Kolchak's gold

source, still the facts would have been reflected in their international trade dealings-and the word would have been spread by the world’s gold-trading fraternity, a zealous body of men who miss nothing and who are keenly attuned to the slightest hints. And a sudden “find” of that many billions of rubles in gold would have been attributed to the Kolchak treasure regardless of what cover story the Russians might have attempted. No; the Kremlin had not been enriched by five hundred tons of gold at any time since 1943; no other country could have spirited it away without Russian knowledge; therefore the gold was still where it had been secreted thirty years ago.

And I was going to find it. Because, in some curious way, it was all I had left. I don’t mean wealth; obviously I was not going to claim the treasure for myself. I was not thinking ahead far enough to worry about deciding what to do with, or about, the gold after I found it; it was enough to find it. Or so I thought. I must attribute my disregard of consequences to my confused mental state of that week-the reeling shock of Nikki’s behavior, the dulled state of my reason, the overwhelming elation of this spectacular intuitive discovery. It was a period during which I’m sure any licensed psychiatrist would have found me certifiably, if temporarily, insane.

I remember the rain that morning. It seemed it would never end. It was after sunrise but the room drifted in a formless dimness around the puddle of yellow light cast by the lamp on the desk; the clouds must have been impenetrable because no daylight relieved the darkness of the shaft beyond my window when I lifted the blind to find out if my wristwatch was correct. It might have been midnight; I was ready to curse my watch as if it had joined the legion which seemed bent on betraying me; but then the old hall porter knocked-my customary wake-up call-and I went to the door in relief to unburden him of his tray with the croissants and the fresh hot coffee that this simple hostelry took to be a Continental breakfast.

I showered vigorously and changed into completely clean clothes-partly because like the successful marathon gambler I have always suffered under the illusion that neat cleanliness is an aid to keeping awake and alert under exhausting circumstances, and partly because today was to be a climactic, vividly-to-be-remembered day in my life and the occasion deserved the best I could give it. A starched shirt, an unwrinkled tie, my cashmere pullover and- despite the rain-my best Hong Kong suit. I buffed my shoes before slipping them into the rubber overshoes; I picked a bit of discoloring fluff from my hat and went out into the lobby to await Timoshenko’s arrival in a euphoric condition of sartorial elegance. I even smiled at the forbidding woman at the desk.

Ordinarily Timoshenko’s Volga would draw up at the curb outside the door and I would dive out to meet it before he could trouble himself to get out of the car. But this morning when a car slid into the space it was not Timoshenko’s and I felt momentary irritation; it meant if I was to detect his approach I would have to wait outside in the rain and I was not prepared to ruin my clothing that way. No raincoat was proof against that downpour.

Then through the door’s glass I saw two men get out of the car at the curb-it was a grey Wartburg-and to my surprise one of them was Timoshenko. The other, the driver, was a stranger to me.

Timoshenko looked uneasy. I pushed the door open and he grunted something to the driver behind him; then he said to me, “You must come with us to meet someone. I’m sorry, there’ll be a delay getting to the museum today.”

The driver’s eyes pinned me back like a butterfly on a board. Timoshenko took my elbow and I slid into the rear seat of the car and stared at the noncommittal back of Timoshenko’s head in silent terror.

12

They drove me to a house on a height. In better weather it must have commanded a fine view of the city and the Black Sea beyond. It was one of those crenellated Byzantine houses, probably at one time the residence of Czarist aristocrats, somehow spared the destruction of the war.

Timoshenko’s air was apologetic if not sheepish when we stopped and he quickly popped out to open my door. The driver came around and gave Timoshenko a suspicious sidelong glance before he gripped my arm.

The driver’s arm pinched the nerve just above my elbow and I shook myself loose. Timoshenko cleared his throat pointedly and the driver didn’t resume his grip on me; he only jerked his head toward the house and I stumbled through the rain with Timoshenko beside me, burly in his coat. The driver slid back into the Wartburg behind the wheel. I cannot remember what he looked like; only that he frightened me in spite (or perhaps because) of the fact that he hadn’t said a word to me.

Timoshenko rang. After a brief wait a Judas hole at eye-level in the door opened, revealed a man’s eye, and snapped shut; and the door opened.

The man was thickset and his flat face was expressionless; his eyes looked in two different directions at once. Timoshenko spoke my name and the man took our coats to a pole rack and then led us to a desk.

We were in a tall arched foyer. The closed shutters left it reduced to a greyish half-light. There was no furniture other than one hard wooden bench along the wall and the wall-eyed man’s chair and desk placed across the center of the foyer. Bare, institutional, chilly.

The Russian pulled out his chair and settled behind the desk. “Papers.”

His polite insolence was the sort displayed by a clerk in an exclusive shop. He only glanced at me twice-once when we first entered and now when he compared my face with the photograph on my passport. He went thoroughly through my papers, made an entry on a ledger by his elbow and handed my papers back to me. Finally he nodded to Timoshenko and indicated a high carved door behind him.

Someone opened the door from within and Timoshenko waved me inside; he did not come with me. I stepped in and the man at the door pushed it shut after me.

I remember being struck by the room itself before paying much attention to the two men it contained. It had an elegant spaciousness, the rich warmth of the style of a century ago; the ceiling was very high and the walls were hung, museum-like, with dim pictures darkened by age-portraits of Russian gentry, representational scenes of Sebastopol Harbor filled with sailing ships, hunting scenes. Heavy linen drapes of deep-hued velvet were looped back from the lofty windows and a fire blazed beneath the high carved mantel.

It was warm inside; the edges of the window panes were steamed over.

The man at my shoulder looked on with a poker stare; within a few minutes I realized he was mainly a bodyguard and of no significance-I don’t recall his ever speaking.

Across the room a man sat behind a large table in a chair massively upholstered in luxurious dark red fabric and by his manner he was obviously the man I had been brought to see, or to be seen by.

His chair was arranged-probably deliberately-with its back to a window so that ordinarily it would have been hard to see his face against the light but in this weather the room’s only real illumination came from its lamps and the fire on the hearth. He was writing-filling in a form of some kind. He glanced at me, beckoned me forward and lowered his head. Then he went on writing.

I crossed the room hesitantly, my shoes silent on the pile.

His rudeness gave me a chance to appraise him. What little I gleaned from silent observation didn’t reassure me. He looked about fifty, very thin but with wide Slavic cheekbones. He had a waxen face-rather pale. His clothes and hair and facial composure were carefully arranged. He wore a dark suit and a starched white collar with a square black bow tie; they made him look like a priest. Upon his lapel was displayed a discreet ribbon which represented some high Red honor.

He pushed the paper aside and looked up with startling abruptness as if to catch me off guard. “Mr. Bristow. Thank you for coming. It’s necessary that I have a word with you.… My name is Zandor. Sergei Andreivitch Zandor.”

He rose as far as the edge of the table permitted and extended his hand to me. We shook hands formally and he did not at first offer me a chair. His hovering smile masked an odd detachment-perhaps disdain. I detected in him immediately an essential coldness; and his voice and expression betrayed his homosexuality. I disliked him immediately and, surprisingly because he didn’t look the type, Zandor was sensitive to the dislike.

I could see the quick cataloguing mind at work behind the scrutiny he gave me. A year from now Zandor would be able to testify to the color of my tie and the state of my shoe polish, and it was quite possible he would remember what was said between us in the exact words. He had greeted me in English; he was proud of his English, it was almost perfect.

“How does your work proceed, Mr. Bristow?”