The Final Fabergé (18 page)

He greeted Yakov in the kitchen. “
Dobrah eh ootrah
.” The words came slowly as Oxby began the torturous process of speaking in Russian. His “good morning” greeting came a few minutes before 7:00 A.M. as he joined Yakov Ilyushin in the tiny kitchen for a breakfast of hot cereal, yogurt, and toast. Yakov had brewed a pot of strong tea, unaware that Oxby was the rare Brit who had an aversion to the beverage. But, good guest that he was, Oxby added spoonfuls of honey to the tea and sipped it as if it were nectar. The table, barely large enough for two, was crammed between a small gas cooking range and a porcelain sink stained a deep brown from years of water that ran with the effluvium of rust, iron, and other mysterious impurities. In addition to its use as a kitchen, the room, a scant three meters square, served as a space for dining, simple entertaining, and television viewing.

Yakov had insisted that Oxby sleep in his bed while the host made do on an uncomfortable sofa in a room only slightly larger than the kitchen. The room also contained a desk and chair, and the walls were covered, floor to ceiling, with bookshelves that sagged under the weight of Yakov's splendid literary and reference collection. Scattered about
were photographs of Yakov's family; most especially of his wife, Valentina, who had died nearly six years previously. So it was that both men had suffered the loss of a wife, and nearly at the same time. A sadness that helped bond their friendship.

Oxby had put the doll, now taped together, in the middle of the table as a constant reminder that others were interested in Rasputin's Imperial egg, and whoever it was, had a grisly turn of mind. He had also placed on the table the clipping from the Schaffhausen newspaper and the handwritten note that Kip Forbes had given him, the one that had been exchanged between Henrik Wigstrom and August Hollming, two of Fabergé's most skillful workmasters.

“I've been remiss,” Oxby said. “I meant to show you the clipping and the note long before now. Do you read Finnish?”

“I learned them all—Swedish, Finnish, Estonian, Lithuanian, and the others when I was young. You learn one, the next ones come easily.”

Yakov read the newspaper clipping in half a minute, but spent considerably longer on the note. It was brief, barely covering half the small sheets of yellowed paper.

“Do you have a problem?” Oxby asked.

“A little one. I wish to say I can read the handwriting, but there are a few words I don't know. I think they have technical references.”

“It's two short paragraphs, it can't be about much. What's it about?”

“The one who is writing the note, he is saying that a spring must be a certain size, and with a specific tension. Those are the words I can't translate. In the second paragraph he says: ‘We should choose one even number and two odd numbers. I recommend two—eleven—nine.' ”

“What do the numbers mean?”

Yakov shook his head. “He doesn't say.”

Oxby closed his eyes, as if he were in the process of putting the information Yakov had given into a special compartment in his brain. “Three numbers,” he murmured. “Put together they add up to twentytwo.” He shrugged. “Mean anything?”

“I am sorry. I wish I could be more help.”

“But you've been a great help, Yakov. A very great help.”

“Good. I am pleased.”

Yakov collected the plates and took them to the sink. “This morning, we go back to our Hermitage. You will like that.”

“Yesterday I spent two hours inside that incredible museum, and it was as frustrating as being limited to five minutes in the best salmon
stream in Scotland.” Oxby buttered a slice of sour, brown bread, and took a bite of it.

“You'll have time to go through a few galleries. But what is most important is the chance for you to meet Iouna Botkin. I've told you she has more knowledge of Russian decorative arts than any person in Petersburg. Or Moscow.” He glanced slyly at Oxby, “What do they know in Moscow? About art, they come to Petersburg to learn.”

“I hope you're right about Iouna.” Oxby nudged the box toward Yakov. “The only response to your newspaper story was a warning to stop meddling and the crushed doll's head.”

Yakov drove slowly so that Oxby could take in the wondrous bronze statues at each corner of the Anichkov Bridge that spanned the Fontanka River.

“They were buried during the siege,” Yakov said. “I remember as a boy how we worried the Germans would bomb the bridge and blow up those great horses. But one day I walked over the bridge and they were gone.”

Yakov kept up a steady commentary as they drove along the Nevsky Prospekt, each one punctuated with a personal touch, each giving Oxby a novel insight into Petersburg and its trove of architectural wonders.

Yakov's old Lada had a red and blue sticker on the windshield that allowed him to park in restricted zones. Ten years earlier, during the waning days of the Soviet Union, he had cajoled a sympathetic bureaucrat in his district to issue a certificate that entitled him to the same privileges accorded disabled veterans. Survivors of the great siege held unofficial recognition and the fact he had lost part of his leg helped qualify him for special consideration.

It was a brilliant, sunny day. And cool. They walked through Palace Square to the front of the Winter Palace and the main entrance that overlooked the Neva River.

Two older women—
bahbooshkah
, Yakov called them—stood behind the ticket counter and one of them scooped up Oxby's rubles like a trained croupier. He received an admission ticket and a small amount of change that was put in front of him without a nod or even a faded smile. Yakov flashed a card that worked with the magic of an open sesame, and he led Oxby toward the opulent Jordan staircase with its
wide steps of marble and carved granite and light standards trimmed with gold. But before they reached the steps, a man approached Yakov.

“
Pozhaluista
,” was his hushed greeting. “I know you are Yakov Stepanovich. I must talk with you.”

Yakov stopped and sized up the man, who appeared to be about sixty-five and dressed plainly, with a single military ribbon on the lapel of his coat. He was bald except for a thin ring of white hair that circled the back of his head. His face was deeply lined and ruddy and he wore thick glasses that exaggerated the natural bulge of his eyes. The expression on the face was slack, and in his eyes was a hint of fear.

“
Dah
. I am Yakov Ilyushin. You are—”

Oxby eyed the stranger, stepped away from both men, then scanned the great hall through which they had just walked, searching for others who might have accompanied the man who had intercepted Yakov. Hundreds had entered the museum, the buses were emptying their loads of tourists. The man was alone, Oxby concluded.

“I am Leonid Baletsky,” the man said to Yakov, and handed him a folded piece of newspaper. It was the story that had appeared in
Nevskoye Vremia
. “I have information about the Fabergé egg.” The man paused, as if searching for his next words, then said, “But you must pay for what I tell you.”

Yakov translated for Oxby. Yakov shook his head and said, “I have no money to pay a stranger.”

“He must have followed us from your apartment, and he looks frightened enough to melt into butter. My hunch says he's playing square. Ask him how much money he wants.”

“
Skolka
?” Yakov asked. The two Russians talked animatedly for a minute, then they shook hands.

“A hundred dollars,” Yakov said.

Oxby was both surprised and amused. “Only a hundred?”

“You forget what a hundred dollars can buy in Petersburg. He tells us he is a pensioner, that he needs money, and that he doesn't sell information for a living. He has marked a gallery in our museum guide. We can meet there.”

Yakov nodded and made a gesture. For an instant it appeared that Baletsky, anxiously looking at the growing mob of tourists, might bolt for the exit. But he began walking, taking short, choppy steps to the Grand Staircase and up to a wide landing. He paused there before continuing up another flight of stairs. Then he was gone from sight.

Yakov studied the floor plan. “We will meet him in gallery 250, a room that contains a ceramic collection.”

Leonid Baletsky was alone in a small gallery, standing next to a display case that contained ceramic masterpieces. In an instant, Oxby realized he was in a room filled with the distinctive blue and white colors of Delft serving bowls, dishes, and vases. It was a collection of magnificent quality, all produced centuries before in Holland. During his years with the Arts and Antiques Squad, Oxby had encountered Delft forgeries and was somewhat of an expert in sorting out the fakes. But never had he seen such an extensive display of the great Delft producers, particularly from the shops of Hoppesteyn and Frederick Frijtom.

Though they were alone in the room, Baletsky looked furtively beyond the door to the endless corridors and numerous galleries that lay beyond. Then in a whisper he asked for the money.

“The money,” Yakov said.

“Tell him he will get half now, the balance after he has given us his information.”

Yakov explained the terms, which at first confused Baletsky. Then he nodded his agreement. Oxby handed the Russian two twenties and a ten.

It was obvious to Oxby that Baletsky had become more agitated, more apprehensive than when they first met. Oxby said, “Ask him if he thinks he's been followed.”

Yakov repeated the question and Baletsky explained that he was embarrassed, but that he badly needed money. “My son is gone and I live alone. There is no work for a man my age.” Though the gallery was small and they were the only ones in it, Baletsky looked anxiously into the shadows.

“Tell him he has nothing to fear from us,” Oxby said. Yakov spoke reassuringly and after a minute of soft and gentle prodding, Baletsky relaxed.

“Remind him of the newspaper article. Then ask what information he has. Don't interpret for me, I understand a little, and you'll tell me the rest.”

Yakov closed his eyes and grimaced, straining it seemed, as if to bring into clear focus all the information he had put into the newspaper article
that prompted Baletsky to follow him. Finally, he opened his eyes and smiled. He began talking. Slowly, easily. He was setting a scene, helping Baletsky bring his thoughts forward.

After a minute, Baletsky began his story. Oxby listened intently, able to pick out a few words, but sensing the rhythm of the language. Occasionally a recognizable name popped out: Rasputin . . . Fabergé. Then others, each repeated several times. Karsalov and Kennedy. Yakov wrote notes on a museum folder, twice asking for clarification of a detail. In five minutes a small volume of information passed between them. Finally Baletsky shrugged and his expression said he had no more to say.

“I have learned some things,” Yakov said. “I wish to say that this man claims to have seen a Fabergé Imperial egg in 1963 on the day after President Kennedy was assassinated. He does not have proof that the egg was connected to Rasputin, but swears it is the one.”

“Does he know where it can be found?”

“He says there are two people who may know. He has told me one name, but will not say the name of the other.”

“We need more than a name. Ask for an address or a phone number.”

Yakov asked Baletsky for more details.

“He tells me one of the names. Vasily Karsalov. They served together in the navy. Karsalov owned the egg but lost it gambling, but he tells me it is possible that it was given back to him.”

“Pin him down,” Oxby urged. “Does Karsalov have it or doesn't he?”

Vakov prodded Baletsky, but apparently was unable to get a definitive answer. “He says to find him and ask ourselves.”