The Final Fabergé (27 page)

“The knife?”

Tobias smiled. “The knife is special. Our guys think it's German. Handmade for one purpose: to kill people. But no prints and no way to trace it. Another dead end.”

“So, that leaves Lenny Sulzberger?”

“Poor Lenny says he missed a deadline and won't get his big check from
Playboy.
”

“I'll take care of him.”

The phone rang.

Mike answered, “I said five minutes and it isn't—” His expression changed. “But I have him down for eleven.” He looked at his watch. “It's quarter to ten.”

Alex Tobias was edging toward the door, signaling that he would let himself out.

“Wait, Sergeant.” Mike turned back to the phone: “Tell him to wait.”

“It's okay,” Tobias said. “You're busy.”

“I've got an eleven o'clock meeting with a man who has come over from St. Petersburg. He's an hour early. There's a small chance he might have known Sasha Akimov. Do you want to meet him?”

“St. Petersburg's a big city, right?”

“Two million plus.”

Tobias smiled. “I've had worse odds. You're sure I won't be in the way?”

“Not at all. This guy is looking for an American partner to ship used cars into Russia. Want to listen in?”

“Sure. I'll give it a try.”

Trivimi Laar entered Mike's office, immediately sized up the men in front of him and nodded to Mike. “I am early for our meeting and thank you for seeing me now. You know that I am Trivimi Laar. We talked on the telephone two days ago.”

Trivimi loomed tall and gaunt. He stood erect and spoke with his usual ease and soft voice. He extended his hand and Mike took it.

“I've asked Mr. Tobias to join us,” Mike said. “He's with the New York police department and has been investigating some problems that cropped up around here about ten days ago.”

Trivimi Laar didn't flinch, blink, or look anything but pleased to shake hands with Alexander Tobias. Tobias greeted him cordially, then backed away and took a seat at the table.

Trivimi insisted on making several preliminary statements. He assured Mike that he was grateful for the opportunity to meet, and said that he brought with him the kind wishes from the chairman of Koleso. And he acknowledged that Mike had made a brilliant success of his life in a short time and under extremely difficult circumstances. And finally, Trivimi proclaimed that Mike had greatly honored his Russian tradition.

Mike listened patiently, accepting the flattery that he recognized was half ceremony and half preamble to the sales pitch that was about to come.

Mike returned to his seat at the head of the table and motioned for Trivimi to sit next to him. Trivimi placed a thin briefcase on the table and placed a small box beside it. He took some papers from the briefcase.

“These are in Russian,” he said, referring to the papers he placed on the table. “I apologize, but there was no time to make translations.”

“I read Russian better than I speak it,” Mike said.

Trivimi put his blue-tinted glasses on the table beside the box. “As you will remember from our conversation, Koleso is a subsidiary of New Century, which in America might be called a mini-conglomerate.” He turned to Tobias and smiled. “Koleso means wheel in Russian, a name we think will appeal to our young people.” Tobias smiled back, pleased to be included in the conversation.

“American cars, the big ones, are popular in our cities. We hope to bring late models to St. Petersburg. In special cases we would try to match what the buyer wants. For example, a year-old Cadillac that is black and with a sunroof.”

“Isn't that happening now?” Mike asked.

“In a small way, but in all of St. Petersburg, there are not thirty places to buy a car. And for repairs, it is very difficult.”

“You will have mechanics?” Mike asked. “Good ones?”

“We will get only the good ones.”

“Tell me how my company fits your plans.”

“You have many showrooms. And they are all located on this coast of America. Is that not right?”

“We're sitting in number 24. We go from Boston to Miami.”

“I believe I know where they are.” He produced a map. A red dot representing each Carson Motors dealership was spotted along the East Coast. “Is this correct?”

Mike studied the map, moving his finger from Boston south. “You have them all. Except we moved out of Washington into Virginia a few weeks ago.”

Trivimi made the correction. “Just so. There are three ports on the East Coast where cars can be shipped. Newark, Baltimore, and Jacksonville.”

“We've shipped cars to Europe from all of them. Plus Providence.”

“We are aware of that,” Trivimi said.

Mike reacted to Trivimi's comment, wondering what else he knew about Carson Motors. He said, “Who will supply the vehicles?”

“We thought of buying from other dealers, but we prefer to deal only with you.”

“There will be papers and forms to complete. And every car must be prepped.”

“What is this prepped?”

Mike grinned. “An inspection. To make sure the cars are in good condition.”

“You will do that,” Trivimi agreed. “You will also prepare the documents for the shipping company and U.S. customs.”

“We must have what is called a title for every car. A dock receipt can't be issued unless the vehicle's VIN number matches the title exactly. There are customs police in the yards and on the docks. They search for stolen vehicles and look for counterfeit paperwork.”

“I have heard of this VIN. It is what, exactly?”

“Every car sold in America has an identification number that contains seventeen numbers or letters. The first number is for the country where the vehicle was made. The second number is for the name of the maker, the third is the vehicle classification, and so forth to seventeen. The number is engraved on a metal or plastic plate and concealed at three different places on the vehicle. One is under the windshield, and can only be replaced or altered by taking off the glass. One may be located where it requires special tools to find it. When customs suspects a stolen car is being shipped out of the country, they will check all the VIN locations in that vehicle for a counterfeit number. From experience, I know they can be tough on cars going to Russia.”

“Everything will be legal. I assure you.” Trivimi referred to his notes. “Next, you will put the car on board a ship?”

“No. We will deliver the car to a stevedore contractor, along with the title and delivery instructions. The stevedore then prepares dock receipts and notarized copies of the title. Our driver will park the vehicle inside the security gates, the stevedore will tell him exactly where it is to go. That is the last time we will touch it. The vehicle will be tagged with shipping information and at a later time it will be driven onto a ship by a stevedore. The contractor charges a fee for each car. We will pay the fees and bill you for reimbursement.”

Trivimi nodded, slipped off his steel-rimmed glasses and replaced them with the blue-tinted pair. He added to the notes he had been taking, then looked up. “We come to the costs,” he said. “I hope that today I can give you a trial order to see how a permanent relationship between our companies can be arranged. If that order is for fifteen cars, how much will it cost?”

“What kind of cars? What model year?”

“We start with Cadillac and maybe work down from there.”

“The Seville or Fleetwood or the least expensive model?”

“In the middle. Not the top, not the bottom.”

Mike searched among the papers in front of him. “I can sell you a year-old Seville SLS for twenty-six thousand dollars. A little more or less, it will depend on what we've got in the system. That's an average price.”

“If it is two years old?” Trivimi asked.

Mike looked at his numbers. “Five thousand less. Maybe twenty-one thousand.”

“What are the other costs?”

“Prep, delivery to the port, paperwork. Another three hundred and fifty. Including the stevedore.”

“For an Oldsmobile or a Pontiac. How much?”

“Eleven to fifteen. Average cost about thirteen-five. The other costs are the same.”

Trivimi put a pocket calculator to work, punching in numbers, grimacing each time he hit the subtotal button. “Fifteen cars, a year old, split ten Cadillacs and five Oldsmobiles, will cost . . .” He printed the numerals, large and bold on the paper.” A little more than three hundred and thirty thousand dollars.”

“Add shipping costs. Those cars will have to go through Bremerhaven and be transferred to another ship into St. Petersburg. Another thousand per car should cover it.”

“Three hundred fifty thousand. An average of about twenty-three thousand a car.”

“How much will you sell them for?”

Trivimi smiled. “More than twenty-three thousand.”

“Are you giving me an order for fifteen cars?”

“Before I leave I will tell you how many of which models we will order from you.”

“You must pay all the costs before the cars are shipped to the port.”

“All costs, you say?”

“We've never done business before. So I can't accept credit terms. Only full payment. Perhaps later, if we have a permanent arrangement between our companies, we can make credit arrangements through one of our banks.”

“How long will it take for you to find the cars and make them ready for shipment?”

“Less than a week.”

Trivimi nodded, showing a little surprise, as such a transaction in Russia would require several months and involve a half mile of bureaucratic red tape.

Mike had additional questions regarding the pending and more permanent affiliation with Koleso; nuts-and-bolts types of details. He asked about insurance and liability and said he would require a guarantee against fraud or the risk of forwarding stolen vehicles.

“We will guarantee every car we sell you to have a clean title. But understand this. When you buy expensive late-model cars on the open market, expect to find that one out of every twenty is a stolen car. It goes with the territory.”

“I understand,” Trivimi said. “You can expect that Koleso will have everything in correct order. We will see to that.”

“Do you have a lawyer? An American lawyer?”

Trivimi searched his pockets. “The lawyer is in Brooklyn. That is New York, correct? And like you,” Trivimi said with an ingratiating smile, “he is a young Russian who came to this country and is very successful.” He found a business card and handed it to Mike.

“I'll have our lawyer contact him.” Mike wrote out a name and phone number and gave it to Trivimi.

“I will do this today.” The Estonian put his worksheets and folders in his briefcase and exchanged the blue-tinted glasses for the steel-rimmed ones. He turned to Tobias.

“What do you think, Detective Tobias. This is a good business?”

“You're out of my league. I drive a Chevy Prizm.”

Trivimi said, “There will be very big profits for everyone.”

“Very big doesn't mean everything,” Mike rejoined. “A 15 percent return on investment, with minimum risk. That's when I get interested. When I build a new showroom, I know exactly how much profit I will make after two years, and after five.”

“Russia will someday be a rich country. The richest in the world!”

“But America
is
the richest. No waiting for it to happen.”

There was no arguing the point. Trivimi said, “Is there some other information I can get for you?”

“No. I'll call you if I think of something.”

Trivimi put his papers back into his briefcase, leaving behind the proposal. “Now that our business is concluded, I would like to present a gift from our company.” Trivimi opened the box that he had put on the table at the beginning of the meeting. From it he took a package wrapped in a luxurious gold paper. It was a small package, and Trivimi handed it to Mike ceremoniously.

Mike knew that Russians liked to give and receive gifts, and to refuse would be an insult. He took the box and placed it on top of the papers in front of him.

“Open it,” Trivimi said. “I think you will be pleased.”

Mike unwrapped the box and opened it. The gift was a silver and enamel
charka
, a drinking cup. The bowl was chased with miniature icons, the side straps and edges of the cup set with crimson red rubies. Mike turned it over admiringly. Indeed, he thought to himself that the cup might be worth several thousand dollars.

“You like it?” Trivimi said.