The Amber Rooms

Chapter Eleven

Many hours passed before Saskia could meet Count Nakhimov. The hundred guests arrived at nine o’clock, precisely at sunset, and remained until four, when the sun returned. Not yet the White Nights; they were a month away. As though the dawn had fairytale significance, the gloved hands of the nobility parted and slipped into the day, their carriages ringing with conversation. Only then did Count Nakhimov appear. Saskia was left with memories of black, polished boots and epaulettes and earnest young men who wished to dance with her. But she never danced. She was content to let the evening progress before her: on a dance floor as large, it seemed, as the concourse of Moscow Station, sided with mirrors that projected the scene endlessly, repeating the themes of gold and ivory. She sat even as the orchestra played one of the Hungarian Dances by Brahms.

There had been, as ever, political discussion among the wallflowers. Saskia was surprised to overhear snide remarks about His Majesty. These guests were permitted by birth to enjoy the gilded life of the Russian aristocracy, and yet they seemed contemptuous of its source. Saskia had once spent two late summer months gathering corn in the Ukraine with anarchist friends. The peasants there had idolised the Tsar. They were happy with the Tsar’s ration; they thought that the Tsar would save them—in every sense. It had underscored Saskia’s belief in the operatic absurdity of Imperial Russia’s prolonged death. Those peasants were content to listen to Saskia and her friend Angela as they read from their copies of The Manifesto of the Communist Party. The peasants listened even as they lay in their lice-infested bunks. But, come morning, they had forgotten the message, and the men in the worker blocks muttered that they would sooner have prostitutes than these pious, polite readers. The peasants had settled on their life’s meaning: an ex-soldier called Nicholas, their Little Father. When Angela called him Nicholas the Last, the peasants rebuked her.

Meanwhile, at the ball, dawn had come. Saskia stood alongside the Countess and thanked the retreating guests. She spent a particular, friendly moment with an ancient Colonel called Yuri who had fought at Sebastopol. She was polite enough to accept a dozen calling cards from suitors. Later, she would drop them into one of the porcelain stoves that perfumed the air.

The Countess had told her about the intricacies of Petersburg social life. Each Grand Ducal court had its clique. The most regarded was that of Grand Duchess Marie, wife of the Grand Duke Vladimir. Saskia watched her as she spoke. Was there irony in her tone? Was she presenting a caricature of her life?

At dawn, the servant passed a note to the Countess, who read it, nodded, and said, ‘Sister, the Count has arrived. You will find him in his office. Follow Fyodor.’

Saskia was led through to the pied-à-terre. Once in the small drawing room, she waited for the servant to withdraw. The Count was standing at the mantelpiece of a hearty fire. He wore a beige, puff-breasted suit. His moustaches were voluminous and his beard short—both a tribute to his Tsar. He covered his baldness with a terrible comb-over that Saskia found at once distracting and charming. As ever, the air was ripe with Mouchoir de Monsieur.

For the first moments of their reacquaintance, he seemed uncomfortable. He did not reach to shake her hand.

‘I’m pleased to see you, Ms Tucholsky.’

‘Count Nakhimov,’ she said. ‘At last.’

He asked her to sit down. Saskia perched on the edge of a winged chair. She crossed her legs and looked into the fire.

‘Must we speak this language, even here?’ said the Count. ‘I feel I have forgotten all the words.’

‘I would prefer it.’

‘Are your quarters comfortable?’

‘I have no idea,’ she said. ‘I arrived only this afternoon.’

‘I see. I apologise.’

‘What for? I had time to meet your son.’

‘That pleases me. Do you agree to tutor him?’

‘Count, you know that I must leave immediately for the Amber Room. I appreciate the cover story, but that’s what it must remain.’

‘Were you followed?’

‘From the station? No. But Soso’s men were waiting for me at your house in Zurich.’

‘And yet you successfully returned to the Empire with my help.’

‘I received the documents, obviously. Have you received word from Mr Jenner?’

‘The house is quite safe.’

‘I specifically ask after Mr Jenner.’

‘He is fine. Obviously.’

‘You’re angry with me.’

‘No.’ He touched his collar. ‘I am surprised that you survived the Georgian.’

Saskia closed her eyes. The connection, here, was clear. ‘You sent them, didn’t you, Count?’

‘The Georgian interrogated my go-between and discovered the location of my house in Zurich. That’s how he found you.’

‘That doesn’t explain how he located my garret in Aussersihl, does it?’

‘No,’ said the Count, worried. ‘It does not.’

‘What is your protection, Count? What keeps you safe? If they know your house in Zurich, they know your house here.’

‘My belief in the Party, of course. What keeps you safe?’

‘The edge of my wit. What had you given them?’

‘I told them I would bring you “in from the cold”, to use your phrase. That’s always been enough.’

‘Count, this is no longer about the money.’

‘Is it not? You’re talking about the greatest heist in the history of the world. Did you think they would have forgotten you?’

‘Once I enter the Amber Room, they will forget me.’

‘Is the money there?’

Saskia smiled. ‘Why do you ask me? You must be astoundingly incompetent if you have not already checked.’

The Count said nothing.

‘The Georgian nearly got me. You owe me. You’ve been playing double-agent with dangerous people, Count. The biter can always become the bitten. They almost killed me. They can kill you.’ She pictured sparrows falling from the sky. ‘I need the equipment I asked for and I need time in the Amber Room. Understood?’

‘If you get your wish, I must get mine.’

‘I will tell you the location of the money the instant my work in the Amber Room is done.’

‘Thank you. But, after that, what will keep you safe?’

‘Nothing.’