“The document is quite clear, even if my Russian is not,” Finlay said. “The treaty calls for the British holding of the assets until the restoration of the Imperial Crown—or a subsequent century from the anniversary of the first Romanov’s ascension to the Crown—whichever comes first.”
“Let me see that.” Mansfield ripped the treaty from Vodokov’s hands and skimmed through the terms.
“You know your Russian history better than I,” Finlay said, “but Michael I was the first Russian Tsar from the House of Romanov. History shows that he was crowned to the throne on July twenty-second, 1613. I’m afraid the hundred-year mark from the treaty’s signing in 1917 has just legally passed today at noon, per the language in the document.” He eyed a wall clock. “The assets have now reverted to the British government, which has made arrangements to take possession.”
He motioned toward the soldiers across the lobby. The men took position, forming an armed cordon leading out the front door, save for two husky men who followed Finlay into the open vault. The soldiers emerged a minute later, carrying a small but heavy wooden case they hauled out the front door. They deposited it in one of the Army trucks now parked at the curb, then returned for the next case.
After watching the scene, the diplomat blew up. “This is an outrage!” he screamed at Finlay. “M
y government will be filing a formal protest.” He turned to Mansfield. “Why didn’t you make this known sooner?”
“We just made the discovery late yesterday.”
“There will be unpleasant reprisals.” He stormed out of the bank, hailed a cab, and vanished down the road.
Mansfield smirked as he watched the diplomat depart, then approached Summer and the others.
“Congratulations, and well done,” he said. “What is your American saying, a day late and a dollar short?”
“About two billion dollars short, in this instance,” Summer said.
“Apparently, we shall all go on our way empty-handed.”
“You should go and be placed behind bars,” Hawker said.
“Now, Major, that is not the manner of the Western victor.” He gave a slight bow. “Farewell.” He turned and sauntered out of the bank without looking back.
Martina accompanied him out the door, shaking her head at his blasé attitude.
“We have failed miserably,” she said. “Are you not concerned about the wrath of Moscow? Vodokov is right. There will be reprisals.”
Mansfield shrugged as they walked past the Army trucks. “My dear comrade, you are looking at a survivor. I will simply avoid Moscow until the next intelligence crisis erupts, at which time this incident will be brushed aside.”
“But what about the chief directorate?”
“Kings, presidents, and chief directorates may come and go, but Viktor Mansfield shall always be on the decadent steps of the Wild West, fighting for Mother Russia.” He slipped his arm around hers. “What do you say we go have a drink somewhere?”
The stern agent regarded him with bewilderment, then finally succumbed. “Very well.”
Perlmutter watched the couple stroll away. “He certainly understands our mind-set. There’s little point in arresting him now.”
“His undercover days around here will be over,” Hawker said. “I suppose that’s the important thing.”
Dirk shook his head. “I’d still like to send him a bill for our damaged submersible.”
Finlay approached the group with an energetic buzz. “May I show you Nelson’s Cave now?”
Summer smiled. “Please do.”
He led them through the huge steel door into the vault. It had been built into a natural cave, adding only a concrete floor and the frame for the vault door. The arched limestone ceiling and walls extended nearly fifty feet into the hillside.
“This was originally called La Bóveda Cave by the Spanish,” Finlay said. “It was renamed Nelson’s Cave in 1805, when a number of dead sailors from the Battle of Trafalgar were brought here before burial. By the time the Anglo-Egyptian Bank acquired the property in 1887 and constructed the building to incorporate the cave, the Nelson name was mostly forgotten.”
“A clever way to build a vault,” Perlmutter said.
“They were probably saving construction costs,” Trehorne said.
“You may be right.” Finlay rapped a knuckle against the side wall. “The limestone is at least thirty feet thick throughout, so it’s certainly a secure spot to store money.”