The Collector
Page 89
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.”
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.”
