“Why now? Why at this time?”
“I didn’t know you existed until about a month ago. I found out after my mother died.”
Deschin didn’t expect that, and stiffened.
Melanie saw it, and regained some of her confidence. “You know, Gorodin told me what’s going on. I can’t believe you think I came all this way to hurt you. Why are you being so hostile?”
“You — threaten me,” he replied, surprised by her directness, which pleased him. “You always have.”
Melanie blinked in astonishment.
“Yes, I knew,” he said before she could ask. “I always thought this day would come.”
How? she wondered. “My mother’s letter was never delivered. It was sealed. I opened it.”
“And so did Military Intelligence,” he explained. “The war was almost over, and they knew our countries wouldn’t be allies much longer. When they saw my code name on the envelope, they steamed it open to examine the contents, then delivered it unsealed — a subtle way of informing me I was no longer trusted.”
“You read it, sealed it, and sent it back—”
Deschin nodded.
“Why?”
“To protect myself.”
“You mean professionally?”
He took a long drag on his cigarette, and shook no. “Emotionally,” he replied. “I was devastated when your mother decided to leave Italy. We’d been through so much together. It took me a year to get over her. When I read the letter, when I saw what we could’ve had—” he paused suppressing his bitterness. “It was a way of denying it. I couldn’t allow myself any expectations.” His chest heaved, and he stubbed out the cigarette and pulled himself from the chair.
Melanie felt saddened, but her eyes flickered with anxiety as he circled behind her. She wasn’t sure what to expect until the light caught his face, and she saw that, despite it all, he was pleased she was there.
“Gorodin told me it’s been a trying quest.”
“Yes, it has.”
“I hope I prove worthy of it,” he said, holding out a hand. She took it, and he helped her to her feet. They were about to leave when Deschin glanced to the mailing tube that was leaning against his chair. He took it, and led the way from the study.
After climbing through the dormer, Andrew had crawled across the rafters in the unfinished attic to a ceiling hatch. He eased it aside and reached through the opening into the darkness, running his hand along the ceiling. His fingers found a light fixture and tugged on the pull chain. The bare bulb came on with a loud click that made him flinch. He peered down into a utility room, where a small patch of floor was visible amidst an assortment of tools and equipment, then eased down through the opening.
Melanie and Deschin had crossed the entry hall and were walking down one of the corridors toward the maintenance wing. Deschin detoured to an alcove where a door that opened onto the rear of the dacha was located, and peered outside. The fireplace was unattended. A few lazy flames were licking at the charred stone. He snapped his fingers several times, and the guard came running.
“What’s the problem?” Deschin asked in Russian.
“We thought you’d — prefer to wait, sir,” the guard replied, flicking a nervous look to Melanie.
“I asked you to build a fire, comrade. I expect it to be done. Notify me when it is.”
The guard nodded stiffly and hurried off.
Deschin closed the door and shook his head in disgust. “Something I’d hope to have accomplished before you arrived,” he said to Melanie as they moved off down the corridor.
In the utility room, Andrew was completing his descent, taking care not to dislodge anything that would make a noise. He had barely touched down when he heard footsteps in the corridor on the other side of the door. He stood on his toes, stretched to the light fixture, and unscrewed the bulb a few turns to shut it off.
The footsteps came closer and closer.
Andrew turned the knob gingerly and opened the door a crack.
Deschin and Melanie walked right past him and turned a corner at the far end of the corridor.
Andrew slipped out of the utility room and followed. He laid back and peered around the corner, watching as they continued to a heavy wooden door.
Deschin took keys from his pocket, unlocked the door and swung it open, gesturing to Melanie to enter first.
She stepped tentatively into the darkened space.
The glimmer of a pale moon came through a wire glass skylight, silhouetting what appeared to be an immense winged insect overhead.
Deschin followed, closing and bolting the door. “You said you wanted to know me—” he said, letting the sentence trail off as he turned on the lights.
The room exploded with brilliance and color.
Picasso’s incendiary “Three Women” was directly opposite the entry. A huge Calder mobile hung beneath the skylight. Each wall displayed great works of art from the Hermitage and Pushkin: Cézanne, Gauguin, Matisse, Renoir, Monet, among them. Deschin’s gallery was no match for Churcher’s museum, but the contents would more than hold their own — these were original works.
Melanie was stunned, as Deschin had anticipated.
“Venture about,” he said with a pleased smile. “I’ll be right back.”
Melanie nodded, her eyes darting from the Picasso to Cézanne’s “Woman in Blue” on an adjacent wall.
Deschin went to a workroom within the gallery where paintings were stored and crated. He paused in the door and stole a glance at Melanie, watching her for a moment. A proud smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Then he entered the room, put the mailing tube on a table, and went to a cabinet. The package Gorodin had stolen from Churcher’s museum was on the top shelf. Deschin put it on the table next to the mailing tube, and returned to the gallery.
Andrew was in the corridor right outside the gallery now. He pulled some crumpled rubles from his jeans, and tore the corner off one of them. Next, he wet his thumb and forefinger with saliva, rolled the paper between them, and forced the tiny spitball into the keyhole in the gallery door, then hurried back down the corridor to the utility room.
Melanie was standing in front of a Degas when Deschin rejoined her. The tiny masterpiece was from the lyrical series of ballet dancers that the Impressionist had painted near the end of his life.
Deschin looked from the painting to Melanie’s splayed stance, and smiled knowingly.
“My mother danced,” he said.
Melanie turned to him, her face suddenly aglow.
“Oh—” she exclaimed in a fulfilled whisper. “I always knew it came from somewhere.”
“Your grandmother’s name was Tatiana. Tatiana Chinovya,” he said, pleased at the effect of his remark.
“Where did she dance?”
“With the Bolshoi,” he said proudly.
“My God—” Melanie said, awestruck.
“In the ensemble,” he added, tempering his answer but not her reaction. “When I was a child,” he went on reflectively, “I would slip backstage and watch her perform. I was always so fascinated, and felt such pride.”
He paused, and touched Melanie’s cheek with his fingertips.
“We both have her face; but you have her fine bones, and no doubt her talent. A man couldn’t ask for more in a daughter. You’re all I have, you know.”
Melanie’s face flushed with warmth.
“Was Sarah happy?” he asked somewhat suddenly.
“Yes, I think so.”
“Good,” he said, trying to sound detached.
Melanie sensed his wistfulness, despite it. “But I always had the feeling her life wasn’t — complete,” she went on for his sake.
Deschin felt his eyes getting misty.
“Your grandfather was in the military,” he said brightly to get past the moment. “He cut quite a handsome figure in his uniform. I have pictures of him — and many of your grandmother dancing.”