The Final Fabergé (32 page)

“Where is he now?”

“In Petersburg. With Ilyushin. We have the address.”

Deryabin approached, holding an umbrella. “What can I do?”

“Bring Viktor to life?” Galina said, snapping off the words. “You can do that?”

“A bad joke, Galina. I will help if I can. Money?”

“Yes, a lot of money. And whatever I will need to repay the Oxby bastard.”

“I am getting more information,” Deryabin said. “You will do nothing until we have all the facts. Even if you are justified in taking your revenge on Inspector Oxby, you will do it when I give the order.”

The van pulled alongside and two men lifted the coffin into it. Galina climbed in and sat on the wet floor, her head leaning against the casket. The doors were closed and the van was driven away.

Deryabin was still holding his umbrella, the usual smile gone and replaced with a disagreeable frown. Viktor's body had not been embalmed, nor had it been chemically treated in any manner. Though the coffin had been sealed, an intense, fetid odor of death hung in the damp air.

“We are left with a half of the twins,” Trivimi said.

Deryabin replied, “By far, the better half.”

T
wo weeks had slipped by since Lenny Sulzberger had been so ignominiously inconvenienced. He was not quite fully recovered, still carrying an inflatable pillow with a hole in the middle because his left cheek hadn't healed as well as his right thigh. Always the creative punster, he had invented several “half-ass” jokes and had played them out ad nauseam.
Playboy
had extended the deadline for his profile on Mike Carson, and Monday the 14th was both Flag Day and the day Lenny would interview Mike Carson and replace the notes that had been surrendered on that painfully regrettable evening. In fact, Lenny had two interviews scheduled. Alex Tobias had called him on Sunday and said it was important that he meet with him, that it wouldn't take a lot of time, and would he stay around after his interview with Carson. The detective said he was flying into La Guardia from upstate New York, and was 2:30 okay.

Lenny shifted his interview with Mike Carson to 1:30. He asked the same questions he asked during the first interview, except he slipped in a few extra ones he felt had been earned on account of being shot a couple of times. Lenny sat on his doughnut cushion, occasionally standing when it became more comfortable to do that.

“Still hurts, damn it. I'd like to punch out that Russian broad, except she'd probably beat the shit out of me.”

Mike was amused that Lenny could speak his mind, no matter about what, or who was listening. “Another week and it will all be a memory,” he said, hoping to soothe the writer's feelings as much as his slow-healing wounds.

“Yeah. I could read for ten minutes at a stretch on my stomach,” Lenny complained, “so there wasn't much I could do for a week except watch soap operas and try to remember what earth-shattering news you gave me in our first interview that was worth getting two bullets in my backside.” Lenny shifted uncomfortably. “But, damn it, I was shot! Why?”

Lenny's tale of woe evoked both commiseration and a good laugh. Mike Carson said, “As a guess, I'd say that whoever shot you and took your notebook was under the impression I had important information. Either about the business, or about me. What other reason can there be?”

“There's Akimov. Did he bring any secrets, any inside information?”

“Who would bother about Sasha? And who would know he was in America, let alone in one of my showrooms? What little I learned from Sasha I kept to myself.”

“Are you going to tell me now?”

“Maybe later.”

Alex Tobias was on time. Precisely. He impressed people early on that he was also the sort who was completely reliable in other ways. And not in your face about it.

“Thanks to both of you for changing your schedule,” he began. “I received a phone call from a fellow police officer. He's an old Scotland Yard friend and it prompted me to ask for another meeting with the two of you.”

He took a seat at the conference table. Mike sat across from him, Lenny stood, holding his arms crossed over the pillow and held tight against his tummy like a security blanket.

“Now, then,” Tobias began, “when I was last in this office, a man by the name of Laar was here, making a proposal for a joint venture between his company in St. Petersburg and Carson Motors.” He looked at Mike. “Any further developments on that?”

“We're getting the lawyers together,” Mike said.

“I think the idea of importing used American cars into Russia seems like a reasonable business proposition. Not the kind of deal that causes murder, least not as I heard it being discussed between you and that Estonian fellow. What's more, you're paying lawyers to sweat the details and keep you out of trouble.”

He went on, “That's what I was thinking, but then I said, wait a minute. An old man is murdered. And you, Mr. Sulzberger, you get roughed up so they can steal your notes. So I ask myself, what the hell's that all about?”

“Yeah, what the hell is that all about?” Lenny echoed. “There wasn't
a damned thing in my notes except how a young guy from Russia came to America and made it big-time.”

“But they thought there was more,” Tobias said. “Follow me on this.” He looked at Mike. “Your old family friend, Mr. Akimov, surprises you with a visit. He didn't take the train up from Philadelphia that morning, he flew in from St. Petersburg, Russia. Maybe it's a coincidence, maybe not, but he comes just when you're negotiating a big contract with a company from St. Petersburg.”

Tobias moved forward on his chair. “I learned from Mr. Sulzberger that you and Akimov were together for approximately ten minutes before he was shot. And during that time he told you that he knew your mother and father, and that the last time he saw you was when you were ten years old.”

“That's right,” Mike said.

“I think he said more than that,” Tobias said. “Some news or information you didn't include in your interview with Mr. Sulzberger. Am I right?”

Mike turned from Tobias to Lenny. “I can't remember precisely what he said.”

Tobias said, “I don't want to pry into your personal life, Mr. Carson, but I'd appreciate it if you would tell me anything Akimov said that could help us learn who killed him.”

“He talked mainly about my father, who I never really knew. He was out of my life when I was just a kid.”

“You lived with your mother?”

Mike nodded. “And an aunt, until I was eleven or so.”

“Is your mother still living?”

“This is the personal stuff I didn't want to get into with Lenny. I think she is, and I feel like hell admitting that I don't know.”

“Your aunt?”

“Same.”

“What did Akimov say about your father?”

“He said that my father threw a party to celebrate the fact I'd just been born . . . this was November of '63. After all the drinking, my father gambled away what you'd call a family heirloom, something my grandfather gave him. Akimov said it was a Fabergé Easter egg and worth a lot more than what he owed in the poker game.”

Tobias became rigid. “Wait a minute. Did he say it was an Imperial Easter egg?”

“We spoke in Russian, and mine is pretty rusty. I recall he said it was a jeweled egg, made by Fabergé, and was worth a lot of money. That's pretty much how he described it.”

“You'll excuse me, but that's an incredible story.” Tobias shook his head as if he were coping with an extra discharge of endorphins. “Why do you suppose he came all the way to New York to tell you about a Fabergé egg?”

“He had more to say on personal matters that I don't want to talk about.” Mike smiled, or perhaps it was more of an embarrassed grin. “I told him that if my father had stupidly lost the egg, then it wasn't mine.”

“What did he say to that?”

“I don't think he gave a direct answer.”

“Why do you suppose he was tracked down to your office and murdered? There had to be more to it than the fact he knew your father lost a Fabergé egg in a card game. Do you agree?”

“It wasn't just about the egg,” Mike said. “He told me other bits about my father.” He paused. Mike was clearly troubled. “This gets to the hard part—”

“Do you want Mr. Sulzberger to hear this?”

“It's all right, but no notes. And none of it gets into the article.”

Tobias glanced at Lenny. “Did you hear that?”

“Yeah. It's off the record.”

Mike looked from one to the other, and seemed to gather himself before he said, “I was told that my father was accused of murder. This was in the early 1970s. I might have been nine or ten when it happened.”

“Tell us as much as you want,” Tobias said. “Or say nothing.”

“There's not much to tell. My father was still in the navy and was transferring supplies like meat and liquor to a civilian partner who warehoused and sold it on the street. Sasha said the partner had been cheating, that he was found dead, his throat slashed. My father was accused of killing him. There was a trial, but it was secret, and a rumor he confessed. He was sent to some place in Central Asia. Sasha believes he's been there ever since.”

Lenny jumped in. “So why does this guy come over with all this negative crap and give you a hard time about your father?”

“I think he was about to explain all that. Then the woman and the gun and Akimov's got a bullet in his throat.”

Tobias said, “Can you think of anything else he said. Names, places, dates. Anything at all?”

“Though he never actually said it, I think he knew that someone was following him. A couple of times he went to those windows and stared down at the crowds on the showroom floor.”

Tobias said, “If we're going to figure out the riddle, you'll have to remember every word, every detail, every gesture, every change of expression that Akimov made during those minutes when you were together. We'll never know of course what he had planned to say to you, but we might be able to speculate on why he went to such a huge effort to try.”

Lenny opened his notebook, “Does that mean I can—”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Sulzberger. From now on it's just between Mr. Carson and me.”

S
ince bringing on the crew of bodyguards, and accepting the need to make himself as small a target as possible, Oxby had surrendered to the claustrophobia of Yakov's tiny apartment. Sunday had been particularly stifling, and not until after he had put the message on Alex Tobias's voice mail, and Poolya gave assurances the neighborhood was clean, did Oxby and Yakov take two of the men and drive across the city to a Ukrainian restaurant.

Now, it was Monday, Oxby's first opportunity to begin his investigation. Yakov along with Mikki, his designated bodyguard and arguably the most sullen-looking of the lot, had been sent off to the Naval Offices to find the personal records of Vasily Karsalov. Oxby gave himself the chore of obtaining the addresses of all the Leonid Baletskys in Petersburg. Because he had found Viktor Lysenko's passport, along with an address, it seemed unnecessary to get a list of every Lysenko. Or was it? Oxby had found a second passport, and it seemed likely that a man in Lysenko's line of work might have a dozen passports, none of which might have any bearing on who he was or where he lived.

No matter how skilled Poolya might be at detecting trouble, it was unlikely he could single-handedly fend off an organized assault on the streets of the city. He and Oxby were about to spend most of the day roving through the city in search of the homes of Baletsky and Lysenko, going God knows where. Oxby could handle a pistol remarkably well, but he had not brought one. Poolya offered him a choice. A Glock-17 semiautomatic, or a CZ-75 compact autopistol. Both 9mm, both held ten rounds. The Glock, made of polymer, was lighter by ten ounces. He chose the Glock and a hip holster.

Instead of driving directly to the address bureau, Oxby instructed Poolya to go first to St. Isaac's Cathedral. The familiar urge had come over him and it was time for a few moments of quiet time. So his day began in hushed surroundings, though the symbols and art were
changed from those of his haunts in London. He stood in front of a stained glass window that depicted Christ looming twenty feet tall, covered in a brilliant red robe edged with gold braid. Above Oxby was a mammoth painting,
The Virgin Majesty
, high up in the central dome of the church. On either side of him were giant pillars made of bronze and clad with perfectly matched pieces of malachite. St. Isaac's Cathedral could hold fourteen thousand worshippers, all standing, of course. For seven decades the communists showed it off as a museum, and now in the atmosphere of a new enlightenment, services were again being performed in the church inspired by Peter the Great.