The Final Fabergé (31 page)

“Alexander, this is Jack Oxby. I know you're on the lake, and they won't give me your number, so I shall trust to your disciplined spirit to call in and hear what I've got to say.

“I'm on leave from the Yard, sorting out my personal fortunes and future, and not incidentally, currently involved in a fascinating assignment that has suddenly and absurdly turned completely around. To sum it up, I've fallen into a great deal more danger than I'd bargained for. So much so, that I've engaged several bodyguards to put, as they say so quaintly over here, a ‘roof ' over my head. Never thought I'd be in league with the Russian
mafiya
, but I am, and with mixed emotions, quite happily, too.”

Then, briefly and precisely, Oxby told Tobias about the assignment he'd received from Christopher Forbes and about St. Petersburg and Tashkent, and Yakov, and the deepening mystery surrounding Rasputin's Imperial egg. “Initially I didn't believe the rumor about such an egg. Now I think it's quite possible. Of course I also didn't believe that murder would be committed over such an erudite rumor.

“I've a special favor to ask, Alex. You told me once you would like to
know more about Fabergé's work, so here's your chance. Make a date to visit with Christopher Forbes. He's there on Fifth Avenue where you can see their Fabergé collection. He likes to be called Kip and, knowing both of you, I think you'll get along splendidly.

“When you see Kip, give him my best regards. While you're at it, you might also plan a visit with Gerard Hill. He's Sotheby's expert in charge of Russian icons and decorative arts. You might ask him what he knows about the Rasputin egg. He'll likely laugh you out of the building, or, God knows, show you a file an inch thick.

“Oh, and a final thought. What do you know about that section of New York where so many Russians flocked to over the years? Can't think of it right now. But I know there are some old-timers who went there after the revolution and may have passed on stories about Rasputin. It's a long shot, but you might have a piece of luck.

“Alex, I hope you don't mind my rambling on like this. All these suggestions are long shots, as it's one of those nothing-ventured sorts of things.

“I'll call when you're back in the city. Early Tuesday morning, your time. Cheerio.”

C
louds flowed in from the west and with them a light morning drizzle. Oleg Deryabin stood at the window in his office, a phone in his hand. Thin scabs had formed over the scratches on his cheek and the skin around the four neat rows was inflamed to a hot pink. Trivimi Laar was sitting in one of the chairs in front of the big desk, leaning forward, making notes. Deryabin held his phone, listening, and whoever he was listening to had monopolized the conversation for the last minute, far longer than Deryabin usually allowed an underling to speak without interruption. Deryabin was angry and perspiring. Then it was over and Deryabin clicked off the phone without an acknowledgment.

“Fucking bastard.” He said it as if it was all he was going to say about the unsatisfactory conversation he had just held with the Russian-American lawyer who was representing Koleso in New York and who had submitted a purchase order for fifteen cars to Carson Motors. He pulled back his chair and sat in it. He stared across the desk to the Estonian, waving the phone. “You didn't tell me that Mikhail wanted a deposit. Not some puny amount, but twenty percent of the total cost of the transaction. Do you know how much that is?”

“I told you we must pay a heavy deposit. I didn't tell you how much because I didn't know how much Mikhail would ask for. If you will nudge that convenient memory of yours, you will recall that I said it would be substantial.”

“Twenty percent is too goddamned substantial.”

“Seventy thousand dollars,” Trivimi said evenly.

“And you lecture that I spend too freely.”

“I explained that if we make severe reductions in expenses, we can survive through October. From there, it will be week to week until we can turn matters around. There is still the debt, and before the end of the year, we must begin to pay down on it, or we'll have a roomful of
creditors screaming for everything you own. Including your home and every possession you haven't sent out of the country. In that case, only a miracle will keep New Century alive.”

Deryabin looked plaintively at Trivimi. “Is there enough to make the damned deposit?”

“I've accounted for that. Don't let it slip that convenient mind that Mikhail will demand the balance before he ships the cars.”

“Tell me more about Mikhail. What is he like, what kind of questions did he ask?”

“He was businesslike, and he asked businesslike questions. He knows automobiles and how to sell them.” Trivimi gathered his papers. “I didn't mention that there was a detective with him. A man named Tobias.”

“We've got a fucking detective meddling in our business in Petersburg. Now there's one in New York? What was he doing with Mikhail?”

“You forget, Akimov was shot in Mikhail's office. One of his employees was stabbed.”

Deryabin's eyes flashed. “I haven't forgotten.”

“The police would like to know who shot the writer, the one Galina shot to get his notebook.”

“The strange writing in his notebook was not so strange after all. I have the translation. There is no mention of my name.”

“I'd like to read it,” Trivimi said. “What else was in the notebook?”

“Akimov talked to Mikhail about the old days, and about the celebration that took place when Mikhail was born, and how everyone made toasts to Kennedy's assassination. Mikhail described the woman who shot Akimov, and except for the color of her hair, he described Galina perfectly. He told the reporter that Akimov would probably die.”

“Did Akimov talk about the poker game, or the egg?”

Deryabin shook his head. “Read it before you fall asleep tonight.” He pushed the typed translation across to the Estonian.

Trivimi stared at the report, then put it in his pocket. He said, “During my meeting with Mikhail I never used your name. I referred to you only as chairman of New Century.”

“What are you getting at?”

“The important fact that Mikhail has no idea who you are. I strongly believe that Akimov never mentioned your name.”

“Are you certain of that?”

“No. But remember that Akimov was an old man telling old stories
and making toasts to Mikhail's family. If he planned to tell Mikhail about you, he waited too long. You see, Oleshka? The circumstances are exactly as you want them. Mikhail Karsalov and his father never communicated with each other and now the father and Akimov are dead.”

As Deryabin listened, he opened and closed his cigarette case, the clicks as steady as a metronome.

Trivimi said, “But if you have any fear that Mikhail will discover a reason to stop the negotiations, then make your contract with another company. There are hundreds of automobile dealers in the eastern states.”

Deryabin learned forward and crossed his arms over his chest. “There are no other dealers who have showrooms where Mikhail has put his.”

“Then go to New York. You can meet with Mikhail and develop a good relationship. Perhaps he will invest in Koleso. That way you will have the money to build your first showroom.”

“I'll think about it,” Deryabin said perfunctorily, then got to his feet and stretched. He looked gaunt, as if he had lost weight. That, and his face with the scratches and redness, gave him the appearance of a man who had gone sleepless for half a week. He opened a bottle of mineral water and poured a glass, then drank it in a single swallow. He returned to his chair and stood beside it.

“The detective. Tobias you called him. He asked questions?”

“He asked was I Russian. I explained. He asked about your gift, the
charka
, and was it Fabergé? I said yes. After Mikhail told us about the shooting, Tobias asked if I knew Akimov. I said I did not.”

“That is all?”

“I said it was a terrible thing to have a man shot in front of your eyes. And I said goodbye.”

“If I go to New York, I will be able to tell Mikhail who I am.” He looked inquiringly at the Estonian. “You are saying that?”

The Estonian nodded.

Deryabin's little smile lengthened. “When I meet him I can say that I knew his mother and father, and that I first saw him when he was a baby. And I will tell him Akimov worked in our company but that he became old and could not carry out his assignments.”

“Will you tell Mikhail that Sasha Akimov saw you win the Fabergé egg from his father?” The Estonian leaned forward. “And will you tell him you are responsible for his father's exile. That you ordered his execution?”

“What are saying, bastard Estonian? Fat prick of all time!” Trivimi had become a master at insinuating into their conversation the topics that would inevitably cause Deryabin's emotions to crash. Deryabin ranted on, “You push too far.” He reached across the desk for Trivimi's arm, then yanked the Estonian toward him until their faces were inches apart. “I will send you back on the street. You hear? On the street where you will be nothing again!”

The Estonian pulled away. “Don't threaten what you can't deliver, Oleg.” He had dropped the familiar Oleshka, and was glowering even more fiercely than the furiously angry man across from him.

“It will be better when you are able to share with Mikhail all the relationships you had with his father. You stand alone too much of the time, shutting others from your life.” He stood, looming over Deryabin. “I have not forgotten what I learned when I was young, when I was made to go to our family's church. I didn't like it, but I learned about a power that is greater than I shall ever be, a power that gives strength and takes away fear. You lived in the Soviet where power was government. No God, no faith, only the State.

“Now, you believe you have gained some kind of supreme power and can do no wrong. But you know that is not so. Whatever sins or crimes you committed still control you, and someday, when you are not prepared, when you least expect it, those unrepentant sins will destroy you.”

Deryabin had never heard Trivimi speak with such feeling. He stared at the tall figure, moving his mouth but uttering no sounds for a full, seemingly endless minute. He snapped open the lighter and held a shaking flame beneath a new cigarette.

“What pious bullshit,” he finally mustered. “Since when have you become a model of sanctimony?”

“I do what I must,” Trivimi said. “I hope for change and share what I was taught.” Trivimi turned to the window and inspected the gray sky and the light rain that continued to fall. “I am taking Galina to the airport this evening. The plane with Viktor's body arrives at seven. Will you go with us?”

Deryabin nodded and said that he would.

Deryabin remained in the limousine while Galina and the Estonian located the baggage handlers who would deliver the coffin. Galina had
insisted on making arrangements for the burial and a black van waited inside the gate. The rain had picked up and gusts of wind blew miniature waves over water that had pooled on the tarmac.

They could hear the engines before they saw the jet drop below the clouds, land, and taxi to the terminal. Galina went out to the plane and stood in the rain, waiting for Viktor's coffin to be offloaded. Her head was covered with a scarf and her hands were buried in the pockets of a raincoat that reached below her knees. She waited a long twenty minutes, never wavering, staring at the hole in the plane out of which came suitcases, packages, cartons of furniture, and finally a coffin.

She went over to it, the Estonian at her side. As was tradition, the coffin was covered with a thin layer of zinc and had an eight-by-teninch window located directly over the head of the deceased. Beneath the thick glass was Viktor's face. The rain collected on the glass and Galina wiped it away. The lights, bright as they were, did not shine on Viktor's face and she could see only a dim, pale visage. She lowered her head and began to speak softly.

“I don't know what happened, but you weren't prepared. Why did you rush? Like always you said you could not lose.” She wept. “If I had been with you . . .”

She turned to Trivimi. “Have you learned any more? How he died?”

“I don't have all the pieces, but we believe that the Englishman and Ilyushin were in the room with Karsalov when Viktor arrived at the hospital.”

“Then, it was the policeman who killed Viktor?”

“I said there are missing pieces. But it is possible.”

“His name is Oxby?”

“Yes,” the Estonian replied.