The palace gleams — actually gleams — in the sunlight. She wonders whether the entire edifice is marble, though that seems unlikely. The architecture is overwhelming and heady, much too much, a garish and almost grotesque blend of Italian Renaissance, French Rococo, and mostly Russian Baroque. The windows are tall and thin. There are reliefs and carvings on the walls. Overly ornamental domes and gold-trimmed cupolas line the roof.
It all feels, if not fake, not authentic either. The beloved palaces Maggie has been lucky enough to visit in her lifetime — Versailles, Pitti, Abdeen, Buckingham, Mysore, the Alhambra — none of them are this pristine. None gleam like this, probably because they have aged and been ravaged by time and history. People have lived and died there, history has happened, and when you visit, even if you stand at a safe distance or are surrounded by clamoring visitors, you can feel the ghosts that still haunt the place. This palace feels more like what it is — a reproduction, a showpiece, unblemished in every way.
Maggie stands there, unsure what to do, when the front door opens. A man steps into the doorframe. She is at a pretty good distance, at least a hundred yards, but she sees him raise his hand and beckon her toward him. She huddles up against the biting wind and starts down a green path. The grass feels real and even warm beneath her feet.
How?
There are white marble statues, lots of them, forming a gauntlet for her to head down. She recognizes many — Michelangelo’s David, Myron’s Discobolus, Puget’s Milo of Croton, Rodin’s Adam — all too white, all too pristine, all too obvious and soulless replicas.
The palace — she will just keep calling it that for now — has four soaring floors. Everything here is big and obvious and unsubtle — not so much an attempt to classily suggest opulence and power as to batter you with it.
The man at the door stands and waits.
Despite the frigid cold, the man is not wearing a coat. His shirt is gaudy maroon and silky and too tight. His belt line is hidden by an unapologetic gut. His jeans are skinny jeans in the sense that they seem much too small. His hairline is somewhere between receding and surrender, slicked back with something oily.
Oily.
If she was asked to describe him in one word, “oily” would seem apropos.
He smiles and waves at her with childlike enthusiasm.
“Come, come, Doctor, you must be freezing,” he says with a thick Russian accent.
Maggie hurries her step. He whisks her inside and closes the door. Despite the massive entrance hallway — soaring ceilings four stories high, a grand marble staircase in the center that branches to both sides, a crystal chandelier the size of that helicopter — the warmth from the heating system is immediate. She quickly takes off the hat and gloves, and unzips the fur coat.
The man spreads his arms. “Welcome, Doctor McCabe!”
She is not sure of the protocol here — he looks ready to hug her — and when she puts out a hand to shake, he looks a little disappointed.
“Thank you,” Maggie says. “And you are?”
He rubs the greasy stubble of his chin with one hand, uses his other hand to shake hers. “My name,” he says, “is Oleg Ragoravich.”
She can tell that he is scrutinizing her face to gauge her reaction. She tries not to give one, but she knows the name. Ivan Brovski had insisted that there was no need for her to know until arrival, but before the plane took off and she lost service, Maggie googled “Russian billionaires” and “Russian oligarchs” and then added words like “clandestine” and “reclusive.”
Oleg Ragoravich was one of about a half dozen possibilities she crossed when doing this. She hadn’t had time to do a deep dive, but there wasn’t all that much anyway. Of the top ten Russian billionaires, he is listed as “one of the most reclusive” and rumored for many years to be in poor health. He looks fine to her, but that doesn’t mean much. There are almost no photographs of him online, suggesting that he’s had them scrubbed from the internet. Most people don’t realize how easy it is for the über rich to do that, to control their online existence, how often you will google someone superpowerful and what comes up through search engines is only what that superpowerful entity wants you to see.
In Ragoravich’s case, there are a few old grainy black-and-white photographs. His age is listed as “between 61 and 64 years old.” Birthplace: Unknown but perhaps Tbilisi. As with many of his fellow Russian billionaires, the story of how he amassed his fortune is murky — something to do with the “chaotic privatization” of state-owned assets when the Soviet empire crumbled, along with currying favor with current government leadership.
Ragoravich’s “source of wealth” is listed as “metals.”
Vague enough?
“This isn’t Rublevka,” Maggie says to him.
“Pardon?”
“I was told I was going to Rublevka.”
“No, no. I mean, yes, that’s my main residence, but we thought it would be more comfortable and private at the Winter Palace. You like?”
She doesn’t know how to answer that, so she just gives a nod.
“You must be exhausted after such a long flight. Would you like to see your room or—?”
“I’d like to inspect the medical facilities right away.”
He grins. “You’re no-nonsense. I like that. Come. I’ll give you a tour on the way.”
Oleg has a walk that proudly leads with his protruding belly, his arms behind him, chin high, a little bounce in the step. They head down a wide corridor lined with oil paintings, some of which she recognizes. When Maggie hesitates as they pass one set, Oleg spreads his arms and says, “You recognize them, yes?”
She does. Three Rembrandts (A Lady and Gentleman in Black, Christ in the Storm on the Sea of Galilee, Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man), a Manet (Chez Tortoni), and of course the pièce de résistance, Johannes Vermeer’s The Concert.
“Cute,” she says.
“How so?”
“Reproductions of the masterpieces stolen in the Gardner Museum heist.”
“Very good.” He looks pleased. “May I tell you a secret?”
She gives him a baleful eye. “You’re not going to tell me that they’re the real thing.”
“No, no,” he says. Then he leans toward her. “Well, except for one. I bought it from a Connecticut mobster five years ago.”
“So one is genuine,” she says, trying to keep her sarcastic tone to a minimum.
“Yes.”
“Which one?”
“I don’t tell.”
“Uh-huh, sure. So you could be pulling my leg.”
“I could be, yes.” He starts up again. “You’re a fan of art, no?”
“Truth? I’m more a fan of art heists.”
“True crime,” he says.
“Yes.”
Oleg is almost giddy as he stops by a closed door. A blank screen of some kind is mounted to the right of it. “I want to show you something. I think you will find it compelling.”
He sticks his face near the screen and stays still. Facial scan, Maggie assumes. She hears the click-click-click of a lock’s tumblers. Then a buzzing noise. Oleg grabs hold of the knob and pulls the door open.
Total darkness.
They step in. Oleg waits a moment, as though building suspense, then he flicks a switch against the wall inside the door. The lights come on. And there, on the far wall, hang three identical — or at least identical to her eye — reproductions of the world’s most famous painting.