was taking such an interest and why. The who had eventually become apparent. Even after all these years, the why still had to be answered. Why was a Russian billionaire called Oleg Samsonov spending a small fortune to trace a mythical artefact he couldn’t be certain even existed? To discover the answer, his father had devised the plan for the long, patient operation to infiltrate Paul Dornberger into the Samsonov organization. First the menial job in a company two steps distant from the Russian – an office boy, but an office boy with talent and energy who soon became noticed. When a colleague became swamped with work what was more natural than that Paul, the cheerful workaholic, should offer his help? How about if he took over the Maxwell account? That brought new contacts who noticed that good old Paul was always willing to do more than he was asked. Hey, did you know that good old Paul can speak Russian? And just at the time when we’re doing more and more work for the Russians. He’s young, he’s enthusiastic and he’s talented. We’ve got to have this chap. Patience and more patience. Eventually a brush with the outer rings of planet Samsonov. The meeting. The timely intervention. A few hundred thousand saved, his fluent Russian displayed. It was pin money, but it was the kind of thing Samsonov’s people noticed. He’d felt their light fingers fumbling about in his life. The odd looks from neighbours of the flat he’d rented. What was it? Your Mr Dornberger’s up for an award, Mrs B, can’t say what it is , but before Her Maj can hand these things out we have to know if there are any little
peculiarities
in his life. Of course, we’ll have to ask you to sign this. Not seen the Official Secrets Act before, have we? And at work, those little signs that Paul Dornberger was on the way up. The nod from the director who’d never acknowledged him before. The unlikely smile from the MD’s witch of a secretary. Once inside the Samsonov empire’s headquarters, it had been remarkably easy. Oleg Samsonov was a man who took an interest in his staff and he had soon noticed the pleasant young man with the inquiring mind and a talent for discretion, a combination that, in his experience, was unusual. All it had taken then was more patience.
As Samsonov’s personal assistant he had an overview of his employer’s activities given to few other men. The keystone was the billionaire’s investment company, which gave him control of many dozens of businesses across Europe and Russia. But business was only part of it. Like many of his kind, Samsonov knew little of art, but didn’t let that stand in the way of acquiring a substantial collection of the world’s great works and many others that either took his fancy or were expensive enough to warrant his respect. His acquisitions were made through a network of dealers, mostly respectable, but some not. His taste, if it could be called taste, was towards simplicity and beauty. He distrusted most modern art, because it had yet to find its true value, but, though he disliked Picasso, he also recognized his investment potential and owned several of his works. Many of them were on show in the apartments, but Paul suspected that the most valuable, and quite possibly a number of rarities whose origins didn’t stand up to legal scrutiny, hung in the panic room, where Oleg could admire them without being disturbed by lesser mortals.
It had been almost two years before Paul felt secure enough to begin the hunt for evidence that Samsonov retained his interest in the mythical Crown of Isis. The hints had been there. Instructions to dealers to carry out discreet enquiries into private collections of Egyptian artefacts. A payment to a Swiss bank account which, to Paul’s certain knowledge, belonged to a Berlin-based specialist in the art of breaching museum security. Researchers employed to carry out searches through the archives of particular museums, many of which Paul recognized
peculiarities
in his life. Of course, we’ll have to ask you to sign this. Not seen the Official Secrets Act before, have we? And at work, those little signs that Paul Dornberger was on the way up. The nod from the director who’d never acknowledged him before. The unlikely smile from the MD’s witch of a secretary. Once inside the Samsonov empire’s headquarters, it had been remarkably easy. Oleg Samsonov was a man who took an interest in his staff and he had soon noticed the pleasant young man with the inquiring mind and a talent for discretion, a combination that, in his experience, was unusual. All it had taken then was more patience.
As Samsonov’s personal assistant he had an overview of his employer’s activities given to few other men. The keystone was the billionaire’s investment company, which gave him control of many dozens of businesses across Europe and Russia. But business was only part of it. Like many of his kind, Samsonov knew little of art, but didn’t let that stand in the way of acquiring a substantial collection of the world’s great works and many others that either took his fancy or were expensive enough to warrant his respect. His acquisitions were made through a network of dealers, mostly respectable, but some not. His taste, if it could be called taste, was towards simplicity and beauty. He distrusted most modern art, because it had yet to find its true value, but, though he disliked Picasso, he also recognized his investment potential and owned several of his works. Many of them were on show in the apartments, but Paul suspected that the most valuable, and quite possibly a number of rarities whose origins didn’t stand up to legal scrutiny, hung in the panic room, where Oleg could admire them without being disturbed by lesser mortals.
It had been almost two years before Paul felt secure enough to begin the hunt for evidence that Samsonov retained his interest in the mythical Crown of Isis. The hints had been there. Instructions to dealers to carry out discreet enquiries into private collections of Egyptian artefacts. A payment to a Swiss bank account which, to Paul’s certain knowledge, belonged to a Berlin-based specialist in the art of breaching museum security. Researchers employed to carry out searches through the archives of particular museums, many of which Paul recognized
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