‘Very fancy.’
‘You wouldn’t say that if you saw it. Believe me, it’s tiny – you’d hardly even call it a cottage. And very, very basic.’ In fact it had been a rustic hovel when Brooke had bought it, five years earlier. On her salary, it was the best she could afford. The plan had been to visit at least twice a year, doing the place up, renovating and decorating one bit at a time. That had been before Ben Hope had come into her life and she’d started spending more and more time in France. The tranquil, isolated little
Right now, though, she couldn’t think of a place she’d rather be.
‘You’re a star, Amal. I worry about that amaranthus.’
‘Leave it with me. It’ll be ten feet high when you get back.’
‘One thing, though. If anyone comes looking for me, don’t tell them where I’ve gone, OK? And I do mean
‘No problem. I won’t breathe a word.’ Amal frowned in concern. ‘Everything all right, Brooke?’
‘Everything’s fine. I just badly need to get away from it all. And thanks. I owe you one.’
A quick phone call to Sturmer-Wainwright Associates was all she needed to square the time off work with her bosses. Five minutes later, she’d booked a flight online for seven-thirty the next morning. With a little luck she’d be at her place in Portugal for lunch.
As she started packing her things for the morning trip, she felt a pang of guilt at the thought of Ben. She desperately wanted to see him – and she would, the moment this stupid situation with Marshall was resolved. That couldn’t happen soon enough. She called his mobile number. No reply. After the tone she left her message:
‘Hey, babe, it’s me. You’ve probably been wondering why I haven’t been in touch. I promise I’ll explain everything as soon as I can, OK? Anyway, I’m going to my place in Portugal for a few days. Maybe a week or so. I need a break. Remember there’s no mobile signal there, so you won’t be able to call me – but don’t worry about me and I’ll see you soon. Miss you. Love you.’
The gleaming black Mercedes S-Class limo pulled up on the lonely, empty stretch of country road. When its engine cut out, the only sound was the murmur of the wind and the cawing of a faraway crow. It was the kind of place few people ever passed through, and even fewer people stopped. The road was reduced almost to rubble by the ravages of too many hard winters. The few trees around looked starved and oppressed under the grey sky. The only feature in the bleak landscape was the ruined church steeple a few hundred metres away, its spire just visible from the road over the top of a grassy mound.
Grigori Shikov hauled his bulky frame from the rear of the limo and stretched away the stiffness that had crept through his limbs on the long drive. Spartak Gourko climbed out of the other rear door, while Yuri Maisky stepped down from the driver’s seat.
Barely a word had passed between them since St Petersburg. Gourko hadn’t spoken once. Maisky watched him walk around to the back of the car, pop the boot and take out a green military duffel bag and a large black combat shotgun. It was loaded with solid rifled slugs the size of wine corks, capable of blowing a man in half at thirty metres. Not that anyone was likely to disturb them out here in the middle of nowhere; though Maisky knew that Gourko would have relished the opportunity.
Shikov reached across his chest to his inside jacket pocket, took out a single sheet of paper and unfolded it. For the hundredth time since leaving Georgia, he studied the copy of the document he’d retrieved from inside the broken Goya frame. He glanced up from the paper to look at the distant church ruin. He licked his lips and nodded. ‘This is the place.’
They left the road, and Shikov led the way through the long grass. He was soon breathing hard with the exertion of crossing uneven terrain, but pressed on eagerly.
He’d waited a long time for this moment. Paid a heavy price for what he knew was waiting for him here.
He imagined turning it over in his hands. Caressing it with a lover’s touch. To be able to hold it, own it at last. The excitement was almost more than he could bear. Part of him couldn’t help but question whether acquiring the priceless lost relic – so long dreamed of, so far beyond his reach all these years – had been worth the death of Anatoly. Another part of him hated himself for thinking it.
And yet another part told him he’d thought, and done, things in his time that were far, far worse. He had little time to waste on idle sentiment, especially when something like this was about to become his.
Maisky followed. Gourko brought up the rear, the duffel bag slung over one shoulder and the shotgun dangling lazily at his side. At the top of the grassy rise, the old ruined church came into view. Crows had nested in its steeple, and all but one of the walls had long since crumbled to the ground, their fallen grey stones covered with moss and half obscured by wild flowers. A tree had grown up where the nave used to be.
The paper trembled in Shikov’s hand. The lie of the land was exactly as Borowsky had described. ‘This way.’ He led them over a low broken-down wall to the neglected graveyard beyond. Some of the graves had been grand once, but now the imposing monuments and statues were weathered and streaked with green lichen. Other gravestones were broken or misaligned, like bad teeth. Across the far side of the cemetery was the crumbling outer wall, and next to it an old oak tree.
The tree was the marker. Near to its foot, three simple graves were arranged in a row, the stones lying flat on the ground and half grown over. The resting places of three poor folks, three undistinguished lives that had met unremarkable ends and melted away into history. Shikov lowered his heavy bulk into a crouch and studied the weathered inscription on the first of the three gravestones. He shook his head and stepped over to the next one.
Not this one either. His face darkened. Just one left. He dropped down awkwardly on his haunches and tore away the clump of weeds obscuring the markings on the third gravestone.
‘Andrei Bezukhov,’ he muttered. ‘Born 1794, died 1853.’ He took a deep breath and looked up at Maisky, standing nearby. ‘This is it.’
‘I wonder who he was,’ Maisky said.
Shikov raised himself upright with a grunt of effort and gave his nephew an empty stare. ‘Who gives a damn who he was? It’s here.’ He nodded at Gourko.
Gourko propped the gun against the tree, unslung the duffel bag, reached inside and came out with a heavy iron wrecking bar. He rolled up his sleeves and then stabbed the chisel end of the bar deep into the grass at the edge of the gravestone. The muscles in his forearms bulged and veins stood out from his skin as he heaved it upwards, levering the heavy slab off the ground with a ripping of dead grass. Beetles and woodlice scuttled away from the rectangular patch of bare, damp earth it left behind.
Gourko tossed the wrecking bar down on the grass. He shoved his hand back into the duffel bag and took out a folding military entrenching shovel. As he began to dig, Maisky glanced around him nervously and Shikov looked increasingly restless.
Within less than a minute of fast digging, Gourko’s shovel blade struck something that sounded metallic.
‘Quickly,’ Shikov said. ‘Get it out.’
Gourko stabbed and chopped at the earth and uncovered the top of a metal box, like a small casket. It would have been too small for even a baby’s coffin, and was buried far too close to the surface. Gourko dropped the shovel and got down on his knees to dig around the casket with his hands. He prised the object from the ground and placed it on the grass at the graveside.
Maisky hadn’t seen the Tsar look this excited since the execution of Vladimir Drago and the heads of the four ruling families in ’94. He seemed to savour the moment like a gourmet dish being placed in front of him. He was almost rubbing his hands with glee.
‘So this is where Borowsky hid it.’ His voice was strangled and croaky with emotion. He cleared his throat and
