driver and stood in front of imposing doors made of thick glass
and covered in wrought iron welded to look like the branches of a tree. By the
side of the doors, carved inconspicuously into the stone and inlaid with gilt,
were the words ‘Bischoffet Cie’. There was no other clue as to what kind of
establishment lay within.
Romanov turned the heavy wrought-iron knob
and the two Russians stepped into a spacious hall. On the left-hand side of the
hall stood a solitary desk behind which a smartly dressed young man was seated.
“Guten
Morgen, mein Herr”, he
said.
“Good morning,” said Romanov. “We have an
appointment with Herr Dieter Bischoff.”
“Yes, Herr Romanov,” said the receptionist,
checking the list of names in front of him. “Will you please take the lift to
the fifth floor where you will be met by Herr BischofFs secretary. ”
When the two of them stepped out of the lift they were greeted by a lady in a
neat plain suit. “Will you please follow me,” she said, without any trace of
accent. The two Russians were escorted along a picture-lined corridor to a
comfortable room which more resembled the reception room of a country house
than a bank.
“Herr Bischoff will be with you in a moment,”
the lady said, withdrawing. Romanov remained standing while he took in the
room. Three black-and-white framed photographs of sombre old men in grey suits,
trying to look like sombre old men in grey suits, took up most of the far wall,
while on the other walls were discreet but pleasant oils of town and country
scenes of nineteenth-century Switzerland. A magnificent oval Louis XIV table
with eight carved mahogany chairs surrounding it dominated the centre of the
room. Romanov felt a twinge of envy at the thought that he could never hope to
live in such style.
The door opened and a man in his
mid-sixties, followed by three other men in dark grey suits, entered the room.
One look at Herr Bischoff and Romanov knew whose photograph would eventually
join that of the other three grey, sombre men.
“What an honour for our little bank, Mr
Romanov,” were Bischoff’s first words as he bowed and shook the Russian by the
hand. Romanov nodded and introduced his assistant, who received the same
courteous bow and handshake. “May I in turn present my son and two of my
partners, Herr Muller and Herr Weizkopf. ” The three
men bowed in unison, but remained standing while Bischofftook his seat at the
head of the table.
At his gesture both Romanov and Anna sat
down beside him.
“I wonder if I might be permitted to check
your passport?” asked Bischoff, as if to show that the formal business had
begun. Romanov took out the little blue passport with a soft cover from his
inside pocket and handed it over. Bischoff studied it closely, as a philatelist
might check an old stamp, and decided it was mint. “Thank you,” he said, as he
returned it to its owner
Bischoff then raised his hand and one of the
partners immediately left them. “It will only take a moment for my son to fetch
the icon we have in safe-keeping,” he confided. “Meanwhile perhaps a little
coffee – Russian,” he added.
Coffee appeared within moments borne by yet
another smartly dressed lady.
“Thank you,” said Petrova, clearly a little
overawed, but Romanov didn’t speak again until Herr Bischoff’s son reappeared
with a small box and handed it over to his father.
“You will understand that I have to treat
this matter with the utmost delicacy,” the old man confided. “The icon may not
turn out to be the one your Government is searching for.”
“I understand,” said Romanov.
“This magnificent example of Russian art has
been in our possession since 1938, and was deposited with the bank on behalf of
a Mr Emmanuel Rosenbaum.”
Both visitors looked shocked.
“Nevozmozhno,” said Anna, turning to her
master. “He would never...”
“I suspect that’s exactly why the name was
chosen in the first place,” Romanov said curtly to
and covered in wrought iron welded to look like the branches of a tree. By the
side of the doors, carved inconspicuously into the stone and inlaid with gilt,
were the words ‘Bischoffet Cie’. There was no other clue as to what kind of
establishment lay within.
Romanov turned the heavy wrought-iron knob
and the two Russians stepped into a spacious hall. On the left-hand side of the
hall stood a solitary desk behind which a smartly dressed young man was seated.
“Guten
Morgen, mein Herr”, he
said.
“Good morning,” said Romanov. “We have an
appointment with Herr Dieter Bischoff.”
“Yes, Herr Romanov,” said the receptionist,
checking the list of names in front of him. “Will you please take the lift to
the fifth floor where you will be met by Herr BischofFs secretary. ”
When the two of them stepped out of the lift they were greeted by a lady in a
neat plain suit. “Will you please follow me,” she said, without any trace of
accent. The two Russians were escorted along a picture-lined corridor to a
comfortable room which more resembled the reception room of a country house
than a bank.
“Herr Bischoff will be with you in a moment,”
the lady said, withdrawing. Romanov remained standing while he took in the
room. Three black-and-white framed photographs of sombre old men in grey suits,
trying to look like sombre old men in grey suits, took up most of the far wall,
while on the other walls were discreet but pleasant oils of town and country
scenes of nineteenth-century Switzerland. A magnificent oval Louis XIV table
with eight carved mahogany chairs surrounding it dominated the centre of the
room. Romanov felt a twinge of envy at the thought that he could never hope to
live in such style.
The door opened and a man in his
mid-sixties, followed by three other men in dark grey suits, entered the room.
One look at Herr Bischoff and Romanov knew whose photograph would eventually
join that of the other three grey, sombre men.
“What an honour for our little bank, Mr
Romanov,” were Bischoff’s first words as he bowed and shook the Russian by the
hand. Romanov nodded and introduced his assistant, who received the same
courteous bow and handshake. “May I in turn present my son and two of my
partners, Herr Muller and Herr Weizkopf. ” The three
men bowed in unison, but remained standing while Bischofftook his seat at the
head of the table.
At his gesture both Romanov and Anna sat
down beside him.
“I wonder if I might be permitted to check
your passport?” asked Bischoff, as if to show that the formal business had
begun. Romanov took out the little blue passport with a soft cover from his
inside pocket and handed it over. Bischoff studied it closely, as a philatelist
might check an old stamp, and decided it was mint. “Thank you,” he said, as he
returned it to its owner
Bischoff then raised his hand and one of the
partners immediately left them. “It will only take a moment for my son to fetch
the icon we have in safe-keeping,” he confided. “Meanwhile perhaps a little
coffee – Russian,” he added.
Coffee appeared within moments borne by yet
another smartly dressed lady.
“Thank you,” said Petrova, clearly a little
overawed, but Romanov didn’t speak again until Herr Bischoff’s son reappeared
with a small box and handed it over to his father.
“You will understand that I have to treat
this matter with the utmost delicacy,” the old man confided. “The icon may not
turn out to be the one your Government is searching for.”
“I understand,” said Romanov.
“This magnificent example of Russian art has
been in our possession since 1938, and was deposited with the bank on behalf of
a Mr Emmanuel Rosenbaum.”
Both visitors looked shocked.
“Nevozmozhno,” said Anna, turning to her
master. “He would never...”
“I suspect that’s exactly why the name was
chosen in the first place,” Romanov said curtly to
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