The Collector
Page 73

He turned back to her, shook his hands in the air. “I forgot myself in my interest.”
“One you shared with Vinnie.”
“Yes. We met competing at auction for a bergère chair—caned satinwood.”
She heard it in his voice, the affection, the regret. “Who won?”
“He did. He was fierce. You have exquisite taste, Ms. Emerson, and a brilliant eye.”
“It’s Lila, and it’s not actually—”
Ash stepped out of the elevator. With one quick glance at Kerinov, he moved quickly to Lila, angled her behind him.
“Ash, this is Alexi Kerinov. I met him in the lobby when I came back with Earl Grey.”
“You’re early.”
“Yes, the train came early, and I was lucky with a cab. I came straight here, as you asked.” Kerinov held his hands up, as if in surrender. “You’re right to be cautious.”
“He showed me his driver’s license before we came up. You have a motorcycle.”
“I do, a Harley, a V-Rod. My wife wishes otherwise.” He smiled a little, but kept his gaze warily on Ash. “There’s a picture of you,” Kerinov told him, “with Oliver and your sister Giselle, among pictures of Vinnie’s children, on the William and Mary marquetry table in the first-floor sitting room of his home. He thought of you as his.”
“I felt the same. I appreciate you coming.” Now Ash extended a hand.
“I’m nervous,” he confessed. “I barely slept since we spoke. The information in the documents is important. There’s often some talk, some buzzing in my world, about information on the lost Imperial eggs. In London, in Prague, in New York. But nothing that leads to any of them. But this? You have a kind of map here, an itinerary. I’ve never come across anything as definitive.”
“We should sit,” Lila said. “I can make tea? Coffee? Something cold?”
“Something cold would be welcome.”
“We’ll use the dining room,” Ash decided. “It should be easier to see what you have.”
“Can you tell me what the police know? About Vinnie. And Oliver. I should have said I’m sorry for your brother. I met him at Vinnie’s shop. So young,” he said with real regret. “He was very charming.”
“Yes, he was.”
“The documents were his? Oliver’s?”
“He had them.” Ash gestured Kerinov to a chair at the long table.
“And died for them, like Vinnie. Died for what they may lead to. These eggs are worth almost countless millions of dollars. Historically? Their recovery is priceless. For a collector, their worth is beyond the telling. There are some who would kill to get them, without question. Historically again, they already have the blood of the tsars on them.”
Seated, Kerinov opened his satchel, took out a manila envelope. “These are the documents Vinnie gave to me. You should keep them safe.”
“I will.”
“And my translations.” He took out two more envelopes. “One for each egg. These should also be kept safe. The documents were primarily in Russian, as Vinnie—and you, I think—believe. Some were Czech. It took longer to translate those portions. May I?” he asked before opening an envelope.
“You see here the description—this we already know from Fabergé’s invoice, from the inventory documented of the seized Imperial treasures in 1917, the revolution.”
Ash read the typed translation of the Cherub with Chariot.
“This egg was commissioned by Alexander the Third, for his wife Maria Feodorovna. Its cost at the time was twenty-three hundred rubles. A princely sum in those days, and some would say more than frivolous given the condition of the country, its people. Still, this is nothing compared to its value now.
“Thank you,” he said when Lila came in, set down a tray with a pitcher of lemonade and tall glasses of ice. “Lemonade is a favorite of mine.”
“Mine, too.”
He lifted the glass as soon as she poured, drank deep. “My throat’s dry. This is both terrible and exciting.”
“Like fleeing the USSR after the ballet.”
“Yes.” He took a slow breath. “Yes. Nicholas, who was tsar after his father, sent millions of peasants into the Great War. There was a terrible toll on the people, the country, and the revolution brewed. The workers united to overthrow the government. The provisional government—bankers and the like—was opposed by the Soviets. Lenin took power with a bloodbath in the fall of 1917, and confiscated the Imperial treasure, the property, and the royal family was slaughtered. Some of the treasure he sold—this is documented. He wanted foreign currency in his coffers, and wanted to end the war. This is history, I know, but the background is important.”
“You learned to value history from your father.” Lila glanced at Ash. “His father was a professor of history in the USSR before they escaped.”
It didn’t surprise Ash in the least she’d already learned Kerinov’s family background.
“My father, yes. We learned the history of our country—others as well, but the country of our birth.” Kerinov took another drink. “So the war continued, and the attempts by Lenin to negotiate a peace with Germany failed. He lost Kiev, and the enemy was only miles from Petrograd when the treaty was signed and the Eastern Front was no longer a war zone.”
“A terrible time,” Lila murmured. “Why don’t we learn from it?”
“My father would say those in power too often crave more. Two wars, the civil and the world, cost Russia blood and treasure, and the peace had a price as well. Some of the treasure of the tsars was sold outright, some in a quieter fashion. And some remained in Russia. Of the fifty Imperial eggs, all but eight found their way into museums or private collections. That we know,” he added.
He tapped a finger on the printout he’d made. “Here we see the Cherub with Chariot sold in 1924. This is after Lenin’s death, and during the power struggle with the troika collective, just before Stalin gained power. War and politics. It would appear one of the troika gained access to some of the treasury, and perhaps simply for personal gain sold the egg to Vladimir Starski for two thousand rubles. Less than its worth, but a huge sum for a Soviet. This states that Starski transported the egg to his home in Czechoslovakia, as a gift for his wife.”