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to see him immediately.
    After announcing himself at the reception
desk he was accompanied by a uniformed guard up the wide marble staircase to
the first floor, where Poskonov’s secretary was waiting to greet him. Romanov
was led to an anteroom. “I will inform the Chairman of the bank that you have
arrived, Comrade Romanov,” the secretary said, and then disappeared back into
his own office. Romanov paced up and down the small anteroom impatiently, but
the secretary did not return until the hands on the clock were in a straight
line. At three fifty, Romanov was ushered into the Chairman’s room.
    The young major was momentarily taken aback
by the sheer opulence of the room. The long red velvet curtains, the marble
floor and the delicate French furniture wouldn’t, he imagined, have been out of
place in the Governor’s rooms at the Bank of England. Romanov was reminded not
for the first time that money still remained the most important commodity in
the world – even in the Communist world. He stared at the old stooped man with
the thinning grey hair and bushy walrus moustache who controlled the nation’s
money. The man of whom it was said that he knew of one
skeleton in everyone’s cupboard. Everyone’s except mine, thought
Romanov. His check suit might have been made before the Revolution and would
once again be considered ‘with it’ in London’s King’s Road.
    “What can I do for you, Comrade Romanov?”
enquired the banker with a sigh, as if addressing a tiresome customer who was
seeking a small loan.
    “I require one hundred million American
dollars’ worth of gold bullion immediately,” he announced evenly.
    The chairman’s bored expression suddenly
changed. He went scarlet and fell back into his chair. He took several short,
sharp breaths before pulling open a drawer, taking out a square box and
extracting a large white pill from it. It took fully a minute before he seemed
calm again.
    “Have you gone out of your mind, Comrade?”
the old man enquired. “You ask for an appointment without giving a reason, you
then charge into my office and demand that I hand over one hundred million
American dollars in gold without any explanation. For what reason do you make
such a preposterous suggestion?”
    “That is the business of the State,” said
Romanov. “But, since you have enquired, I intend to deposit equal amounts in a
series of numbered accounts across Switzerland.”
    “And on whose authority do you make such a
request?” the banker asked in a level tone.
    “The General Secretary of
the Party.”
    “Strange,” said Poskonov. “I see Leonid
Ilyich at least once a week and he has not mentioned this to me,” the chairman
looked down at the pad in the middle of his desk, “that a Major Romanov, a
middle-ranking” – he stressed the words – “officer from the KGB would be making
such an exorbitant demand.”
    Romanov stepped forward, picked up the phone
by Poskonov’s side and held it out to him. “Why don’t you ask Leonid Ilyich
yourself and save us all a lot of time?” He pushed the phone defiantly towards
the banker. Poskonov stared back at him, took the phone and placed it to his
ear. Romanov sensed the sort of tension he only felt in the field.
    A voice came on the line. “You called, Comrade
Chairman?”
    “Yes,” replied the old man. “Cancel my four
o’clock appointment, and see that I am not disturbed until Major Romanov
leaves.”
    “Yes, Comrade Chairman.”
    Poskonov replaced the phone and, without
another word, rose from behind his desk and walked around to Romanov’s side. He
ushered the young man into a comfortable chair on the far side of the room
below a bay window and took the seat opposite him.
    “I knew your grandfather,” he said in a
calm, matter-of-fact tone. “I was a junior commodity clerk when I first met
him. I had just left school and he was very kind to me but he was just as
impatient as you are. Which was why he was the best fur
trader in