked Alex, suddenly feeling first angry and then sick.

‘Oh yes. The canvas is an inch wider than the original one in the Lowell Collection.’

‘So it’s a fake?’

‘No, sir. A fake is when someone attempts to deceive the art world by claiming to have come across an original work that is not recorded in the artist’s catalogue raisonné. This,’ he said, ‘is a copy, albeit a damned fine copy.’

‘May I ask what it would have been worth had it been the original?’ Alex asked tentatively.

‘A million, possibly a million and a half,’ said Rosenthal. ‘Its provenance is impeccable. I believe Mr Lowell’s grandfather bought it directly from the artist in the early sixties, when he couldn’t even pay his rent.’

‘Thank you,’ said Alex, having quite forgotten why he’d originally come into the gallery.

‘If you’ll excuse me,’ said Rosenthal. ‘I ought to get back to my office.’

‘Yes, of course. Thank you.’

Rosenthal left them, and after a moment Alex realized Anna was staring at him. ‘We met on the subway, didn’t we?’ she said.

‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘Why didn’t you say something when I first showed you the painting?’

‘Because for a moment I wondered if you were an art thief.’

‘Nothing quite so glamorous,’ said Alex. ‘During the day I work at Lombardi’s, and spend most evenings at business school.’

‘Lombardi’s margheritas were my staple diet before I graduated.’

‘My mother cooks a mean calzone,’ said Alex, ‘if you’d like to give it a try.’

‘I would,’ said Anna. ‘Then you can tell me how you came into possession of such a fine copy of a Blue Jackie Kennedy.’

‘It was just an excuse to see you again.’

29 Alex

Brooklyn

‘Now tell me,’ said Anna, ‘did you follow me onto that train?’

‘Yes, I did,’ admitted Alex, ‘even though it was going in the wrong direction.’

She laughed. ‘How romantic. So what did you do when I got off?’

‘Travelled on to the next station, and as I was too late for my evening class, went home.’

A waiter came across and handed them both a menu.

‘What do you recommend?’ Anna asked. ‘After all, you own the joint.’

‘My favourite is the pizza capricciosa, but you choose, because they’re so big we can share.’

‘Then let’s order one. But you’re not off the hook, Alex. So after your lamentable failure at trying to pick me up, you decided like Antony to come in search of me.’

‘I spent the morning checking out half the galleries in Manhattan. Then by chance I spotted you having lunch in an expensive restaurant with a handsome older man.’

‘Not that much older,’ said Anna, teasing him. ‘Then you followed me to the gallery with the excuse that you wanted your painting valued, when surely you must have known it was a copy.’

Alex said nothing as the waiter placed a large pizza between them in the centre of the table.

‘Wow, it looks great.’

‘My mother will have cooked this one herself,’ said Alex, cutting off a slice and putting it on Anna’s plate. ‘I should warn you, she won’t be able to resist coming over to meet you. So you’ll have to tell her it’s simply the best.’

‘But it is,’ said Anna after taking a bite. ‘In fact I think I’ll bring my boyfriend here.’ Alex couldn’t hide his disappointment, but then Anna grinned. ‘Ex-boyfriend. You saw him at the restaurant.’ Alex wanted to learn more about him, but Anna changed the subject. ‘Alex, it was obvious when Mr Rosenthal told you your painting was a copy, that you were surprised. So I’m curious to know how it came into your possession.’

Alex took his time telling her the whole story — well, almost the whole story — glad to at last have someone to share his secret with. By the time he’d come to their meeting in the gallery, Anna had almost finished her half of the pizza, while his remained untouched.

‘And why would your friend give you half a million for a painting that can’t be worth more than a few hundred dollars?’

‘Because he doesn’t know it’s a copy. Now I’ll have to tell him the truth, and what makes it worse, I can’t see Evelyn returning one cent of my money.’

Anna leant across the table, touched his hand and said, ‘I’m so sorry, Alex. Does this mean you won’t be able to open the second Elena’s?’

‘Very few entrepreneurs don’t have setbacks along the way,’ said Alex. ‘According to Galbraith, the wise ones chalk it up on the blackboard of experience and move on.’

‘Is it possible that your friend Lawrence was in on the scam, and deliberately placed you next to his sister at his party?’

‘No,’ Alex said firmly. ‘I’ve never known a more decent, honest man in my life.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Anna, ‘that was rude of me. I don’t even know your friend. But I must confess, I’d love to see the Lowell Collection.’

‘That would be easy enough,’ said Alex, ‘if you could...’

‘You must be Anna,’ said a voice. Alex looked up to see his mother standing over them.

‘You have a gift for timing, Mother, that the Marx Brothers would be proud of.’

‘And he never stops talking about you,’ said Elena, ignoring him.

‘Mother, now you’re embarrassing me.’

‘I’m so glad he eventually found you. But wasn’t he stupid not to have followed you off the train in the first place?’

‘Mother!’

Anna burst out laughing.

‘How was the pizza?’ Elena asked.

‘Simply the best,’ said Anna.

‘I told her to say that,’ said Alex.

‘Yes, he did,’ admitted Anna, leaning across the table and taking his hand. ‘But he needn’t have bothered, because it is the best.’

‘Then can we hope to see you again?’

‘Mother, you’re worse than Mrs Bennet.’

‘And why have you eaten hardly anything?’ she asked, as if he was still a schoolboy.

‘Mother, go away.’

‘Has Alex told you about his plans for a second restaurant?’

‘Yes, he has.’ Alex was uncomfortably aware that he hadn’t told his mother the whole story. ‘It sounds very exciting, Mrs Karpenko.’

‘Elena, please,’ she said as Alex stood up, clutching his knife. ‘Well, I’d better get back to the kitchen, or the boss might sack me,’ she added, smiling at them. ‘But I hope I’ll see you again, then I can tell you how Alex won the Silver Star.’

Alex raised the knife above his head, but she had already scurried away. ‘I apologize, she’s not normally so—’

‘There’s nothing to apologize for, Alex. She’s just like her pizzas, simply the best. But do tell me how you won the Silver Star,’ she said, suddenly serious.

‘The truth is, it should have been awarded to the Tank, not me.’

‘The Tank?’

Alex told her everything that had happened when his unit had come across the Vietcong patrol on Bacon Hill. How the Tank had not only saved Lawrence’s life, but his as well.

‘I would love to have met him,’ said Anna quietly.

‘I don’t suppose you’d consider...’

‘Consider what?’

‘Coming to Virginia with me? I’ve wanted to visit his grave for so long, and—’

‘What girl could refuse such an offer?’ Alex looked embarrassed. ‘Of course I’ll come with you.’ She burst out laughing. ‘Why don’t we go on Sunday?’

‘Lawrence has just arrived back from Europe, so I’ll have to go and see him in Boston this weekend, and tell him what Mr Rosenthal had to say about the Warhol. But I’m free the following weekend.’

‘Then it’s a date.’

Alex stepped off the train in Boston carrying an overnight case and a large carrier bag. He hailed a yellow cab and gave the driver Lawrence’s address.

As each mile passed, Alex became more and more anxious. He knew he had no choice but to tell his friend the truth.

Lawrence was standing on the top step waiting to greet his guest as the taxi drove up the long driveway and came to a halt outside the house.

‘I see you’ve brought the picture back,’ he said as they shook hands. ‘Let’s go to my study, complete the exchange, and then we can relax for the rest of the weekend.’

Alex said nothing as he followed him across the hall. When he walked into Lawrence’s study, he remained speechless.

Almost every inch of the oak-panelled walls was filled with paintings and photographs of his family and friends. Alex’s eyes settled on Nelson Rockefeller, which made Lawrence grin as he took his place behind the desk and ushered Alex into the seat opposite him.

When he unwrapped the painting, a large smile appeared on Lawrence’s face. ‘Welcome home, Jackie,’ he said, and immediately pulled open a drawer in his desk and extracted a chequebook.

‘You won’t be needing that,’ said Alex.

‘Why not? We made a deal.’

‘Because it isn’t a Warhol. It’s a copy.’

‘A copy?’ Lawrence repeated in disbelief as he took a closer look at the painting.

‘I’m afraid so. And that’s not my view, but the opinion of no less an authority than Nathanial Rosenthal.’

Lawrence remained calm, but said almost to himself, ‘How did she manage it?’

‘I don’t know, but I can guess,’ said Alex.

Lawrence looked at the picture. ‘Once again she must have known all along.’ He opened his chequebook, took the top off his pen and wrote out the figure $500,000.

‘There’s no way I’m ever going to cash your cheque,’ said Alex. ‘So you needn’t bother signing it.’

‘You must,’ said Lawrence. ‘It’s clear that my sister’s deceived both of us.’

‘But you didn’t know,’ said Alex, ‘and that’s all that matters.’

‘But without the money you won’t be able to open Elena 2.’

‘Then it will have to wait. Anyway, I learnt more in one weekend with your sister than I’ve done in a year at business school.’

‘Perhaps we should consider an alternative plan,’ Lawrence suggested.

‘What do you have in mind?’

‘In exchange for my five hundred thousand, I get a ten per cent stake in your company. The one that’s going to end up bigger than my godfather’s.’

‘Fifty per cent would be fairer.’

‘Then let’s compromise. I’ll take fifty per cent of your burgeoning empire, but the moment you return my half a million, it will fall to ten per cent.’

‘Twenty-five per cent,’ said Alex.

‘That’s more than generous of you,’ said Lawrence as he signed the cheque.

‘It’s over-generous of you,’ said Alex. When Lawrence handed him the cheque, they shook hands for a second time.

‘Now I understand,’ said Lawrence as he placed his chequebook back in the drawer, ‘why Todd Halliday slipped away so soon after dinner on my birthday. Originally he was meant to be staying overnight.’

‘The Empress Catherine herself would have been proud of your sister,’ said Alex. ‘She knew the only way I was going to see the Warhol was if I spent the night with her.’

‘Five hundred thousand,’ said Lawrence. ‘An expensive one-night stand. However, I’ve already been working on a plan to make sure she pays back every penny. Let’s have supper.’

Lawrence waited until Alex had checked over the questions a second time. He only added the words insurance company? before he handed the crib sheet back. Lawrence nodded, took a deep breath, picked up the phone and dialled an overseas number.

He once again studied the list as he waited for one of them to answer the phone. He had chosen his time carefully: 12 noon in Boston, 6 p.m. in Nice. They should be back from lunch at La Colombe d’Or, but not yet have left for the casino in Monte Carlo.

‘Hello?’ said a familiar voice.

‘Hi, Eve, it’s me. Thought I’d bring you up to date on the Warhol.’

‘Have the police found it?’

‘Yes, it was hanging above the mantelpiece in Karpenko’s apartment in Brighton Beach. They could hardly miss it.’

‘So is it now safely back in the Jefferson room?’

‘I’m afraid not. The Boston police department decided to have the picture valued before they pressed charges, and, here’s the surprise, it turns out to be a copy.’

‘Why are you surprised?’ asked Evelyn, a little too quickly.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Lawrence innocently.

‘He obviously substituted a copy for the real thing. My bet is the original will have been smuggled out of the country. It’s probably somewhere in Russia by now.’

Somewhere in the south of France is more likely, thought Lawrence. ‘The insurance company agree with you, Eve,’ said Lawrence, checking his list, ‘and they wondered when you’d be back in Boston, as you were the last person to see Karpenko before he left for New York.’

‘I wasn’t planning on returning for some months,’ said Evelyn. ‘I assume the police have arrested your friend Karpenko.’

‘They did, but he’s out on bail. He claims he gave you a cheque for five hundred thousand dollars to invest with Todd in a start-up company, and you offered him the picture as security.’

‘The exact opposite is true,’ said Evelyn. ‘He begged me to invest some money in his pizza company, and I refused and sent him packing.’

‘But he’s produced the cheque,’ said Lawrence. ‘So it would be helpful if you could come and tell the police your version of the story.’

‘My version of the story?’ said Evelyn, her voice rising. ‘Whose side are you on, Lawrence?’

‘Yours of course, Eve, but the police are refusing to press charges until they’ve interviewed you.’

‘Then they’ll have to wait, won’t they?’ said Evelyn, slamming down the phone.

Lawrence replaced the receiver, turned to Alex, and said, ‘I have a feeling she won’t be returning for some time,’ a broad smile appearing on his face.

‘But you’ve lost your Warhol,’ said Alex.

‘I confess I’ll miss Jackie,’ said Lawrence, ‘but not Evelyn.’

‘I only heard one side of the conversation,’ said Todd Halliday, handing his wife a glass of whisky after she’d slammed the phone down. ‘Am I right in thinking that Lawrence now realizes the Warhol’s a copy, and Karpenko’s produced the cheque?’

‘Yes,’ said Evelyn, emptying the glass. ‘I forgot that cheques were returned to the issuing bank.’

‘But it was made out to cash, so they won’t be able to trace it back to you.’

‘True, but if Lawrence were ever to discover—’

‘If he does,’ said Todd, ‘we’ll just have to revert to plan B.’

When Alex returned to New York, he had to explain to his mother why he’d come back with a cheque for $500,000, even though he’d told Lawrence the Warhol was a copy. He was surprised by her only question.

‘Have you asked Anna to marry you yet?’

‘Mama, I’ve only known her for a week.’

‘Your father proposed to me twelve days after we met.’

‘Then I’ve still got another five days,’ said Alex, smiling.

Alex stepped off the train at 14th Street just after midday, and headed straight for Lombardi’s. He took a seat, but didn’t order anything. When the manager appeared he handed him the contract. Paolo sat down and took his time checking over every clause. There were no surprises. Everything Alex had promised had been included, so he happily signed on the dotted line.

‘Welcome on board, partner,’ said Alex as they shook hands. ‘You’ll be managing Elena 1, while I concentrate on getting Elena 2 up and running.’

‘I’m looking forward to working with you,’ said Paolo.

‘See you at five to eight on Monday morning, because it’s high time you met my mother. Mind you, it’s probably a good thing you didn’t before you signed the contract. I’ve got to run. I’m having lunch with someone I can’t afford to be late for.’

‘So you found her?’

‘Sure did.’

Alex arrived at Le Bernardin only moments before Anna appeared.

‘How did Boston go?’ was her first question after they placed their orders.

‘It couldn’t have gone better,’ he said, and explained why he would still be opening Elena 2 on time.

‘What a remarkable friend you have in Lawrence,’ said Anna. ‘So where’s the Warhol?’

‘The real one, or the copy?’

‘The copy to start with.’

‘Back in the Jefferson room.’

‘And the original?’

‘Lawrence thinks it’s probably in the south of France. Which is another reason Evelyn won’t be coming back to Boston in a hurry.’

‘Don’t count on it,’ said Anna. ‘The man you’ve described would never allow his sister to go to jail.’

‘You know that, and I know that, but can Evelyn risk it? Anyway, what did you get up to while I was away?’

‘I had lunch at Lombardi’s.’

‘Traitor.’

‘And although your mother cooks a far superior pizza, their menus are in a different class,’ she said as their food was served.

‘I’ve never noticed.’

‘Don’t forget, the customer sees the menu long before they see their food. As design was part of my degree course, I thought I could come up with something a little more enticing for Elena’s.’ She took half a dozen sheets of paper out of her carrier bag and placed them on the table.

Alex studied the different designs for some time before he said, ‘Wow, I see what you mean.’

‘They’re only preliminary sketches,’ said Anna. ‘I’ll have a more polished version by the time we go to Virginia.’

‘I can’t wait,’ said Alex, as the waiter whisked their empty plates away.

‘But you’ll have to,’ said Anna, checking her watch. ‘Must dash. Mr Rosenthal will raise his cultured eyebrow if I’m a minute late.’

While Anna returned to the gallery, Alex took the subway to Brighton Beach and dropped in to Elena’s to let his mother know Paolo would be joining them on Monday.

‘And Anna?’ said Elena.

‘She’s fine,’ said Alex, who quickly left for his other world, before she could remind him he only had three days left to beat his father’s record.

He was sitting in the front row of the lecture theatre at Columbia only moments before Professor Donovan made his entrance.

‘This evening, we will consider the significance of the Marshall Plan,’ said Donovan, ‘and the role President Truman played in assisting the Europeans to get back on their feet after the Second World War. The financial instability facing Europe in 1945 was such that...’

By the time Alex got home just after ten, he was exhausted. He found his mother in the kitchen chatting to Dimitri, who’d just arrived back from Leningrad.

Alex collapsed into the nearest chair.

‘Dimitri tells me that your Uncle Kolya has just been made convener of the dockers’ union,’ said Elena. ‘Isn’t that wonderful news?’

Alex didn’t comment. He was sound asleep and quietly snoring.

30 Alex

Boston

‘I’d love to hear more about your life in the Soviet Union, and how you ended up coming to America,’ said Anna, as the train pulled out of Penn station.

‘The sanitized version, or do you want all the gory details?’

‘The truth.’

Alex began with the death of his father, and everything that had happened to him between then and the day he met her on the subway on 51st Street. He only left out the real reason he’d nearly killed Major Polyakov, and the fact that Dimitri worked for the CIA. When he came to the end, Anna’s first question took him by surprise.

‘Do you think it’s possible your school friend might have been responsible for your father’s death?’

‘I’ve thought about that many times,’ admitted Alex. ‘I’ve no doubt Vladimir was capable of such an act of treachery, and I only hope for his sake we never meet again.’

‘How different it might have been, if you and your mother had climbed into the other crate.’

‘I wouldn’t have met you, for a start,’ said Alex as he took her hand. ‘So now you’ve heard my life story, it’s your turn.’

‘I was born in a prison camp in Siberia. I never knew my father, and my mother died before I could even—’

‘Good try,’ said Alex, placing an arm around her shoulder. She turned and kissed him for the first time. It took him a few moments to recover, before he murmured, ‘Now tell me the real story.’

‘I didn’t escape from Siberia, but from South Dakota, when I was offered a place at Georgetown. I’d always wanted to go to art school, but I wasn’t quite good enough, so I settled for art history, and ended up being offered a job at Rosenthal’s.’

‘You must have done well at Georgetown,’ said Alex, ‘because Mr Rosenthal didn’t strike me as someone who suffers fools gladly.’

‘He’s very demanding,’ said Anna, ‘but quite brilliant. He’s not only a scholar but a shrewd dealer, which is why he’s so highly respected in the profession. I’m learning so much more from him than I did at university. Now I’ve met your indefatigable mother, tell me something about your father.’

‘He was the most remarkable man I’ve ever known. Had he lived, I’ve no doubt he would have been the first president of an independent Russia.’

‘Whereas his son will end up as president of a pizza company in Brooklyn,’ she teased.

‘Not if my mother has anything to do with it. She’d like me to be a professor, a lawyer or a doctor. Anything but a businessman. But I still have no idea what I’m going to do after I leave business school. I have to admit, though, that you and Lawrence have changed my life.’

‘How?’

‘While I was searching for you, I dropped into several other galleries. It was like discovering a new world where I kept meeting so many beautiful women. I’m hoping that when we get back to New York, you might introduce me to even more.’

‘Then we’ll have to start at MoMA, move on to the Frick, and if the love affair continues, I’ll introduce you to several reclining women at the Metropolitan. And to think I thought it was me you’d fallen for.’

‘Anna, I fell for you the moment I saw you. If you’d only turned around after you got off that train and given me even the hint of a smile, I would have battered the doors down and chased after you.’

‘My mother taught me never to look back.’

‘Your mother sounds as bad as mine, but can she cook a calzone?’

‘Not a hope. She’s a schoolteacher. Second grade.’

‘And your father?’

‘He’s the principal at the same school, but no one’s in any doubt who really runs the place.’

‘I can’t wait to meet them,’ said Alex as Anna rested her head on his shoulder.

Alex had never known a journey pass so quickly. They swapped stories about their upbringing, and she introduced him to Fra Angelico, Bellini and Caravaggio, while he told her about Tolstoy, Pushkin and Lermontov.

They’d only reached the seventeenth century by the time the train pulled into Union Station just after eleven-thirty. Alex didn’t speak as the taxi drove them to the National Cemetery. When he and Anna walked along the manicured lawns, passing row upon row of unadorned white gravestones, he was reminded of his conversation with Lieutenant Lowell in a dugout, and the word ‘futility’ rang in his ears. Not a day went by when he didn’t remember the Tank. Not a day went by when he didn’t thank whatever god there might be for how lucky he was to have survived.

They stopped when they reached the gravestone of Private First Class Samuel T. Burrows. Anna stood by silently as Alex wept unashamedly. Some time passed before he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, unwrapped it, knelt down, and placed the Silver Star on his friend’s grave.

Alex didn’t know how long he stood there. ‘Goodbye, old friend,’ he said, when he finally turned to leave. ‘I will return.’

Anna smiled at him so tenderly that he began to weep again.

‘Thank you, Anna,’ he said as she took him in her arms. ‘The Tank would have loved you, and you would have approved of him being my best man.’

‘If that was a proposal,’ said Anna, who couldn’t help blushing, ‘my mother would point out that we’ve only known each other for two weeks.’

‘Twelve days was enough for my father,’ said Alex, as he fell to one knee and produced a small velvet box from his pocket. He opened it to reveal his grandmother’s engagement ring.

As he placed the ring on the third finger of Anna’s left hand, she delivered a line he would remember for the rest of his life.

‘I must be the only girl who’s ever been proposed to in a cemetery.’

‘How do you like the new menus?’ asked Alex.

‘Classy, like your mother,’ said Lawrence. ‘Did she design them?’

‘No, Anna did, in her spare time.’

‘I can’t wait to meet this girl. Perhaps I should invite her up to Boston for the weekend to see my art collection.’

Alex laughed. ‘And I can tell you she’d accept, because Anna can’t wait to meet you and view the collection. So, Lawrence, as I suspect you didn’t fly down to New York just to flatter me, I can only hope you don’t want your money back, because I’ve already spent it.’

‘But are you ready for me to invest even more?’

‘Why would you do that?’

‘Because if Elena’s is going to expand, the only thing Todd was right about, you’ll need an injection of capital.’

‘And you’d be willing to supply it?’

‘You bet. It’s in my interest to do so, as I own fifty per cent of the business.’

‘Only until I pay you back.’

‘Which could take you some considerable time if you agree to my proposal.’

Alex laughed. ‘Your godfather wouldn’t approve.’

‘I can’t imagine why. One of his first investments was in McDonald’s, despite his never having eaten a hamburger in his life. But we do have a problem.’

‘And what’s that?’ said Alex, as Paolo returned with the day’s special.

‘I think I may have found the perfect site for Elena 3 in Boston, but how do we duplicate your mother?’

‘It will always be her recipes on the menu,’ said Alex. ‘And God help any chef who falls below her high standards.’

‘How do you think she’d feel about spending the first month in whichever city we choose whenever we open a new Elena’s?’

‘If she was convinced it was your idea,’ said Alex, ‘she might just go along with it.’

‘How are you enjoying today’s specials?’ asked a familiar voice.

Lawrence stood to greet Elena. ‘Superb,’ he said, two fingers touching his lips. Alex recognized the special smile his mother reserved for her favourite customers. ‘And I wondered, Elena, if you and I could have a private word later, preferably when Alex is not around?’

When Elena 3 opened its doors to the Boston public for the first time, Alex was surprised by the interest shown by the local and national press. But then, he wasn’t a politician.

Ted Kennedy, who presided over the opening ceremony, told the assembled gathering that in the past he had opened hospitals, schools, football stadiums, even an airport, but never a pizza parlour. ‘But let’s face it,’ he continued, ‘this is an election year.’ He waited for the laughter to die down before adding, ‘In any case, Elena’s is no ordinary pizza parlour. My good friend, Lawrence Lowell, your Democratic candidate for Congress, got behind this enterprise right from the start. You see he believes in Elena Karpenko and her son Alex, who escaped from the tyranny of Communism in the belief that they could build a new life in the United States. They personify the American dream.’

Alex looked around to see his mother hiding behind a fridge with Anna standing by her side. He wondered if she’d told her yet.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Kennedy, ‘it gives me great pleasure to officially declare Elena 3 open.’

Once the applause had died down, Lawrence stepped forward to thank the senator, adding, ‘Once I’ve had today’s special, the Congressman pizza — cheesy, a lot of ham with a pinch of salt — I’ll be well prepared to set out on the campaign trail.’

He waited for the cheers to subside before going on to say, ‘I also have an important announcement to make. I have invited Alex Karpenko to join my team, as a press liaison officer.’

‘But he’s never been involved in a campaign before,’ shouted one of the journalists.

‘And I hadn’t eaten a pizza before I came to America,’ Alex retorted, which was greeted with more cheers.

Once Lawrence had finished his speech, Alex looked around for Senator Kennedy, so he could thank him. But he’d already left for his next engagement, giving Alex an immediate insight into what the next twelve weeks were going to be like.

‘Do you think your brother reported the theft of the picture to the police?’ asked Todd after the butler had left the room.

‘What makes you think he didn’t?’ said Evelyn, taking a sip of wine.

‘The front page of the Globe rather suggests he didn’t,’ said Todd, as he passed the paper across to his wife.

Her eyes settled on a photo of a smiling Ted Kennedy standing between Lawrence Lowell and Alex Karpenko. ‘The bastard,’ she said as she read the report of Senator Kennedy’s speech before he opened Elena 3.

‘Perhaps it’s time for us to go back to Boston and let everyone know you’ll be voting Republican for the first time,’ said Todd.

‘That would be lucky to get a mention on page sixteen of the Herald, and wouldn’t come as a surprise to many people. No,’ said Evelyn, ‘what I have in mind for my brother will make the front page of the New York Times.’

Alex was surprised by how fascinated he became with the whole election process, and how much he enjoyed every aspect of the campaign. For the first time he understood why his father had wanted to be a trade union leader.

He liked the raw contact with the voters on the ground, in the factories, on the doorstep. He revelled in public meetings and was always happy to stand in for Lawrence when the candidate couldn’t be in two places at once.

Most of all, he enjoyed the weekly visits to the capital to be briefed by the party leaders on how the national campaign was going, and what the next policy statement would be. In fact Washington became his second home. He even began to wonder, although he didn’t mention it to Anna, if one day he might join Lawrence in Washington, as the representative for the Eighth Congressional District of New York.

The only thing he didn’t enjoy was the long periods of separation from his fiancée, and he found himself waiting impatiently for her to join him in Boston every weekend. And although the campaign seemed to go on forever, she never once complained.

They’d already set the date for the wedding — for three days after the last vote had been cast — although he hadn’t yet told his mother Anna was pregnant. Dimitri would be best man, Lawrence chief usher, and there were no prizes for guessing who would be in charge of the catering.

‘Do you have photographic proof?’ asked Evelyn.

‘A dozen or more pictures,’ said a voice on the other end of the line.

‘And his birth certificate?’

‘We had that even before we signed him up.’

‘So what happens next?’

‘You just sit back, relax, and wait for your brother to withdraw from the race.’

‘The only problem with having you on my team,’ said Lawrence, ‘is how many voters are saying you’d make a far better candidate than me. More people are turning up to hear you speak than ever attend my rallies.’

‘But the Lowell family has had a representative in Washington for over a hundred years,’ said Alex. ‘I’m just a first-generation immigrant, fresh off the boat.’

‘As are many of my supporters, which is why you’d make an ideal candidate. If you ever decide to stand for anything, from dog catcher to senator, I’d be happy to support you.’

Evelyn and Todd boarded a flight back to Nice that afternoon, as they didn’t want to be in Boston when the first editions of the papers hit the streets the next day.

‘Did you post the package to Hawksley?’ asked Todd, as he fastened his seat belt.

‘Hand delivered it to his headquarters,’ said Evelyn. ‘Couldn’t risk the mail after what they charged me for those photographs.’ She smiled as the stewardess offered her a glass of champagne.

‘What if Lawrence finds out the truth?’

‘It will be too late by then.’

‘But you must get a hundred crank calls every day,’ said Blake Hawksley. ‘Why take this one seriously?’ he asked, pointing at a dozen photographs strewn across his desk.

‘I don’t get many hand-delivered by a smartly dressed woman with a clipped Brahmin accent,’ said his campaign manager.

‘So what are you advising me to do about it?’ asked the Republican candidate.

‘Let me share the information with a good contact I have on the Boston Globe, and see what he makes of it.’

‘But the Globe always supports the Democrats.’

‘Perhaps they won’t after they’ve seen these,’ said Steiner, collecting up the photographs and placing them back in the envelope. ‘Don’t forget their first interest is selling newspapers, and this could double their circulation.’

‘When they see them, the first person they’ll call will be me. So what do I say?’

‘No comment.’

Alex read the lead story on the Globe’s front page a second time before he passed the paper to Anna. When she finished the article he asked, ‘Did you know that Lawrence was gay?’

‘Of course,’ said Anna. ‘Everyone did. Well, everyone except you, it would seem.’

‘Do you think he’ll have to step down as candidate?’ said Alex, looking at the photographs spread across the centre pages.

‘Why should he? Being gay isn’t a crime. It might even increase his majority.’

‘But having sex with a minor is a crime.’

‘It was obviously a set-up,’ said Anna. ‘A street hustler who’s fifteen, going on thirty, traps Lawrence, having no doubt been paid handsomely for the part he played. It wouldn’t even surprise me if the Republicans are behind it.’

‘Did you see what Hawksley said when the Globe called him?’ asked Alex.

‘No comment. And you should advise Lawrence to do the same.’

‘I don’t think the voters will let him get away with that. I’d better go over to Beacon Hill immediately, before he says something to the press that he’ll later regret.’ As Alex got up from the breakfast table he smiled ruefully. ‘It doesn’t help that he’s addressing the Daughters of the American Revolution at lunch today.’

‘Give him my love,’ said Anna, ‘and tell him to tough it out. He might be surprised how sympathetic people are. We don’t all live inside the Washington beltway.’

Alex took Anna in his arms and kissed her. ‘I got lucky when I stepped onto the wrong train.’

Urged on by Alex, the cab driver broke the speed limit several times in an attempt to get to Lawrence’s home before the press beat him to it. But his efforts were in vain, because by the time they reached Beacon Hill a marauding pack of journalists and photographers had already pitched their tents on the sidewalk in front of Lawrence’s townhouse, and clearly had no intention of budging until the candidate emerged from his castle and made a statement.

For the past month Alex had been trying to get even one of them to attend one of Lawrence’s rallies and give him some coverage, only to be met with, ‘Why should we bother, when the result’s a foregone conclusion?’ Now they no longer believed that was the case, they were hovering like vultures who’d spotted a wounded animal attempting to hide in the undergrowth.

‘Is Mr Lowell going to withdraw?’ shouted one of the reporters as Alex stepped out of the cab.

‘Will you be taking his place?’ Another.

‘Did you know he had sex with a minor?’ A third.

Alex said nothing as he pushed his way through the baying pack, almost blinded by the photographers’ flashbulbs. He was relieved when Caxton opened the front door even before he knocked.

‘Where is he?’ he asked as the butler closed the door behind him.

‘Mr Lowell is still in his room, sir. He hasn’t appeared since I took his breakfast up over an hour ago, along with the morning papers.’

Alex bounded up the stairs, not stopping until he reached the master bedroom. He paused for a moment to catch his breath, then knocked softly on the door. There was no reply. He knocked a second time, a little louder, but still nothing. Tentatively he turned the handle, pushed open the door and stepped inside.

Lawrence was hanging from a beam. A Harvard tie his noose.

31 Sasha

Merrifield

‘This one’s from the butcher,’ said Charlie. ‘It’s their monthly account.’

‘Pay it immediately,’ said Elena. ‘Sasha insists on paying all our suppliers by return of post; that way we’re guaranteed the finest cuts, the freshest vegetables, and bread that’s come out of the oven that morning. A week late and you get what’s left over from the day before. Two weeks late, and they palm you off with whatever they haven’t been able to pass on to their regular customers. A month late, and they’ll stop supplying you.’

‘I’ll write out a cheque now,’ said Charlie. ‘Sasha can sign it when he gets back from the constituency, and we can drop it off at the butcher’s on the way to the station tomorrow morning.’

‘It was good of you to take the day off and give me a hand with all this,’ said Elena, staring despairingly at the stack of post on the table in front of her.

‘Sasha’s only sorry he’s not here to deal with them himself, but he can’t afford to take even a couple of hours off at the moment.’

‘Does that mean he’s going to win?’ asked Elena.

‘No, it does not,’ said Charlie firmly. ‘Merrifield is a rock-solid Tory seat. Mother Teresa couldn’t hope to win it, even if she was up against the devil himself.’

‘But Sasha is up against the devil,’ said Elena.

‘Fiona’s not quite that bad.’

‘But if he can’t win,’ said Elena, as Charlie opened the next letter, ‘why is he bothering, when there’s still so much work to be done here?’

‘Because he feels he has to win his spurs and prove himself on the field of battle, if he hopes to eventually be offered a safe seat.’

‘But surely the people of Merrifield can work out that Sasha would make a better MP than Fiona Hunter?’

‘I have no doubt that Sasha would win if it was a marginal seat,’ said Charlie, ‘but it isn’t, so we’ll just have to accept he’s going to lose this one.’

‘I’m not sure I’ll ever understand English politics. In Russia, they know exactly who’s going to win, without bothering to count the votes.’

‘Just be grateful that cooking is an international language,’ said Charlie, ‘that doesn’t require translation. Now, this one,’ she said as she read the next letter, ‘is a reminder that the dishwasher in Elena Two is now three years old, and the company have recently launched a new model which has double the capacity of the old machine, and can wash everything at twice the speed.’

‘So when will the by-election take place?’ asked Elena.

‘Eleven days to go, and then we can all get back to normal.’

‘No, you can’t. Because then Sasha will be a Member of Parliament and your life will be even more hectic.’

‘Elena, how many times do I have to tell you, he can’t win,’ said Charlie, trying not to sound exasperated.

‘Never underestimate Sasha,’ said Elena under her breath, but although Charlie heard her, she didn’t respond, because she had to read the next letter a second time.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Elena when she saw the look on Charlie’s face.

Charlie threw her arms around her mother-in-law, handed the letter to her and said, ‘Congratulations! Why don’t you read it for yourself, while I go and open a bottle of champagne.’

screamed the headline on the front page of the Merrifield Gazette.

‘But I never said that,’ protested Sasha.

‘I know you didn’t,’ said Alf, ‘but that’s what the journalist assumed you meant when you told him you were disappointed that Fiona wouldn’t agree to take part in a public debate.’

‘Should I complain to the editor?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Alf. ‘That’s the best free publicity we’ve had in years, and what’s more, she’ll have to respond, which will give us another headline tomorrow.’

‘I agree,’ said Charlie. ‘Let her worry about you for a change.’

‘And I see your mother is also making the headlines,’ said Alf, turning the page.

‘She most certainly is,’ said Sasha, ‘and it’s no more than she deserves, although even I was surprised that both restaurants were awarded a Michelin star.’

‘Once this is all over,’ said Alf, ‘I intend to take the whole team up to London so they can sample your mother’s cooking.’

‘Nice idea,’ said Charlie. ‘But be warned, Alf, the only thing she’ll want to know is why her son isn’t your Member of Parliament.’

‘So what are we meant to be up to today?’ asked Sasha, champing to get back to work.

‘There are still a few villages in the constituency that you haven’t visited yet. All you have to do is walk up and down the high street, and shake hands with at least one local resident, so no one can say you didn’t even bother to visit them.’

‘Isn’t that a bit cynical?’

‘And make sure you have lunch at a local pub,’ said Alf, ignoring the comment, ‘and tell the landlord you’re thinking of buying a house in the constituency.’

‘But I’m not.’

‘And then I want you back in Roxton to canvass the council estate between five-thirty and seven-thirty, when most people will be getting home from work. But you can take a break between seven-thirty and eight o’clock.’

‘Why then?’

‘Because you’ll only lose votes if you interrupt someone while they’re watching Coronation Street.’ Sasha and Charlie burst out laughing. ‘I’m not joking,’ said Alf.

‘And after that, do I keep on canvassing?’

‘No, never knock on anyone’s door after eight. I’ve arranged for you to address another public meeting, this time at the Roxton YMCA.’

‘But only twelve people bothered to turn up to the last one. And that included you, Charlie, and Mrs Campion’s dog.’

‘I know,’ said Alf, ‘but that’s still five more than the last candidate managed. And at least when you sat down, the dog was wagging its tail.’

Sasha was surprised by the warm welcome he received on the doorsteps and in the streets during the last week of the campaign. Several people commented on the fact that Fiona had refused Sasha’s challenge to a public debate on the grounds that she couldn’t agree on a date with all the candidates, which produced another favourable headline: ‘ANYTIME SUITS ME SAYS LABOUR CANDIDATE’.

‘You’ll know you’ve made it,’ said Alf, ‘when they replace the words “Labour candidate” with your name.’

‘Especially if they get the spelling right,’ said Mrs Campion.

Alf nodded towards Charlie, who was chatting to a young man outside the local Jobcentre. ‘And what’s more,’ said Alf, ‘if your wife was the candidate and your mother agreed to open a restaurant in Merrifield, we’d have a far better chance.’

During the last few days before the vote, Sasha didn’t even bother to go home, but slept in Alf’s spare room, so he was always up in time to greet the morning commuters.

Polling day was one long blur as Sasha rushed around the constituency, knocking on doors that had a tick on the party’s internal canvass returns, to remind their supporters to vote. He even drove some of the elderly, lame and lazy to the nearest polling station, although he wasn’t sure that all of them actually voted for him.

When the polls closed at ten o’clock on Thursday evening, Alf told him, ‘You couldn’t have done more. In fact I’d say you’re the best candidate we’ve ever had.’

‘Thank you,’ replied Sasha, then whispered to Charlie, ‘It was a one-horse race.’

After half a pint of bitter and a shared packet of crisps in the Roxton Arms, Alf suggested they make their way across to the town hall, where the count was already under way.

When Alf, Sasha and Charlie entered the main room, they were greeted by rows and rows of long tables, where volunteers were placing ballot papers into separate piles, while others were counting them, first in tens then in hundreds and finally thousands.

They spent the next couple of hours walking around the room, discreetly checking the piles. Alf told Sasha more than once that he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. When the town clerk, as returning officer, announced the result just after 3 a.m., a gasp went up from the Conservative ranks, while the Labour Party workers began applauding and slapping Sasha on the back.

Alf wrote down the figures on the back of a cigarette packet and stared at them in disbelief.

‘I therefore declare that Fiona Hunter has been duly elected as the Member of Parliament for the constituency of Merrifield,’ announced the town clerk.

Fiona stepped up to the microphone to make her acceptance speech. She began by thanking her party workers and went on to say how much she was looking forward to representing the citizens of Merrifield in the House of Commons, but never once mentioned the names of her opponents. When she stepped aside to allow Sasha to take her place, she received less than enthusiastic applause.

Sasha followed and accepted defeat graciously, congratulating his opponent on her well-run campaign, and wishing her success as Member of Parliament. Once all five candidates had delivered their speeches, Sasha left the stage to rejoin his team, who were celebrating as if they’d won by a landslide.

‘You’ve cut their majority from 12,214 to less than 3,000,’ said Alf. ‘That will look very good on your CV, and God help whoever follows you as our candidate at the general election.’

‘Won’t you want me to stand again?’ asked Sasha.

‘No, we won’t expect you to do that,’ said Alf. ‘Not least because I have a feeling you’ll be offered several winnable seats before then, possibly even a safe Labour one.’

‘I’ve loved every moment of these last three weeks,’ said Sasha.

‘Well, you don’t have to be bonkers to be the Labour candidate in a seat like Merrifield,’ said Alf, ‘but it certainly helps. My final responsibility as chairman is to make sure you catch the last train back to Victoria.’

‘I think you’ll find it’s the first train to Victoria,’ said Charlie.

As they walked onto the platform for the last time, Alf kissed Charlie on both cheeks, then shook hands warmly with Sasha.

‘You were a fine candidate, sir,’ he said. ‘I hope I live long enough to see you take your seat at the Cabinet table.’

The four of them met once a quarter. It wasn’t formal enough to be described as a board meeting, or casual enough to be thought of as a family get-together. The meeting always took place around a table in the alcove of Elena One at four o’clock on a Monday afternoon. Late enough for all the lunch guests to have departed, and early enough to be finished before the first dinner booking arrived.

Sasha always chaired the meeting, while Charlie acted as secretary, preparing the agenda and taking the minutes. Elena, as head chef, and the countess as a fifty per cent shareholder, made up the quartet.

As they all saw each other regularly, it was rare for anything on the agenda to take them by surprise. A barman had stolen one bottle of whisky too many and finally had to be sacked. Elena reluctantly had to change her baker when too many customers rejected the contents of the bread baskets. She had once told Catering Monthly that you can produce an award-winning meal only for it to be ruined by a stale bread roll or a lukewarm cup of coffee.

Any other business, the last item on the agenda, usually consisted of agreeing on a date for the next meeting. But not today.

‘I picked up a piece of information yesterday,’ said Sasha, ‘that I thought I ought to share with you.’ The other three became unusually attentive. ‘Luini’s are about to announce that they’ll be closing their doors after forty-seven years. It seems young Tony Luini isn’t a chip off the old block, and since his father’s death, they’ve been steadily losing customers. So the family are putting the restaurant up for sale. Tony approached me and asked if we might be interested.’

‘What exactly is he selling?’ asked Elena. ‘Because there’ll be little or no goodwill.’

‘A fourteen-year lease with an option to renew.’

‘Rent and rates?’ asked Charlie.

‘The rent is £32,000 per year, payable to the Grosvenor Estate, and the rates are around £20,000.’

‘How far away is it from Elena One and Two?’ asked the countess, ever practical.

‘Just over a mile,’ said Sasha. ‘About ten minutes in a taxi.’

‘If it’s not raining,’ said Charlie.

‘My father,’ said the countess, ‘used to say never spread your assets too thin. And as we only have one irreplaceable asset, I think Elena’s opinion is the one that matters. Especially if you were thinking of naming the restaurant Elena Three.’

‘Agreed,’ said Charlie. ‘And there’s another factor we should take into consideration. If Sasha were to become an MP at the next election, he’ll find it hard to keep an eye on two restaurants, let alone three.’

‘Especially if I were selected for a northern seat,’ said Sasha. ‘I’d have to spend half my life in a train or car. I’ve just been invited to attend an interview for Wandsworth Central, but it’s such a safe Labour seat I’ll be lucky to get shortlisted.’

‘May I suggest,’ said the countess, ‘that we all have lunch at Luini’s during the week, and then Elena can let us know if the idea is worth pursuing. Because without her particular brand of magic, we would be wasting our time.’

‘Agreed,’ said Sasha. ‘And on that note, I declare the meeting closed.’

The two of them walked down the town hall steps, holding hands.

‘Just smile,’ said Sasha. ‘Don’t say anything until we’re in the car.’

He opened the car door and waited for Charlie to get in.

‘You haven’t done that for a while,’ teased Charlie, as he climbed into the driver’s seat.

Sasha waved to Bill Samuel, the local party chairman, before he put the car into first gear. He didn’t speak until he’d eased away from the pavement and joined the early evening traffic.

‘Well, how do you think it went?’ he asked as they headed towards the river.

‘You couldn’t have done much better,’ said Charlie. ‘I’m confident you’ll be their candidate by this time next week.’

‘A week’s a long time in politics, as Harold Wilson once reminded us,’ said Sasha. ‘So I’m not going to take anything for granted.’

‘They all but selected you tonight,’ said Charlie.

‘How can you possibly know that?’

‘The chairman’s wife, Jackie, told me you got 149 votes, and the other two shortlisted candidates got 151 between them. If you’d only got two more votes, she said they would have selected you this evening. So by this time next week!’

‘One of the safest seats in the country,’ said Sasha. ‘Less than twenty minutes from the House of Commons and only fifteen from our home in Fulham. What more could a man ask for?’

‘I’m pregnant,’ said Charlie.

Sasha slammed on the brakes. There was a cacophony of angry horns coming from behind him, but he ignored them, as he took Charlie in his arms and said, ‘That’s wonderful news, darling. But we must make sure the committee know before they meet next week. Perhaps you should give your new friend Jackie Samuel a call.’

‘I must confess that wasn’t quite the reaction I was expecting,’ said Charlie.

‘Congratulations, darling,’ said Elena when she heard the news.

‘Thank you,’ said Sasha. ‘But they haven’t actually selected me yet.’

‘Not you, idiot. I was congratulating Charlie. What are you hoping for, a girl or a boy?’

‘A girl of course,’ said Sasha. ‘After all, there hasn’t been one in the Karpenko family for four generations.’

‘I don’t care,’ said Charlie, ‘as long as he or she doesn’t want to be a politician.’

‘But she could end up being Labour’s first woman prime minister,’ said Sasha.

‘It’s not natural for a woman to be prime minister,’ said Elena.

‘Don’t let Fiona Hunter hear you saying that,’ said Sasha, ‘unless you want to be banished to the Tower.’

‘If that woman ever became prime minister, I’d seriously consider returning to Russia,’ said Elena. ‘Meanwhile, some of us ought to be getting back to work, especially if we’re going to have a Member of Parliament in the family. I’m told they’re not very well paid.’

‘And they don’t get any tips, either,’ said Charlie.

‘Other than everyone telling them how to govern the country,’ said Sasha as he ran a finger down the evening bookings, coming to a halt when he noticed a familiar name.

‘I didn’t know Alf Rycroft was booked in for tonight.’

‘Yes,’ said Elena. ‘He rang this morning, said he hoped both of you would be able to join him for dinner, as there’s something important he needs to discuss with you.’

‘He’s probably hoping you’ll agree to contest Merrifield again at the general election,’ said Charlie. ‘But of course he doesn’t know that you’re about to be selected for a safe seat.’

‘He’ll be delighted when he hears the news,’ said Elena, ‘and so proud that his protégé will soon be a Member of Parliament. How’s that Hunter woman getting on?’

‘Rather well, actually,’ said Sasha. ‘After only a couple of years of sitting on the green benches, she’s already been appointed as Parliamentary Private Secretary to the Shadow Minister for Rural Affairs.’

‘How important is that?’ asked Charlie.

‘It’s the first step on the ladder for MPs who are thought to have a promising career ahead of them.’

‘It will be interesting to see which one of you gets into the Cabinet first,’ said Elena.

‘Don’t let’s get ahead of ourselves,’ said Charlie.

‘Agreed,’ said Sasha. ‘I’ve still got to make sure I’m selected for Wandsworth Central, and as I’ll have to prepare a completely new speech for the final round you won’t be seeing much of me before next Thursday. By the way, Mother, have you given any more thought to whether you want to run a third restaurant?’

‘Yes, I have,’ said Elena, before disappearing into the kitchen.

Sasha opened a bottle of champagne and poured Charlie and himself a glass. ‘I’ll have to pick the right moment,’ he said. ‘Preferably before Alf even has a chance to raise the subject of Merrifield.’

‘And how do you propose to do that?’

‘I shall behave like an Englishman for a change. Talk about anything else, even the weather, before touching on the one subject that needs to be discussed.’

‘He’s just coming through the door,’ whispered Charlie.

Sasha jumped down from his stool at the bar and walked quickly across the restaurant to greet his former constituency chairman.

‘Do come and join us, Alf. I’ve opened a bottle of champagne in your honour.’

‘Are we celebrating anything in particular?’

‘I’m about to become a father.’

‘And I think I’m the mother,’ said Charlie, grinning.

‘Wonderful news,’ said Alf, kissing her on both cheeks.

‘Thank you,’ said Charlie as a waiter handed them menus.

‘What do you recommend?’ asked Alf, not even opening his menu.

‘Elena’s moussaka is the house special,’ said Sasha. ‘Customers travel for miles just to sample it, to quote the Spectator.’

‘Not a magazine I read regularly,’ admitted Alf, ‘but I’ll take their word for it. In any case, I’m a huge fan of your mother, a remarkable woman.’

‘I’m surrounded by remarkable women,’ said Sasha, ‘and I look forward to a child who will worship me.’

‘I suspect it will be the other way round,’ said Alf.

After they had ordered, and Sasha had poured three more glasses of champagne, they discussed the televising of Parliament, the problems in Northern Ireland, and finally the weather, before Sasha suggested they go through to dinner.

‘I can’t wait to hear what Fiona’s been up to,’ said Sasha after they had taken their seats.

‘All in good time,’ said Alf. ‘But first, I want to know how you’re getting on at the Courtauld, Charlie?’

‘You are sitting next to Dr Karpenko,’ said Sasha, giving his wife a nod.

‘Many congratulations. You must be very proud.’

‘Not as proud as I am of Sasha, who may well be an MP after the next election,’ said Charlie, coming in bang on cue.

Alf couldn’t hide his disappointment. It was some time before he managed, ‘So you’ve been selected for another seat?’

‘Not quite yet,’ said Charlie, as Gino served their first course. ‘But he’s on the shortlist for Wandsworth Central, and as he came top in the first round by a fair margin, we’re feeling fairly confident.’

‘Congratulations once again,’ said Alf. ‘I can’t pretend I’m surprised, because I meant it when I said I hoped to live long enough to see you take your place in the Cabinet, though I confess I’d rather hoped it might be as the member for Merrifield.’

‘But you told me you wouldn’t expect me to stand for Merrifield again. And in any case, now that Fiona has begun to establish herself in the House, we can assume it will go back to being a safe Tory seat at the next general election.’

‘I would normally agree with you,’ said Alf, ‘if it weren’t for the recommendations of the boundary commission which have just been published.’

‘Am I missing something here?’ asked Charlie. ‘I feel like Alice at the Mad Hatter’s tea party.’

‘That’s not surprising, because not many people outside of the Westminster hothouse have even heard of the boundary commission. It’s an independent body that comes together as and when required to review the parliamentary landscape, so that any anomalies that have arisen over the years can be ironed out. In their wisdom, the Commission has decided that Merrifield’s boundaries should be redrawn to include Blandford, a few miles up the road, and form a new constituency that will retain the name of Merrifield.’

‘Does that mean Merrifield will become a safe Labour seat?’ asked Sasha.

‘No, I can’t pretend it does,’ said Alf, ‘but we’ve done the calculations, and it will certainly be a key marginal. In fact the Guardian has listed it as among the seats that will decide who wins the next election.’

The waiters cleared away the first course, although Sasha’s soup had gone cold. ‘And how has Fiona reacted to this bombshell?’ he asked.

‘She appealed, of course, and fought the commission’s decision tooth and nail, but she lost, and had to decide whether to look for a safer seat, or stay put and contest Merrifield. I’m told that the chairman of the Conservative Party left Fiona in no doubt what was expected of her, so she’s just announced that she’ll be defending the seat.’

Although the main courses had been served, Sasha’s knife and fork remained in place.

‘In view of the changed circumstances,’ said Alf, ‘I called a meeting of the committee last night and they unanimously agreed that if you’d be willing to stand as our candidate, we wouldn’t look elsewhere.’

‘How long has he got to make up his mind?’ asked Charlie.

‘I’ve promised to report back to the committee by the end of the week.’

‘Before Wandsworth Central select their candidate?’ said Sasha.

‘You know perfectly well, Sasha, that whoever Wandsworth Central select will win by a landslide, whereas I’m convinced that you’re our best hope to capture Merrifield, and therefore give the Labour Party a chance of clinging on to power.’

‘That sounds to me like a not very subtle attempt at arm twisting,’ said Charlie.

‘Sometimes known as backroom politics,’ said Alf, as Elena came bursting out of the kitchen.

Alf immediately stood up. ‘The moussaka was mouth-watering, my dear,’ he said. ‘And there’s still your famous banoffee pie to follow.’

‘Yes, but not before we all have another glass of champagne,’ said Elena. ‘I assume Sasha has told you the good news?’

‘We’ve been discussing little else,’ said Alf.

‘And I think you’ll find he’s already made up his mind.’

Alf looked disappointed, Charlie surprised, and Sasha puzzled.

‘Oh yes,’ said Elena. ‘Konstantin if it’s a boy, Natasha for a girl.’

Sasha, Charlie and Alf all burst out laughing.

‘What did I say that was so funny?’ asked Elena.

Sasha placed his pen on the desk, leant back and thought yet again about the decision he and Charlie had finally agreed on.

Even at this last moment, he considered changing his mind. After all, it was a decision that could change his whole life. And then he thought about Fiona. He picked up his pen and wrote the words ‘Wandsworth Central’.

32 Alex

Boston

The Cathedral of the Holy Cross was packed for Lawrence Lowell’s funeral. This gentle, modest and decent man would have been touched by how many people had clearly admired him.

Alex was honoured when Lawrence’s mother, Mrs Rose Lowell, invited him to deliver one of the three eulogies, especially as the other two orators were Senator Ted Kennedy and Bishop Lomax. Mrs Evelyn Lowell-Halliday sat in the front row, but never once acknowledged Alex.

After the bishop had given the final blessing and the mourners had departed, Alex was approached by two men; one he knew well, the other he’d never met before.

Bob Brookes, the chairman of the Boston branch of the Democratic Party, said he needed to speak to him on a private matter. Alex had intended to return to New York that afternoon, but he agreed to delay his departure by twenty-four hours, and they arranged to meet at his hotel at ten o’clock the following morning. The second man turned out to be the Lowell family lawyer, and he had a similar request. However, Mr Harbottle was unwilling to discuss such a delicate matter outside his office, so Alex made an appointment to see him following his meeting with Brookes.

Alex returned to the Mayflower Hotel, and called Anna at the gallery to tell her he wouldn’t be back until the next day. She sounded disappointed, but confessed she couldn’t wait to find out why the two men wanted to see him.

‘By the way,’ she said, ‘have you told your mother yet?’

‘The vote was unanimous,’ said Brookes.

‘I’m flattered,’ said Alex, ‘but I’m afraid the answer is still no. Elena’s has recently opened two new pizza parlours in Denver and Seattle, and the staff have yet to meet their boss, so you’ll have to look for someone else.’

‘You were the only candidate the committee considered,’ said Brookes.

‘But I’m from New York. My only connection with Boston was Lawrence.’

‘Alex, I’ve watched you working with Lawrence during the past six weeks, and after a life in politics, I can tell you, you’re a natural.’

‘Why don’t you stand yourself, Bob? You were born and bred in Boston, and everyone knows and respects you.’

‘I could introduce you to a dozen people who can chair their local party committee,’ said Brookes, ‘but only occasionally someone comes along who was born to be the candidate.’

‘I have to admit,’ said Alex, ‘that I have considered politics as a career, but it would make far more sense for me start out in local government in Brighton Beach, where I went to school and founded my business — and perhaps if I’m lucky enough, one day I’ll represent them in Congress. No, Bob, you’ll have to find a local man to fight Blake Hawksley.’

‘But Hawksley isn’t in your class, and the Democratic majority is large enough for you to see him off. Once we’ve got you into Congress, no one will ever prise you out, at least not until you want to become a senator.’

Alex hesitated. ‘I wish it was that easy, but it isn’t. So would you be kind enough to thank your committee and say that perhaps in four or five years’ time...’

‘The seat won’t be available in four or five years’ time, Alex. Politics is about timing and opportunity, and those two stars aren’t aligned that often.’

‘I know you’re right, Bob, but the answer is still no. I must get going. I’ve got an appointment with Lawrence’s executor. He asked me to drop by his office on the way to the airport.’

‘If you should change your mind...’

‘My name is Ed Harbottle. I’m the senior partner of Harbottle, Harbottle and McDowell. This firm has had the privilege of representing the Lowell family for over a hundred years. My grandfather,’ said Harbottle, glancing at an oil painting of an elderly gentleman wearing a dark blue, pin-striped double-breasted suit with a gold fob watch, ‘administered the estate of Mr Ernest Lowell, the distinguished banker and fabled art collector. My father was legal adviser to Senator James Lowell, and for the past eleven years I have been Mr Lawrence Lowell’s personal attorney and, I would like to think, friend.’

Alex looked at the man seated on the other side of the desk, who was also dressed in a dark blue, pin-striped double-breasted suit and wearing a gold fob watch, which was unquestionably the same one as in the painting. Alex couldn’t be sure about the suit.

‘We meet in sad circumstances, Mr Karpenko.’

‘Tragic and unnecessary circumstances,’ said Alex with feeling. Harbottle raised an eyebrow. ‘I hope I live to see the day when people’s sexual preferences are considered irrelevant, including for those who wish to serve in public office.’

‘That isn’t the reason Mr Lowell committed suicide,’ said Harbottle, ‘but I shall come to that later,’ he added, readjusting his half-moon spectacles. ‘Mr Lowell instructed this firm to be the sole executor of his last will and testament, and in that capacity, it is my duty to inform you of a certain bequest that has been left to you.’

Alex remained silent, trying not to anticipate...

‘I shall only make reference to the single clause in the will that applies to you, as I am not at liberty to disclose any other details. Do you have any questions, Mr Karpenko?’

‘None,’ said Alex, who had a dozen questions, but had a feeling that all would be revealed in the fullness of time. Mr Harbottle’s time. Once again, the elderly lawyer adjusted his glasses before turning several pages of the thick parchment document in front of him.

‘I shall read clause forty-three of the testament,’ he announced, finally coming to his purpose. ‘I bequeath to Alexander Konstantinovitch Karpenko my entire shareholding of fifty per cent in the Elena Pizza Company, of which we are joint partners.’

Alex was momentarily stunned by the generosity of his old friend, before he managed, ‘I can’t believe that his sister will take that lying down.’

‘I don’t think Mrs Evelyn Lowell-Halliday will be causing you or anyone else any trouble. On the contrary.’

‘What are you not telling me, Mr Harbottle?’ said Alex, staring across the table.

The lawyer hesitated for a moment, before removing his glasses and placing them on the desk. ‘The reasons for his suicide are more complex than the public realize, Mr Karpenko. Lawrence did not commit suicide because of the press revelations.’

‘Then why?’

‘Lawrence had many worthy qualities, including generosity of heart and pocket, as well as a genuine desire to serve, which made him an ideal candidate for public office. I have no doubt he would have been a very fine congressman.’

‘But?’

‘But,’ repeated Harbottle, ‘a different set of skills and expertise are required to run a modern financial institution, and although Lawrence was chairman of the Lowell Bank and Trust Company, he held that position in name only, and allowed others to handle the day-to-day business of the bank. Others who were not of the same moral fibre.’

‘How bad is it?’ asked Alex, leaning forward.

‘I’m not acquainted with the finer details of the bank’s present financial position, but I can tell you that Douglas Ackroyd, the chief executive, will be announcing his resignation later this afternoon. I’m only relieved that this firm will not be representing that particular gentleman in any forthcoming legal actions that might arise.’

‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ asked Alex.

‘I am not in a position to advise you on that matter, Mr Karpenko. But Lawrence did ask me to give you this letter.’ He opened the drawer of his desk, took out a slim white envelope and handed it to Alex.

Alex tore it open and extracted a single sheet of paper, written in Lawrence’s clear, unmistakable hand.

Alex looked across the table at the lawyer and said, ‘Has anyone else seen this letter, Mr Harbottle?’

‘I haven’t even read it myself, sir.’

Once Alex had left Mr Harbottle’s office, he went straight back to his hotel, and told the receptionist that he would be checking out in the morning. But first he needed to make some phone calls before he even thought about visiting the bank. The first was to Anna, to tell her he wouldn’t be returning to New York for some time. He then briefed her on the details of Lawrence’s will, before asking, ‘Do you think you and Mr Rosenthal could come up to Boston as soon as possible and value the Lowell Collection?’

‘I’ll see if he’s free, and then call you back. Are you camping in the Mayflower for the next few days?’

‘No, Mr Harbottle has advised me to move into Beacon Hill as quickly as possible to make sure Evelyn doesn’t take up residence and claim the property as next of kin.’

‘How generous of Lawrence to leave you his fifty per cent of Elena’s, especially as he didn’t know if you’d agree to become chairman.’

‘And he’s made my task of attempting to keep the bank afloat a little easier by also leaving me his fifty per cent shareholding if I agreed to be chairman. That means no one can overrule me other than Evelyn, who owns the other fifty per cent.’

‘Evelyn? Won’t that make your job even more difficult?’

‘Certainly if I’d been advising Lawrence’s father, I would have told him that the law courts are full of warring siblings who each own fifty per cent of their father’s estate. But Harbottle’s convinced that as long as the shares are worthless, she’s unlikely to cause any trouble. I’m missing you,’ he said, suddenly changing the subject. ‘When do you think you’ll be able to join me?’

‘It’s you who was meant to be coming back to New York, in case you’ve forgotten. I’ll fly up on Friday morning so we can spend the weekend together. I’ll need to catalogue the collection before Mr Rosenthal joins us.’

‘You have a way of making a man feel wanted,’ said Alex, laughing.

His second call was to a local real estate agent with instructions to value Lawrence’s properties in Boston, Southampton and the south of France.

The third call was to Paolo to warn him he’d be running the company for a little longer than he’d originally anticipated.

‘Two eggs, sunny side up, bacon and hash browns,’ said Alex as the waitress poured him a steaming coffee. He was glad that his mother was a couple of hundred miles away in Brooklyn, and couldn’t see him.

He took a sip of coffee before turning to the financial supplement of the Globe. On the front page was a photograph of Douglas Ackroyd, above a self-serving statement he’d released the previous day.

I bet you will, thought Alex. But why did Ackroyd even want to remain on the board? Perhaps because he needed to make sure that it was Lawrence who would shoulder the blame when the bank went under, allowing him to come out of the debacle with his reputation untarnished. Alex was beginning to feel he knew the man, even though he’d never met him.

As soon as he’d had time to study the books, Alex intended to issue his own press statement, so that no one would be in any doubt where the blame really lay. He folded his newspaper, and stared admiringly at the magnificent Georgian building that dominated the far side of State Street, wondering if the bank could still be sold as a going concern. After all, it had been trading for over a hundred years, with an impeccable reputation. But questions like that couldn’t be answered until he’d studied the books, and that might take days.

Alex checked his watch as the waitress returned with his order: 8.24 a.m. He planned to enter the building for the first time at 8.55. He looked around the diner and wondered how many of the other customers worked at the bank, and were aware that their new chairman was sitting in one of the booths.

Among the options he’d already considered was to invite one of the larger Boston banks to participate in a merger, with the explanation that as Lawrence didn’t have an heir, there was no natural successor. But if the bank’s financial plight made that impossible, he would be left with no choice other than to resort to plan B, a fire sale. In which case he’d be back in New York serving pizzas by the end of the month.

At 8.30 he looked across the street to see a smartly dressed man in a long green topcoat and peaked cap emerge from the bank and take his place by the front door. Staff were beginning to trickle into the building: young women in sensible white blouses and dark skirts that fell below the knee, young men in grey suits, white shirts and sombre ties, followed a little later by older men in well-tailored, double-breasted suits and club ties, with an air of confidence and belonging. How long would that confidence last when they discovered the truth? Would he know the answer to that question by the time the bank closed this evening? And would those same doors even open for business tomorrow morning?

At 8.50, Alex paid his bill, left the warmth of the diner and walked slowly across the square. As he approached the front entrance, the doorman touched the peak of his cap and said, ‘Good morning, sir. I’m afraid the bank won’t be open for a few more minutes.’

‘I’m the new chairman,’ said Alex, thrusting out his hand. The doorman hesitated before returning the compliment, and saying, ‘I’m Errol, sir.’

‘And how long have you been working for the bank, Errol?’

‘Six years, sir. Mr Lawrence got me the job.’

‘Did he?’ said Alex. He left the doorman with an anxious look on his face, stepped inside and crossed the lobby to the front desk.

‘How can I help you, sir?’ asked a smartly dressed young woman.

‘I’m the new chairman of the bank,’ said Alex. ‘Could you tell me where my office is?’

‘Yes, Mr Karpenko, you’re on the top floor. Would you like me to accompany you?’

‘No, please don’t bother. I’ll find my own way.’

He walked across to the elevators and joined some staff who were chatting among themselves about everything from the Boston Red Sox’s third defeat in a row, to the appointment of their new chairman. Both losers in their opinion.

‘I’m told Karpenko’s never run anything except a pizza joint,’ said one of them, ‘and has absolutely no experience of banking.’

‘Mark my words, Ackroyd will be back as chairman by the end of the week,’ said another.

‘I’m going to open a book on how long he’ll last,’ said a third.

‘You might be wise to wait and see how he actually performs before you set the odds,’ suggested a lone voice. Alex smiled to himself, but didn’t comment.

The elevator stopped several times to disgorge its passengers on different floors. By the time its doors finally opened on the twenty-fourth floor, Alex was alone. He stepped out into a deserted corridor and opened the first door he came across, to discover that it was a cupboard. The second was the restroom, and the third a secretary’s office, but with no sign of a secretary. At the far end of the corridor he found a door that had ‘Chairman’ painted on it in faded gold letters. He walked in, and it took only one glance to know that the room had once been occupied by Lawrence. But not that often. The office was well furnished and comfortable, with a fine display of paintings, including portraits of Lawrence’s father and grandfather, but it didn’t feel lived in. Alex closed the door, walked across to the window and looked out onto a magnificent view of the bay.

He sank down into the comfortable red leather chair behind a teak desk, on which rested a blotting pad, a phone, and a silver-framed photograph of a young man he didn’t recognize, but thought he might have seen at the funeral. He picked up the phone, pressed a button marked Front Desk, and when a voice came on the line, said, ‘Please ask Errol to join me in the chairman’s office.’

‘The doorman, sir?’

‘Yes, the doorman.’

While he waited for Errol to appear, Alex wrote down a list of questions on a sheet of paper. He hadn’t quite finished when there was a gentle tap on the door.

‘Come in,’ he said. The door opened slowly to reveal Errol silhouetted in the doorway, but he made no attempt to enter. ‘Come in,’ Alex repeated. ‘Take off your hat and coat and have a seat,’ he added, pointing to the chair on the other side of his desk.

Errol removed his hat, but not his coat, and sat down.

‘Now, Errol, you told me earlier that you’ve worked for the bank for six years. That means you’re in possession of something I need desperately.’ Errol looked puzzled. ‘Information,’ said Alex. ‘I’m going to ask some questions that may embarrass you, but will help me do my job, so I hope you’ll feel able to assist me.’ Errol sank back in his chair, not looking as if he wanted to assist the new chairman. Alex changed tack. ‘You also told me it was Mr Lowell who got you your job.’

‘Sure did. Lieutenant Lowell spoke at a Veterans’ Association meeting, and when he heard I’d served in Nam—’

‘Which division?’

‘Twenty-fifth, sir.’

‘I was with the 116th.’

‘Mr Lawrence’s division.’

‘Yes, that’s how we met. And, like you, it was Mr Lowell who got me this job.’

Errol smiled for the first time. ‘If you served alongside Lieutenant Lowell,’ he said, ‘I’ll do anything I can to help.’

‘I’m glad to hear that because, like me, you got on well with Mr Lowell. How about Mr Ackroyd?’

Errol bowed his head.

‘That bad?’

‘I’ve opened his car door every working day for the past twelve years, and I’m still not sure if he knows my name.’

‘And his secretary?’ asked Alex, looking down at his list of questions.

‘Miss Bowers. She left with him. But don’t worry, sir, no one will miss her.’ Alex raised an eyebrow. ‘She was a little bit more than his secretary, if you catch my drift.’ Alex remained silent. ‘And, frankly, no one blamed Mrs Ackroyd when she finally divorced him.’

‘Do you know Mrs Ackroyd?’

‘Not really, sir, she didn’t visit the bank that often, but when she did, she always remembered my name.’

‘One final question, Errol. Did Mr Lowell have a secretary?’

‘Yes, sir, Miss Robbins. A real gem. But Mr Ackroyd sacked her last week, after twenty years’ service.’

‘Come in.’

‘You asked to see me, chairman?’

‘I did, Mr Jardine. I need to see the bank’s audited accounts for the past five years.’

‘Any particular version, chairman?’ said Jardine, unable to resist a smirk.

‘What do you mean, any particular version?’

‘It’s just that Mr Lowell preferred to be shown an abbreviated version, which I used to guide him through once a year.’

‘I’m sure you did. But I am not Mr Lowell, and I will require a little more detail.’

‘The summary in the annual report stretches to three pages, and I think you’ll find it quite comprehensive.’

‘And if I don’t?’

‘I suppose you could study the detailed accounts we prepare for the IRS every year, but they stretch to hundreds of pages, and it would take me two, possibly three, days to put them all together.’

‘I said I wanted to see the past five years’ accounts, Mr Jardine, not next year’s. So make sure that the full IRS version,’ said Alex, emphasizing the word ‘full’, ‘is on my desk within an hour.’

‘It might take a little longer than that, sir.’

‘Then I might have to find someone who understands how many minutes there are in an hour, Mr Jardine.’

Alex had never seen anyone leave an office as quickly. He was about to call Mr Harbottle, when the phone on his desk rang.

‘I’ve tracked down Miss Robbins, chairman,’ said the switchboard operator, ‘and I have her on the line. Shall I put her through?’

‘Please do.

‘Good morning, Miss Robbins. My name is Alex Karpenko, and I’m the new chairman of Lowell’s.’

‘Yes, I know, Mr Karpenko. I read about your appointment in this morning’s Globe, and of course I heard your moving eulogy at Mr Lowell’s funeral. How can I help?’

‘I understand that Mr Ackroyd sacked you last Friday.’

‘Yes he did, and ordered me to clear my desk by close of business.’

‘Well, he had no authority to do so. As you were Lawrence’s personal assistant, not his. So I was wondering if you’d consider coming back and doing the same job for me?’

‘That’s most generous of you, Mr Karpenko, but are you sure you wouldn’t rather have a younger person to herald in a new era for the bank?’

‘That’s the last thing I need. I’m sinking under a sea of paperwork, and I have a feeling you might be the one person who knows where the lifeboat is.’

Miss Robbins stifled a laugh. ‘When would you like me to start, chairman?’

‘Nine o’clock, Miss Robbins.’

‘Tomorrow morning?’

‘No, this morning.’

‘But it’s already eleven thirty-five, chairman.’

‘Is it?’

‘Hi, Alex, I’m Ray Fowler, company secretary. What can I do for you?’ he said, thrusting out his hand.

‘Good morning, Mr Fowler,’ said Alex, making no attempt to rise from behind his desk, or to shake the outstretched hand. ‘I want a copy of the minutes of every board meeting held during the past five years.’

‘Not a problem, sir, I’ll have them sent up immediately.’

‘No, you will bring them up yourself, Mr Fowler, along with any notes you made at the time when you drew them up.’

‘But they may have been mislaid or destroyed after all this time.’

‘I’m sure I don’t have to remind you, Mr Fowler, that it’s against company law to destroy any material that might later prove relevant in a criminal inquiry.’

‘I’ll do my best to locate them, chairman.’

‘I seem to remember President Nixon saying something similar when he was ordered to produce the Watergate tapes.’

‘I hardly think that a fair comparison, chairman.’

‘I’ll let you know how I feel about that, Mr Fowler, but not until I’ve read the minutes.’

‘He did what?’ said Ackroyd.

‘Asked to see the bank’s audited accounts for the past five years and all the board minutes with any attached handwritten notes,’ said Ray Fowler.

‘Did he indeed? Then we’ll have to be rid of him before he gets his feet under the table, and starts causing any real problems.’

‘That might be easier said than done,’ said Fowler. ‘We’re not dealing with Lawrence Lowell any longer. This guy’s smart, tough and ruthless. And don’t forget he now has control of fifty per cent of the bank’s shares.’

‘While Evelyn owns the other fifty per cent,’ said Ackroyd. ‘So he can’t do anything without our backing, certainly not while we still have a majority on the board.’

‘But what if he were to find out—’

‘Let me remind you, Ray, if the IRS were to discover what you’ve been up to for the past ten years, I can tell you exactly where the buck will stop, and as I’m not President Truman — it won’t be with me.’

There was a knock on the door.

Alex checked his watch: fifty-eight minutes and twenty seconds. He smiled and said, ‘Come in, Mr Jardine.’

The door opened and the bank’s finance director led six of his staff into the chairman’s office, all of them laden down with boxes.

‘Here are a few to be getting on with, chairman,’ said Jardine, making no attempt to hide his sarcasm.

‘Put them over there,’ said Alex, pointing to a long table against the far wall.

The six assistants immediately carried out his orders, while Jardine stood and watched.

‘Will that be all, chairman?’ he said confidently.

‘No, it won’t, Mr Jardine. You said these were a few to be getting on with, so when can I expect the rest?’

‘I’m afraid that was my feeble attempt at a little humour, chairman.’

‘It fell on deaf ears, Mr Jardine. Could you ensure that no one from your department leaves the building tonight before I do, and that includes you. I have a feeling,’ he said, glancing across at the stack of files, ‘I’ll be needing several questions answered before I go home.’

‘Evelyn, we have a problem.’

‘Douglas, I expect you to take care of any problems at the bank, especially now you’re the chairman.’

‘But I’m not the chairman,’ said Ackroyd. ‘Just before he died, Lawrence appointed some guy called Alex Karpenko to take his place.’

‘Not him again.’

‘You know the man?’

‘Our paths have crossed,’ said Evelyn, ‘and I can tell you, he doesn’t take prisoners. But as I now own one hundred per cent of the bank’s shares, I can remove him whenever—’

‘Lawrence also left his fifty per cent holding in the bank to Karpenko. The guy’s already started digging, and if he were to find out—’

‘Do we still have a majority on the board?’ asked Evelyn.

‘As long as you turn up to vote, we do.’

‘Then I’ll have to fly back for the next meeting, won’t I. And, Douglas, the first item on the agenda will be to remove Karpenko from the chair and replace him with you. All I expect you to do is organize the meeting without him working out what we’re up to.’

‘It may not be quite that easy,’ said Ackroyd. ‘He’s already taken possession of your brother’s house, and I suspect your villa in the south of France will be next on his list.’

‘Over my dead body.’

‘And he’s also given orders to transfer the entire Lowell Collection to the bank as security in case the IRS wants to value it.’

‘That could be a problem,’ admitted Evelyn.

‘I have to tell you, Karpenko is one tough bastard,’ said Ackroyd. ‘You clearly don’t know the man.’

Alex spent the rest of the week studying balance sheets, dividend returns, tax payments, and even junior staff wages. But it wasn’t until Wednesday afternoon that he came across an entry that needed to be checked a third time before he was sure that no responsible board would have sanctioned it.

He stared at the item again, thinking it had to be one nought too many. It was tucked neatly in between two other figures of a similar amount so as not to draw attention to the entry. He double-checked the sum and wrote the figure down on a pad by his side. Alex wondered how many more such entries he would come across before he reached the present day.

The following morning, Alex found a similarly large withdrawal appearing on the balance sheet without explanation. Once again, Alex wrote the figure down. It was already dark by the time he came across the third entry, which was for a far larger amount. He added the figure to his growing list, and wondered how she’d been allowed to get away with it.

By Friday, Alex had concluded that Lowell’s, by any standards, was trading while insolvent, but he decided not to inform the banking commissioner until Mr Rosenthal had valued the art collection, and he’d been able to value any other assets the bank might possess.

When the street lights flickered on, Alex decided it was time to leave the office and go home. He couldn’t wait to see Anna again. He glanced at the diminishing pile of balance sheets that still needed to be studied, and wondered if he’d ever get through them.

It hadn’t helped that Lawrence had been serving in Vietnam for two years when Douglas Ackroyd had brought a new meaning to the words, when the cat’s away. He not only paid himself $500,000 a year, but claimed another $300,000 in expenses, while his two cronies, Jardine and Fowler, only ever travelled first class whenever they climbed aboard his gravy train. But the conductor was clearly Evelyn, who, with her fifty per cent of the bank’s shares, appeared to have given Ackroyd carte blanche to do as he pleased. Now he’d discovered just how much she’d expected in return.

He was looking forward to spending the weekend with Anna, who was travelling up from New York that afternoon, but it didn’t stop him picking up half a dozen more files before he left the office. As he passed Miss Robbins’s room, he noticed that her light was still on. He popped his head around the door and said, ‘Thank you, and have a good weekend.’

‘I’ll see you at six o’clock on Monday morning, chairman,’ she said, without looking up from a pile of correspondence.

Alex had quickly discovered why Doug Ackroyd had sacked her. She was the one person who knew where all the bodies were buried.

As Alex left the building, he had a nagging feeling that he was being watched; a throwback from his days in Leningrad. It brought back memories of Vladimir, and he wondered how far up the KGB ladder he’d crawled by now. I ought to give him a call and see if he’d like to join the board of Lowell’s, he thought. He was sure Vladimir would have ways of making Ackroyd, Fowler and Jardine divulge which entries he should be checking more carefully.

Alex gave the driver his address before he sank into the back seat of a taxi and opened another file. If he hadn’t read each debit with close attention, he might have missed yet another withdrawal, that could only have been sanctioned by one man. He checked the figure three times, but still couldn’t believe it. The final cheque had been cashed two days after Lawrence’s death, and the day before Ackroyd resigned, and was by far the largest amount to date.

Alex added the latest figure to his long list, before he totalled up all the withdrawals Evelyn had made since her father had died and her brother had taken over as chairman of Lowell’s. The final figure came to just over twenty-one million dollars, with no suggestion of any repayments. If you added her profligacy to the outrageous salary Ackroyd had paid himself and his four placemen, plus their countless expenses, it was no wonder that Lowell’s was facing bankruptcy. Alex began to wonder if he would have to sell off the Lowell Collection in order to make sure the bank was solvent enough to lower its debts and continue trading.

He was considering the consequences as the taxi pulled up outside Lawrence’s home. He would always think of it as Lawrence’s home.

He climbed out of the car and a huge smile appeared on his face when he spotted Anna standing in the doorway. It evaporated just as quickly when he saw the look on her face.

‘What’s the matter, darling?’ he asked as he took her in his arms.

‘You’d better have a large vodka before I tell you.’ She took his hand, and without another word led him into the house. She poured them both a drink and waited for him to sit down before saying, ‘It’s not just the Warhol that’s a copy.’

Alex drained his glass before asking, ‘How many?’

‘I can’t be sure until Mr Rosenthal has given his opinion, but I suspect that at least half the collection are copies.’

Alex said nothing, while she refilled his glass. After another long gulp, he admitted, ‘The value of the Lowell Collection is the one thing that’s preventing the bank from going under. I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep until Mr Rosenthal arrives.’

‘I called him a couple of hours ago and he’s already on his way.’

‘And my mother?’ asked Alex. ‘How is she?’

‘Your mother keeps asking me why we constantly change the date for our wedding,’ said Anna.

‘And what did you tell her?’

‘We’re still trying to fit it in between rescuing a bank, opening the latest Elena’s and preferably when we’re both in the same place at the same time.’

‘We could have grandchildren by then,’ said Alex.

33 Sasha

Merrifield

Sasha had always managed to survive on six hours’ sleep a night, but once the Prime Minister had visited Buckingham Palace and sought a dissolution of Parliament, he had to learn how to get by on four.

Once again he adopted a daily routine that would have impressed a Bolshoi ballet master, even if it was only for three weeks. He rose every morning at five, and was standing outside Roxton station with a small band of volunteers long before the first commuters arrived. He greeted them with, ‘Hi, I’m Sasha Karpenko, and I’m...’

At 8 a.m. he took a break for breakfast, a different cafe every morning, and twenty minutes later he would walk to party headquarters in the high street — three rooms hired for a month — and check the morning papers. The Merrifield Gazette had found several different ways of saying it was neck and neck, a close-run thing, everything to play for, but the morning’s headline took him by surprise: ‘HUNTER CHALLENGES KARPENKO TO DEBATE’.

‘Shrewd move,’ said Alf. ‘She didn’t wait for you to make the running this time. You have to accept immediately, and then we’ll agree later on a date, time and place.’

‘Any time, any place,’ said Sasha.

‘No, no!’ said Alf. ‘We’re not in any hurry. We need the debate to be in Roxton, and as close to the election as possible.’

‘Why Roxton?’

‘Because more of our supporters are likely to turn up there than anywhere else in the constituency.’

‘But why hold it off until the last moment?’

‘It will give you more time to prepare. Don’t forget you’re not up against a university student any longer, but a parliamentarian who’s lived in this constituency all her life. But for now, you should get back on the street and leave us to worry about the details.’

After Sasha had rung the editor of the Gazette to say he would be delighted to accept Ms Hunter’s challenge, and couldn’t wait to debate with her, he left HQ to join the early morning shoppers, mainly women and young children, and a few old-age pensioners. During the next three hours he shook hands with as many voters as possible, always delivering the same simple message: his name, his party, the date of the election, and a reminder that Merrifield was now a key marginal seat.

Then came a forty-minute break for lunch at one o’clock, when Alf would join him at a local pub and bring him up to date with what Fiona was up to. Sasha always chatted to the publican about licensing hours and the tax on alcohol, while ordering only one course and a half pint of the local beer.

‘Always make sure you pay for your own food and drink,’ said Alf. ‘And don’t buy anything for anyone if they have a vote in the constituency.’

‘Why not?’ asked a heavily pregnant Charlie, as she sipped an orange juice.

‘Because you can bet the Tories would try to claim he was attempting to bribe a constituent, and therefore breaking electoral law.’

After shaking hands with everyone in the pub, they left for a factory visit, where Sasha usually got more hellos than bugger-offs, followed by the school run from three-thirty to four-thirty — primary, secondary and finally the local grammar school. This was when Charlie came into her element, and many mothers confided in her that, unlike their husbands, they would be voting for Sasha.

‘She’s our secret weapon,’ the chairman often told the candidate, ‘especially as, although Fiona claims to be engaged, her fiancé has yet to make an appearance. Not that I’ll be mentioning that to anyone, of course,’ he added with a grin.

Back to HQ around 5 p.m. for a debriefing, before leaving to address two, possibly three, evening meetings.

‘But so few people bother to turn up,’ said Sasha.

‘Don’t worry about that,’ said Alf. ‘It will give you a chance to rehearse a few of the key points and phrases that will need to sound off-the-cuff during the debate.’

Back home by midnight and hopefully asleep by 1 a.m. Not always possible, because just like an actor treading the boards, the adrenalin doesn’t conveniently stop the moment the curtain comes down. Four hours’ sleep before the alarm goes off, when he started the whole process again, only thankful that it was one day less until the election.

On the morning of the debate, one local poll gave Fiona a two-point lead, while another had the two candidates neck and neck. It didn’t help steady Sasha’s nerves when the local TV station announced that there had been so much interest in the debate that they would be showing it live at prime time.

Charlie selected the suit (grey, single-breasted), shirt (white) and tie (green) that Sasha would wear for the encounter that evening. She didn’t interrupt him while he rehearsed salient lines and well-honed phrases whenever they were alone. But if he asked for her opinion, she didn’t hesitate to respond candidly, even if it wasn’t always what he wanted to hear.

‘Time to leave,’ said Charlie, checking her watch.

Sasha followed her out of party HQ and joined her in the back of a waiting car.

‘You look so handsome,’ she said, as they moved off. Sasha didn’t reply. ‘Don’t forget, she’s just not in your class.’ Still no response. ‘By this time next week, it will be you, not her, who’s sitting in the House of Commons.’ Still nothing. ‘And by the way,’ she added, ‘perhaps this isn’t the best time to tell you, but I’m thinking of voting Conservative.’

‘Then let’s be thankful you haven’t got a vote in this constituency,’ said Sasha as the car pulled up outside Roxton Town Hall.

‘If you win the toss,’ said Alf, who was standing at the top of the steps waiting to greet them, ‘you should speak second. Then you can respond to anything Fiona raises in her opening remarks.’

‘No,’ said Sasha. ‘If I win the toss I’ll go first, and then she’ll have to respond to what I have to say.’

‘But that would be handing her an immediate advantage.’

‘Not if I’ve already made her speech for her. I think I’ve worked out what her line of attack will be. Don’t forget, I know her better than anyone.’

‘It’s a hell of a risk,’ said Alf.

‘The sort of risk you have to take when the polls are this close.’

Alf shrugged his shoulders. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ he said, as they walked onto the back of the stage and the moderator came across to join them.

‘Time for the toss,’ said Chester Munro, the veteran anchorman from Southern News.

Sasha and Fiona shook hands for the photographers, although she never once looked him in the eye.

‘Your call, Ms Hunter.’

‘Heads,’ said Fiona as Munro spun a silver coin high in the air. It bounced on the floor before coming to rest to reveal the image of the best-known woman on earth.

‘Your choice, Ms Hunter,’ said Munro. ‘Will you open the batting, or put Mr Karpenko in first?’

Sasha held his breath.

‘I shall allow my opponent to speak first,’ said Fiona, clearly pleased to have won the toss.

A young woman appeared from the wings and powdered Munro’s forehead and the tip of his nose, before he marched out onto the centre of the stage to warm applause.

‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,’ said Munro, as he looked down at the packed auditorium. ‘Welcome to the debate between the two main contenders for the parliamentary seat of Merrifield. Fiona Hunter, the current member, is representing the Conservative Party, and her opponent, Sasha Karpenko, is the Labour Party’s candidate.

‘Each candidate will make a three-minute opening statement, which will be followed by questions from the floor, and then we will end proceedings with both of them making a two-minute closing statement. I will now invite the two candidates to join us.’

Sasha and Fiona appeared from opposite wings of the stage, each of them greeted with rapturous applause from their own supporters. Sasha wished he was back in the Fulham Road enjoying one of his mother’s moussakas and a glass of red wine, but then he spotted Charlie and his mother smiling up at him from the front row. He smiled back, as Munro said, ‘I shall now call upon Mr Karpenko to make his opening statement.’

Sasha walked slowly forward, placed his notes on the lectern and waited for the audience to settle. He glanced down at the opening sentence, although he knew the entire speech by heart. He looked up, aware that he only had three minutes in which to make a lasting impression. No, Alf had told him to think of it as 180 seconds, that way you’ll make every second count. For the first time, Sasha wondered if Alf might have been right when he suggested that whoever spoke first would be at a disadvantage.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Sasha began, fixing his eyes on the tenth row of the audience. ‘You see, standing before you, a carpetbagger.’

A palpable gasp went up around the hall. Only Charlie didn’t look surprised. But then, she’d already heard the speech several times.

‘And if that’s not bad enough,’ continued Sasha, ‘I’m also a first-generation immigrant. And if you’re still looking for an excuse not to vote for me, I was born in Leningrad, not Merrifield.’

Alf looked anxiously out from the wings to see that the audience had been stunned into silence.

‘But please allow me to tell you something about this particular carpetbagger. I was, as I said, born in Leningrad. My late father was a brave man who won the Defence of Leningrad for defending his homeland against the Nazis during the siege of that city in the Second World War. After the war he worked his way up from dock labourer to become works supervisor in charge of eight hundred men. A position he held until he committed a crime for which he was put to death.’

The audience were now hanging on his every word.

‘Of course, you will want to know what that crime was. Murder, perhaps? Armed robbery? Fraud, or even worse, was he a traitor who’d betrayed his country? No, my father’s crime was that he wanted to form a trade union among his fellow dock workers so that his comrades could enjoy the same benefits that everyone in this country takes for granted. But the KGB didn’t want that, so they had him eliminated.

‘My brave mother, who is sitting among you tonight, risked her life so she and I could escape the tyranny of Communism and begin a new life in this great country. I went to school in London and, like Ms Hunter, won a scholarship to Cambridge, where, again like Ms Hunter, I became president of the Union, and was awarded a first-class honours degree.’

The first round of applause followed, giving Sasha a moment to relax, look down at his speech and check the next sentence.

‘After coming down from Cambridge, I went to work in my mother’s restaurant, while at the same time attending night school, where I studied accountancy and business management. My mother may have won two Michelin stars as one of the finest chefs in this country, but she’s rubbish when it comes to balancing the books.’

Laughter and warm applause greeted these words.

‘I fell in love with and married an English girl, who now works as a research fellow at the Courtauld Gallery. Our first child is due on election day.’ Sasha looked up to the heavens and said, ‘Could you possibly make it the day after?’

This time the applause was spontaneous and Sasha smiled down at his wife. A buzzer sounded to indicate that he only had thirty seconds left. He hadn’t anticipated such prolonged applause, and needed to speed up.

‘When I first came to Merrifield to fight the by-election three years ago, I fell in love for a second time. But you rejected this suitor and gave the prize to my rival, although the margin was slim enough for me to hope that you were perhaps suggesting I should try again. Now I am asking you to have a change of heart.’ He lowered his voice to almost a whisper. ‘I want to share a secret with you which I hope will prove how much I care about Merrifield. Before this election was called, I had the opportunity to contest a London seat with a Labour majority of over ten thousand. But I declined that opportunity because I have something else in common with Ms Hunter. Like her, I want to be the Member of Parliament for Merrifield. I may be a carpetbagger, but I want to be your carpetbagger.’

Half the audience rose to hail their standard bearer, while the other half remained in the seats, but even some of them joined in the applause.

Munro waited for Sasha to return to his seat and the applause to die down before he said, ‘I call on Ms Hunter to respond.’

Sasha looked across at Fiona to see that she was furiously crossing out whole paragraphs of her prepared speech. Finally she rose and walked slowly towards the lectern. She smiled nervously down at the audience.

‘My name is Fiona Hunter, and I have had the privilege of representing you as your Member of Parliament for the past three years. I hope you will feel that I have proved worthy of your support.’ She looked up, to receive a smattering of applause from her most ardent supporters.

‘I was born and brought up in Merrifield. England is my homeland, always has been and always will be,’ a line she immediately realized she should have left out. She quickly turned the page, and then another. Sasha could only wonder how often the words carpetbagger, interloper, outsider, even immigrant, had been removed from her script.

Fiona stumbled on, talking about her father, Cambridge and the Union, all too aware that by allowing her rival to go first, she had given him the opportunity to steal her best lines. When the buzzer went to warn Fiona that she had thirty seconds left, she quickly turned to the last page of her speech and said, ‘I can only hope you will give this local girl a second chance to carry on serving you.’

She returned quickly to her seat, but the applause had faded away long before she’d sat down.

No one could have been in any doubt who had won the first round, but the bell was about to go for the second, and Sasha knew he couldn’t let his concentration lapse for even a moment.

‘The candidates will now take your questions,’ said Munro. ‘Please keep them brief and to the point.’

A dozen hands immediately shot up. Munro pointed to a woman seated in the fifth row.

‘How do the two candidates feel about Roxton’s playing fields being sold off by the council to be replaced by a supermarket?’

Fiona was on her feet even before Munro could say who should respond first.

‘I learnt to play hockey and tennis on those playing fields,’ she began, ‘which is why I raised the issue in the House, at Prime Minister’s Questions. I condemned the proposal then, and I will continue to do so if I am re-elected. Let us hope that is something else Mr Karpenko and I have in common, although it seems unlikely, as it was the Labour council that granted planning permission for the supermarket in the first place.’

This time she was rewarded with prolonged applause.

Sasha waited for complete silence before he responded. ‘It is correct that Ms Hunter spoke against the council’s proposal to build a supermarket on the site of Roxton playing fields, when she raised the subject in the House of Commons. But what she didn’t mention is that she is the PPS to the Shadow Minister for Rural Affairs, who has never once supported her. Why not? Possibly because the shadow minister would have pointed out to Ms Hunter that an even bigger sports centre is being built three miles down the road at Blandford, with facilities for football, rugby, cricket, hockey, tennis, and a swimming pool, thanks to a Labour government. If I am elected as your member, I will back the council on this issue, as they have had the common sense not to allow arbitrary political boundaries to influence their better judgement. Be assured, I will always support what I believe to be in the best interests of the citizens of Merrifield. Perhaps Ms Hunter should be elected not to Parliament, but as President of the Not in My Back Yard society. Forgive me if I try to consider the bigger picture.’

When Sasha sat down, the audience was still applauding.

Munro next selected a tall, elegant man, dressed in tweed and wearing a striped tie.

‘What do the Conservatives feel about the defence cuts proposed by Mr Healey when he visited the constituency two weeks ago?’

Fiona smiled, but then Major Bennett had been well primed before he put his question.

‘Perhaps you should answer this one first, Mr Karpenko,’ suggested Munro.

‘Defence cuts are a contentious issue for any government,’ said Sasha. ‘However, if we are to build more schools, universities, hospitals, and, yes, even sports facilities, either cuts must be made or taxes raised, which is never an easy choice. But it is one that can’t be sidestepped. I can only promise that as your representative, I would always weigh up the arguments for any cuts in the defence budget, before coming to a decision.’ He sat down to a smattering of applause.

‘If you could win a battle simply by blowing hot air on your opponents, clearly Mr Karpenko would be commander in chief of the armed forces,’ said Fiona. She had to wait for the laughter and applause to die down before she could continue. ‘Haven’t two world wars taught us that we can never allow ourselves to lower our guard? No, the defence of the realm should always be the first priority for any MP, and it always will be for me if you send me back to Westminster.’

Fiona basked in the prolonged applause before returning to her seat, leaving Sasha in no doubt who had won that round. The next question came from a woman seated near the back.

‘How long are we going to have to wait for the Roxton bypass to be given the green light?’

Sasha realized this was another planted question, as a smile reappeared on Fiona’s face, and she didn’t even need to glance at her notes.

‘The bypass would get the go-ahead tomorrow,’ said Fiona, ‘if planning permission wasn’t being held up by the current Labour government, which as I don’t have to remind you is under Socialist control. I wonder why. Perhaps Mr Karpenko will enlighten us. But if the Conservatives are elected, I can assure you the bypass will be a priority.’

Fiona smiled triumphantly at Sasha as she sat down to even warmer applause than before. But then she knew, if the bypass went ahead, the local council estate would be levelled to make way for it, which would turn Merrifield into a safe Conservative seat once again. She also knew that Sasha couldn’t admit that was the real reason he was backing the council on this issue.

‘I’m in no doubt,’ he began, ‘that Roxton needs a bypass. The only thing under discussion is where the route should be.’

‘Not in your back yard!’ shouted Fiona, to cheers and catcalls.

‘I can promise you,’ said Sasha, ‘that as your member I would do everything in my power to speed the process up.’

The applause, or lack of it, made it clear to everyone in the hall that Fiona had won another round.

Munro finally gave in and pointed to an elderly woman who had jumped up and raised her hand at every opportunity.

‘What plans do the candidates have for raising the old-age pension?’

‘Every Conservative administration has raised the old-age pension in line with inflation,’ said Fiona. ‘The Labour government has always failed to do so, possibly because under their stewardship, inflation has risen on average by fourteen per cent per year. So I say to anyone of pensionable age, if you hope to maintain, or improve, your standard of living, make sure you vote Conservative. Actually, I would say the same to anyone below pensionable age as well, because we’ll all get there eventually.’ This suggestion brought a loud cheer from the Tory supporters, who clearly felt their candidate had come fighting back after her earlier setback, and was now ahead on points.

‘I sometimes wish,’ said Sasha, when he rose to reply, ‘that Ms Hunter would, just for once, take a long-term view and look beyond next week’s election. The present average life expectancy in this country is seventy-three. By the year 2000, it will be eighty-one, and by 2020, when I will be sixty-eight, and eligible for the state pension myself, it is predicted to be eighty-seven. No government — of whatever colour — will have the resources to keep raising the old-age pension year on year. Hasn’t the time come for Members of Parliament to tell the truth about such difficult and important issues as this, and not to spout platitudes, in the hope that they will scrape home at the next election? I’m an economist by profession, not a lawyer like Ms Hunter. I will always tell you the facts, while she will always tell you what she thinks you want to hear.’

When he sat down, the applause suggested that there was no clear-cut winner of that round.

‘There’s time for just one more question,’ said Munro, pointing to a young man seated on the aisle.

‘Do either of you think Merrifield United will ever win the FA Cup?’

The whole room burst into laughter.

‘I’ve been a supporter of “The Merries” since I was a child,’ said Fiona, ‘and my father left me his season ticket in his will. But for fear of being told by my opponent that I’m only seeking cheap votes, I’ll admit that I think it’s unlikely we’ll win the cup, but I live in hope.’

Sasha took her place. ‘It was a magnificent achievement for Merrifield to reach the third round of the cup last year,’ he said. ‘Joey Butler’s goal against Arsenal was a joy to behold, and no one could have been surprised when the Gunners offered him a contract. I was equally delighted that the board decided to use their cup windfall to build a new all-weather stand. But if I’m fortunate enough to become your member, don’t be surprised if you still find me standing on the terraces cheering on the home team.’

The young man who’d asked the question didn’t hide who he’d be voting for, and Sasha felt the contest was back on an equal footing. Everything now rested on their closing remarks.

‘As Mr Karpenko spoke first at the opening of these proceedings,’ said Munro, ‘I shall call on Ms Hunter to make her closing statement.’

Fiona put aside her notes and looked directly at the audience.

‘It seems I’m not allowed to mention the fact that I’m a local girl and that my opponent doesn’t come from this neck of the woods. I also mustn’t remind you that I beat Mr Karpenko for the presidency of the Cambridge Union, and I beat him again at the by-election following my father’s death. And when winning this constituency became a tougher proposition for my party, I didn’t run away. But I can tell you, if Mr Karpenko loses this election, you will never see him again. He will go off in search of a safe seat, whereas you know for certain that I’ll be here for the rest of my life. The choice is yours.’

Half the audience rose to cheer her, while the other half remained seated, waiting to see if their champion still had any arrows left in his quiver.

Sasha only had a few moments in which to consider how to counter such a brilliant and simple message, although he had no doubt that if Fiona lost, she would also be looking for a safe seat elsewhere. But he couldn’t say that, because he couldn’t prove it. The packed hall waited in anticipation, one half willing him to succeed, the other half hoping he would stumble.

‘Like my father,’ he began, ‘I’ve always believed in democracy, despite being raised in a totalitarian state. So I’m happy to let the voters of Merrifield decide which of us they consider best qualified to represent them in the House of Commons. I only ask that you make that choice based on which candidate you consider will do the better job, and not simply on who has lived here the longest. Naturally I believe that person is me. But if living in Merrifield is proof of commitment, I want you all to know that last week I completed the purchase of a house in Farndale Avenue, and that like Ms Hunter, I look forward to spending the rest of my life in this constituency.’

Chester Munro waited for the applause to die down before thanking both candidates. ‘And I’d also like to thank you, the audience,’ he said, but was interrupted by a young woman who appeared from the wings and handed him a slip of paper. He unfolded it and considered the contents before announcing, ‘I know you will all be fascinated to learn that a TV poll taken immediately following this debate shows Ms Hunter’s support on forty-two per cent and Mr Karpenko also on forty-two per cent. The remaining sixteen per cent are either undecided or will vote for other parties.’

The two candidates rose from their places, walked slowly towards each other and shook hands. They both accepted that the debate had ended in a draw, and they now only had a week left in which to knock out their opponent.

Sasha didn’t seem to stand still for a moment during the next seven days, while Alf continually reminded him that the final outcome might be decided by only a handful of votes. He didn’t doubt that Fiona would be having the same message hammered home.

On election day, Sasha rose at two in the morning, quite unable to sleep. He’d read all the papers by the time he came down for breakfast. By six o’clock he was back outside Merrifield station imploring the commuters to VOTE KARPENKO — TODAY.

Once the polls opened at seven, he dashed from committee room to committee room in a gallant attempt to thank his legion of dedicated workers, who were refusing to take even a minute off until the last vote had been cast.

‘Let’s go and have a drink with the rest of the team,’ he said to Charlie at 10 p.m., after the BBC announced that the polls had closed, and counting was about to begin all over the country.

They walked slowly up the high street to cries of good luck, goodbye, and even, haven’t I seen you somewhere before? When they arrived at the Roxton Arms, Alf and the team were already standing at the bar placing their orders.

‘And the drinks are on you for a change,’ said Alf, ‘now that we’re unbribable.’

The rest of the team cheered.

‘The two of you couldn’t possibly have done more,’ said Audrey Campion as she handed Charlie a tomato juice and Sasha a pint — his first for three weeks.

‘Agreed,’ said Alf. ‘However, I suggest we all have something to eat before we go across to the town hall and follow the count, as it’s unlikely there’ll be a result much before two.’

‘Care to predict that result?’ asked Sasha.

‘Predictions are for gamblers and fools,’ said Alf. ‘The electorate have made their decision. All we can do is wait to find out if they’ve made the right one. So whatever you say now won’t make a blind bit of difference.’

‘I’d close the cottage hospital, start building the bypass and cut defence spending by at least ten per cent,’ said Sasha.

Everyone laughed except Charlie, who stumbled forward and clung on to the bar.

‘What’s the matter?’ said Sasha, placing an arm around her.

‘What do you think’s wrong, idiot?’ said Audrey.

‘And you’ve got no one to blame but yourself,’ said Alf, ‘because you did implore the Almighty to wait until after the election.’

‘Stop chattering, Alf,’ said Audrey, ‘and ring the hospital. Tell them there’s a woman on the way who’s about to give birth. Michael, go and fetch a taxi.’

Alf scuttled off to the phone at the other end of the bar while Sasha and Audrey supported Charlie as she made her way slowly out of the pub. Michael had already flagged down a passing cab and instructed the driver exactly where he had to go long before Charlie clambered into the back seat.

‘Hold on, darling,’ said Sasha as the taxi moved off. ‘We don’t have far to go,’ he added, suddenly thankful that the cottage hospital hadn’t yet been closed.

Headlights on full, the driver wove in and out of the late night traffic. Alf must have done his job, because when the cab pulled up outside the hospital entrance, two orderlies and a doctor were waiting for them. The doctor helped Charlie from the car while Sasha took out his wallet to pay the fare.

‘Have this one on me, guv,’ said the cabbie. ‘It’ll make up for the fact that I forgot to vote.’

Sasha thanked him, but cursed him at the same time as Charlie was eased into a wheelchair. If he lost by one vote... He held his wife’s hand while the doctor calmly asked her a series of questions. One of the orderlies wheeled her down an empty corridor to the delivery room, where an obstetrics team were waiting. Sasha only let go of her hand when she disappeared inside.

He began to pace up and down the corridor, berating himself for having pushed Charlie so hard during the last few days of the campaign. Alf was right, a child’s life was more important than any damned election.

He couldn’t be sure how much time had passed before a nurse finally emerged from the delivery room, gave him a warm smile and said, ‘Congratulations, Mr Karpenko, it’s a girl.’

‘And my wife?’

‘She’s fine. Exhausted, and will need to rest, but you can go and see them both for a few minutes.’ Sasha followed her into the room, where Charlie was tenderly holding her newborn child. A wrinkled little thing with unfocussed blue eyes stared up at him. He hugged Charlie, thanked whatever gods there were for this miracle, and gazed down at his daughter as if she was the first child that had ever been born.

‘Pity this didn’t happen a week ago,’ said Charlie.

‘Why, my darling?’

‘Imagine how many more votes you might have got if you could have told the audience at the debate that your daughter was born in the constituency.’

Sasha laughed as a nurse placed a hand on his shoulder and said, ‘We should let your wife rest.’

‘Of course,’ said Sasha, as another nurse gently lifted the baby from her arms and placed her in a cot.

Sasha reluctantly left the room, although Charlie had already fallen asleep. Once he was back out in the corridor, he stopped to stare at his daughter through the window in the door. He waved at her; stupid really, because he knew she couldn’t see him. He turned and began to walk towards the stairs, and for the first time in hours, his thoughts returned to what was going on at the town hall. He ran along the corridor and down the steps, wondering if he’d be able to find a taxi at that time of night. He walked across the lobby and was just about to push the door open when a voice behind him said, ‘Mr Karpenko?’

He turned round to see a nurse standing behind the reception desk. ‘Congratulations,’ she said.

‘Thank you. I couldn’t be more delighted that it’s a girl.’

‘That wasn’t why I was congratulating you, Mr Karpenko.’ Sasha looked puzzled. ‘I just wanted to say how pleased I am that you’ll be our next MP.’

‘You know the result?’

‘It was announced on the radio a few moments ago. After three recounts, you won by twenty-seven votes.’

34 Alex

Boston

‘I’m sorry to say that Anna was spot on,’ said Rosenthal. ‘More than fifty of the pictures are copies, and remembering your own experience with the Warhol, it’s not difficult to work out who’s got the originals.’

‘And she’s probably sold them all by now,’ said Alex. ‘Which means the bank can never hope to recover its losses.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that,’ said Rosenthal. ‘The art world is a small, close-knit community, so if a painting from the Lowell Collection were to appear on the market, it would almost certainly be recognized immediately. And we’re not talking about one painting, but over fifty. However, now that Mr Lowell is dead, his sister may well feel confident enough to dispose of them, especially if she believes her only other source of income is about to dry up.’

‘Which it most certainly is,’ said Alex with considerable feeling.

‘Then the first thing we have to do is find out where the paintings are located.’

‘Tucked safely away in Evelyn’s villa in the south of France would be my bet,’ said Alex.

‘I agree,’ said Anna. ‘Because if they were in her apartment in New York, Lawrence couldn’t have missed them.’

Rosenthal’s next question took them both by surprise. ‘How well do you know Mr Lowell’s butler?’

‘Not that well,’ admitted Alex. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Do you have any idea where his loyalties lie?’

‘When it comes to the Lowell family,’ said Alex, ‘you have to support either one faction or the other, as I found out to my cost fairly early on. But I’ve no reason to believe he’s not a member of the home team.’

‘Then with your permission,’ said Rosenthal, ‘I’d like to ask him a couple of questions.’

‘I can’t see why not,’ said Alex, ringing the bell.

Caxton appeared a few moments later. ‘You called, sir?’

‘Actually, it’s me who wanted a word with you, Caxton,’ said Rosenthal. ‘I was curious to know if Mr Lowell’s sister ever stayed at the house while he was serving in Vietnam.’

‘Regularly,’ said Caxton. ‘She treated it like a second home.’

‘And were you always around during those visits?’

‘No, sir, not always. Once a month my wife and I like to visit our daughter and grandson in Chicago for a weekend. Sometimes when we returned on a Sunday night, it was clear that Mr and Mrs Lowell-Halliday had visited the house in our absence.’

‘How could you be so sure?’ asked Alex.

‘There would be beds to make, tables to be cleared, glasses to be washed, and a lot of ashtrays to be emptied.’

‘So they could have been here on their own for at least forty-eight hours?’

‘On several occasions.’

‘That’s very helpful, Caxton,’ said Rosenthal. ‘Thank you.’

‘It’s also most important, Caxton,’ said Alex, ‘that this conversation remains confidential. Is that understood?’

‘In the twelve years I served Mr Lowell,’ said Caxton, ‘he never found it necessary to question my discretion.’

‘I apologize,’ said Alex. ‘That was tactless of me.’

No one spoke until the butler had left the room, when Anna said, ‘Well, that certainly put you in your place, my darling.’

‘Actually, it was rather reassuring,’ said Rosenthal. ‘He would never have considered delivering such a rebuke if he had any intention of contacting Mrs Lowell-Halliday.’

‘I agree,’ said Anna. ‘But if Evelyn did take several of the pictures to the south of France, how can we prove it?’

‘That shouldn’t be too difficult,’ said Rosenthal. ‘One of the paintings she stole was a Rothko that measures about six feet by four. That isn’t something she could carry on board as hand luggage.’

Rosenthal rose from his chair and began pacing slowly around the room. Anna, who had become quite used to this habit, glanced at Alex and put a finger to her lips.

‘In my opinion,’ Rosenthal eventually said, ‘you could not move a painting of that size without the help of a professional art courier, especially if you were sending the picture overseas, as there would have to be export documents and other paperwork to complete. There are only a handful of such specialists on the East Coast, and only one of them is based in Boston.’

‘Do you know them?’ asked Alex hopefully.

‘I most certainly do, but I have no intention of contacting them, because immediately after taking my call, he would be on the phone to his client to let her know I’d been making enquiries.’

‘But he might be our only lead,’ said Alex.

‘Not necessarily, because another company would have had to pick up the packages when they arrived in Nice, and then deliver them to Mrs Lowell-Halliday’s villa in Saint-Paul-de-Vence. It wouldn’t surprise me if whoever that was had no idea of the contents, as that’s a secret Mrs Lowell-Halliday wouldn’t have wanted to share with anyone else, including the IRS.’

‘But how do we find out who was collecting the paintings without alerting half the art world?’

‘By making sure we remain at arm’s length,’ said Rosenthal. ‘And I think I know exactly the right dealer in Paris to assist us. May I use the telephone in the study?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Alex, as Rosenthal poured himself a large whisky and left the room without another word.

‘What’s he up to?’ asked Alex.

‘I can’t be sure,’ said Anna. ‘But I have a feeling he’ll be twisting a few arms, which is why he doesn’t want to be overheard.’

Rosenthal didn’t reappear for another forty minutes, and when he did, although he needed to refill his glass, Anna thought she detected the suggestion of a smile.

‘Pierre Gerand will call back as soon as he’s tracked down the courier in Nice. He says it’s likely to be one of three, and all of them would want to retain his business. Meanwhile, Monty Kessler will set out from New York first thing tomorrow morning, and anticipates being with us around midday.’

Alex nodded. He would like to have asked who Monty Kessler was, but had already learnt when, and when not, to question Mr Rosenthal.

When Alex came down to breakfast the following morning, he found Rosenthal halfway up the stairs, placing little red or yellow stickers on each picture on the wall.

‘You’ll be glad to hear, Alex, that there are still seventy-one originals left in the collection, including some of the finest examples of Abstract Expressionism I’ve ever come across. However, I’m in no doubt that fifty-three are copies,’ he said as the telephone rang.

‘Long distance from Paris for Mr Rosenthal,’ said Caxton.

Rosenthal walked quickly down the stairs and took the phone. ‘Good afternoon, Pierre.’ He said very little for the next few minutes, but never stopped scribbling on a pad by the phone. ‘I am most grateful,’ he said finally. ‘I owe you one.’ He laughed. ‘All right, two. And I’ll let you know the moment our shipment has left New York,’ he added before putting down the phone. ‘I have the name of the French courier,’ he announced. ‘A Monsieur Dominic Duval, who over the past five years has delivered a large number of different-sized crates to Mrs Lowell-Halliday’s residence in Saint-Paul-de-Vence.’

‘But if Pierre phones this Monsieur Duval,’ said Alex, ‘won’t he contact Evelyn immediately?’

‘Not if he wants to go on working for Pierre, he won’t. In any case, Pierre has already told him he has an even bigger consignment lined up for him, as long as he can keep his mouth shut.’

‘There’s a large, unmarked white van coming up the drive,’ said Anna, as she looked out of the front window.

‘That will be Monty,’ said Rosenthal. ‘Caxton, would you be kind enough to open the front door for Mr Kessler? And be prepared for an invasion of professional art thieves.’

‘Of course, sir.’

Shortly afterwards, a small fat balding man marched into the hallway, followed by his six associates, all dressed in black tracksuits with no logos, none of whom would have looked out of place in a boxing ring. Each carried a bag full of the equipment required by any self-respecting burglar.

‘Good morning, Monty,’ said Rosenthal. ‘I appreciate you coming at such short notice.’

‘No trouble, Mr Rosenthal. But I have to remind you that as it’s Saturday, we’re all on double-time. Where do you want me to start?’ he asked as he stood, hands on hips, in the middle of the hallway, and looked around at the paintings with the fondness of a doting father.

‘I only want you to pack up the ones with yellow stickers on their frames. And once you’ve done that, I’ll tell you where they have to be delivered.’

Alex watched with admiration as the seven men fanned out and went about their task with efficiency and skill. While one of them removed a picture from the wall, another covered it in bubble wrap, and a third placed it in a crate ready to be stacked in the van. Mr Rosenthal had faxed through the exact measurements the previous evening, and another team had worked through the night to have the crates ready in time. All of them on double-time.

‘They look as if they’ve done this before,’ said Alex.

‘Yes, Monty specializes in divorce and death. Wives who need to remove valuables after their husbands have left for work and before they return in the evening.’

Alex laughed. ‘And death?’

‘Children who want to move paintings and furniture that they agreed with their parents wouldn’t be mentioned in the will. It’s a thriving business, and Monty is almost always on double-time.’

‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

‘I need you to go to the bank and make sure everything is ready by the time Monty and his team turn up, which should be around four o’clock this afternoon. There’ll need to be someone waiting at the back door to accompany Monty to a secure vault that’s large enough to house seventy-one paintings. Once that’s done, please come straight back to the house.’

‘And will the van also be returning to Beacon Hill?’

‘Oh yes. After all, they will only have done half the job.’

‘Then I’d better get going.’ There were several questions Alex would have liked to ask Mr Rosenthal, but he accepted that ‘need to know’ must have been his family motto. As Alex left the house, the first picture was being loaded onto the van.

‘And what would you like me to do, Mr Rosenthal?’ asked Anna.

‘Double-check the inventory, and make sure they only pack those paintings with yellow stickers. Our real job won’t begin until they get back from the bank, when the remaining fifty-three pictures will be loaded onto the van and taken to New York.’

‘But they’re only copies,’ said Anna.

‘True,’ said Rosenthal. ‘But they still have to be returned to their rightful owner.’

‘The Warhol’s stowed safely in the hold,’ said Anna as the plane lifted off. ‘Has the rest of the collection arrived in Nice?’

‘Yes,’ said Rosenthal. ‘I called Pierre Gerand again as soon as I got back to New York on Sunday night. He’s one of the leading abstract dealers in Paris, and an old friend who’s familiar with the Lowell Collection, as his grandfather sold three pictures to Mr Lowell’s father when he was touring Europe in 1947. I told him that a large consignment of paintings was on its way to Nice, and asked him to arrange for Monsieur Duval to collect them and store them until we arrive. He phoned back yesterday to let me know that Evelyn and Mr Halliday were spotted boarding an Air France flight for Boston that morning. That’s when I called to remind you not to forget the Warhol. So by the time we touch down in Nice, everything should be in place. Pierre and Monsieur Duval will meet us off the plane.’

‘So now all we have to do is get the rest of the collection back,’ said Anna.

‘Which will be no small undertaking. At least we’re in the hands of professionals. But should we fail...’

‘Alex tells me the bank will go bust and we’ll be broke.’

‘So, no pressure,’ said Rosenthal. ‘Mind you, I could always offer Alex a job as a runner at the gallery. He’d be rather good at it.’

‘Or he could have my job, as you’ll need someone to fill in for me when the baby is born.’

‘No, he’s not that good,’ said Rosenthal, as the plane reached 40,000 feet and banked towards the east.

‘How much notice do you have to give?’ said Ackroyd.

‘The bank’s statutes require fourteen days,’ said Fowler, ‘so I was thinking of sending letters to all the directors this morning.’

‘But the moment Miss Robbins opens the mail, she’ll be alerted and tell Karpenko about the emergency board meeting, and if he’s half as bright as you say he is, it won’t take him long to work out what we’re up to.’

‘I’d thought of that,’ said Fowler, ‘and intend to send Karpenko’s letter to his apartment in Brooklyn. Now that he’s taken up residence in Boston, it will be lying on his doormat until he returns.’

‘And the motion to replace him as chairman will have been passed before he has a chance to do anything about it. So why don’t you post those letters, Ray?’

Anna emerged from the plane soon after they’d touched down in Nice, and was greeted by a warm evening breeze. She wished Alex was with her to share her first visit to France. But she knew he couldn’t risk being away from his desk for even a few hours.

Once they’d cleared customs and walked into the arrivals hall, a man, dressed in an open-necked floral shirt and a now fashionable light blue suit, rushed up to Rosenthal and kissed him on both cheeks.

‘Welcome, mon ami. Allow me to introduce you to Dominic Duval, whom I have chosen to mastermind this operation.’

When his Citroën joined the early evening traffic heading towards Nice, Duval began to brief his co-conspirators.

‘As soon as Mr and Mrs Lowell-Halliday left the villa, I called Pierre in Paris to let him know they were on their way to Boston.’

‘How could you be so sure they were going to the airport?’ asked Anna.

‘Three suitcases was a minor clue,’ said Duval.

‘It also suggests,’ said Rosenthal, ‘that Evelyn intends to remain in Boston for some time.’

‘I then called Nathanial in New York,’ said Pierre — the first time Anna had heard anyone call Mr Rosenthal by his first name — ‘to tell him they were on the way, and immediately flew down to Nice to make sure we’re ready for tomorrow’s exchange.’

‘Why so soon?’ asked Rosenthal.

‘We have to take advantage of the fact that Thursday is the butler’s day off. Otherwise we’d have to wait another week. And Mrs Lowell-Halliday might well have returned by then.’

‘Is your team in place?’

‘Ready and waiting,’ said Duval. ‘First thing tomorrow morning I’ll call the villa and tell the maid I have an important package for delivery.’

‘Do we know anything about the maid?’ asked Rosenthal.

‘Her name’s Maria,’ said Duval. ‘She’s worked there for several years, and she’s the only one who’s around on the butler’s day off. She’s not particularly bright, but she has a heart of gold.’

‘And as we have a comprehensive list of the paintings that have to be exchanged, we should be able to carry out the whole exercise in less than an hour,’ said Pierre.

‘But you can’t pack fifty-three valuable paintings in under an hour,’ said Rosenthal. ‘They’re not cans of baked beans. It’s likely to take at least three or four hours.’

‘We can’t even risk an hour,’ replied Duval. ‘We’ll remove them as quickly as possible from the villa, then drive to our warehouse, which is only seven kilometres away, where we can pack them properly for the flight. Don’t forget, we’ve already got the crates containing the copies.’

‘Impressive,’ said Rosenthal, ‘but I still worry that the maid might be a problem.’

‘I have an idea,’ said Anna.

‘As it seems I can’t even stay in my own home,’ said Evelyn, ‘we’ve had to take a suite at the Fairmont, which doesn’t come cheap, so I do hope, Douglas, that you’ve got everything set up for next Monday’s meeting.’

‘Everything’s in place,’ said Ackroyd. ‘Although the board’s divided, with your vote, we’ll still have a majority, so by this time next week Karpenko should be on his way back to New York worrying about pizzas, and I’ll be chairman of the bank.’

‘And I can move back into Beacon Hill and remove the rest of the pictures, before the IRS discovers that Lowell’s isn’t even a piggy bank.’

He phoned the villa at ten past eight the following morning.

‘Hi, Maria, it’s Dominic Duval,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a delivery for Mrs Lowell that needs to be dropped off at the villa.’

‘But Mrs Lowell isn’t here, and it’s the butler’s day off.’

‘My instructions couldn’t be clearer,’ said Duval. ‘Madame insisted that the package should be delivered before she returns from America, but if you’re in any doubt, please call her in Boston, though I should warn you, it’s two o’clock in the morning there.’ His first risk.

‘No, no,’ said the maid. ‘When should I expect you?’

‘In about an hour’s time.’ Duval put the phone down and joined the rest of the team, who were waiting for him in the van.

‘And how’s my wife?’ he said as he sat next to Anna. She gave him a weak smile.

Duval drove the van out of the warehouse and onto the main road. He stuck to the inside lane, and never exceeded the speed limit. During the journey, he took every member of the team through their roles one last time, especially Anna, Pierre and Rosenthal.

‘And don’t forget,’ he said, ‘only Anna and I are to leave the van when we arrive.’

Forty minutes later they drove through the front gates, up the driveway, and came to a halt outside a magnificent villa. Anna would have loved to stroll through the colourful, well-tended gardens, but not today.

She and Duval walked up to the front door hand in hand. Duval pressed the bell, and moments later the maid appeared. She smiled when she recognized the van.

‘One package to be delivered to Mrs Lowell,’ said Duval. ‘If you’ll just sign here, Maria, I’ll fetch the crate from the van.’

Maria smiled, but her expression turned to anxiety when Anna collapsed on the ground at her feet, clutching her stomach.

‘Ah, ma pauvre femme,’ said Duval. ‘My wife is pregnant, Maria. Do you have somewhere where she could lie down for a few minutes?’

‘Of course, monsieur. Come with me.’

Duval helped Anna to her feet and they followed the maid into the house and up the wide staircase to a guest bedroom on the first floor, while he studied the pictures on the way.

‘I’m sorry to be such a nuisance,’ said Anna, as Duval helped her onto the bed.

‘It’s not a problem, madame,’ said Maria. ‘Should I call for a doctor?’

‘No, I’m sure I’ll be all right if I can just rest for a few minutes. But, darling,’ she said to Duval, ‘would you fetch my bag from the van, there are some pills I ought to take.’

‘Of course, darling, I won’t be a moment,’ he said, taking a closer look at the picture above the bed.

‘You’re so kind,’ said Anna, clinging on to Maria’s hand.

‘No, no, madame, I have four children of my own. And men are so useless in these situations,’ she added as Duval slipped out of the room.

He ran down the stairs to find his team were already in full swing, with Rosenthal acting as ringmaster, while Pierre cracked the whip. One by one the masterpieces were removed from the walls, to be replaced moments later with copies.

‘You’ll find the Matisse above the fireplace in the drawing room,’ Rosenthal said to one of the couriers. ‘The Picasso belongs in the master bedroom,’ to another, ‘and the Rauschenberg goes right there,’ he said, pointing to a large empty space on the wall in front of him.

‘I’m looking for a Dalí,’ said Duval. ‘It goes in the guest bedroom,’ he added as a de Kooning disappeared out of the front door.

‘There are three Dalís,’ said Pierre after checking the inventory. ‘What’s the subject?’

‘A yellow clock melting over a table.’

‘Oil or watercolour?’ asked Pierre.

‘Oil,’ said Duval as he headed back up the staircase.

‘Got it. And don’t forget your wife’s handbag,’ said Rosenthal.

‘Merde!’ said Duval, who dashed out of the house, nearly colliding with two couriers coming the other way.

He opened the passenger door of the van, grabbed Anna’s handbag, and ran back into the house and up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Pierre was just a pace behind, clutching the Dalí. Duval caught his breath, opened the door and walked in, assuming a look of concern, while Pierre waited outside in the corridor.

‘And the problem with Béatrice,’ the maid was saying, ‘is that she’s fourteen, going on twenty-three.’

Anna laughed as Duval handed her the bag. ‘Thank you, darling,’ she said, as she undid the clasp and took out a bottle of pills. ‘I’m sorry to be such a nuisance, Maria, but could I have a glass of water?’

‘Of course,’ said the maid, bustling into the bathroom.

Anna leapt up, stood on the bed and quickly lifted the Dalí off its hook. She handed it to Duval, who ran to the door and exchanged it with Pierre for the copy, which he passed to Anna seconds later. Their second risk. She just had time to hang it on the hook and fall back down on the bed before Maria reappeared, carrying a glass of water. She found the two of them holding hands.

Anna took her time swallowing two pills, then said, ‘I’m so sorry to be holding you up.’ Her well-trained husband came in bang on cue.

‘Maria, where should I put the package for Mrs Lowell?’

‘Leave it in the hall, and the butler can deal with it when he gets back tomorrow.’

‘Of course,’ said Duval, ‘and by the time I return, darling, perhaps you’ll have sufficiently recovered for me to take you home.’

‘I hope so,’ said Anna.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Maria, ‘I’ll stay with madame until you get back.’

‘How kind of you,’ said Duval as he left the room. He was running down the stairs when he spotted Pierre handing the Dalí to a courier. ‘How much longer?’ he asked as he joined Rosenthal in the hall.

‘Five minutes, ten at the most,’ said Rosenthal, as a courier showed him a Pollock. ‘Far side of the drawing room,’ he said without hesitation.

Duval’s eyes never left the bedroom door. He said, ‘Any problems?’

‘I can’t find the blue Warhol of Jackie. It’s too important not to be in one of the main rooms. But you’d better get back upstairs before the maid becomes suspicious.’

Duval walked back upstairs and returned to the bedroom, where the maid was still regaling Anna with tales about her children. He held up five fingers, and as she nodded, he noticed that the Dalí was hanging lopsided.

‘Maria was just telling me, darling, about the trouble she’s been having with her daughter Béatrice.’

‘She can’t be worse than Marcel,’ said Duval, sitting on the edge of the bed.

‘But I thought you told me this would be your first child?’ said Maria, looking puzzled.

‘Dominic has a son by his first wife,’ said Anna quickly, ‘who tragically died of cancer, which I think is one of the reasons for Marcel’s problems.’

‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ said Maria.

‘I think I’m feeling a little better now,’ said Anna, slowly sitting up and lowering her feet onto the carpet. ‘You’ve been so kind. I don’t know how to thank you.’ She rose unsteadily and, with Maria’s support, began walking slowly towards the door, while Duval knelt on the bed and straightened the Dalí. His third risk. He caught up with them just in time to open the door.

‘I’ll go ahead and make sure the van door is open,’ he said — not part of the well-rehearsed script — and he was only halfway down the stairs when he saw Rosenthal and Pierre still in the hallway.

‘Where’s the Warhol?’ Pierre demanded.

‘To hell with the Warhol,’ said Duval. ‘We’re out of here.’

Pierre left quickly, followed by Rosenthal, cursing under his breath.

When Anna and Maria reached the hallway a few moments later, they found Duval standing by the front door, one hand resting on a crate.

‘Thank you for being so kind to my wife,’ he said. ‘Here’s the package I was asked to deliver, along with a letter for Mrs Lowell.’

‘I’ll see madame gets them both as soon as she returns,’ said Maria.

Duval took Anna gently by the arm and led her out of the house to find the passenger door of the van already open. It was the little details that Rosenthal was so good at.

As the van moved slowly down the drive, Duval wondered if Maria would find it strange that they had used such a large van to deliver one picture.

‘Any problems, Anna?’ said Rosenthal from the back of the van.

‘Other than being pregnant, having two husbands, neither of whom I’m married to, and a stepchild I’ve never even met, nothing in particular.’

‘Remember to drive slowly, Dominic,’ said Rosenthal. ‘We mustn’t forget that we have precious cargo on board.’

‘How thoughtful of you,’ said Anna, touching her stomach.

Rosenthal had the grace to smile, as Anna leant out of the window and waved goodbye to Maria. She waved back, a puzzled look on her face.

35 Alex

Boston

Alex arrived at the bank so early the following morning that Errol hadn’t yet taken up his post, and the night security guard had to let him in. Someone else who needed to be convinced that he was the new chairman.

He went up in the elevator alone, and when he stepped out into the corridor on the twenty-fourth floor, he was amused to see that Miss Robbins had left her light on. Fuelish, he would tease her. He opened the door, intending to switch the light off, only to be greeted with, ‘Good morning, chairman.’

‘Good morning,’ said Alex, not missing a beat. ‘Have you been here all night?’

‘No, sir, but I wanted to bring the mail up to date before you arrived.’

‘Anything interesting?’

‘There’s one letter and a package I thought you ought to see immediately. They’re on the top of the pile on your desk.’

‘Thank you,’ said Alex, curious to discover what Miss Robbins considered interesting. He walked into his office to find the promised mountain of mail awaiting him.

He took the letter from the top of the pile and read it slowly. He then opened the package and stared in disbelief at the real thing. His hands were still shaking as he put it back in the package. He had to agree with Miss Robbins, the letter was interesting, and she’d offered her opinion without knowing what was in the package.

The second letter was from Bob Underwood, a director of the bank who felt the time had come for him to retire, not least because he was seventy. He suggested that the emergency board meeting on Monday morning would be an ideal time to inform the board of his intention. Alex cursed, because Underwood was one of the few people he had hoped would remain on the board. He seemed perfectly satisfied with the ten thousand dollars a year he received as a non-executive director, he rarely claimed any expenses, and you didn’t have to read between the lines of the minutes to realize that he was one of the few board members who was willing to stand up to Ackroyd and his cronies. Alex would have to try and get him to change his mind.

And then his eyes returned to the words, emergency board meeting on Monday morning. Why hadn’t Miss Robbins informed him about that earlier?

There was a gentle tap on the door and Miss Robbins appeared bearing a cup of coffee, black no sugar, and a plate of digestive biscuits. How did she find out what his favourite biscuits were?

‘Thank you,’ said Alex, as she placed a silver tray that must have been one of Lawrence’s family heirlooms on the desk in front of him. ‘May I ask a delicate question, Miss Robbins? You must have a first name?’

‘Pamela.’

‘And I’m Alex.’

‘I’m aware of that, chairman.’

‘I agree with you, Pamela, that Mrs Ackroyd’s letter is interesting. But as I don’t know the lady, how would you advise me to respond to her offer?’

‘I would accept it in good faith, chairman. After all, it’s common knowledge that their recent divorce was acrimonious...’ Miss Robbins hesitated.

‘I don’t think we have time to observe the social niceties, Pamela, so spit it out.’

‘I was only surprised how few women were named as corespondents.’

‘That’s sure spitting it out,’ said Alex. ‘Carry on.’

‘The latest of his secretaries, a Miss Bowers, may well have hidden attributes of which I am unaware, but she certainly couldn’t spell.’

‘So you feel I should take Mrs Ackroyd’s words at face value?’

‘I most certainly do, chairman, and I particularly enjoyed the last paragraph of her letter.’

Alex read it again, and indeed it brought a smile to his face.

‘Anything else, chairman?’

‘Yes,’ said Alex, ‘before you go, Pamela, I also read Mr Underwood’s letter and he’s under the impression there’s an emergency board meeting next Monday. If that’s the case, it’s news to me.’

‘As it was to me,’ said Miss Robbins. ‘So I made a few discreet enquiries, and it turns out that Mr Fowler sent out notice of the meeting a few days ago.’

‘Not to me, he didn’t.’

‘Yes, he did. But he sent the agenda to your apartment in New York, which is registered with the company as your home address.’

‘But Fowler knows perfectly well that I’m staying at Mr Lowell’s home for the foreseeable future. What’s he up to?’

‘I have no idea, chairman, but I could try to find out.’

‘Please do. And see if you can lay your hands on an agenda, without Fowler finding out.’

‘Of course, chairman.’

‘Meanwhile, I’ll plough on with these files until Mr Harbottle arrives for his appointment at eleven.’ As she turned to leave, Alex couldn’t resist asking, ‘What do you think of Mr Harbottle, Pamela?’

‘He’s a stuffy, eccentric old buzzard, right out of the pages of Dickens, but let’s at least be thankful he’s batting for our team, because the enemy are terrified of him, and perhaps even more important, he’s like Caesar’s wife.’

‘Caesar’s wife?’

‘When you have more time, chairman.’

‘Before you go, Pamela, if I were to ask you for one piece of advice to keep this ship afloat, what would it be?’

‘Not what, but who. I’d have a private meeting, very private, with Jake Coleman, who until six months ago was the bank’s chief financial officer.’

‘Why do I remember that name?’ said Alex. ‘Something I read in the minutes?’

‘He resigned after a flaming row with Mr Ackroyd, and like me, he was told to clear his desk by the end of the day.’

‘What was the row about?’

‘I’ve no idea. Mr Coleman is far too professional to have discussed the matter with a member of staff.’

‘Who’s he working for now?’

‘He hasn’t been able to find another job, chairman, because every time he’s shortlisted for a major position they call Mr Ackroyd, and he not only sticks the knife in, but twists it.’

‘Set up a meeting with him as quickly as possible.’

‘I’ll call him immediately, chairman,’ said Miss Robbins before closing the door behind her.

As Alex read through the minutes of the previous years’ board meetings, it became increasingly evident that although Lawrence might well have attended, even chaired, every one of them, the unholy trinity of Ackroyd, Jardine and Fowler had simply run rings around him. He had reached September, when there was a knock on the door. Could it possibly be eleven o’clock already?

The door opened and in walked the unmistakable figure of Mr Harbottle. ‘Good morning, chairman,’ said the elderly counsel.

‘Good morning, sir,’ said Alex, standing and waiting for Harbottle to take a seat. He paused to allow Mr Harbottle to suggest that perhaps they might now call each other by their first names, but no such offer was forthcoming.

‘May I begin by thanking you for your excellent advice yesterday,’ said Alex. ‘It allowed me to remain a yard ahead of Ackroyd and Jardine, but only a yard, because I’ve just learnt that Fowler has called an emergency board meeting for next Monday.’

‘Has he indeed?’ said Harbottle. He adjusted his spectacles before continuing. ‘Then I suspect it is their intention to try to replace you as chairman. And they wouldn’t have called the meeting unless they’re convinced they have a majority on the board.’

‘If they have, is there anything I can do about it?’

‘I won’t know the answer to that, chairman, until I have another chance to consult the bank’s statutes.’

‘Another chance?’

‘Yes, because I may already have come up with something that will assist you in your efforts.’

Alex sank back in his chair, only too aware that Harbottle would take his time.

‘While you’re been familiarizing yourself with the board minutes and annual accounts, I’ve been engrossed in the company’s statutes — fascinating bedtime reading — and I think I may have come across something that will be of interest to you.’ He removed a file from his Gladstone bag.

‘Paragraph 33b, no doubt.’

Harbottle allowed himself a half-smile. ‘No, in fact,’ he said, opening the file, ‘statute nine, sub-clause two. Allow me to enlighten you, chairman,’ he said, and began to read a passage he had underlined. ‘No employee or director of the company shall be paid more than the chairman.’

Alex’s mind began to race, but it quickly became clear that Harbottle had continued to burn the midnight oil.

‘Ackroyd paid himself the outrageous sum of $500,000 a year as CEO, which also allowed him to reward his inner team with inflated salaries, thereby guaranteeing him a majority on the board.’

‘So if I were to pay myself a more realistic salary,’ said Alex, ‘say—’

‘Sixty thousand dollars a year,’ prompted Harbottle, ‘while at the same time insisting that all future expenses had to be signed off by you, I suspect that all three of them would resign fairly quickly.’

‘But that’s assuming I survive as chairman.’

‘Agreed,’ said Harbottle. ‘And after what I have to tell you, you may not be certain you want to remain in the post.’ Alex sat back again. ‘You asked me to visit the chairman of the Banking Commission, which I did yesterday afternoon. I can’t pretend he was in the giving vein. In fact, he made it quite clear after he’d studied the latest balance sheet that the entire Lowell Collection would have to be valued by a recognized dealer and lodged in the bank’s vaults before he would consider it as an asset. He will allow you twenty-eight days to fulfil this obligation, and I am to report back to him personally should you fail to do so.’

Alex let out a deep sigh. ‘Anything else?’

‘Yes, I fear so. He also made it clear that Mr Lowell had no right to leave you his fifty per cent of the bank’s shares, or even his fifty per cent of the Elena Pizza Company, and has insisted that those shares are also lodged with the bank as security. He went on to suggest that you might consider including your fifty per cent of Elena’s, to prove your commitment to the bank. However, he did add that you were under no obligation to do so.’

‘How very generous of him,’ said Alex. ‘Anything in the credit column?’

‘Yes. I wrote down his exact words.’ Harbottle turned a page of his yellow pad. ‘I am confident that anyone who could escape from the KGB in a crate with only half a dozen bottles of vodka for his passage and go on to win the Silver Star, will surely be able to overcome the bank’s current problems.’

‘How does he know about that?’ said Alex.

‘You clearly haven’t had the time to read today’s Boston Globe. It’s published a glowing profile of you in the business section. It makes you sound like a cross between Abraham Lincoln and James Bond.’

Alex laughed for the first time that day.

‘But be warned. Ackroyd is every bit as ruthless and resourceful as Blofeld, and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he fed his cat on live goldfish.’

‘I can’t believe that you’re...’

‘Ah, I confess to being an admirer of Mr Fleming. I’ve read all his books, although I’ve never seen any of the films.’

The lawyer removed his glasses, placed the file back in his Gladstone bag and folded his arms; a sign that he was about to say something off the record.

‘Dare I ask how Mr Rosenthal’s trip to Nice worked out?’

‘It could hardly have gone better,’ said Alex. ‘With the exception of one painting, the entire Lowell Collection will soon be safely stored in a secure vault, to which only I and the bank’s head of security know the code, and which cannot be opened unless both of us are present, with our keys.’

‘That is indeed good news,’ said Harbottle. ‘But you did say, with one exception?’

‘And even that is now in my possession,’ said Alex, as he handed over Mrs Ackroyd’s letter. Once the lawyer had read it, Alex passed across a small painting to Mr Harbottle.

‘A Blue Jackie by Warhol,’ said Harbottle. ‘I must say, this restores one’s faith in one’s fellow man.’

‘Or even woman,’ said Alex with a grin.

‘But how did Mrs Ackroyd get her hands on the painting?’ asked Harbottle.

‘She says Ackroyd gave it to her as part of their divorce settlement.’

‘And how did he get hold of it?’

‘Evelyn Lowell-Halliday, would be my bet,’ said Alex. ‘A reward for services rendered, no doubt.’

‘Which gives me an idea,’ said Harbottle. He paused for a moment before saying, ‘But if I’m to pull it off, I’ll need to borrow Jackie for a few days.’

‘Of course,’ said Alex, well aware that there would be no point in asking him why.

Harbottle wrapped up the painting, and placed it carefully in his Gladstone bag. ‘I’ve wasted enough of your time, chairman,’ he said as he rose from his seat, ‘so I’ll be on my way.’

Alex was unable to resist a smile as he accompanied Mr Harbottle to the door. But once again, the old gentleman took him by surprise.

‘Now we know each other a little better, I think you should call me Harbottle.’

It wasn’t difficult for Alex to work out why Jake Coleman and Doug Ackroyd were never going to be able to work together. Coleman was so clearly an honest, decent, straightforward man, who believed the team was far more important than any individual. Whereas Ackroyd...

The two of them met for lunch at Elena 3, as Alex was confident that was the one place in Boston Ackroyd and his cronies would never patronize.

‘Why did you leave Lowell’s?’ asked Alex, once they’d both ordered a Congressman special.

‘I didn’t leave the bank,’ said Jake, ‘I was fired.’

‘Can I ask why?’

‘I felt someone had to inform the chairman that his sister’s gambling habit had got out of control, and that if she was allowed to go on borrowing indiscriminately, the bank would surely go bust.’

‘How did Ackroyd respond?’ said Alex as two sizzling pizzas were placed in front of them.

‘Told me to mind my own business if I knew what was good for me.’

‘And you clearly didn’t.’

‘No. I warned Ackroyd that if he didn’t inform the chairman of what was going on behind his back, then I would. Which was as good as signing my own death warrant, because I was fired the next day.’

‘And did you tell Lawrence the truth?’

‘I wrote to him immediately,’ said Jake, ‘even set up an appointment to see him. But he asked if it could wait until after the election, and as that was only a few weeks away, I readily agreed.’

‘And you haven’t been able to find a suitable position since?’

‘No. At least not at the same level I had at Lowell’s. Ackroyd made sure of that.’

‘I’m surprised he still has that sort of influence in banking circles.’

‘He has enemies, that’s for sure, but whenever I applied for a job, the first person they’d contact was the CEO of the last bank I’d worked for.’

Alex could almost hear Ackroyd whispering confidentially: between you and me, the man can’t be trusted. The one word in banking that would have closed every door.

‘So, if I were to offer you a job, would you consider coming back?’

‘No. At least not while Ackroyd is still on the board. I don’t need to be sacked twice.’

‘But if Ackroyd were to resign?’

‘Wild horses won’t move him while he still has a majority on the board, and while Evelyn owns fifty per cent of the stock, what’s the point?’

‘You may well be right,’ said Alex, ‘because I can’t pretend that my own position is all that secure. And even if that were to change, I still can’t guarantee the bank will survive. However, I am convinced that if you were to climb back on board, we’d have a lot better chance.’

‘What makes you so confident of that, when you don’t even know me?’

‘But I do know Bob Underwood, and Pamela Robbins, and if those two are willing to vouch for you, that’s good enough for me.’

‘That is indeed a compliment. So if you are able to get rid of Ackroyd and his cronies, I will be happy to continue in my old job as the bank’s financial officer.’

‘That wasn’t what I had in mind,’ said Alex. Jake looked disappointed. ‘I was rather hoping you’d be willing to take over Ackroyd’s position, and return to Lowell’s as the chief executive.’

‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ said Alex, looking around the table to see only one unoccupied chair. ‘I will ask Mr Fowler to read the minutes of the last meeting.’

The company secretary rose from his place and opened the minute book. ‘The board met on March eighteenth,’ he began, ‘and among the matters discussed...’

Alex’s mind drifted back to the hastily called meeting held in Harbottle’s office the previous evening that had lasted until the early hours of the morning. They had both come to the reluctant conclusion that the numbers were stacked against him, well aware that Evelyn was in Boston. He glanced at the empty chair. But if Evelyn didn’t turn up, he might still be in with a chance.

By the time Alex had arrived home, Anna was fast asleep. He decided not to wake her and burden her with his news. He placed a hand on his future son or daughter, a little mound of would-be-life keen to get out and join the world. He climbed into bed, desperate for sleep, but his mind didn’t rest, even for a moment, like a convicted murderer the night before being strapped into the electric chair.

He snapped back into the real world when Fowler said, ‘That concludes the minutes of the last meeting. Are there any questions?’

Still no sign of Evelyn.

There were no questions, not least because everyone around that table knew only too well what the first item on the agenda was.

‘Item number one is the selection of a new chairman,’ said Alex as the door opened and Evelyn burst into the room. Alex cursed as he looked at the woman who’d so captivated him when they’d first met. He could see why men fell so completely under her spell, if only for a short time. Jardine and Ackroyd both rose to greet her, and she took the empty place between them.

‘I apologize for being late,’ said Evelyn, ‘but I needed to consult my lawyer on a personal matter before I attended the meeting.’

Which lawyer, Alex wondered, and what personal matter?

‘I was about to invite nominations for the post of chairman,’ said Fowler, ‘following the tragic death of your brother.’

Evelyn nodded. ‘Please don’t let me hold you up,’ she said, smiling warmly at the company secretary.

Mr Jardine was quickly back on his feet. ‘I’d like to place on record my admiration for the way Mr Karpenko has temporarily filled the gap while we looked for a more suitably qualified candidate to be our next chairman. I believe that, for the long-term future of the company, that person is Doug Ackroyd. We will all recall what an outstanding job he did as the bank’s CEO.’

‘Almost brought the company to its knees,’ muttered Bob Underwood, loudly enough for his fellow board members to hear.

Jardine ignored the sotto voce interruption and ploughed on. ‘I therefore have no hesitation in proposing our former CEO, Mr Douglas Ackroyd, to be the next chairman of Lowell’s Bank.’

‘Do we have a seconder?’ asked Fowler.

‘I shall be delighted to second the nomination,’ said Alan Gates, coming in bang on cue.

‘Another of the fifty-thousand-dollar-a-year expenses brigade,’ said Underwood, ‘making sure the gravy train rolls on in perpetuity.’

‘Thank you,’ said Fowler. ‘If there are no further nominations, all that is left for me to do is call for a vote. Those in favour of Mr Doug Ackroyd being elected as our next chairman, please raise your hands.’

Six hands were raised.

‘On a point of order, Mr Chairman.’ The well-organized juggernaut suddenly ground to an unscheduled halt. ‘I feel I should point out,’ said Underwood, ‘that under standing order 7.9 of the bank’s statutes, no one standing for the position of chairman can vote for themselves.’

Alex smiled. Clearly Harbottle wasn’t the only person who’d been burning the midnight oil. There was some muttering among the board members while Fowler looked up that particular standing order.

‘That appears to be correct,’ he eventually managed.

‘Well, what do you know?’ said Underwood. ‘Our founding fathers weren’t that stupid after all.’

‘However,’ said Fowler, ‘Mr Ackroyd still has five votes. I will now ask if anyone wishes to vote against?’

Five directors immediately raised their hands.

‘Any abstentions?’

‘Only me,’ said Evelyn, in her most innocent voice.

Ackroyd was baffled, while Alex couldn’t hide his surprise.

‘Then the vote is five each, with one abstention,’ said Fowler.

‘So what do we do now?’ asked Tom Rhodes, a director who rarely spoke.

‘I suggest Mr Fowler reads standing order 7.10,’ said Underwood, ‘and we just might find out.’

Fowler reluctantly turned the page and read out, ‘In the event of a tie, the chairman will have the casting vote.’

Everyone turned to face Alex, who didn’t hesitate before saying, ‘Against.’ Even louder muttering broke out among the board members.

It was some time before Fowler, after once again checking the standing orders, asked, ‘Are there any other nominations?’

‘Yes,’ said Bob Underwood. ‘I propose that Mr Alex Karpenko continue as our chairman, as no one can be in any doubt about the outstanding contribution he has made since he took over the chair.’

‘I second the nomination,’ said Rhodes.

Fowler resumed his role as arbitrator. ‘Those in favour, please raise their hands.’ Only five hands shot up, as Alex couldn’t vote for himself.

Just as Fowler was about to ask for those against, Evelyn slowly raised her hand to join the other five. Fowler couldn’t have sounded more dismayed when he had to announce, ‘I declare Mr Alex Karpenko to have been elected as the chairman of the Lowell Bank and Trust Company.’

Several members of the board burst into spontaneous applause, while Ackroyd was unable to hide first his disbelief, then his anger. He along with four other directors immediately rose from their places and left the room.

‘Judas,’ said Ackroyd, as he walked past Evelyn.

‘More like the Good Samaritan!’ shouted Underwood before the door slammed shut.

‘They’ll be back,’ said Alex with a sigh.

‘I don’t think so,’ said Evelyn quietly. She didn’t speak again until she was sure she had everyone’s attention.

‘The reason I was a little late for the board meeting, gentlemen,’ she said, ‘was because earlier this morning I had a visit from a senior officer with the Boston Police Department.’

Every eye was fixed on her.

‘It seems that a Blue Jackie by Andy Warhol was stolen from the Lowell Collection while Lawrence was serving in Vietnam.’ She paused and took a sip of water, her hand trembling to show how distressed she was.

‘When the officer told me the name of the culprit, I was so shocked, I immediately consulted my lawyer, who advised me to attend this meeting and make sure that Mr Karpenko continues as chairman of the bank. I also felt it nothing less than my duty to assure the chief of police that when Mr Ackroyd comes up for trial, I will be happy to appear as a state witness.’

Some of the directors nodded, while Alex remained puzzled.

‘Congratulations,’ said Underwood. ‘You single-handedly managed to remove five shits with one shovel.’

‘But I don’t understand,’ said Alex, once the laughter had died down. ‘Why would you be willing to support me?’

‘Because who am I to disagree with my brother’s choice for chairman?’ Not one of the remaining board members believed her for a moment, and were even more surprised by her next statement. ‘And to that end, I would like to place on record that I am willing to sell my fifty per cent holding in the company for one million dollars.’

Now Alex understood exactly why she needed Ackroyd out of the way. He was about to respond to her offer, when Miss Robbins burst into the room and handed him a slip of paper. He unfolded it, read the message and smiled before rising to his feet.

‘Wild horses couldn’t have dragged me away from this meeting,’ he said, ‘but the words, “your wife’s gone into labour”, certainly can and will.’ He was already on the move.

A second round of applause followed, and when Alex reached the door he turned and said, ‘Bob, will you take over the chair? I don’t think I’ll be back today.’

‘There’s a taxi waiting for you,’ Miss Robbins said as they went down in the elevator.

The cab sped off as if it was on the front of the grid at Daytona. Alex had to cling on to his seat as the driver swerved in and out of the traffic. Clearly the words ‘she’s in labour’ created another gear.

By the time the taxi came to a screeching halt outside the hospital entrance fifteen minutes later, two police motor cycles were on their tail. Alex prayed they were both fathers. He took his wallet out, handed the driver a hundred-dollar bill and ran inside.

‘Your change!’ shouted the driver, but Alex had long since disappeared.

He crossed the lobby to the front desk and gave the receptionist his name.

‘Maternity unit, 6B, fourth floor,’ she said, checking her screen and smiling. ‘Your wife got here just in time.’

Alex ran to the elevator, jumped in and jabbed the number 4 several times, only to discover it didn’t make it move any faster. When the doors eventually slid open on the fourth floor, he walked quickly along the corridor until he came to a door marked 6B. He charged in to find Anna sitting up in bed, holding a little bundle in her arms. She looked up and smiled.

‘Ah, here’s your father. What can have taken him so long?’

‘I’m so sorry I wasn’t here in time,’ said Alex, taking her in his arms. ‘Something unexpected came up at the office isn’t much of an excuse, but at least it’s true.’

‘Meet your son and heir,’ said Anna, handing him over.

‘Hello, little fellow. Had a good day so far?’

‘He’s doing fine,’ said Anna. ‘But he’s quite anxious to find out what happened at the board meeting.’

‘No need to be, his father’s still the chairman of Lowell’s Bank.’

‘How come?’

‘Evelyn gave me her casting vote.’

‘Why would she do that?’

‘Because she’s had to accept that the bank can no longer afford to pay out any more money, and perhaps more important, she won’t now be able to get her hands on the Lowell Collection.’

‘But why would she roll over quite so easily?’ said Anna.

‘Jackie Kennedy came to our rescue,’ said Alex.

‘I’m lost.’

‘It seems that the police had to arrest either Ackroyd or Evelyn for stealing the Warhol, while allowing the other to turn state’s evidence. No prizes for guessing which role Evelyn cast herself in. In fact she’s so desperate, she even offered to sell me her shares in the bank.’

‘For how much?’

‘A million dollars. Just a pity I don’t have that sort of money at the moment.’

‘Let’s hope you don’t live to regret it,’ said Anna.

There was a tap on the door, and a nurse poked her head into the room. ‘I’m sorry to bother you, Mr Karpenko, but there’s a traffic policeman outside who says he needs to see the evidence.’