“I have no idea,” said Sasha.
“I didn’t think you would. But after meeting her, you might be able to tell me if the countess is an original or a fake.”
“The Anastasia problem,” said Sasha.
“In one. I’ve already visited the British Museum, the V&A, and the Soviet Embassy, and there’s no doubt that the original egg was owned by a Count Molenski. But is the countess really his daughter, or just an accomplished actress trying to palm me off with a copy?”
“I can’t wait to meet her,” said Sasha, unable to take his eyes off the egg.
“And even if she convinces you she’s the real thing,” said Dangerfield, “why would she have chosen me, a small trader from Guildford, when she could have gone to any number of leadi
ng specialists in the West End?”
“I presume you’ve already asked her that question, sir.”
“I did, and she told me that the London dealers were not to be trusted, and she feared they’d form a cartel to act against her.”
“I’m not sure I understand what she’s suggesting,” said Sasha.
“A cartel is when a small group of traders join together at an auction with the sole purpose of keeping the price of a valuable object down so one of them can purchase it for less than its real value. They then resell the piece for a handsome profit, and split the proceeds between them. It’s sometimes referred to as a concert party.”
“But surely that’s against the law?”
“It most certainly is. But such cases rarely end up in the courts, because if there aren’t any witnesses, it’s almost impossible to prove.”
“If this is the original,” said Sasha, his eyes returning to the egg, “are you able to put a value on it?”
“The last Fabergé egg to come on the market was auctioned at Sotheby Parke Bernet in New York, and the hammer price was just over a million dollars. And that was a decade ago.”
“And if it’s a fake?”
“Then she’ll be lucky to get more than a couple of thousand pounds for it, possibly three.”
“When do I get to meet her?”
“She’s joining us for tea tomorrow afternoon.” Mr. Dangerfield looked at the egg once again. “If she’s the real thing, the time may have come for me to do something quite out of character.”
“And what might that be, sir?”
“Take a risk,” said Mr. Dangerfield.
* * *
Ben spent his weekend pinning VOTE KARPENKO posters on all twenty-nine college noticeboards, and even on the occasional fence along the way, despite being aware that Sasha’s opponents could legally tear down any fly postings.
As he moved from college to college, he grew more confident that Sasha was going to win, because whenever anyone stopped to chat, they either gave him a thumbs-up, or assured him that they would be supporting his candidate this time. No one raised the subject of Fiona’s false accusations at the last election, and one or two admitted they now regretted not voting for Sasha the last time around. Just two of you would have been enough, Ben wanted to remind them.
He reluctantly had to admit, to everyone except Sasha, that Fiona had turned out to be a rather good Union president. Thanks to her father’s connections in the House of Commons, the list of guest speakers had been impressive, and her firm chairing of the committee, coupled with some innovative ideas, had been acknowledged by friend and foe alike.
Although she and Sasha rarely spoke, Fiona had recently suggested to Ben that the three of them should have dinner, and let bygones be bygones.
“An olive branch?” suggested Ben.
“More like a fig leaf,” said Sasha. “So you can tell her not until I’m sitting in the president’s chair.”
21
ALEX