The Samurai Inheritance

XXV

‘I should shoot you now before you cause any more trouble.’ The words were in English, which had been established as their common language, but the sentiments and the force with which they were produced were unquestionably Russian. ‘There are five hundred square miles of Siberia out there and the wolves are hungry. Your bodies will never be found. Tell me why I shouldn’t do that?’

‘Because your old friend Sergei would advise against it,’ Jamie suggested.

‘I don’t give a fuck about my old friend Sergei,’ their host snorted. ‘I have a policy of not mentioning that bastard’s name in this house. You never know who is listening. But we know who we’re talking about, yes? Someone who has whored himself to the drug lords and the war lords and spy lords.’ Jamie nodded. He sensed Magda’s consternation but now wasn’t the time for explanations. Fortunately, the other man didn’t seem to notice the change in atmosphere. ‘What are you? FSB? Not with that accent. CIA? No, you’re one of those cock-sucking English homos from the SIS or MI6 or whatever they’re calling it these days.’ He looked Jamie up and down, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Her Majesty would weep if she could see what had happened to James Bond. The English secret service couldn’t wipe its own arse without American help. Oh, yes, I’ve met your Queen, a true lady, lovely and honest, not like those shits in Westminster; clever, too, unlike most of the rest of her brood.’

Arkady Berzarin, son of the former diplomat Gennady and, as it turned out, sole proprietor of Siberia’s aluminium industry, sat back in his chair and sipped tea from a china cup. Casually dressed in a dark blue T-shirt, jogging pants and sports shoes, a fluffy white Samoyed hound lay across his feet with its eyes closed, breathing softly. He was fifty-five, but looked ten years younger, with a full head of mouse-brown hair, narrow, shrewd features and a slim build. Opposite him, Jamie and Magda attempted to look equally composed on a couch of soft white leather so broad they’d have had to send semaphore signals if they’d sat at either end. It was all a bewildering contrast to their welcome a few minutes earlier in a sterile metal box inside the gates when they’d been individually strip-searched — by a female guard in Magda’s case — and body-scanned for electronic bugs. Now the warm glow of polished pine surrounded them in a large room at the heart of an enormous and particularly opulent Swiss-style chalet. The wooden floor was scattered with dense Persian carpets in vibrant hues and an explosion of what looked to Jamie like genuine Jackson Pollock paintings filled an entire wall. Great spattered vortexes of shape and colour filled with hidden messages, they threatened to swallow you up if you stood too close. Studying them, Jamie was reminded of Keith Devlin’s ‘collection’, and he reflected distractedly that great art was to the billionaire what the Ferrari was to the futures trader, a sort of giant phallic banner waved from a hilltop. Not exactly a fresh or particularly relevant insight, he admitted to himself, but a genuine enough reflection of the new reality.

A beautiful girl in a tailored business suit appeared from a disguised entrance. She handed the Russian a brown paper envelope and whispered in his ear before exiting by the same route. Berzarin weighed the package in his hand.

‘Your passports,’ he said. ‘Apparently genuine, or somebody has built you a very good background. It wouldn’t be the first time.’ He shook the contents carelessly on to the low glass table that separated them.

‘Genuine, sir, I can assure you.’ Jamie picked up the maroon oblong with the gold lion and unicorn coat of arms. Odd how comforting it felt to have it back in his hands. He handed the second passport to Magda, and she smiled her thanks.

‘So, Mr Jamie Saintclair, art dealer, and Dr Magda Ross, museum curator, you have come to talk to Berzarin about his father,’ the Russian nodded absently. ‘That is curious enough in itself, but Berzarin would be wise to ask himself why his visitors think it is good manners to force themselves into his presence by the use of a threat?’

‘I don’t believe we threatened anyone.’ Jamie covered his defensiveness with the upper-class Englishman’s disdain he’d learned at Cambridge. ‘If anything, it was the other way round.’

‘So you don’t understand that the use of the name Sergei is a threat? That for Berzarin it is the equivalent of a bullet in the mail or a horse’s head in the bed?’

‘No, I—’ Magda’s voice reflected her bewilderment, but Berzarin cut her off.

‘Sergei was the work name he used when he was a KGB recruiter at the St Petersburg State University — it was still Leningrad State, then — and it was as feared then as his own name is now, at least in certain quarters. Sergei would get you by the balls and he would never let go; I can feel the grip of his cold fingers yet.’ He sat forward with a long sigh and the dog at his feet moaned in sympathy. ‘Do you understand how difficult it is to be both honest and rich in today’s Russia? To hold on to what you have without taking on the form of the creatures who would kill to take it from you?’

Jamie couldn’t hide a blink of amused disbelief. Berzarin noticed and went on the attack. ‘I saw you looking at my paintings, art dealer, sneering at a rich man’s conceit; but let me tell you what they mean to Berzarin. For me they are Russia after the fall: vast, confused and chaotic, but full of potential if a man can only read the messages hidden there; valuable enough to provoke envy, even perhaps to kill for. Like my country, they are the product of a flawed genius, who was eaten alive by the things he loved. What Russian would not like to make such an end, driving his car into a tree with a quart of whisky inside him while his girlfriend gave him a blow-job?’ The billionaire laughed, but his eyes betrayed a zeal that revealed the true Berzarin. ‘I look at those paintings and I see Siberia twenty years ago. If you don’t understand what you are looking at they are just a big mess that it is impossible to make sense of, and therefore of no value to you. But if you can visualize the patterns behind the confusion, the genius of the construction, and discover the treasures hidden beneath the surface, then …’ the words had tumbled out like rocks in an avalanche and he was forced to pause for breath ‘… then you have something that is literally priceless.’

He ended with a long sigh and called for another pot of tea and three cups. From the hidden entrance came the sound of someone filling a kettle. ‘I would offer you something stronger,’ he apologized, ‘but I no longer have alcohol in this house. It was altogether too seductive for me and I saw the destruction it caused among my countrymen.’ When the tea arrived they drank in silence and nibbled at the dainty almond cakes that accompanied it.

Jamie took advantage of the lull to change the conversation’s direction. ‘Your father was in Berlin before the war. He met Adolf Hitler.’

Berzarin’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment Jamie felt like a fish wriggling on a spear. To tell, or not to tell — what would his answer be? Any other man of his class would have thrown them out for their impudence, but it seemed that Arkady Berzarin needed to prove he was different from his peers. He nodded.

‘He did not reveal this until many years later. Gennady Ivanovich Berzarin travelled to Nazi Germany in the winter of nineteen thirty-six as part of a secret delegation to assure Hitler that the Soviet Union had no aggressive intentions against any other part of Europe. Stalin regarded the mission as a great success, because my father returned with a suggestion from the Führer that would bear fruit a few years later.’ He saw Jamie’s eyes widen. ‘Oh yes, Mr Saintclair, the destruction and subsequent partition of Poland was conceived on the day my father met Hitler.’

‘But Kaganovich—’

‘Ah,’ Berzarin snorted, ‘you have spoken to The Rat — that’s what my father called him. I thought he would be long dead but hatred can be an elixir in the right kind of man. Of course,’ he shrugged with an eloquence that was almost French, ‘this means I can tell you anything and you will not believe me. What did he say about my father?’

Jamie hesitated. ‘That he led the mission; that he was a greedy man who took everything the Nazis offered. And that he betrayed him.’

Berzarin nodded slowly. ‘All true, apart from being greedy — Gennady Ivanovich was under orders from Litvinov not to reject any gift from the Germans in case the rejection caused annoyance or upset — and that any hesitation to report Kaganovich to the NKVD would have been viewed as treason. I see you still doubt me. My father used to say there was no greater patriot than Dimitri Kaganovich when he was sober, but when he was drunk his mouth had a mind of its own. Gennady Ivanovich warned him, but the Germans would deliberately get Dimitri drunk. He would tell them everything he knew about the mission and, worse, criticize Stalin and the leadership. Of course, my father reported him, and of course, he helped the NKVD watchers incriminate him, but he also helped save his life at the risk of his own.’

‘Did Dimitri know that?’ Jamie was trying to reconcile what Kaganovich had told him with this new version of the Berlin story.

‘I doubt it,’ Berzarin admitted. ‘He was a prime candidate for a bullet, but at that time there was still a semblance of Soviet justice and my father was allowed to give a character reference. Later, when Dimitri was sent to the gulag, my father arranged his transfer to the Krasnoyarsk ITL — you would call it a corrective labour camp, I think — where he could ensure he was not badly mistreated. How else do you think such a man survived all those years in the camp system?’

‘He said he was a hero.’

‘There were many heroes of the Great Patriotic War, but quite a few ended up in the camps. Unlike Kaganovich the majority did not live to enjoy their freedom. My father too was a hero who marched into Berlin and what he took from there laid the foundation for all this.’ He waved a hand at the paintings and the house. ‘Oh, yes, Mr Saintclair and Dr Ross, I hide nothing from you. My success, such as it is, is based on gold looted from the Nazis. Should I be ashamed of that? I do not think so.’

‘Did he tell you what he brought back from his first visit to Berlin?’ Jamie tried to get the conversation back on track.

‘Trinkets,’ Berzarin shrugged, ‘things of little value. He handed them all to Litvinov. For all I know they ended up with Stalin. He had a liking for things that glittered.’

‘Nothing from the South Sea Islands?’

Berzarin laughed. ‘You think the Nazis presented my father with a canoe.’

‘I was thinking of something a little more personal. An artefact with a history.’

The Russian shook his head. ‘Nothing.’ Jamie couldn’t hide his disappointment and the billionaire sighed. ‘You see, I cannot help you. I can hardly help myself. And now Sergei wants to take it all away from me and give it to his gangster friends. How would you feel about that, Mr Saintclair? How would you feel if everything you had worked for every day of your life was about to be robbed from you by a man who has betrayed every value he ever possessed?’ He rose from his seat and went to the broad window that made up most of the rear wall of the room, beckoning Jamie and Magda with him. ‘Bomb-proof glass mirrored on the outside so no one can send me an RPG for breakfast.’ He extended an arm to take in the bare expanse of tundra that stretched more than a mile before it turned to dark green forest. ‘Everything you can see from here is mine, but I almost lost it all in the crash of 2008. The only reason I still have it is because I was negotiating with the same fools who caused the disaster in the first place. It turned out the banks were in a weaker position than I was. They backed off when they understood I would never give up what was mine without a fight. Now I must fight for it again and my opponent is a man without morals or pity who will use any weapon to get what he wants. Just as he is using you.’

‘It seems we have been wasting your time,’ Jamie said carefully.

The Russian turned away from the window, his face thoughtful. ‘Perhaps. Perhaps not. Did he send any message?’

‘No. All my contact said was to say that your old friend Sergei sends his regards.’

‘Then you are the message.’ Berzarin’s voice turned harsh. Suddenly, the man who had wheeled and dealed and fought his way to control one of Russia’s strategic industries was revealed. ‘He knew about this artefact you seek?’

Jamie thought back to his meeting in the sterile dacha outside Moscow; the feeling that the Russian had been able to see into his soul. ‘I believe so.’

‘Then he would know that my father never had it. That means he has sent you on what you English call a “wild-duck race” …’

‘Goose chase,’ Jamie corrected automatically.

‘… or there is some other reason.’

Jamie felt himself the focus of two sets of eyes, the one appraising, the other filled with a mixture of confusion and anger. This was the first time Magda Ross had heard about his meeting and it would take some delicate diplomacy to convince her he’d been right to keep her in the dark. But that would have to wait. The question now was would Vatutin’s shadowy boss send them all the way to Krasnoyarsk simply to increase the pressure on his enemy? Berzarin himself had said he would use any weapon, so it was possible, but there could be another explanation.

‘Were you acquainted with the businessman Oleg Samsonov?’

Berzarin frowned at the change of subject. ‘Of course. Sometimes we were allies and sometimes rivals, but always we were friends. I was genuinely devastated by what happened to him and Irina.’ He glanced sharply at Jamie. ‘Was it Sergei’s doing?’

‘No,’ the Englishman assured him. ‘The shootings were the work of a disgruntled employee.’ He hesitated. ‘I only wondered if you were aware of his interest in art?’

The Russian had a way of becoming very still, which wasn’t threatening until you realized it was the stillness of a hunting leopard just before the pounce. ‘Why would you ask such a question?’

‘Because,’ Jamie looked past Berzarin’s shoulder to the central Jackson Pollock, a monstrous kaleidoscopic spatter of reds and blues like the eye of a hurricane, ‘Sergei’s messenger mentioned he had a similar interest.’ He ignored the billionaire’s disbelieving snort. ‘In fact,’ he went on carefully, ‘he suggested that a certain recently acquired painting in Oleg Samsonov’s collection was a loan between friends. When Oleg died, it appears there was some confusion about the picture’s origin and it went missing, purloined, claimed or otherwise placed in the custody of a person, or persons, unknown.’ Jamie allowed a sympathetic smile to touch his lips; the odd things that happened to billionaire art collectors. ‘Apparently, Sergei was quite put out and he’s very keen to get it back.’

‘And he believes I have this painting?’

‘He didn’t say as much, but the possibility crossed my mind.’

‘Come with me, both of you.’ Berzarin marched from the large room and up a set of wide stairs to a pair of double doors that led to the bedroom suite, an even larger space with a raised bed about the size of a tennis court in the centre. Other doors led off to what must be dressing rooms, showers and, for all Jamie knew, an Olympic-size swimming pool. His eyes searched the room for the explosion of gold that would release him from the Faustian contract he had struck, but if it was here it was well hidden. ‘He knew I had always admired it.’ The Russian stopped in front of an alcove that would be the first thing the bed’s occupant would see when they woke in the morning. ‘Even so, I was surprised when the attorney called to let me know I’d been left it in his will.’ He moved aside to allow his guests a view of the contents and Jamie stepped forward eagerly — only to be disappointed. Not the only copy of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers in private hands that would get him off Sergei’s carefully forged hook, but a rather drab-looking portrait of a plump, arrogant man wearing a velvet doublet and with his hands on his hips.

‘It is wonderful,’ Magda Ross whispered, and, looking closer, Jamie had to agree. The artist had encapsulated the sneering man’s entire personality in that expression and that stance; his disdain for the proceedings, the near violent feelings he had for his tormentor and the raw physical strength hidden by the shining cloth. A substantial gilt frame surrounded the picture.

‘The papers are entirely in order,’ Berzarin growled. ‘If Sergei wants it he’ll have to fight me for it. There is a full company of ex special forces soldiers in the grounds and I can have a battalion here within the hour. Let him come with his gangsters. He will find that Siberia is not Moscow.’

‘Oh, I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that, old chap,’ Jamie assured him. ‘Though I’ve no doubt he’d be interested if he knew about it. One of Meinheer Rembrandt’s better efforts, I think.’ Berzarin’s lips clamped in a thin smile at the artful dismissal of Portrait of a Man, half-length and with his arms akimbo, which, to Jamie’s certain knowledge, had captured a record price for the artist from an anonymous buyer at Christie’s a couple of years earlier. Their eyes met and he searched the other man’s for any sign of a lie, but found only wary defiance. ‘On the other hand, if you happen to be offered a temporarily mislaid Van Gogh, please give me a call.’

‘So, we are done,’ the Russian said. ‘The only concern now is how I dispose of you.’