Mightier Than the Sword

“I’ll wire you two thousand dollars immediately, and then perhaps you’ll be kind enough to bill me at the end of every semester. However, that is on condition that neither Samantha nor Jessica ever finds out that I’m involved in any way.”

“I had a feeling you might say that, Mr. Clifton, and I think I’ve come up with a strategy that would protect your anonymity. If you were to endow an art scholarship with an annual donation of, say, five thousand dollars, it would then be up to me to select which pupil should be the beneficiary.”

“A nice solution,” said Seb.

“I feel sure your English master would have approved of your correct use of the word nice.”

“My father, actually,” said Seb. “Which reminds me, when my sister needed canvases, paints, drawing paper, brushes, or even pencils, my father always made sure they were of the highest quality. He used to say it mustn’t be our fault if she didn’t succeed. I want the same for my daughter. So if five thousand isn’t enough, Dr. Wolfe, don’t hesitate to give her anything she needs and I’ll cover the extra costs. But I repeat, neither mother nor daughter must ever find out who made this possible.”

“It won’t be the first secret of yours I’ve kept, Mr. Clifton.”

“I apologize,” said Seb, “and also for my next question. When do you retire, Dr. Wolfe?”

“Not long after your daughter will have won the Hunter Prize Scholarship to the American College of Art, which will be a first for Jefferson Elementary.”

34

HARRY WAS CHECKING his traveler’s checks when the stewardess began her final round, making sure the first-class passengers had fastened their seat belts as the plane began its descent into Leningrad.

“Excuse me,” said Harry. “Do you know when your next flight back to London is?”

“This aircraft has a four-hour turnaround, and is scheduled to return to London at nine ten this evening.”

“That’s a bit rough on you, isn’t it?”

“No,” she said, suppressing a smile. “We always have a stopover in Leningrad. So if you were to return on this evening’s flight, you’d be served by a completely different crew.”

“Thank you,” said Harry. “That’s most helpful.” He looked out of the cabin window to watch Tolstoy’s favorite city looming larger by the second, although he suspected the great author would have been appalled by its change of name. As he heard the hydraulics lowering the wheels into place he wondered if there would be enough time for him to carry out his shopping spree and be back on board before the cabin door was locked.

When the wheels touched the ground, Harry felt a surge of adrenalin he’d only previously experienced when he’d been behind enemy lines during the war. He sometimes forgot that was nearly thirty years ago, when he was a stone lighter and a whole lot nimbler. Well, at least this time he wouldn’t be expected to face a regiment of Germans advancing toward him.

After leaving Mrs. Babakov, he had committed everything she had said to memory. He hadn’t written anything down for fear of someone discovering what he had planned. He had told no one other than Emma the real reason he was visiting Leningrad, although Giles had worked out that he must be going there to collect the book—although “collect” was the wrong verb.

As the plane bumped along the potholed runway he estimated that it would be at least an hour before he cleared customs and was able to convert some sterling into the local currency. In fact, it took an hour and fourteen minutes, despite his only having an overnight bag and exchanging ten pounds for twenty-five rubles. He then had to join the end of a long taxi queue, because the Russians hadn’t quite got the hang of free enterprise.

“The corner of Nevsky Prospekt and Bolshaya Morskaya Street,” he instructed the driver in his native tongue, hoping he would know where it was. All those hours learning Russian, when in truth he would only need a few well-honed phrases, as he intended to be on his way back to England in a few hours, mission completed, as his old commanding officer would say.

During the drive into the city they passed the Yusupov Palace, when Harry’s thoughts turned to Rasputin. The arch manipulator might have enjoyed his little subterfuge. Harry only hoped he wouldn’t end up being poisoned, wrapped in a carpet and then dropped through an ice-hole in the Malaya Nevka river. Harry realized that if he was going to be back at the airport in time to board the 21:10 to Heathrow, he would only have twenty or thirty minutes to spare. But that should be more than enough.

The taxi driver stopped outside an antiquarian bookshop and pointed to the meter. Harry took out a five-ruble note and handed it to him.

“I don’t expect to be long, so would you be kind enough to wait?”

The driver pocketed the note and gave him a curt nod.