Hope-Brierley smiled cynically. ‘Surely we are all aware that intelligence gathering is one of the functions of the diplomatic
service. However, I am unable to confirm what you are suggesting in relation to Stoneleigh.’
‘But you don’t deny it … When he left Moscow, and went to Spain, was it on the orders of the government?’
‘Ha … I am afraid I cannot confirm that.’
‘Was he provided with a new identity to carry out intelligence work in Franco’s Spain?’
‘I fear—’
‘But you
can
confirm Stoneleigh changed his name to Zamora.’
Hope-Brierley slowly shook his head, sipped from his coffee cup. ‘I regret I can prove of so little assistance to you in this matter, Landon.’
‘I’m sure you do,’ Arnold replied ironically. ‘However, we at ISAC are already pretty sure we have the facts right. What we really need to know, however, is whether Stoneleigh, or Zamora as he was then named, was recalled to London.’
Hope-Brierley sighed, waved his hands ineffectually.
‘And you won’t even tell me what name he used on his return. My visit here is a waste of time, isn’t it?’
Hope-Brierley scratched his cheek nervously. ‘Not a waste … I can understand your desire, and that of your committee, to probe into this business, but matters of security, foreign policy, protection of individual identities, matters of delicate—’
‘The man is long dead!’ Arnold snapped. ‘And we’re talking of events that occurred more than fifty years ago!’
‘Which can yet impinge on present individuals—’ Hope-Brierley’s mouth closed abruptly. Arnold could tell from the flicker of concern in the civil servant’s eyes that the man felt he had already said too much.
Slowly, Arnold said, ‘Stoneleigh changed his name to Zamora, had a family in Spain. He also had a mistress when he disappeared. He made some provision for his legitimate family. But … did he have another family, after he returned here to England, towards the end of his career?’
Hope-Brierley remained silent, but his tongue flicked over dry lips.
‘His daughter, Maria Dolores Gonzales, seems to believe so,’ Arnold pressed.
Hope-Brierley opened his mouth but no sound came out. He was clearly disturbed and unwilling to speak.
After a short silence, Arnold asked, ‘Did Whitehall know that Stoneleigh had helped himself to loot taken by Stalin’s Trophy Brigades?’
Hope-Brierley hesitated. He took a deep breath. ‘That
possibility
was not discussed in my meeting with senior colleagues.’
‘So you personally don’t know if the family he raised in England were aware of his thefts in Russia.’
‘I haven’t admitted …’ Hope-Brierley’s voice faded away. He frowned. ‘Look here, Landon, you must realize I am unable to give you any helpful information. My hands are tied. The question of this Artemis statuette … the matter of loot stolen first by, and then from Major Kopas … it does not rate highly among … it is of no real concern to the people who … matters of foreign policy, of protection of individuals from unjustified, unprovable smears. I realize you are pursuing enquiries that are regarded as important by your international committee but you in your turn must accept that there are more important matters that must override your quest.’
‘Matters of departmental embarrassment, perhaps?’
Hope-Brierley flushed. ‘Foreign policy, national security—’
‘Like patriotism, the refuge of scoundrels.’
‘I resent that, Landon,’ Hope-Brierley retorted in anger. ‘I really think we should terminate this interview. You made your requests for information through me. I have made such enquiries as I’ve been able to complete. But there is no information I can give you that I would deem helpful in your search. Nothing I am permitted to release to you. As for this Artemis business, we have no
information
at all about it. So, if I may now conclude this meeting…?’
Arnold rose to his feet. He nodded stiffly, made no offer to shake hands. He turned to head for the door. Hope-Brierley’s voice stopped him.
‘Ah, Landon, there is one more thing. Are you now returning to Italy?’
‘Not immediately.’
‘Well, it seems that your chief executive in Northumberland … Miss Stannard?’
‘That’s right.’
‘She’s been trying to get in touch with you.’
‘She’s left a message?’ Arnold asked, puzzled.
Hope-Brierley shrugged. ‘She has been in touch with Signora Cacciatore, who informed her you had come over to London. The message came through here this afternoon. She wants to see you in her office. It seems she regards the matter as one of some urgency….’
Arnold had no objection, in the present frustrating
circumstances
, to flying back north. He had never liked London anyway.
W
HEN
A
RNOLD
ARRIVED
at the office in Morpeth he checked with Karen Stannard’s secretary to determine if the chief executive was free to see him. The girl he spoke to was new, young, clearly appointed to enhance Karen’s outer office, but nevertheless efficient: at least she knew who Arnold was though they had never met and a quick call to Karen allowed her to give Arnold access to the chief executive’s office.
Arnold walked down the corridor, tapped on the door and when he heard Karen’s voice he entered.
‘Ha! The wanderer returns!’ Karen said ironically. ‘And with Mr Spedding back in harness at last it seems we have a full house.’
Karl Spedding was seated in a chair to one side of the desk, an open file on his knees. He looked up at Arnold and nodded. His features were blank, expressing no emotion.
‘I had a message you wanted to see me,’ Arnold said to Karen.
‘You’re a difficult man to find these days,’ she purred, leaning back in her chair and crossing her long legs so that he caught a brief glimpse of her thigh. ‘I’ve had to leave messages with your girlfriend Carmela, who told me you’d come back to the UK after gallivanting around various European destinations, and so I then had to contact Whitehall. So, enjoying yourself, are you? Moving in exalted circles? I gather your path crossed Mr Spedding’s here, at one point.’
Arnold glanced at his deputy. Spedding chewed at his lip. ‘I
was just telling Miss Stannard about the reason for my own flight to Italy.’
‘And that he’d met you!’ Karen smiled, but there was no warmth in the smile. ‘Both of you concentrating on high
skulduggery
in Europe while there’s a job of work to be done up here! A mundane activity, of course, but important to us!’
‘I’m sorry I had to leave so hurriedly, but I felt it necessary to help an old friend,’ Spedding said coldly. ‘But I’m back and I don’t think anything serious has occurred during my absence.’
A grim note entered Karen’s voice. ‘Apart from some missed committee meetings and grumbles from various councillors and a backlog of inspection work at current sites under our control in Northumberland.’ Her glance flicked back to Arnold. ‘Don’t you wish you were back, Arnold, rather than visiting the fleshpots of Europe? I know you’ve never been one for the high life.’
Arnold had no intention of being baited. ‘My trip to London was about following an important lead in the committee’s work. I don’t expect to stay long here. I should be back in Italy a couple of days.’
‘No time to spend with old friends?’ she flashed, and for a moment his mind drifted back to their last meeting. He wondered whether that was what she was referring to, subtly, but he saw only anger in her eyes.
‘What is it you wanted to see me about?’ he asked stubbornly.
She was silent for a little while, just staring at him almost accusingly. ‘It’s not exactly me … I was just passing on a message. From another old friend, it seems. Well, not exactly old … you must have moved pretty quickly to get into such exalted circles, with such rapidity.’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘The meeting you squired me to, in Northumberland. The Russian oil magnate. Stanislaus Kovlinski. It seems you made an impression on him. Quite how, I can’t imagine. As far as I’m aware you hardly spoke to him. Not in my presence at least.’
Arnold shrugged, puzzled. ‘We had a brief conversation when we met by chance on his terrace. I’d stepped out to get some fresh air while you were busy working the room. But I can’t think why he would want to see me again.’
‘Neither can I.’ She was clearly nettled. ‘I trust it will have nothing to do with the department … or your previous job as its head.’
‘I’ve already told you. I can’t imagine why he wants to see me.’
‘And if you did know, you wouldn’t tell me,’ Karen snapped. ‘Anyway, Kovlinski rang here, asking for you. I said I’d get in touch. I have. So that’s all. You can go to your mysterious little rendezvous with the richest man in Northumberland. And then you can scuttle back to Carmela Cacciatore. Unless Kovlinski is going to offer you a job. Everyone seems to be after your services these days: why not a Russian millionaire?’
There was nothing more to be gained by talking to her when she was in this mood. He was aware they both knew she could simply have passed the message on, rather than demanding he turn up at her office. But she had wanted the satisfaction of
snapping
at him. He felt her temper had something to do with envy, but he had never been able to work out Karen Stannard. He nodded, turned on his heel and headed for the door. He was stopped by Karl Spedding’s voice.
‘Did you get any further, after talking to Gabriel Nunza?’ asked the Acting Head of the Department of Museums and Antiquities.
Arnold hesitated. ‘I don’t think I can tell you much about the ongoing investigation we’re involved in, but your advice to Nunza was appropriate. And his information, what he told us, is helping us along the lines we want to go.’
‘
Very
informative,’ Karen Stannard murmured sarcastically. ‘Cloak and dagger, no less.’
‘And what about the information I passed on from the
Guardia
di Finanza
?’ Spedding asked.
Arnold stared at him. He recalled vaguely that Spedding had mentioned he had been in touch with the organization. He shrugged. ‘I left that to Carmela.’ He hesitated. ‘What contacts do you have then, in the
Guardia
?’
Spedding sniffed. ‘They go way back. You have to realize, when things got excited in the art world a few years ago, regarding the activities of the
tombaroli
and looted artefacts from Etruscan tombs, all senior officers in the museums were put on their guard. When we started our own internal investigations I received considerable help from the
Guardia di Finanza
myself: they had access to financial records which were useful in chasing down individuals. Peasants with large incomes, as well as
businessmen
with suspect companies. That sort of thing.’
‘I see. Well, I gather they are still providing useful information in our present investigation.’
‘I think Colonel Messi has always been interested in the hunting down of looted antiques.’
‘Messi?’ Arnold said in surprise.
‘You know him? He was my contact.’
‘I’ve met him, just the once. In fact, he’s a cousin of Signorina Cacciatore.’
‘All a family affair, then,’ Karen Stannard cut in drily. ‘But do you mind if we got on with our own business, Arnold? There’s still work to be done here in Morpeth. While you go gallivanting off to have cocktails with a Russian billionaire!’
Arnold took the precaution of ringing ahead to the stately home he was to revisit: a dry, accented voice announced that his visit was expected, and if he gave his expected time of arrival Mr Kovlinski would make himself available. Perhaps he could be expected for dinner?
Arnold replied that would be possible. He rather fancied the idea of caviar and Muscovy duck … if that was what the Russian oil tycoon was likely to serve at Leverstone Hall.
He enjoyed the drive north, as always. He took his time: the sun was high and the hills about him were blue-hazed. After he arrived at his destination Arnold was met in the hallway of large mansion by a shaven-headed, muscular aide – more bodyguard than butler, he suspected – who led the way into the library where he was offered, and accepted, a vodka. The man showed him a reserved respect; clearly a guest of Kovlinski was to be accorded all the necessary courtesies by the hired staff.
Kovlinski did not appear for almost forty minutes. He came in with a brief, though warm apology, shook hands, poured himself a vodka and nodded appreciatively when he saw what Arnold was drinking. ‘A taste I have never lost,’ he explained to his guest. ‘The national drink. It sharpens the creative instincts and also dulls the senses: an anomaly, yes? My father died of a surfeit of it, but he was a disappointed man. A carpenter, with a mind that was never given the opportunity to expand. He could have been a poet. He worked with his hands. And he died a penniless drunkard. Tell me about your father, Mr Landon.’
‘Why would you be interested in my father?’ Arnold wondered.
‘The father gives to the child more than he – or she – can ever really appreciate, until it is too late.’
‘I don’t think that applies to me. I am very aware of what my father gave me.’
And Arnold found himself telling the Russian oligarch about his father: the passion for the country’s industrial heritage, the long walks in the Lancashire Dales, the love he transmitted to Arnold for the hills and the history they held. He told Kovlinski of the simplicity of the man and yet the depth of knowledge, and explained how what he had imparted to his son had become ingrained, a deep awareness of what the past meant for the present, the beauty of simple artefacts, the decayed industrial archaeology in the deserted limestone hills, the stories they told of man’s growth and development, desires and disasters. And he
explained, as they went in to dinner, how what he had learned had led him to his work in the field of antiquities, in Northumberland, in Durham, and now wider afield, in Europe.
Kovlinski nodded in reflection. ‘You never went to university, I believe. A self-made man.’
Arnold shrugged, slightly embarrassed, feeling he had become over garrulous in talking about his past. ‘It seems you have been learning about me.’
‘Perhaps one should call it an occupational hazard. Or even a national failing. The Russian peasant in naturally suspicious. He seeks to find out all he can about those with whom he has contact. And I am of peasant stock.’
‘Why would my background interest you?’ Arnold asked.
‘Because I saw something in you that evening I showed you my collection. So I made further enquiries. You know, Mr Landon, one of the huge benefits of my background – and my wealth – is that I am able to employ a wide range of devices and contacts to discover what many cannot. Your background, of course, was easy to decipher. With others, sometimes, it is much more difficult … but the truth can emerge in the end, beyond no matter how many veils and subterfuges, barriers erected to conceal reality.’
‘I can’t imagine there were many barriers to my background. As you have discovered, a non-academic worker in the field.’
‘And yet, I understand, you are responsible for major finds … the
Kvernbiter
sword, for instance. And the
sudarium
, the cloth reputed to have been used to wipe the brow of the dying Christ.’ Kovlinski eyed him, one eyebrow raised. ‘Do you believe the cloth is authentic?’
Arnold smiled. ‘Let’s just say it is of considerable antiquity.’
‘Finds such as these have evaded other seekers for centuries. Yet you unearthed them. So you must be a lucky man.’
‘I’m sure luck played a major part.’
‘Don’t downgrade its importance. I too have been a lucky
man, in my own endeavours. I was in the right time, and the right place, but I worked hard, took chances … yes, lucky too. Except in the matter of children.’ He frowned. ‘My first wife died. I would have wished for a son. My second wife, she produced for me a daughter … late in life. And then she, my second wife, she also died. But there has always been my work …’ He fell silent, while the meal was served.
It was far more basic than Arnold had anticipated: no caviar, no expensive dishes. Kovlinski clearly enjoyed simple fare: soup, sole, a dry white wine. Arnold thought back to the occasion when he had first met the Russian billionaire: Kovlinski
probably
would not have appreciated the fare he had been forced to provide for his guests. While they ate, little was said. Kovlinski seemed lost in his own thoughts, frowning slightly. Only when the dishes had been cleared away did he seem to come back to himself: his brow cleared, and he apologized to Arnold. ‘You must forgive me. I am not the perfect host. But there are
preoccupations
….’
‘And I’m sure I am intruding upon your time. Perhaps we should talk about why you asked to see me.’
Kovlinski nodded slowly, his eyes gravely fixed upon Arnold. ‘Yes. I should explain. And apologize for the urgency with which I called you. I understand you are now working in Europe with a committee concerned with the recovery of looted antiquities.’
‘That’s right. The International Spoliation Advisory Committee.’
‘Spoliation … So much has gone on in the world, particularly when Europe was torn by world wars, and when the Near East has been riven by killings.’ He paused, eyed Arnold sadly. ‘I’m sure you will recall that when we first met and I showed you my collection, I did explain that it is likely that some of the artefacts held by me are, shall we say, of doubtful provenance.’
‘Many items held in private collections may well have been looted,’ Arnold replied carefully. ‘Some, impossible to—’
‘I have been extremely careful with my acquisitions,’ Kovlinski interrupted. ‘As I explained a few moments ago, my situation allows me to maintain a considerable network of informants, throughout Europe and back in Russia. I have used that network each time I have been offered a new piece and, although, as you are clearly aware, the owners of some items can now never be discovered, I have kept my own conscience clear. Mainly, in accepting that my collection is for my pleasure in the last few years remaining to my existence; secondly, the collection shall never be sold, but shall be bequeathed to the British Museum on my death.’
‘You explained that to me,’ Arnold nodded, still puzzled as to why Kovlinski had wanted him to come to Leverstone Hall.
Kovlinski threw aside his serviette and rose to his feet. ‘Perhaps we should return to my collection room, upstairs.’
He led the way silently. When they reached the room Kovlinski switched on the lights and stepped aside so that both men had a view of the room. It was as Arnold had remembered: dim lights, spotlights picking up individual items, and he relived the feeling that in this room lay the history of millennia. He could understand how Kovlinski could hold this collection dear, could understand his desire to enjoy each item while he lived, and how the man wanted thereafter that the collection should not be broken up, but given to the nation that had given him a home for forty years.