BACK IN THEIR HOTEL ROOM, ONCE NICOLE WAS asleep, Val lay on her bed writing in her notebook about all she had seen and heard during the day. She was upset that Stepan had turned so hostile when he found out who her father was, but guessed that he felt a strong sense of loyalty to the erstwhile royal family. She was still reeling at the news that her father had been one of the Romanovs’ killers at the age of just nineteen. No wonder her mother found him crying in a park. And no wonder he became such an angry, bitter man in his later years.

There were two single beds in the room and Nicole was tucked up on a folding camp bed. It didn’t look particularly comfortable but she had always been able to sleep anywhere.

Bill came out of the bathroom, a speck of toothpaste in the corner of his mouth. “What were you and the curator talking about today?” he asked. “You were in his office for ages.”

“First he showed me how the Fabergé box worked.” Val had demonstrated it over their meal in the hotel dining room and Nicole had been enchanted, begging to be allowed to take it to school to show her friends when they got home. “And then we chatted about the Romanovs,” she continued. “He was surprisingly open about them, saying that if one or more had survived they would probably lie low, even after all this time, because of the assassination risk.”

Bill gestured urgently toward the light bulb on the ceiling and she remembered he had told her hotel rooms were often bugged. He beckoned for her to follow him into the bathroom, where he turned the taps on full.

“I warned you not to mention the Romanovs,” he hissed, his voice barely audible over the noise of gushing water.

“Don’t worry. He was very frank and I knew I could trust him.” She was surprised by the horrified expression on Bill’s face.

“Did you tell him about us going to Sverdlovsk?”

“No, but I gave him the photographs from my father’s camera.” Bill gasped and shook his head. She couldn’t understand why he was reacting so strongly. “I don’t see any harm in it. I’ve already sent copies to your colleague in New York, so it seemed natural to give them to Stepan. He’s going to show them to a Romanov expert here.”

“What else did you tell him?” His tone was curt.