The Final Fabergé (17 page)

After talking with Viktor, Galina would inspect herself in one of the small rooms reserved for doctor-family conferences. While there, she would take from her sweater pocket a hypodermic syringe and load it with a lethal dose of sodium pentobarbital.

When Viktor called, he said that the estimated arrival time for an ambulance marked TRANSCARE was 9:25.

A white Transcare ambulance with orange and red trim turned into the Englewood Hospital and Medical Center at 9:39. Waiting was a receiving team comprised of a male nurse in blue scrubs and white Nike shoes, a security guard with phone in hand plus two beepers and handcuffs dangling from a wide black belt, and Galina Lysenko.

The driver's assistant, a paramedic, opened the double doors in the rear of the ambulance and went inside to help a nurse who had accompanied Akimov during the ninety-minute drive. They released the clamps that held the stretcher in place, then quickly eased it out of the ambulance and extended its legs. The IV unit was reattached and an additional blanket laid over Akimov's body. He was awake, his eyes moving slowly to take in the mystery of another strange place. Then he heard familiar words . . .

“
Dobriy vehcheer.
” The greeting came from a new face that suddenly appeared close to his. “You are in New Jersey,” the voice continued in Russian. Galina leaned nearer to him, speaking slowly.

They were inside now. Experienced hands reached under Akimov and with barely a jostle moved him onto a hospital gurney and transferred the IV bottle. The team from Transcare ambulance service followed the
gurney into the emergency room and acknowledged that the patient had been successfully turned over to the team from the receiving hospital. They returned the stretcher to the ambulance, then went off to attend to the paperwork.

The gurney was pushed ahead through automatic doors and into a large square room with a nurse's station in the center surrounded by small rooms and stalls partitioned from each other by gray-colored curtains. Half were occupied with patients who waited for whatever treatment their emergency required.

Sounds ranged from mechanical noises to the hissing of air under pressure to the soft moans that came from behind a curtain where the wounds received in an automobile accident were being cleaned and sutured. Akimov was wheeled into a room that bristled with chrome and bright lights and the accoutrements needed to deal with emergencies ranging from broken bodies to a heroin overdose. A young woman physician appeared. She was accompanied by a nurse who exuded considerable authority and maturity and who was clearly the senior-ranking ER nurse. The doctor leafed through the medical report that had been faxed from North Shore Hospital. She examined Akimov, then added her own notes to several of the pages. Watching, one at each side of the bed, were the male nurse and Galina. The doctor looked again at the wound under the thick dressing that covered his neck and upper chest. Akimov's halfclosed eyes were on the doctor, watching with silent curiosity.

There was a stirring of voices at the nurse's station. A man had appeared, unannounced, asking for the patient who had been transferred from Long Island. Mike Carson insisted he had come to register his Russian friend, and that he would be responsible for all charges.

Mike was directed to where Akimov was undergoing the intake procedure. He introduced himself to the doctor, spoke tenderly to Akimov, trying in his unfamiliar Russian to comfort the old man. Pleased that the transfer had been successful, Mike Carson acknowledged the help of the staff, then went off in the direction of the registration office.

It was decided that Akimov would be placed in overnight isolation where he could be monitored closely, and where the surgical team would have an opportunity to determine how soon they might schedule the procedure. The doctor wrote out her instructions and discussed them briefly with the senior nurse before going on.

The male nurse was in his early forties and had a full crop of prematurely white hair. He said to Galina, “I'm Nick. Kind of a fixture around
here.” He frowned. “This poor bugger needs all the help he can get. You know about him? He's the one that got blasted at that car dealer a week ago. Long Island. Funny he shows up in Jersey.”

Galina replied quietly in Russian.

“Where you from?” Nick asked. “Tonight's the first time I've seen you.”

“I have come for special assignment,” Galina said with a heavy accent.

Nick released the brake on the gurney and backed it out of the examining room. “You coming with us?”

Galina nodded. She moved beside Akimov, and as she did, she put her right hand into the pocket of her sweater and gripped the hypodermic syringe. The IV was clipped to the sheet next to Akimov's shoulder and the tube followed his arm down to an angiocath that was taped to the back of his hand.

Nick began to push the gurney ahead. Galina looked back at Nick, whose attention was drawn to the lights at the elevator thirty feet ahead of them.

Galina cupped the IV tube in the palm of her left hand, and at the same instant took the hypodermic from her pocket with her right hand. Expertly and swiftly, she punctured the tube with the needle and quickly discharged 12 cc of sodium pentobarbital. It was done in less than twelve seconds. The dose was more than needed and most likely not all of it would enter Akimov's body because the man's heart and circulation would simply cease to function.

Galina estimated that it would take several minutes, less than ten, to reach the intensive care unit. She knew that in fifteen minutes, Akimov would be dead. She slipped the empty hypodermic syringe back into her sweater pocket, then leaned over and spoke to the Russian. She continued to speak to him as Nick pushed the gurney onto the elevator and the door closed behind them. Galina looked up to Nick.

“He is asleep. That is good.”

Nick smiled. “That's good. Means we probably won't have any problems with him.”

The instant Akimov was turned over to the ICU staff, Galina retreated to the stairs next to the elevator and down to the emergency department.
But she turned to a door that led to the main lobby of the hospital. Four minutes later she was standing in the driveway. A Pontiac Grand Am came to a stop in front of her and a door opened. She got inside and the car went off.

Galina slipped off the wig and loosened her hair. She said, “Sasha Akimov is no longer a problem.”

Viktor nodded. “As it should be.”

I
t was a few minutes before 7:30. Mike Carson loaded his briefcase and was about to go off for a morning of meetings in Manhattan when his phone rang. He stared at the instrument for several long seconds, then lifted the receiver.

“Mr. Carson, I am calling from the Englewood Hospital Center. My name is Karen Woo.”

“I was going to call the hospital from my car. Everything all right?”

“I'm afraid not.” There was a pause, then Karen Woo said with great solemnity, “Mr. Akimov died sometime during the night. I don't have all the details and because we have only sketchy records for him, we're not exactly certain what caused his death.”

“But he was all right when they brought him in last night.”

“We're sorry, Mr. Carson. He had been badly injured, and, well, I'm calling you because you'll have to claim the body.”

“I'm not sure I know what to do. He wasn't a relative, and just barely what you'd call a friend.” Mike sat at his desk and sighed heavily.

“But your name is on the records, Mr. Carson. You authorized treatment, including surgery. And you guaranteed payment for all expenses.”

“That's true,” Mike said. “I'll come over and work things out.”

“Ask for me. I'll take you to the right people. One last question. It isn't essential that you authorize an autopsy, but it will facilitate matters. Do we have your permission to go ahead?”

“Is it necessary?”

“I'm afraid so. Because of the circumstances, we must report Mr. Akimov's death to the police. They will want positive assurance that death was not assisted in any way.”

“Assisted?” Mike asked. “How could that be?”

“I don't make the rules, Mr. Carson. But it is possible.”

It was 6:52 A.M. in Bayside, Queens, New York; 3:52 P.M. in St. Petersburg, Russia. Galina was sitting on the edge of the bed, a towel draped loosely around her naked body. Viktor stood beside her, holding the phone to his ear. He was listening, his lips pressed tightly together, his eyes closed in concentration. His mouth opened, as if he were going to speak, then he pulled the phone away and stared angrily at it.

“Son of a whore!” he said into the mouthpiece, then let the phone dangle from his hand.

“Oleg would not talk to me.”

“He knew you were on the phone?” Galina asked, rubbing her hair with the towel. “Or did the Estonian lie and say he was not in his office?”

“Oleg was there. I could hear him telling Trivimi what to say. The bastard expects us to report every word that Akimov said to Mikhail.”

“We'll tell him,” Galina said. “He won't know if it's true or not.”

“Oleg won't be easy to fool.”

“We'll do it. We're a team.”

Viktor moved in front of Galina and put his hands behind her head, then gently pulled her face toward him. Her lips touched his taut stomach, then she reached up and kissed the tiny swelling of his breasts. Her tongue swirled over his nipples and she suckled him gently. Then she lay back on the bed and pulled him on top of her. They lay quietly for a minute, then made love; gently at first, then more vigorously until their passion exploded into a rapturous pleasure each could excite in the other. Then they lay together, arms entwined, silent. After the quiet period, Galina pulled away and sat on the edge of the bed.

She said, “I don't like it here. How soon can we return to Petersburg?”

“It is the only good news from the Estonian. He has reserved our seats on a flight tomorrow evening.”

“
Choodyehsniy!”
Galina said happily and fell back against Viktor once more.

A
fter two days it became painfully obvious to Jack Oxby that he would have to make an immediate and concerted effort to speak and understand Russian. He needn't master it (his natural inclination), but he must quickly learn how to make himself understood, ask questions, and comprehend—at least adequately—the answers. With Yakov's patient help, he took the first and essential step of learning the Russian alphabet.

It was an hour of intense concentration, but he succeeded, even to his friend's complete surprise. Lying in bed, a phrase book and dictionary on his belly, he began to build a vocabulary. He was tired, but stayed awake until after 2:00 A.M. when sleep finally overtook him. In the morning he woke with the opened book by his side.