‘I can pay if it would speed things up, for example by more people being allocated to the search relating to the relic and the book of inventories regarding the construction of that structure.’
‘Yes, that may certainly help. I will make my enquiries and let you know.’
‘Thank you.’
Aggelos’ enquiries indeed let to a record of such a book having been found at the Russian monastery of St. Panteleimon on Mount Athos and having been removed and taken to the Hermitage. There was also record of the book having been left at the monastery in 1453 by someone who let drop a comment that was recorded by the monk receiving the item, as it seemed to him to have been unusual.
The comment was that the book was worth an Emperor’s ransom and should be watched as if it were the monk’s child. That to Elli was a clue, without her imagination leading her astray and jumping to conclusions, that it couldn’t be anything other than a tomb for an Emperor, a last tribute worthy of an Emperor, just like the pyramids in Egypt or other elaborate tombs elsewhere in the world, intended to be lasting memorials to their illustrious occupants, eternal monuments to their name and glory, not just a selfish act but the name kept alive for future generations to remind them of their proud heritage.
The book was later transferred to the Russian monastery of St. Panteleimon. The director also found both relics in the museum’s collection, stored out of sight, after an extensive search. Aggelos immediately called Elli who arranged to fly to St. Petersburg with Giorgos.
At the back of her mind there was a niggling worry, something that was bothering her. She hadn’t heard from Aristo or Katerina in Crete. She tried both Aristo’s and Katerina’s mobiles, but there was no answer. They both seemed to be switched off or, perhaps, they had no reception where they were. It may be nothing, but she was concerned. She made a note to try and get in contact with them. If her attempt failed she would send someone to Agia Galini in Crete to find out what was going on.
CHAPTER 45
Hermitage Museum, St. Petersburg, Russia
Present day
Elli’s plane landed at St. Petersburg’s Pulkovo Airport at a few minutes after two o’clock in the afternoon. It taxied to a quiet corner of the airport reserved for important visitors and stopped.
A limousine was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. A Customs official was standing by the car. He quickly checked her passport, handed it back and bowed to her. She got into the car and it whisked her through the airport grounds and then through the city’s normally car-clogged and pollution-choked streets, along the river Neva.
She could see the Hermitage, the former Winter Palace of the Tsars, in the distance, gloriously reflected on the tame waters of the Neva. In the car she remembered the flower that had become a parchment and which had been burning a hole in her bag. She opened her bag and took it out. It felt warm and it was getting warmer. And it was emitting a strange noise.
It was as if it was some location device that contained a chip, which had homed in on its target and was leading Elli there. It was getting warmer as they approached the Hermitage. It was as if it was showing her the way, its intensity increasing at breakneck speed which was unlike the speed they were supposed to be travelling in this city, notorious for its overpopulation of cars and all matter of fragrant modes of transport.
Their route along the river was, strangely, car-free and eerily soulless. The main gates swung open as if by magic the moment the car drew up to them. Such scarily efficient and troublesome journey was unheard of in this city. This kind of special treatment could only have been organised under the auspices of the country’s highest echelons of government. The director of the Hermitage, one of the world’s greatest museums, was a powerful man.
The museum was busy. At reception she announced her name and started to say that she had an appointment with the director when a man who had been walking briskly towards her, having recognised her, interrupted her.
‘Mrs Symitzis, good afternoon. I am Ivan. The director has sent me to take you to him. Please, follow me.’
They came outside the director’s office and Ivan gently knocked on the door. A strong deep voice came out clearly from the other side of the door.
‘Come in.’
The office was not a modest affair, as it was not an ordinary place of work, but befitting the director of one of the world’s greatest museums, with his choice of rooms in the former Winter Palace of the Tsars. The room’s impact on the visitor was such that it reminded one of the study of a Tsar or a grand room for public occasions rather than a simple office, with its high ceiling and huge windows and elaborate decoration covering almost every surface. Expensive furniture, objets d’art and paintings littered but did not suffocate the space.
The director who had already been standing, looking out of the windows, turned and walked around his large desk towards Elli. He took her hand and kissed it and then seeing Elli proceeding to greet him in the traditional Russian way of three alternative kisses on the cheeks followed her lead.
‘My dear Mrs Symitzis. I am Alexei Sumarov.’ Elli noticed that he did not offer for the use of his first name, so she decided to preserve the respectful formality of her host and do the same. ‘It is an honour and a great pleasure to have you here. Aggelos has told me a lot about you. But of course he did not need to. Your reputation precedes you. I have read and heard so much about you that I feel very excited to finally make your acquaintance in person. Please, have a sit.’ He indicated a pair of armchairs beside the cold fireplace. ‘Could we offer you some coffee or tea or something else perhaps?’
Elli noticed that he had been drinking coffee and that there was a second cup in the tray on the table between the armchairs. She thought it polite to join him in a gesture of accepting his local hospitality. Also she did not want to waste time. She wanted to broach the subject that brought her there as soon as possible.
‘Coffee would be lovely, thank you.’
He poured the coffee and asked whether she took milk or sugar. She declined both. ‘Just black, thank you.’
Once they had settled, or rather sunk, into the supremely comfortable armchairs with their cups, the director jumped straight into the reason she was there. He knew she was a busy woman and understood the urgency of the matter at hand.
‘Now, as I said to Aggelos, we have located the relics in question and I can show them to you. I understand that you wish to use DNA samples from them for comparison. I must say that they both seem very well preserved with hairs and flesh still on the bone. It is not normal procedure to handle them in this way and there is a horrifying amount of bureaucracy to deal with for permission to carry out what you propose to do. However, as it is within my discretionary power, I will personally give dispensation for you to proceed immediately. In fact, I have signed the permission and it is there on my desk.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Aggelos is a very good friend of mine and from what he and the abbot, Spyros, told me about you, I consider you a friend and would extend my help in the same way that I would treat Aggelos. Apologies if I may sound presumptuous. It is not my intention to claim such familiarity with you as I do not wish to in any way cause offence.’
‘My dear Mr Sumarov. On the contrary, I am honoured by your warm welcome and for seeing me at such short notice. I know that you are also a very busy man. As Aggelos must have mentioned to you, I am also interested in a certain book containing inventories and information on the construction of a huge project the location of which I am not aware. Have you located such a book?’
‘I have. And it actually contains plans, as well, and a lot of other details about that project. I have the relics and the book ready for you to take away.’
‘But how?’
‘I have signed them off as part of a temporary special exhibition of Byzantine artefacts in Limassol,
