One of them was a clock crowned with a delicate bouquet of lilies carved from onyx, another had a scale working model of a Trans-Siberian railway train that folded to fit inside, the tiny key that wound the mechanism lying beside it. A third was a music box, and others contained miniature portraits of the Imperial family, their young faces smiling confidently into the future they would never see. A small replica of the royal yacht floated on a crystal sea, another egg opened to show a painting in a golden frame.
Her eyes wide with wonder and pleasure, Allie gazed at the eggs, the Easter gifts of the last Tsar of Russia to his wife and his mother. Last of all, she allowed her gaze to move to one of the smallest eggs. It was covered in clover leaves of transparent, bright green enamel, their shapes outlined by gold threads. Here and there between the foliage wound a thin golden ribbon paved with rubies. Although one of the smallest examples it was also one of the most attractive, a masterpiece of the jeweller’s art.
‘Doesn’t that egg have a surprise inside?’ she asked, pointing to it.
Professor Martos raised his hands in a helpless gesture and said, with his heavy accent, ‘Alas, it has been lost But records show that it once had four leaves set inside it, each with a portrait of the emperor’s daughters, and was set with twenty-three perfect diamonds.’
‘What a shame,’ Allie murmured, and hid her excitement by immediately pointing to a different egg and asking questions about it.
The professor was pleased to air his knowledge and practise his English, and they got down to fixing shooting schedules. It was arranged that they would photograph one egg per day with a break for Sunday. The eggs were to be taken from the show cabinet to a special room, but Allie wasn’t to be allowed to handle them, she was warned; the professor and his assistants would do that. But he promised he would give her all the help she needed for the very handsome fee that her company was paying the museum. She was shown the room where the shoot was to take place; it was adequate, about thirty feet square, windowless, and with the walls painted white to reflect the light. ‘I will want to take one film of all the eggs together,’ she warned.
Allie took a loose-leaf binder from her document case and showed Professor Martos the outline that she envisaged for the CD-ROM. ‘We’ll need a wide shot of all the eggs so that people can click on to the one they want to go to,’ she explained.
‘It will have to be done at night, or when the museum is closed,’ he told her.
They were discussing arrangements when footsteps sounded in the empty gallery. Allie thought it was the tourists entering for the next visiting period, but when she glanced round she saw only one man—Sergei Morozov.
He shook hands first with the professor and then with her, holding her hand longer than was necessary as he told the professor how they had already met. ‘You have already seen round the museum? That is a shame; I had promised myself that pleasure. As you’ve already seen the Armoury perhaps you would let me show you round some other museums instead?’
Allie sensed that the professor wasn’t too happy about having Sergei hanging around, so she said, ‘Having seen these wonderful eggs, it looks as if I’m going to be very busy, but perhaps I could give you a ring when I have some free time.’
‘“Give me a...?” Oh, you mean call, telephone. I understand. But it will be easier for me to call your hotel, I think.’ He turned to the professor, said something in Russian to which the older man shook his head, then glanced at his watch and said a time. One o’clock. The phrase was easy enough for Allie to understand it.
When he’d gone they finalised arrangements for the day on which all the eggs were to be photographed together, everyone agreeing that early the following Sunday morning would be best. An hour or so later Allie left the museum, walking out of its cool atmosphere into the midday heat. She paused to put on her dark glasses and wasn’t at all surprised to see Sergei leaning on the railing outside, waiting for her.
Straightening, he came forward and said with an easy smile, ‘I remembered that I have to go to a very famous monastery not far from Moscow this afternoon. To check on the building, you understand. And I thought, on such a beautiful day, what could be better than to show this most beautiful place to our most beautiful tourist?’
Allie wrinkled her nose at him. ‘Sergei, that is the corniest line I ever heard.’
He laughed. ‘But it is what they say in the movies all the time.’
‘You must watch some very old movies.’
He laughed again, not in the least put out. ‘But you will come with me, yes?’
‘Where is this place?’
‘At Zagorsk. It is the biggest monastery in Russia as well as being the most beautiful. Everyone goes there. You must not miss it.’
She had heard of the place, of course, not only from her reading about Russia in preparation for this trip, but in tales told long ago. And she’d had every intention of going there, so if Sergei wanted to take her—well, why not? ‘Sure. I’d like to.’
Rewarding her decision with a delighted smile, Sergei led her out of the Kremlin, saying, ‘My car is just a short distance away.’
As they walked along, the sun rippling on the surface of the River Moskva on their left, Allie remembered Drake’s warning about getting too friendly. She smiled inwardly, quietly confident of her ability to handle Sergei if the need arose. But then the forcefulness in Drake’s voice came back to her; maybe it wouldn’t do any harm to be cautious. So when they reached Sergei’s car, a well-polished but old German model, she said, ‘I’ll have to go back to my hotel first; I can’t visit a monastery dressed like this.’
He tried to demur but she insisted, and while in her room she wrote down where she was going and with whom, leaving the note with the receptionist to give to Drake if he should ask for her.
As it turned out the precaution was completely unnecessary. Sergei drove the seventy kilometres or so to Zagorsk, telling her something of his life in Russia but far more interested in life in London.
‘Haven’t you ever been there?’ she asked him.
‘For one week only, to study the architecture. It rained all the time.’
Allie laughed. ‘It does tend to do that.’
‘But I have been to America,’ Sergei told her. ‘Now that is an amazing country. I studied English and architecture there for nearly two years.’
‘I thought your English had an American accent.’
‘It does? I did not realise that.’
The monastery was everything Sergei had promised. Its buildings covered a vast area and it came complete with onion domes in gold, and brilliant blue encrusted with gold stars, with towers and steeples, with an uncountable number of religious buildings, and even a museum full of beautiful icons.
Being with Sergei was definitely a help; where the way into a church was barred to ordinary tourists, he merely spoke a few words to the robed and bearded priest who guarded the entrance and they were allowed inside. Allie had changed into an ankle-length skirt and a long-sleeved blouse back at the hotel and had covered her hair with a lightweight scarf as they’d entered the monastery, so she didn’t stand out too much from the crowds of worshippers who packed all the shrines and churches. All of these were breathtaking; richly adorned, their walls of painted icons, most of them overlaid in gold or silver, reflected the sunlight. There were no seats inside these holy places; in the Russian orthodox church everyone stood, murmuring their prayers.
Her only regret was that she wasn’t alone, but without Sergei she probably wouldn’t have been allowed inside these sacred places. He stood quite close beside her, but Allie shut her eyes and tried to forget him, to lose herself in the atmosphere of veneration