The Janissary Tree

[ 72 ]

Half an hour later Yashim was standing in the portico of the Russian embassy, toying with the irritating reflection that know—ing was not altogether the same thing as finding. He was only half a mile from Palewski’s ambassadorial Residency, and scarcely twenty yards from the map which he had seen hanging in the gallery in the vestibule upstairs. But for all his ability to reach the map, it might have been in Siberia.

The ambassador, it appeared, was not at home. Yashim wondered if he kept Palewski’s hours: perhaps he was even now in bed with his luscious wife. The idea upset him, and he asked to see the First Secretary instead. But the First Secretary could not be contacted, either. It occurred to Yashim to ask to see the ambassador’s wife: but common sense, as well as inherited notions of propriety, ruled that out. Even Christian women didn’t come to the door for every man who knocked.

“Is there anyone I can speak to? It’s very urgent.”

The moment he heard the deliberate, military tread Yashim knew who could be found to speak to him. The crippled hand. The ugly scar.

“Good afternoon,” Potemkin said. “Won’t you come in?”

As he followed the young diplomat into the great hall his eyes flickered automatically to the stairs.

“The staff do not usually admit people without an appointment. I am sorry if you have been waiting a long time. The ambassador and his staff have a heavy workload today. His excellency is expected at the palace tonight. I am afraid it is impossible that they should be interrupted.”

He sounded nervous, on edge, Yashim thought. He said: “You may be able to help me. The other day I saw an interesting map outside the ambassador’s office, which I’d like to look at again. I wonder…?”

Potemkin looked puzzled. “A map?”

“Yes. By Melchior Lorich. It is hanging in the vestibule upstairs.”

“I am sure His Excellency would be delighted to show it to you,” Potemkin said, more smoothly. “If you would care to put your request in writing, I will personally see that it receives his attention.”

“Now?”

Potemkin managed a half-smile. “I’m afraid that’s impossible. Requests of this nature take, what, a month or so to organise. Perhaps we can cut it down, though. Shall we say three weeks?”

“I know the map is just there, up the stairs. I’ll disturb no one.”

Potemkin continued to smile, and said nothing.

“Fifteen minutes,” Yashim said desperately.

“You forget, monsieur, that this is a working embassy. It is neither a museum, nor a public gallery. But I am sure that His Excellency the Prince would be delighted to consider your request—in good time. In the meantime, unless you have anything else…?”

“I don’t suppose you have had a chance to look at the porter’s accounts yet,” Yashim observed sardonically.

“No,” the attache agreed softly. “Not a chance. Allow me to show you out, monsieur.”