The romanov code, p.1
The Romanov Code, page 1
ALSO BY GAVIN COLLINSON
An Accident in Paris
‘All around me there is treachery, cowardice and deceit.’
– Nikolai II Alexandrovich Romanov
‘All warfare is based on deception.’
– Sun Tzu, The Art of War
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Epilogue 1
Epilogue 2
The Romanov Code Decoded
And Finally . . .
About the Author
Copyright
PROLOGUE
The Schirn Kunsthalle Museum of Modern Art, Frankfurt, Germany. 2022
‘Not so long ago, a private detective called Marc Novak was hired to investigate the final days of Diana, Princess of Wales. He discovered her death wasn’t simply an accident in Paris. It was murder, gentlemen.’ The woman paused. ‘Uncovering that information seems to have annoyed a few people. Can’t think why.’ She leant across to the man sitting closest to her and rested her palm on his forearm. ‘That’s English sarcasm, my darling. Never certain how well it travels.’
One of the other two men at the table shook his head in apparent disbelief. ‘What makes you think you will survive this night?’ He pulled a flick knife from a side pocket of his suit and added, ‘What makes you think we won’t stretch you across this table and fillet you?’ He pressed a button on his knife’s rivet and a small blade sprang from its casing.
‘Well, if you’re going to attempt it with that paperknife, I hope you’ll be using a general anaesthetic.’
The individual sat opposite the woman laughed. ‘Madame,’ he addressed her. ‘My name is Jean-Pierre de Bray. I admire your courage in calling us here tonight.’
The four of them sat in the rotunda of the Schirn Kunsthalle Museum in the heart of Frankfurt. The woman had hired the venue for the evening and they were alone. Moonlight leaked through the famous glass domed ceiling directly above them, but the large chamber was otherwise unlit, aside from a set of spotlights trained on the stone columns flanking the room’s entrance. The table itself was an art installation. A circular piece of furniture constructed from oak. Solid. A slab of interconnected wooden beams that felt at once modern and medieval.
‘And, Mr Doyle,’ de Bray continued, ‘put your knife away. We are not savages here. We are businessmen. Men of reason. But, madame, you have us at a disadvantage. From your accent, I assume you are English, but aside from that . . . For example, you know our names and yet—’
‘You can call me Nemesis. My code name du jour. A tad theatrical, I grant you, but I never can resist a touch of the dramatic.’
Doyle used his knife to point at de Bray. ‘You two can hugger mugger all you like, but when the other three get here, they’ll be with me. They’ll vote to kill the bitch. You know that!’
De Bray winced. ‘The people responsible for the death of Diana are no longer with us. We benefited from their crimes. I suspect this lady is proposing a truce.’
She nodded. ‘You three and all your associates must promise that Novak isn’t harmed by any of you or your colleagues. Agree to that and I won’t go public with the extent to which your businesses profited from the assassination.’
The third man, an American called Jefferson who had remained silent until this point, cleared his throat. He was, like the other two, in his mid-forties and dressed in a dark, couture suit. ‘Nemesis – is that the correct pronunciation? Good. I have two points to make, if I may? Yes, we would like to accept your offer. At least, I guess, Monsieur de Bray and I would. But when the other three stakeholders arrive . . .’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Where are they, by the way?’
‘They’ll be dropping in shortly,’ the woman assured him.
‘Good, good . . . Except, they are a little hot-headed. I’m afraid Mr Doyle’s assessment is quite correct.’ Jefferson paused, uncomfortable with what he had to say. ‘They will kill you.’
‘They wouldn’t be the first to try.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Thank you for your concern. It means a lot.’ Her polite but authentic smile suggested she was being genuine. ‘You said you had two points, Mr Jefferson?’
He nodded. ‘We can forgive the sins of the past. We can prevent the consequences that Marc Novak would ordinarily face. But we can’t control the future.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning, if my intel is correct, your Mr Novak will shortly be offered a proposition. To put it bluntly, he’ll be asked to go on a treasure hunt.’
‘Sounds fun.’
‘The kind of treasure that’s already drenched in the blood of countless men and women who have attempted to lay hands on it over many generations.’
‘Still sounds fun.’
Jefferson shifted uneasily in his chair. ‘If he becomes involved in the search for the Romanov treasure, he’s on his own.’
‘We must let the future take care of itself.’ The woman nodded. ‘But I want to confirm our understanding. Excepting the future developments you mentioned, Mr Jefferson, would you, and you, Monsieur de Bray . . . Well, would you be willing to accept my offer of a truce?’
They both nodded.
‘And Mr Doyle. You would not?’
‘Listen,’ he replied, ‘Nemesis, or whatever you like to call yourself. The three guys we’re waiting for will shoot you in the throat. For the threat you present. For your bloody impertinence. And for the hell of it. Out of my respect for them, I’ll let them finish you.’
‘By respect, you mean fear, of course.’
‘I’d have cut you open myself,’ Doyle hissed. ‘But very, very soon—’ He paused as everyone in the room heard the distant din of a Bell 427’s twin engines and its four whirling blades. He smirked, folded his own blade and slipped it into his side pocket. ‘That’s them, missus!’
De Bray said, ‘I’ll give them five minutes to land the helicopter and another five to make their way here. Please . . . leave now, madame!’
She gripped Doyle’s arm. ‘Are you sure I can’t change your mind? You were a good man, once.’
‘People change!’ He shrugged off her hold. ‘I’m paying you no more attention! You’re a mad thing! I’ll spit on your warm corpse.’
‘I’ll make you apologise for that.’
‘What did you just say?’ Doyle glared at her. ‘Fuck it!’ He pulled a Glock 43 from his shoulder holster and aimed it at her head. ‘Why wait? I’m gonna do them a favour and do you myself!’
‘Mr Doyle.’
‘Yeah?’
‘You’re an idiot. Which is fine. But you’re cruel and crass. I deplore both characteristics.’
‘You fucking bitch . . .’ His finger tightened on his pistol’s trigger.
De Bray and Jefferson simultaneously shouted, ‘No!’ but another noise
The sound of shattering glass and the deep rumble of a hovering helicopter.
A millisecond later, the body blurred past their eyes and smashed into the centre of the table.
All three men yelped in shock, swore and hurriedly pushed their chairs back, scrambling to get away from the cadaver that had been tipped into the middle of their meeting. They leapt up, fell back from the table in stumbling steps, transfixed by the broken body that now dominated it.
‘Jesus H. Christ,’ Doyle murmured. ‘That’s Scalfaro! She killed him!’ He looked wildly at the woman, shouting, ‘The other two will hunt you down! You know that?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Well, guess what, petal?’
Thwack!
A beat.
Thwack!
Two more bodies crashed into the middle of the table. There was something obscene about the lack of time between their descents.
The three living men were frozen by the pile of dead men. Slivers and shards of glass from the ruined dome coated the bodies, moonlight reflected in every fragment. The noise of the helicopter changed in tone as it banked starboard, then faded as it soared into the Frankfurt night. Silence now, except for the sound of ragged, terrified breathing.
The woman remained seated. Unmoving. Calm. Completely unfazed by the corpses. ‘Mr Jefferson. Monsieur de Bray. You may leave. With my thanks. Cheery-bye, my cherubim.’
They turned and ran from the room.
The third man remained planted to the spot, transfixed by the bloody mound on the slab of oakwood.
‘And Mr Doyle . . .’ Nemesis at last turned to face him. ‘Do I have your attention?’
-1-
Three months later
‘In the early hours of 17 July, 1918, seven members of the Romanov family, including Mother Russia’s last Tzar and Tzarina, were murdered in the basement of a building known as the House of Special Purpose.
‘All their jewels and treasures were taken to Moscow and these extraordinary riches, many of which predate Russia itself and were worn at the court of the Byzantine Empire, were catalogued and later sold at auction. Here’s the thing. Not all the items listed in the first inventory of 1922 made it to the auction. We know of at least four major pieces that disappeared.
‘Here is the other thing. Those four items are just the tip of a very large, jewel-encrusted iceberg. We know of six priceless Fabergé eggs which went missing after 1917. And we also know for certain that several individuals smuggled Romanov jewels out of Russia in bed linen, hollowed-out shoe heels and even chocolates. Imagine, Mr Novak, popping a truffle in your mouth, feeling something hard against your teeth and plucking – pop! – a diamond from your lips, large enough and perfect enough to fetch a king’s ransom at any private sale in the world! And more, there were—’
I interrupt my guest. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Karpin, but I’m not sure where this is heading. If you want to trace the Romanov jewels, you need a historian, not a private detective. And if you want to find the lost treasure, you need . . .’
‘Yes, Mr Novak?’
‘A healthy shot of realism. The lost gold of Russia’s last emperor and empress sounds romantic, sure. It’s a great story. But you might as well go looking for the Holy Grail, or Atlantis, or the Ark of the Covenant.’
My guest bristles and I guess she normally lives in a world of ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Ekaterina Karpin is tall and slim. A touch of aristocracy in her face, but without any haughtiness. Quite the reverse. There’s kindness in her clear blue eyes. She’s about forty. Wears it well. Her accent is Russian, but soft enough to suggest she’s been in England for a fair few years.
‘No, no, no! You speak of fictions! But the Romanov treasure is real, factual history!’
By the way, we’re in my front room, which doubles as the central office of Novak & Stewart. I live alone, so I can’t blame the sparse decor on anyone other than myself. We’re seated, but now Ekaterina leans forward and lowers her voice as though she suspects we’re being monitored.
‘We know that it exists! And here’ – she pulls an old, discoloured envelope from her Givenchy handbag– ‘is the . . . treasure map, if you will, that will help us locate a small fraction of it. I say small, but acquiring it will make us . . . How do you phrase it in your country? Rich beyond your wildest dreams.’
‘Well, I have some pretty wild dreams, Miss Karpin.’
‘Ya tozhe!’ She holds the envelope aloft. ‘I have some pretty wild plans, Mr Novak.’
‘Oh, I specialise in those, and so . . .’ The cavalier nature of her reply means that for the first time since she mentioned the Romanovs, I entertain the idea that she may not be mad. Or at least, not entirely. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. Absolutely.’ Her pale, kindly face breaks into a smile. ‘This quest for the treasure is more important than you can ever know. And I’m asking you to join me on it.’
Ekaterina Karpin stands and I automatically follow suit. She solemnly extends her open palm towards me, an invitation to shake hands, of course, but also a plea for me to accept her request.
‘Will you help me, Mr Novak?’
-2-
‘I’ll shake your hand, but it doesn’t mean I’m shaking on a deal.’
‘Why not?’ She suddenly sounds angry, as if my refusal to commit is a carefully crafted insult. ‘What are you afraid of?’
‘Very little. But the last time I took on a case connected with royalty . . .’ I recall the blood and horror and duplicity that the investigation brought into my life. ‘It didn’t end well.’
‘You failed?’
‘No.’ I reflect on how much I’m willing to share and simply add, ‘I was failed.’
Ekaterina nods. ‘I know that feeling.’ She doesn’t say these words with any wryness. There’s sorrow in her voice, and understanding. ‘It’s why I want the Romanov Code.’
‘What’s the Romanov Code?’
‘It’s . . . Excalibur.’
‘You say that like it’s a private joke.’
‘I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.’ There’s contrition on her face. But it’s the contrition of a six-year-old straining with every fibre to appear remorseful for an act they secretly classify as entirely justifiable. ‘You forgive me?’
I can’t be bothered to reply, and in the next moment, as if she’s completely lost interest in our conversation, she whirls around and walks away. She’s aware I’m watching her, of course. Ekaterina is the sort of person you can’t help but watch. She wanders over to a glass-fronted display cabinet that houses my collection of first editions and other antiquarian books. She stoops to read their spines.
‘Do you have any Russian literature?’
I open the cabinet and hand her a first-edition Fleming. ‘I’m afraid that’s the closest I get.’
She looks at the rather beautiful cover artwork by Richard Chopping and, exaggerating her accent, reads the title. ‘From Russia With Love.’ She beams. ‘You people! You hear Russia and think of either the Kremlin or this!’ She brandishes the book. ‘James Bond! The Cold War! Exotic female agents in glamorous furs!’
‘Don’t forget beef Stroganov and ushanka hats.’
She steps closer to me. It’s an invasion of my personal space and a mischievous challenge to see how I’ll react. To be honest, I don’t know whether to feel violated or invigorated. ‘Is that why you’re afraid of me, Mr Novak? You think I’m a Russian spy?’
‘Are you?’
‘No.’ She shrugs. Steps back. ‘I was. Once. Many years ago. But the money . . .’ She pulls a face to imply it was derisory.
‘Aren’t you supposed to keep these things to yourself?’
‘You won’t take my case because you don’t trust me.’
‘If it’s any consolation’ – I carefully replace the first edition and close the cabinet door – ‘I trust you as much as I trust any Russian spy.’
‘That was a long time ago.’
‘So was the Bay of Pigs,’ I reply, ‘but you still can’t buy Cuban cigars in New York City.’
‘You will help me find the Romanov treasure. You and your colleague, Mr Frank Harvey. You will help me.’
‘Frank isn’t my colleague. I’ve just pulled him into a couple of jobs.’
‘And my job?’
‘I’ll think about it.’
‘When the English say, I’ll think about it, they really mean they’ll think of a way of getting out of it.’
‘You may have a point.’ I’m becoming irked with the dance she’s trying to lead. ‘That envelope . . .’ I extend my hand. ‘Give it to me.’
