EPILOGUE
Saint Petersburg, Russia
Summer 2001
As she sat in the Winter Garden of the Astoria Hotel, Kate Semyonov barely noticed the extravagant lunch of caviar and blini, smoked sturgeon and champagne laid before her. Likewise, she barely paid attention to the conversation of the three other people at the table even though they spoke exclusively in English.
Suddenly she realized they were all looking at her, waiting for a reply of some sort. Kate blotted her mouth with her napkin, tried to think of something to say, and then simply confessed.
“I’m sorry, I think I’m a little jet-lagged,” she said with her trademark broad smile, which happened to be her best defense. “What did you say?”
Dr. Kostrovsky, the director general of the Hermitage Museum, replied, “We just wanted to go over your schedule for the next few days.”
“Oh. Sure, of course.”
Her mind was anywhere but here in this spacious, elegant dining room with its glass ceiling, marble floor, and arcing palms. Rather, all she was thinking was how she could possibly escape. She looked from Dr. Kostrovsky, a heavy man with gray hair and a goatee, to his deputy director, an elegant blond woman by the name of Dr. Vera Tarlova, to Mark Betts, the head curator from the Art Institute of Chicago. No, thought Kate, I can’t do this right now. There’s something much more important that can wait no longer. I’ve come all this way, and I’ve got to take care of it now.
Mark, a tall, trim, balding man who’d accompanied Kate from Chicago, said, “Doctor Kostrovsky was just saying that tomorrow morning we’ll have a private tour of the exhibition, followed by a luncheon with the city mayor, and then-”
“You know what, Mark? I have a splitting headache right now,” lied Kate. “I don’t know if it’s because of the long trip over or because all this is just a little bit overwhelming – you know, being here in Russia – but I think I need to go lie down for a while.”
“If that’s what you want, of course.”
Kate turned to the two Russians. “I’m sorry Doctor Kostrovsky and Doctor Tarlova, but would you excuse me?”
“Absolutely. But are you in need of a physician?”
“Just a little rest, that’s all. I’ll leave all the planning to Mark. Anything that’s okay with him is perfect for me.”
“Then we’ll see you tonight for the performance at the Mariinsky?”
Oh, shit, thought Kate, how she wished she could get out of that one. There was no way, however, she could opt out, for not only had they reserved the tsar’s box for her, not only had they called in their best performers to dance Swan Lake, but the entire performance was in her honor. Yes, she was being feted as a hero for precisely following her grandparents’ last will and testament. Changed in the 1980s upon the death of their only son, Kate’s father, Mikhail and May Semyonov did not simply name Kate as their sole heir, but also instructed her to return the fortune of Romanov gems to the Russian people, designating Saint Petersburg over Moscow for the site of their permanent exhibition.
In light of the recent death of our cherished son, we hereby bequeath to our beloved granddaughter, Katherine Semyonov, our home in Lake Forest and all its contents except those items manufactured in Russia by the jeweler Carl Fabergé. All of the Fabergé pieces and sundry gems in our home vault, we bequeath to the Russian people; these items are to be held for safekeeping at the Hermitage Museum, the Winter Palace, St. Petersburg, Russia. This transfer shall take place only when and if both of the following two criteria are met: 1) the Communist government of Russia is no more, 2) the family of Tsar Nikolai and Tsaritsa Aleksandra have been given a proper Orthodox burial. These items are to be considered as an inviolate gift from the last royal family to its people and are for display and collection purposes only; they are not to be sold at any time. Until these requirements are fully met these items will be on temporary loan to the Art Institute of Chicago.
As for our financial resources, including all stocks, savings accounts, bonds of any sort, etc…”
“I can’t wait,” said Kate, her smile as broad as ever.
A few more pleasantries passed amongst them, and then Kate escaped, passing from the elegant dining room into the gilded marble lobby of the hotel itself. The past three years had been nothing but a whirlwind, beginning with the death of her grandparents and the revelation of the Romanov fortune stashed in Misha’s office. There’d been so much publicity – Dateline, Larry King Live, and others – followed by the exhibit The Secret Jewels of Nicholas & Alexandra at the Art Institute of Chicago. And now this, the opening of the permanent exhibit of the gems in a hall specially renovated in the Winter Palace.
As she neared the front entrance, she was tempted to bolt right then and there. It was, however, the sight outside of the limousine and bodyguard assigned to her that stopped her dead cold. If she went out there, they’d not only insist on driving and accompanying her, but they’d also make a full report to her host, Dr. Kostrovsky. And she couldn’t risk that. She’d have to sneak out a side door. But first she had to change, get out of her navy linen dress and fine leather heels.
Entering the small elevator near the front desk, she rode the lift to the fifth floor, the top. Her room was the best in the hotel, arranged by Dr. Kostrovsky himself, and consisted of a suite with an entry hall, living room, spacious bedroom, and an enormous bathroom, all of it filled with antiques, all of it overlooking Cathedral Square. Before the revolution this chamber had been used by various princes and counts; later Hitler himself had planned to stay in this very corner suite after his victory over Russia, which had never materialized.
Kate was a beautiful woman of thirty-five, five foot eight inches tall, and noticeably thin. She wasted no time changing from her fine clothes into her typical garb of well-worn jeans, brown leather clogs, and a beige cotton twinset. She had rich, thick brown hair, brown eyes, and a nose that she could and did scrunch up at a moment’s notice. Her upper lip was straight, even flat, just like her grandfather’s, and she grabbed a tissue and blotted off most of her lipstick. Wearing only a simple pair of sterling hoop earrings, her gold wedding band, and the gold bracelet always worn by her grandmother, she headed out, convinced that she looked less like an heiress and philanthropist – she’d inherited well over $100 million – and more like a student. Well, she granted as she slung her black purse over her shoulder, maybe a graduate student.
Rather than return to the main lobby and risk running into Mark and the others, not to mention the bodyguard, Kate wove through a series of corridors. She passed into the adjoining Hotel d’Angleterre, and a few minutes later emerged onto a side street that jutted off from the enormous St. Isaac’s Cathedral. Flagging down one of the small, pale-green taxis took but moments.
“Vam kooda?” Where to? said the burly, baby-faced driver.
“Vot zdes addres.” Here’s the address, replied Kate, handing him a slip of paper.
He glanced in the rearview mirror. “Vyi otkooda?” Where are you from?
“Ya Amerikanka.” I’m American.
For the next ten minutes Kate carried on a reasonable conversation in Russian, which she’d learned not only from her grandparents but in a series of college courses. And while she spoke little more than excellent kitchen Russian, her accent was nearly perfect, or so said the driver two or three times.
Bouncing around in the small taxi, Kate was driven down Nevsky Prospekt, the city’s main avenue. The sky was clear and blue, the sun bright through its rays soft in the northern sky, and Kate kept her eyes on the apple green Winter Palace and ensuing Hermitage as they drove around the front of the extensive, regal complex. Passing neighboring palace after palace – once the glittering homes of the richest of the grand dukes but now housing such centers as The House of Scientists – the driver turned left across the Troitsky Bridge. As they reached the other side of the Neva River, Kate’s eyes focused on the Peter and Paul Fortress, where Nicholas and Alexandra had been reburied nearly three years earlier. Dear God, she thought. I have to go there. I have to visit and pray and light a candle. Or was there already an official ceremony planned? Yes, if she remembered correctly the patriarch of the Orthodox Church was coming from Moscow to lead a service to commemorate the wondrous deeds of Kate’s grandparents.