The Collector (36 page)

“No.” He trailed his fingers up her side. “But I'll show you what is.”

“Not before I walk the dog.”

“Why don't we walk the dog, go out to dinner, then come back and I'll seduce you?”

New floor plans, Lila remembered, were meant to be explored, tried on. “All right. But since I now have a very clear idea how I look, I need ten minutes first.”

“We'll wait.”

He picked up his pad and pencil again as she dashed upstairs. And began to draw her from memory—naked, wrapped in tangled sheets, laughing.

Yes, he'd wait.

L
ila lived by lists. Words on paper, to her mind, became reality. If she wrote it down, she made it happen. A list simplified a quick trip to Italy, made for more efficient packing, and all the steps to be taken before boarding.

In anticipation, she created the packing list, then set about making piles on the bed in the guest room.

One pile to go with her, another to leave at Julie's and a third for potential donations. Lightening her load, and leaving room for the shopping Julie would talk her into.

Ash came in. “Kerinov just called me. He's coming over.”

“Now?”

“Soon. He has some information to pass on. What are you doing? We don't leave for three days.”

“This is planning. A pre-packing stage. Since I won't be setting up house, so to speak, there are things I don't need to take. Plus my wardrobe needs a little turnover. Plus to plus, I'll need room to pack things I can't carry on.”

She lifted the trusty Leatherman tool she habitually carried in her
purse. “Such as. And such as the travel candles I always take with me, my lighter, my box cutter, my—”

“I get it, but there's no restrictions on those things on private.”

“Private what? Plane?” She dropped her Leatherman. “We're flying to Italy on a private plane?”

“There's no point in having one and not using it.”

“You . . . you have a private plane?”

“The family has one. Two actually. We each get a certain amount of air time a year—as long as the time isn't already taken. I told you I'd take care of the details.”

“Details.” She decided she needed to sit down.

“Do you have a problem being able to take your intimidating multi-tool and box cutter on board?”

“No. And flying in a private jet is a thrill—will be a thrill. It all just makes me feel out of balance.”

He sat beside her. “My great-grandfather started it. The son of a Welsh coal miner who wanted better for his children. His oldest son made good, came to New York, made better. Along the way some of us squandered it, some expanded it. And if you let anything my father said to you get a grip, it's going to piss me off.”

“I'm used to paying my own way. I can't keep up with private planes.”

“Do you want me to book commercial?”

“No.” Now she smiled. “I'm not a complete neurotic. I'm just telling you I don't need private planes. I'll enjoy the experience, and I don't want you to think I take it for granted.”

“It's hard to think that when you looked like I said we were going on a jump ship instead of a G4.”

“You're wrong. I've been on a jump ship. I'd have looked vaguely green. Well.” She picked up her Leatherman, turned it over in her hands. “I'll adjust my packing strategy. I could make dinner.”

“That'd be nice.”

“I meant for Kerinov.”

“I don't think he plans to be here that long. He's coming by after a meeting and before meeting his wife for some family thing. You can fill him in on where we are with the Bastones.”

“Then I'll make us dinner.” She glanced at her ordered piles of clothes. “I need to reevaluate.”

“You do that,” he said, then pulled out his ringing phone. “My father. I'll take it downstairs.

“Dad,” he said as he started out.

She stayed as she was. She hated feeling guilty, but that's exactly how Spence Archer made her feel.

Forget it, she ordered herself, and started a new list.

While Lila adjusted her travel strategy Ash stared out at New York while he spoke with his brother Esteban on the phone. One of the upsides of having so many siblings was a connection to almost everything.

“I appreciate it. Yeah, I thought you might. I don't know how far Oliver went. Too far. No, you're right, I probably couldn't have stopped him. Yes, I'll be careful.”

He glanced at the stairs, thought of Lila and knew he had plenty of reasons to be. “You did help. I'll let you know what comes of it. I'll be in touch,” he added as the house phone rang. “Yes, I promise. Later.”

He shoved one phone in his pocket, picked up the other to clear Kerinov upstairs.

Momentum, he thought. He could feel it building. Where it would take them, he couldn't be sure, but the wind was finally at his back.

He went to the door, opened it for Kerinov. “Alexi. It's good to see you.”

“Ash, I just heard from—” Lila paused on her run down the stairs. “Alexi. Hello.”

“I hope this is a good time.”

“Anytime is good. I'll get you a drink.”

“Please, don't trouble. I have to meet my family soon.”

“Let's sit down,” Ash suggested.

“We couldn't talk, not about this,” Kerinov said to Ash as they sat in the living room, “at Vinnie's funeral.”

“It was a hard day.”

“Yes. So many of your family came.” He looked down at his hands, spread them, linked them. “It's good to have family on the hard days.”

After a quiet sigh, he uncoupled his hands. “I have some information.” He dug into his satchel for a manila envelope. “I've written up some notes, but wanted to tell you I've spoken to several colleagues more knowing on Fabergé and the era of the tsars than I. There are rumors, always. Perhaps one of the lost eggs is in Germany. It's reasonable to believe an Imperial egg was confiscated by the Nazis with other treasures. Out of Poland, the Ukraine, Austria. But none can be substantiated. There's no map, such as we have for the two.”

“One in New York,” Lila said, “one in Italy—or hopefully in Italy.”

“Yes, Ashton tells me you're going there, to try to track the Nécessaire. There are collections, public and private. Some of the private, as we discussed, are very private. But I have some names, in my notes. Possibilities. One to me stands out.”

He leaned forward, dangling his hands between his knees.

“There was a man, Basil Vasin, who claimed to be the son of the Grand Duchess Anastasia, the daughter of Nicholas and Alexandra. This is long before it was proven Anastasia was executed along with the rest of the family. After the execution by the Bolsheviks and for decades after, there were rumors she survived, escaped.”

“They did a movie,” Lila recalled. “With . . . Oh, who was it? Ingrid Bergman.”

“Anna Anderson,” Kerinov confirmed, “was the most famous of those who claimed to be Anastasia, but she was not the only. Vasin made this claim, bilked many wishing to believe it. He was very handsome, very charming, and convincing enough to marry a wealthy
heiress. Annamaria Huff, a distant cousin of the Queen of England. She began to collect Russian art for him, a tribute to his family, including Fabergé. It was her greatest wish to recover the lost Imperial eggs, but she was unable to do so—at least publicly.”

“You think she might have acquired one?” Ash asked.

“I can't say. My research shows they lived lavishly, opulently, often trading off her royal blood, and his claim to his own.”

“Then if they'd gotten one,” Lila concluded, “they'd have beat the drum.”

“Yes. I think, but who can say? They had a son, an only child who inherited their wealth and property—their collection. And from my research, their quest to acquire the lost eggs.”

“He'd know his father's claims to the Romanovs were disproved. I've researched, too,” Ash pointed out. “They found her body, they've done DNA.”

“People believe what they want to believe,” Lila murmured. “What son wants to believe his father was a liar and a cheat? There was a lot of confusion, right—also did my research—reasons why women could claim to be Anastasia with some level of credence, or descendants. The new Russian government was trying to negotiate a peace treaty with Germany, and claimed the girls had been taken to a safe location.”

“Yes, yes.” Kerinov nodded rapidly. “To cover up the brutal murder of unarmed women, children.”

“Rumors started to hide the murders became rumors that she'd, at least, survived. But they found the graves,” Ash added. “The science wouldn't matter to some.” No, not to some—and he thought of Oliver.

“Yes, some people believe what they want to believe.” Alexi smiled a little. “No matter the science or the history.”

“When did they conclusively prove she'd been executed with her family?” Lila asked.

“In 2007. A second grave was found, and scientists proved the two
remains were Anastasia and her young brother. Cruelty,” Alexi added, “even after death, to separate them from the other family, to try to hide the murders.”

“So, the son would have been a grown man. It would be humiliating or infuriating—probably both—to have your family history, your bloodline, proven a lie.”

“He continues to claim it.” Alexi tapped his index finger on the envelope. “As you will see. There are many who prefer to believe the discoveries and documentation were falsified. The claim she survived is more romantic.”

“And their deaths were brutal,” Lila added. “You think he—this Vasin—is the one Oliver acquired the egg for?”

“There are other possibilities—I have their information in my notes. A French woman who can indeed trace her bloodline back to the Romanovs, and an American rumored to be open to buying stolen artworks. But this one—Nicholas Romanov Vasin—my mind goes back to him. He has many international interests, finance, industry, but is largely a recluse. He has homes in Luxembourg, France, Prague, and in New York.”

“New York?”

Kerinov nodded at Ash. “Long Island's North Shore. He rarely entertains, does most of his business by remote—phones, e-mails, video conferences. It's rumored he suffers from mysophobia—the fear of germs.”

“Doesn't like to get his hands dirty,” Ash murmured. “That fits. Hire someone else to do the dirty work.”

“I have these names for you, and what information I could get, but there's not been so much as a whisper about the discovery or acquisition of the eggs. I wish I had more to give you.”

“You've given us names, a direction to take. Names we can mention to Bastone when we meet with him.”

“Which we will be,” Lila said, “Thursday afternoon. Antonia contacted me before I came downstairs,” she explained. “Her father's agreed to talk to us. He'll contact us with details, but we're invited to Villa Bastone next Thursday.”

“At two o'clock,” Ash finished. “My brother Esteban's in the same business. I had him give Bastone a nudge.”

“Well. Good for us.”

“The next point on the map,” Kerinov said. “You'll keep me updated? I wish I could go with you, but family and business keep me in New York for the next few weeks. Speaking of family, I have to go to mine.” He rose. “So I'll say
udachi
—good luck.”

He shook hands with Ash, flushed a little when Lila hugged him after she walked him to the door. She turned back, rubbed her hands together.

“Let's Google this Nicholas Romanov Vasin. I know we have Alexi's notes, but let's do some digging.”

“I've got a better source than Google. My father.”

“Oh.” Money talks to money, she thought. She'd said so herself. “Good idea. You do that, and I'll see about dinner, as promised. I guess we need to check out the other two possibilities. Maybe he knows them, too.”

“Or of them. I haven't forgotten he owes you an apology, Lila.”

“It's not on the top-ten list of things to worry about right now.”

“It's on mine.” He went into the kitchen ahead of her, poured two glasses of wine. “For the cook.” He handed her one. “I'll stay out of your way.”

Alone, she looked down at the wine, shrugged, took a sip. His father might be able to add more meat to the bone, and that's what counted. It couldn't matter, not now, that she'd made excuses about not attending Vinnie's funeral—and both of them knew they'd been excuses. It couldn't matter, not now, what his father thought of her.

Later . . . Who knew what could or would matter later?

Right now she had to figure out what to cook.

He gave her nearly an hour before he wandered back through. “Smells great. What is it?”

“I'm not sure. It's not scampi, it's not linguine, but has elements of both. We'll say it's scampine. My head's in Italy, I guess. Whatever it is, it's about ready.”

She served it in wide, shallow bowls, with hunks of the rosemary bread Ash had picked up at Luke's bakery, and another well-earned glass of wine.

She sampled, nodded. Just enough garlic, she decided, and a good lemony flavor throughout. “Not bad.”

“Better than that. It's great.”

“Generally I have more successes than failures when I make something up, but my failures are really stupendous.”

“You should write this one down.”

“That eliminates the spontaneity.” She stabbed a shrimp, rolled some noodles. “So, was your father any help?”

“He knows Vasin—in that he met him once, nearly a decade ago. According to my father, Vasin wasn't particularly social, but not the recluse he's become in recent years. He never married, never was reported to be particularly attached to any woman, or man for that matter. Even back then he wouldn't shake hands—though they met at a very high-powered affair that included various heads of state. He brought along an assistant who served him his own specially bottled water throughout the evening. According to my father, Vasin was pompous, fussy, eccentric without the charm, and physically very attractive.”

“Tall, dark and handsome. I did a quick Google, found some photos from the eighties and nineties. Movie-star glam.”

“Which was one of his interests at one time. He financed a few films, and was on the point of financing a remake of
Anastasia
—the script was being written, casting nets were going out. Then with the
DNA, the general consensus that Anastasia died along with the rest of her family, the project fell apart.”