He looked me straight in the eye; and now, without doubt, I was getting the truth. "I don't know."
"Why did they want the child?"
"I don't know… I'm not sure they did. I thought then they were only taking her to somebody else."
"What did they look like?"
"Ordinary men, but from the city. From Leningrad, I expect. Two of them. One did all the talking. He had bushy hair, very curly, like Trotsky's. The other was bigger and said nothing. A big man with a big chest, a dignified face."
Harry Brightman, taken by May Brightman with her own Brownie. … I could see it then. I could see the dark interior of some smoky hovel, or their corner of a barrack. I could smell the sweat and the filth, hear the wind moan through the cracks in the walls. A baby cries. The woman's voice is desperate and weak. And Brightman waits calmly, off to one side, with Dr. Charlie's passport in his pocket. But why? Why Yuri Shastov's little girl?
I said, "You say that the first man looked like Trotsky — but he wasn't? You're sure of that?"
"No, no. I'm sure. By then, I think poor Trotsky was dead."
In fact, he hadn't been killed till that summer, but the chances of his being in Russia at that point were nil. I nodded. "The second man… that was Brightman."
"So I have met him?"
"Yes."
"And now he's sent me this letter?"
I nodded. "And now you know why."
"No, Mr. Thorne… I still don't understand that."
I wondered if I did. Had Harry sent the money to Shastov as a final, despairing gesture? Had he simply wanted to put everyone off the trail? Or had he decided that Shastov might be the only person on earth who had any moral claim to the gold? But then, thinking this through, I decided that the answer was probably simpler.
"He loved his daughter, Mr. Shastov—your daughter. At the end of his life, I think he loved her more than anything else in the world, even more than life itself. He felt he owed you a great deal, and he was trying to repay the debt."
A moment passed. Shastov picked up the photograph of May, held it up to his face. He said, "You know, what you say is wrong, Mr. Thorne. I owe him more than he owed me — and I owe you as well. It is I who have the debts to repay." He set the photograph down. "And now I shall pay them. I have the letter Brightman has sent me. Olga brought it this morning— she is a woman who helps me — and it was just as you said, from the Soviet Embassy in Paris."
I sat back, startled; then smiled. "You're very good at keeping secrets, Yuri Fedorovich."
"As I warned you, I think."
"What did the letter say?"
"See for yourself."
Hitching himself to one side, he now reached under his blankets and drew out a heavy, padded envelope, just as Alain had described: a large printed label bore the address of the new embassy on the Boulevard Lannes. The envelope was already torn open. Taking it from him, I extracted the contents. There were two items. The first was a letter, typed in Cyrillic on very genuine-looking embassy letterhead. It read: Your letter more properly should have been addressed to the appropriate Ministry in Moscow, or directly to the Government of the Republic of France. However, on this one occasion only, we have fulfilled your request. It was signed by a second assistant consular officer. The "request," apparently, had concerned horticulture, for the only other item in the envelope was a publication from the French Department of Agriculture on apple orchards. It was a thick, soft-cover book — not unlike a museum catalogue — and was printed on glossy stock, with numerous black-and-white photographs and drawings.
"This was all?"
"Everything. You understand, I had no idea what to make of it."
It was obvious what Brightman must have done. Carefully, I began cutting up the envelope with my pocketknife, scattering fluff everywhere. There was nothing inside, however, so I turned to the book — and it held the treasure. Stripping the spine away from the binding revealed a length of carefully fitted plastic wrap, which protected the following:
— one flat metal key;
— one birth certificate (Province of Ontario, Canada) for Harold Charles Brightman;
— one Ontario driver's license in the same name;
— and a receipt to Brightman from a branch of the Dauphin Deposit Bank, Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.
The old man eyed me. "Have you found what you expected?"
It was a good question. Was this what I'd expected? But then I nodded. "Yes. The papers let you use the key… and the key is the key to a great fortune."
I passed the papers across to him. Turning them over in his lap, he picked up the bank receipt and squinted at it. "Harrisburg," he said. "That is the capital of Pennsylvania. The Commonwealth of Pennsylvania."
I smiled. "That one I know, Mr. Shastov."
"You have been there?"
"Many times. My father was from that part of the country and we spent our summers there."
Harrisburg… Should I have expected that too? But even as my mind had registered the coincidence, I realized, deep in my heart, that I'd known all along.
Shastov, leaning forward, handed back the papers. "They were sent to me, Mr. Thome, so please accept them as my gift."
I said, "It's hard to know whom they truly belong to."
"You must have heard that famous expression, 'Possession is nine-tenths of the law.' "
"It creates something of a problem in this case."
"I don't understand."
"I told you, other men have been searching for this. I possess it now — but they think you do. When they come here, you'll be in danger."
"Why should I be? I'll tell them you have the envelope. I'll tell them it came, what was in it — no lies, you see, no secrets — and that I gave it to you. Or I could say I sold it to you. They'd believe that. I had no use for this foolish pamphlet, but you wanted to give me money, so I took it."
I looked at the old man; his notion was logical, but I didn't like it. On the other hand, time was moving on; I wanted to get out of here fast, not only to avoid Subotin but also to reach Leningrad before I was missed. And his idea might, work. Might… If it didn't? Not a pretty thought. Not something I wanted to have on my conscience.
I shook my head. "Listen, Yuri Fedorovich. What you suggest could work, but it frightens me. These men are going to be very, very angry to learn that I've beaten them to this. So they could hurt you, even if it doesn't make sense."
"No. For them, that would just make more, trouble."
"Maybe. But I'm not sure — and I have another idea. Remember, you have a daughter again. She's well off. Rich. I'm sure she would be happy to see you. Why not go to her?… Wait now — I'm not crazy. I know certain things about these other men that the Chekists would like to know. In return for what I could tell them, I'm sure they'd let you out of the country."
He picked up May's photograph, stared at it a moment, and then his gaze wandered away. He looked around the room. My eyes followed his: sculpted by the flickering flames, it was like the inside of a cave, but a cave where men had lived for centuries, like the catacombs of the old Russian Church Fathers. Finally, with a little smile, he shook his head. "I don't think so," he said. "I am glad to have this" — he held up the photograph of May—"but would she really want to see me?" He shrugged. "Who can tell?… Besides, this is my home, Mr. Thome. It may not seem much to you, but I don't think I could live anywhere else. I'm like the old man in the story of the wolf. You must know it. He is an old man who lived with his wife, five sheep, a colt, and a calf, and one day a wolf came and sang them a song. At once, the man's wife said, 'What a wonderful song! Give him a sheep.' The old man did so and the wolf ate it, but soon he returned, singing again. And he kept singing that song until he'd eaten them all, all the sheep, the colt, the calf, even the woman. Then the old man was alone. Again the wolf came. But this time the old man grabbed up a stick and beat him. So the wolf went away, never to return, leaving the old man alone with his misery… You see, Mr. Thorne? This place, Russia, may be as mean as a wolf, but it is all I have left. If I leave it, or drive it away, what would I do?" Again, he shook his head. "No," he said, "I will stay here. But I don't want you to worry—"