Illegal Action

22

“Good evening, Mr. Brunovsky,” gushed the beige-coated doorman, rushing forward to open the doors of the Bentley, as it drew up at the Hilton Hotel on Park Lane. Brunovsky and Monica swept into the foyer and as they stood waiting for the others to join them, Brunovsky’s eye lit on the plate-glass window of a jewellery boutique just inside the door, glittering with a display of diamonds and emeralds. Taking Monica’s elbow and heading towards the shop, he said over his shoulder to the others, “We’ll meet you on the twenty-eighth floor.”

Emerging from the lift into the Windows on the World restaurant, Liz caught her breath at the almost 360-degree panoramic view of London, the roofs of Mayfair in the near distance, the dark tree-filled expanse of Hyde Park on one side and further away the lights of Kensington and Chelsea and Westminster where the river snaked past the Eye and the Houses of Parliament.

I don’t know what I’m doing here, thought Liz to herself, but I’m beginning to enjoy it.

By the time Brunovsky and Monica appeared, the waiters had opened two bottles of Krug.

“Look.” Monica delightedly waved a beribboned package and produced from it a delicate diamond and emerald necklace.

“Just a little something to celebrate,” said Brunovsky with a big smile, drinking down a large glass of fizzy water.

How very strange, thought Liz. Why is he so cheerful? He’s just lost the painting of his dreams.

By the time the party moved to their table beside a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking Hyde Park, they had been joined by Harry Forbes and a Danish woman introduced as Greta Darnshof, editor of a glossy art magazine. Then Tamara appeared, looking out of breath.

“Here we all are,” announced Brunovsky expansively. “And now a toast to the successful bidder.”

“Hear hear,” said Harry Forbes, lifting his champagne flute.

And then Liz understood: it had been Tamara bidding over the phone. No wonder Brunovsky wasn’t upset. He had bought Blue Field after all.

“I’d love to see Morozov’s face when he finds out,” Forbes said as a waiter began serving their first course.

“I do not wish him to find out yet,” Brunovsky declared, and he put a finger to his lips.

“Mum’s the word,” said Forbes, nodding vigorously.

Greta Darnshof, sitting directly across from Liz, was dressed elegantly in a black cocktail dress and a single strand of pearls, her thick honey-coloured hair swept back with a demure velvet headband. “I understand you are a Pashko expert,” she said, leaning forward. “Which is your favourite period?”

“I suppose the years just after he returned to Russia,” said Liz. She added quickly, “But I’m not an expert. Just an enthusiast—more of a student, really.”

Greta eyed her knowingly. “Pashko is easy to fall for. When did your own romance begin?”

Liz took a bite of terrine, using the food as a distraction. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said easily, with a placid smile. “I suppose I liked his pictures even as an undergraduate.”

“Where was that?”

“Bristol,” said Liz.

“And how did you meet Nikita?”

“Through friends.”

“Russians?”

“No,” said Liz, with just a touch of astringency, wondering if this woman would ask for her CV next.

Suddenly Brunovsky let out a huge guffaw and Liz turned with some relief to his end of the table. He had just ended a story he had been telling Harry Forbes and catching Liz’s eye he said, “Jane, you should hear this. I’ve just been telling Harry what Morozov did.” He paused just long enough to take a draught of mineral water and went on, “He’s got a son who can’t speak. The hospital in Moscow did something wrong when he was born. He’s at a special school. One day he didn’t come home, no one knew where he was, and Morozov got the idea he’d been kidnapped—called out the police, made a big stink. It turned out he was at school all the time. Some other boys had locked him in the bog! So there’s little Ivanovitch shitting himself while his dad’s crying his eyes out in the police station. What a fool.” He roared with laughter again.

Shocked by the crude unkindness of the story, Liz cast an eye round the table to see whether anyone else was thinking as she was. But they were all laughing with their host, though Greta had managed only a cold smile.

Brunovsky turned to say something to Monica, and Liz, seizing the moment, asked Harry Forbes quietly, “Who is this Morozov?”

“He’s from St. Petersburg. He made millions in industrial diamonds, then tried to move into oil. It didn’t work out, and he managed to fall out with the authorities about the same time Nikita did.”

“Do they know each other well?” she asked.

Harry shrugged. “They go way back, but I don’t know the ins and outs. You’d have to ask Nikita for the whole story. There’s some history there.”

As Brunovsky’s attention swung back towards them, Harry Forbes said to him, “Nikita, what I can’t understand is why it took so long for Blue Field to be found. You’d have thought someone would have spotted it during all those years.”

Brunovsky laughed. “Perhaps the old lady who owned it did not like it. Maybe she kept it in her attic.”

Greta spoke up. “Some people say that Blue Mountain may also be found one day.”

“You mean,” said Harry Forbes, “rumours of its death have been greatly exaggerated?” He laughed loudly, and Liz realised that she found the man irritating. His high spirits seemed fake.

Brunovsky shook his head. “It was destroyed. Mona O’Dwyer said so herself.”

“Yes,” said Greta. “So we are led to believe. But why don’t we ask the view of our Pashko expert?”

Liz wondered momentarily which expert Greta was referring to, then realised with a start that she meant her. As the waiter arrived at the table to clear the plates, she stalled for time, thinking furiously what to say. Even if she handled this question okay, Liz sensed there would be many more to come from Greta. The woman seemed bent on testing her, and Liz worried that sooner or later she was going to face an exam she couldn’t pass.

Rescue came from an unexpected quarter. “Honestly, Greta,” said Monica Hetherington, “give the girl a break. She’s only just got here.” She pointed at Liz. “I just love your dress, Jane. Where did you get it?”