“And this wasn’t officially documented because, essentially, the egg was stolen?”

Kerinov nodded at Lila. “Yes. Under the rule of law and culture of that time, the treasure belonged to the Soviets. But the egg traveled to Prague, and resided there until it was again sold in 1938. In that year, the Nazis invaded Czechoslovakia, and Hitler’s goal was to assimilate the country and its people, to rid it of its intellectual class. It was sold to an American, Jonas Martin, of New York, for the amount of five thousand U.S. dollars, by the son of Starski.”

“This Starski may have been desperate,” Lila considered. “To get himself and his family out of Czechoslovakia, away from the war, he might have sold as many of his valuables as he could. Travel light, but with deep pockets, and get the hell out of Hitler’s way.”

“This is what I think.” Kerinov punctuated his agreement with a fist tapped on the table. “War again, more blood. A wealthy American banker, from what I can find on this Jonas Martin. And the money would be nothing to Martin. I think the egg would be a kind of trinket, an ornate souvenir. The son sells it, perhaps not knowing its full origin. It comes then to New York, to a fine house in Sutton Place.”

“Where Oliver tracks it to the Martin heir, Miranda Swanson.”

“The granddaughter of Jonas Martin. The record ends with the sale to Martin. But . . .”

Kerinov opened the second envelope. “The Nécessaire. The description as with the Cherub with Chariot. And its history much the same. War, revolution, a change of power. Confiscated, with its last official entry in 1922, and its transfer to the Sovnarkom. From there it traveled with the first egg—a pair, you could say—from Russia to Czechoslovakia, from there to New York. Alexander to Maria, to Lenin, to the troika thief, to Starski, his son, to Martin.”

“Both in New York.” Ash glanced at Lila. “We had that wrong.”

“Both,” Kerinov confirmed, “until the twelfth of June, 1946, when the Nécessaire took another journey. This . . . excuse me.”

He opened the envelope holding the Russian documents. “Here, here.” And tapped a section. “This is Russian again, but incorrect. Grammatically, and some of the spelling. This was written by someone who isn’t fluent, but has a working knowledge. It has the egg not by name but by description. It calls it an egg box with jewels. Lady’s manicure set with thirteen pieces. Won by Antonio Bastone from Jonas Martin Junior in five-card draw.”

“In a poker game,” Lila murmured.

“It’s my interpretation. As I said, it’s not completely correct, but understandable. And Junior, you see.”

“The son tosses what he thinks of as a fancy trinket into the pot, probably when he runs low on cash, and thinks he has a winning hand.”

Kerinov nodded at Ash. “Surmising, yes. See here? Value agreed at eight thousand. ‘Hard luck, Jonnie,’ it says. I found the younger Martin in the Who’s Who for that year. He was twenty, a student at Harvard Law. I haven’t yet found more than this name on Antonio Bastone.”

“Almost like a joke,” Lila put in. “Adding to the document in Russian. They never bothered to find out what they had. And this Jonnie certainly didn’t care. Toss it into the pot, just some tchotchke around the house.”

“It’s something Oliver would’ve done,” Ash said quietly. “Just as carelessly. It makes a kind of circle, doesn’t it?”

Lila covered Ash’s hand with hers, linked fingers. “Oliver didn’t get the chance to learn from his mistakes. Now we have a chance to make it right.”

“We can find them.” Kerinov leaned forward, earnest, urgently. “I believe it absolutely. Their history has to be more thoroughly researched, the blanks filled in. Think of where they’ve been, where they’ve traveled. What they survived. They’re not lost because they can be found. Vinnie—we would have poured vodka and toasted to the search.”

“And what would you do if you found them?” Ash wondered.

“They belong in a museum. Here. In the greatest city in the world. The Russians would perhaps complain, but the documents. It’s all here. Sold and sold. They’re great art, historical pieces. They should belong to the world.”

He picked up his glass again, then put it down abruptly. “You don’t mean to keep them. To put them away in your own glass case? Mr. Archer, you’re a wealthy man, you can afford to be generous. You’re an artist, you must understand the value of accessible art.”

“You don’t have to convince me. I wanted to know where you stood on it. Lila?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Oliver acquired these documents and the Cherub with Chariot.”

“I’m sorry, ‘and’? You maybe mean ‘for’?”

“And,” Ash repeated. “He acquired the documents and the egg.”

Kerinov all but collapsed back in his chair. His face went deathly pale, then filled with wild color. “My God. My God. He— You have it? You have one of the lost Imperial eggs. Here? Please, I have to—”

“Not here. It’s safe. I think Oliver made a deal with someone, then played fast and loose, trying to up the ante. It got him and his girlfriend killed. And in trying to help me piece it together, Vinnie was killed. This is more than a treasure hunt.”

“I understand. Please, a moment.” He rose, walked to the window, back to the table, to the window again. “My heart is pounding. I think, what would my father say—a man who studies the past and has little use for rich men’s toys. What would he say if I could tell him his son had some part in bringing this piece of history back to the world?”

He came back to the table, sat down as slowly, as carefully as an old man. “It’s foolish perhaps to think of my father at such a time.”

“No.” Lila shook her head. “No. We want their pride.”

“I owe him”—Kerinov tapped his T-shirt—“so much. For myself, one who perhaps looks at rich men’s toys as art, this is a life’s work all at once. Vinnie . . .”

He trailed off, pressed his fingers to his eyes. When he lowered them, he linked his hands on the table. “You’ve taken me into your trust. I’m grateful. I’m humbled.”

“Vinnie trusted you.”