Mythen opened the front door, looked sharply at Vrenschov and asked, “You look poorly, Mr Vrenschov. You are not well?”
“No. I will not be staying for lunch,” Vrenschov said, his fat face the picture of gloom.
“Not staying to lunch? That is most unfortunate. The chef has cooked a special pheasant pie for you. Are you sure?”
Vrenschov moaned softly.
“I will not be staying to lunch.”
“That is most regrettable, sir. Please follow me.”
Radnitz had seen the shabby VW arrive. He had placed the icon on his desk. He sat back, clasping his fat hands and completely relaxed. Either way he couldn’t lose, he told himself. If the Soviet government wouldn’t give him the Dam contract, at least he would get eight million dollars for the return of the icon, but, of course to get the Dam contract was much more important.
When Vrenschov plodded into the study, Radnitz knew immediately the Dam contract wasn’t to be his. Well, all right, he had the icon. Not the ace card, but at least the king.
“Come in, Vasili,” he said, a rasp in his voice. “What is the news?”
“Unfortunately, Mr Radnitz, my people have decided to postpone the building of the dam for several years. They accept your estimate, but due to the sudden economic crisis, due to the shortage of grain, they feel money should not be spent on the dam.”
“But perhaps after this crisis?” Radnitz asked, his toad-like smile stiffening.
“We can but hope.”
“At least, they accepted my estimate?”
Vrenschov nodded.
Radnitz pointed to the icon.
“You see, Vasili, I have got this precious work of art. What do your masters say? Are they prepared to pay me eight million dollars for the return of this magnificent treasure?”
Vrenschov looked like a man about to die.
“I fear not, Mr Radnitz.”
Radnitz stiffened. He glared at Vrenschov.
“What are you saying? This icon is one of the oldest possessions Russia owns! It is worth twenty or even more million dollars! It has caused the President of the United States to be embarrassed. What will they give me for it?”
Vrenschov crushed his greasy hat between his hands.
“I fear nothing, Mr Radnitz.”
Radnitz reared back.
“Nothing?”
“I have talked to the Minister of Arts,” Vrenschov said. “He is a great admirer of yours, Mr Radnitz. He has instructed me to confide in you a state secret in view of the fact that you are such a good friend of our country. Thirty years ago, when Premier Stalin was our ruler, the Catherine the Great icon was stolen. No one knows who stole it. The then Minister of Arts knew he would be placed before a firing squad if the news leaked out. He had a very clever replica made and this replica has been on show at the Hermitage until it was stolen from Washington.” He pointed a trembling finger at the icon on Radnitz’s desk. “That, sir, is the replica. The Minister of Arts told me to ask you to accept it as a souvenir of your continued interest in the Soviet Union.”
He turned and practically ran out of the room, leaving Radnitz staring bleakly at the icon.