The Quantum Curators and the Fabergé Egg Page 5

  Kissing him on both cheeks she then took his face in her hands, looking at him sorrowfully.

  ‘Ah, Julius. You are still so beautiful. There is so much sorrow for those so beautiful. It is a curse. Thank God I was not cursed with such beauty.’

  Julius grinned at her. This bizarre ritual was well-known to him. He had to find a way to tell her that she was beautiful, but that she would never know sorrow.

  ‘You children. You think to offer compliments when you tell a woman she is beautiful,’ she said, and sighed dramatically, ‘but your heart is kind and I will accept and forgive your foolishness. In truth, your life will be long and painful, so it is my Christian duty to support you through your misery.’

  This was one of the reasons why he loved Marsha; she was just so incredibly expressive. Everything was the end of the world. She appeared to be living in an era of Stalinist purges. Doom lay beyond every doorway, and she absolutely revelled in it.

  ‘My misery might be assuaged by some of those spiced cakes you sometimes have around?’

  Her lips twitched. ‘You mock me, but that is good. You are young and full of life. Come in and sit down, then tell me what you need.’

  Julius made himself comfortable. He reckoned Marsha was only about twenty years older than him, but in the winter she tended to go into old crone mode. In summer, she could be seen dancing with her undergrads out by the Cam. He didn’t know if it was all an act or if this was genuine, but he honestly didn’t care; she was refreshing, served a perfect cup of tea and had a razor sharp mind. Today he was here for her mind.

  ‘I need to pick your brains about matryona dolls.’

  ‘Cakes and dolls. What a lovely way to start the day. Excellent. What do you need to know.’

  Julius explained that he was trying to track down the lost casing of an outer doll. He hadn’t seen the inner dolls, and had just had them described to him. All he hoped for was an idea to the size of the outer casing and maybe the subject matter.

  They were seated in two comfortable armchairs and had a coffee table between them. Now Marsha wandered around her rooms, returning with doll sets until the table was covered in them.

  ‘Okay. Matryona or Russian dolls are a nested set of wooden canisters. Each canister opens at the middle, revealing a smaller unit within. These reduce in size until you get to the smallest solid doll in the centre. You can have any number, but the preference is for around five or seven. The cluster of dolls is also thematic. Family members, politicians, et cetera. The inner doll is the smallest or least important, the outer doll is the most important. Another cake?’

  Julius leant forward gratefully, and having put the cake on his plate, picked up one of the doll sets. Opening up the first doll, he looked inside.

  ‘That set you’re holding has a political theme. It’s quite a modern set and made for the tourist market. Russians are more careful about political statements. Unless the statement is, “We support our current leader”. In Russia, you know, we are famous for our freedom of speech. But those freedoms only last as long as the speech itself. I have a joke that will help you understand.’

  Marsha cleared her throat. ‘A frightened man came to the KGB. “My talking parrot has disappeared”, she said in a gruff voice and then changed her pitch to reply as the KGB officer.

  ‘“That's not the kind of case we handle. Go to the criminal police”. “Excuse me, of course I know that I must go to them. I am here just to tell you officially that I disagree with the parrot”.’

  Marsha laughed and slapped her leg. ‘See! We are not idiots. Russian politics is for tourists.’

  Julius laughed along with her as he stacked the doll back together. His attention now taken with something more folk like.

  Marsha pointed to the old, faded doll he was holding. ‘Now that one is the oldest in my collection and sounds like your doll. You see she is not as garish as these two?’ said Marsha, pointing to two very pretty and slightly gaudy dolls. ‘This one represents the seasons, that one is supposed to represent a traditional doll, but look at the two of them side by side.’

  Julius looked at the modern doll, painted in a bright and traditional style. The face of the doll was blank and characterless. The older doll, however, was completely different. The paint was probably never quite so lurid, but more importantly, the face on the doll was realistic. This was a portrait. Julius felt certain that if he met the person in the flesh, he would recognise her. He opened the whole doll set and could see a family resemblance running through the dolls, from the outer matriarch to the little girl.

  ‘Would an old one always be a woman on the outer casing?’

  Marsha thought about it. ‘I have seen male ones, but they were called matryona for a reason. If your outer casing is male and old, it would be quite collectable. However, you will be able to tell if it matches your set because the artistry between the dolls will be by the same hand. The inner dolls you have described sound as though they were not Soviet mass-produced items.’

  The pair chatted on until a clock chimed and Marsha apologised, saying that she needed to go and teach. I have to work so that they will pay me. It’s not like in the good old days when workers pretended to work and bosses pretended to pay them. But this is progress!’

  Kissing her on the cheeks, he set off. He had taken lots of measurements of her old dolls and now had an idea of the size of an outer doll, what it looked like and, given its thin wooden construction, the sort of volume it could hold. Which was basically not much more than the size of the next doll. These dolls had only a few millimetres between each layer, and would only lightly rattle rather than properly shake.

  Now he needed to go and see which missing eggs might fit into an eight inch case. Given that he didn’t want to flag any interest levels on Fabergé eggs, he decided to hit the books, and headed off to the main college library. It was a perfect example of industrial architecture, with its giant central tower dominating the surrounding landscape. It was not subtle, nor in Julius’ mind particularly inviting. Its very presence issued a challenge to all who entered. Still, it was the largest library with the best general collection, and what he needed right now was a comprehensive oversight.

  The first thing he discovered was how small the eggs were. It was entirely possible for most of them to fit within a matryona doll. The Easter eggs had been presented by the Tsar to his wife. They were made of the finest materials and all of them contained a hidden surprise. Given the level of their artistry and the hidden treasure within them, Julius had assumed they would need to be much larger. Those hidden portraits, singing mechanical birds and clockwork trains must all be miniatures and all working perfectly. The artistry was breathtaking.

  Fabergé didn’t just make jewelled Easter eggs for the imperial family, but given that the potential provenance of Charlie’s egg came from Dimitri Guskov, the Russian soldier guarding the royal family in 1918, Julius decided to focus on the imperial eggs first.

  Fifty were made, although a further two were under commission when the family were assassinated. Julius was intrigued by these two, but decided that even if they did exist, Fabergé wouldn’t have been able to get them to the family. So, back to fifty. The whereabouts of six eggs were currently unknown. However, the more he drilled down, the more he was able to narrow his search. The location of two of them had been recorded during the mid-twentieth century. If the idea was that Charlie’s egg had been hiding in a doll all these years, then it needed to have been missing almost from the beginning.

  Only four fit this description, having been last itemised in 1922 at the Kremlin. Could the record have been falsified? Could one have been stolen after the inventory had been taken?

  Can you steal something that was already stolen? When the imperial family had been assassinated, they had been told they were being moved to a safe location. Apparently, the Tsarina and her five daughters lined their clothing with jewels and money. It took over ten minutes to kill them. Shots fired wildly as bullets ricocheted o
ff all the diamonds and hidden treasures. No doubt as their bodies were taken to the carts, soldiers plundered the skirts and jackets, looting the precious gems. Had a little egg been hiding in a pocket?

  Julius thought it very likely that treasure had been looted, but then how would you explain those four eggs turning up four years later on an inventory? Unless... Was it possible? Was there an unknown imperial egg? And if so, all bets were off as to its actual value.

  #9 Neith – Alpha Earth

  ‘Case FE 988776 is now active. Quantum Curators Sala, Masoud, Gamal and Flint, stay behind, the rest of you get to work.’

  Well, that was music to my ears. I loved live events. You were far less restricted by time paradoxes or end of world scenarios. Time paradoxes were a huge problem. On one occasion a team screwed up so badly during a visit to England in 1647, that the quantum stepper wouldn't work for a year. By the time we stepped back, their timeline had twisted and they’d had a whole thirty years where the English had actually had a civil war, assassinated their King— THEIR KING — and banned Christmas carols. Happily, the British are pretty resilient when it comes to their timeline, and it didn’t take too long before they re-installed another King and tried to pretend that it had all been a bit of an embarrassing interlude. That said, it was not one of our finer moments. Every cadet has to recite liturgical plain song for an hour if they fail their Cause and Effect module. They don't get to fail it twice.

  Sam started to take us through the case. The Q Field was giving hot lead locations for London, Cambridge and Poland.

  We all groaned. Those northern countries were horrible in winter. Poland was likely to be covered in snow, London was going to be wet, and Cambridge was just going to be freezing, with that cold wind blowing off the fens. Fingers crossed it ended up in Britain: much less chance of snow.

  ‘What details do we have for the extraction event?’

  ‘Right,’ said Sam. ‘It’s a Fabergé egg, but not one we recognise. This makes it all the more important. Currently, we have it rolling out of someone's hand in Cambridge. As it hits the pavement it cracks and then rolls onto the road, where a passing bus runs over it.’ We all winced.

  ‘As it's live, I don't need to remind you that if you find the egg earlier, you can extract it immediately. This one has a quantum probability of zero percent that it will survive.’

  Basically, no matter what we do to try to fix the timeline, this egg was toast. This was typical of the rare and valuable stuff. Their own allure was often the cause of their inevitable downfall.

  Even though we were all in a state of readiness, we needed to wait until a morning slot on the stepper. Now that we had the finer details, I sent everyone home to brush up on all the relevant information, as well as pack accordingly. We were going to set up base in London and move if need be. As northern cities go, I don't hate London, and it does have some lovely museums. It’s just that the Thames always makes me feel sad; a river should have crocodiles.

  As we headed out, I shouted a final warning not to drink. Drinking after a step was dumb. Who needed a quantum hangover with bizarre side effects? Drinking before one was dangerous.

  I played with the idea of going off to Paul’s. Whilst we were on a mission we would be strictly colleagues only. In the end though I decided against it. I wanted to be on top form for tomorrow, and that meant a good night’s sleep. And don’t assume the obvious. We would just as often spend the whole night chatting. A few months ago, we sailed a felucca down the Nile for a few hundred miles. It was a pretty special time, and I began to see a whole new side to him. There’s a book by Jane Austen, a Beta classic that we adore, with a character called Mr Darcy. He has a little sister that he utterly dotes on. Well, that was how Paul was about his sister. She is the world to him and I was charmed by how devoted a brother he was. I’ve never wanted kids, but at that moment I suddenly saw what a great father he’d make. Heading home instead, I ran through all the latest briefings and finally got to bed at about two. So much for an early night.

  The following morning both teams assembled in front of the Q Field. Paul and Ramin were a team, as were Clio and I, and I was going to be in overall control of both teams. I could see that Paul wasn’t thrilled by that piece of news, but I had more experience and a better track record of successful retrievals. Sam had chosen me over Paul, and Paul had better not let Sam see his displeasure. Our boss had no time for people who questioned his judgement. I sympathised with Paul though. I hated it when I was passed over to lead an expedition. I just had to trust that Sam knew what he was doing.

  We were travelling light. We had our bag of tricks, laser guns, wow bangs, first-aid kit... the essential stuff. The rest we would purchase and re-purpose when we got over there. We could easily adapt their technology, although I couldn’t wait until they improved their capacity and speeds. They were still using microchips, so some days it was like playing with an abacus. Still, it was easier than travelling back to a pre-digital age, where we had to carry over more equipment and risk being discovered and called witches.

  Most of our technology was stored in our wrist brace. It was our tether to home, and as long as that was on our wrist we could get back. Besides being our lifeboat, it was also a communicator and locator. Through the brace we were linked. While on Beta we had no way to communicate with home, so it was essential we all keep in touch with each other. I smiled as I took in our suitcases. They had wheels on, which was a nice development for Beta. Not exactly hover technology, but better than having to lug poorly-designed, heavy cases off one arm. Everyone was dressed appropriately, which of course meant we were currently sweating profusely. Wardrobe had given Clio heels as requested; added to her long leather swing coat, I thought she was a tad conspicuous, but Clio stood out anywhere. Her argument was that she may as well look good at it. We were stepping through the field into London so she wouldn’t stand out too much, but I wouldn’t send her to Poland. Tall Egyptian women that had the poise of an ancient pharaoh would be pushing our luck. Although for a laugh I could order her to wear a cagoule and doc martins. Like I was. Ramin and Paul were both dressed in leisure wear. Fancy tracksuits, hoodies and trainers that never saw the light of a gym. Ramin was from Persia, Paul from France. Neither genotype should be an issue in London, but we’d probably need to keep Ramin out of the Home Counties.

  Having run through a final briefing, Sam gave us the go ahead and switched on the field. The plain white wall in front of us began to bulge and shimmer. Colours and sparks began to ripple across it, and as the safety bells started to chime, Clio and I walked towards the wall and stepped through.

  #10 Charles – Beta Earth

  Charlie rubbed the back of his brogues on his cords and caught his reflection in a high street window. Well dressed; expensive, but casual. A simple blazer over a tailored shirt, a leather belt and a pair of needlecord jeans. He wanted to portray money, not desperation. It was a known fact that people will give more money to people that look as though they don't need it. Charlie now needed to convince a total stranger that he was someone that could be trusted. He was cold-calling, but he wasn't coming empty handed. He had stopped at a polish delicatessen and picked up some cakes. Charlie was hoping that a bit of childhood nostalgia might sweeten the old boy.

  Leaving the high street behind, he headed down a residential street of smart Victorian terraces. Each property was well maintained, with a range of garden style out the front. All were uniformly small, but in this area of London they were worth their weight in gold. Charlie knocked on the brass knocker. Through the stained glass he could see a figure approach the door. An old man opened the inner porch door and peered out through the glass of the front door.

  ‘What do you want?’

  Hmm, a naturally suspicious and distrustful character. What approach to take? Charlie recalibrated his “journalist looking for a bird” story and decided to go with the truth. Well, most of it.

  ‘Philip Guscott? I've come from your sister-in-law. Pani Gusko
v.’

  There was a pause, and then Philip stepped forward and opened the door. He seemed suspicious, and was debating whether to send him away. ‘And I've brought some napoleonka?’ He held the bag up, smiling. ‘Have I pronounced that correctly?’

  Philip’s eyes immediately lit up. Who could resist cake? ‘Pah, these modern bakers have no idea. Still, they may be tolerable. Come in.’

  Introducing himself, Charlie was shown through to a well-lit front room. Heading out to the kitchen, Philip put the kettle on, and pulled out some forks and side plates for the two slices of cake. Charlie offered to help but was waved into the front room, and whilst he waited he had a look around. It was an elegant room with an almost prissy level of perfection. This was the space of an avowed bachelor. The shelves were full of history and wildlife titles. A few of the history titles rang gentle warning bells, and he began to wonder about the rift between the two brothers. A collection of Leni Riefenstahl was curious, the thumbed copy of Mein Kampf seemed a little more problematic.

  Zofia had told Charlie that her husband had stayed in Poland to help rebuild the country. Had Filip left because he was ashamed of his fellow Poles, or because he feared them turning on him? Not all who fled were innocents.

  ‘So how is Zofia? I can’t think when I last thought of her. Does she still live in that little flat in Warsaw?’

  Charlie smiled sadly. ‘That was indeed where I met her, but I’m afraid to say that I heard the other day that she had died. I was coming to see you on another matter, but thought you might prefer to hear the news from someone that had recently spoken to her. Rather than a social worker or police officer, I mean. Or worse yet, a letter through the post.’

  ‘So, she is dead then.’ He took a bite of the cake and smiled. ‘This is very good, you know. Try some.’ Taking another bite, he smiled as Charlie followed suit and made an appreciative noise.