The Final Fabergé (37 page)

“I got it here . . . Karsalov. Mikhail Karsalov.”

“Incredible,” Oxby said, “bloody incredible. What's this got to do with the shooting in TriBeCa?”

Alex gave an abridged version of the Lenny Sulzberger saga.

“Do you know if Carson's mother is alive?”

“Mike said he wasn't sure, but thought she might be.”

“What else did Akimov have to say?”

Tobias retold Akimov's story of the card game, and how Mike's father gambled and lost a valuable Fabergé egg, and more tragically, how Vasily Karsalov had been accused of murder, presumably confessed to it, and had been sent to Central Asia.

Oxby did not respond, he was making notes and digesting all that his friend had told him.

Tobias interrupted the silence. “Jack? You still there?”

“I'm here. A little stunned, trying to put all this in perspective. What you've told me is something damned close to a miracle.”

Alex laughed. “It's that good?”

Immediately after Oxby finished speaking with Alex Tobias, he and Poolya drove to the Naval Records Office. Waiting in his car, alone, was Yakov.

“Where's Mikki?” Oxby demanded.

“Your associate,” Yakov said to Poolya, “asked if he could go to one of the shops over by the metro station. I felt safe in front of all these buildings filled with military people, and said that he could.”

“How long has he been gone?” Poolya asked, bridling his fury that Mikki had violated instructions.

“Twenty minutes.”

Poolya parked alongside the Lada. He carefully examined Yakov's relic, then applied his tape to both cars.

Yakov spoke to an officer at the reception desk, pointing first to Oxby, then Poolya, jabbering as best Oxby could determine about relatives and loved ones. A ten dollar bill appeared in Yakov's hand , one of several Oxby had given him, and the officer, without changing a bored expression, waved all three toward an elevator. Yakov led the way to a series of rooms on the third floor and to a counter where he immediately filled out a two-page form. He asked for an attendant by name, and when she appeared, handed her the form and another ten dollar bill appeared.

Minutes later they were seated in front of a computer and Yakov was entering the search information he had learned during his previous visit.

Oxby handed Yakov a page from Karsalov's diary and pointed at the name.

Yakov typed in Cyrillic: DERYABIN.

The computer began a name search. After half a minute, the first of sixteen names appeared, all with a first and middle name or initial. The names appeared randomly, not by age, dates served, or alphabetical order. Yakov called up each name in the order it appeared, searching for one who had served during the period 1961 to 1973.

Oxby struggled to read the first few lines of each file, but could not
keep up with Yakov, who scanned the information as quickly as he might grab the headlines in the morning newspaper. He would glance at it, then delete it and enter the next name. Twenty minutes into the search Yakov waved to Oxby.

“Come around here, Jack. This might be it.”

Oxby moved in front of the monitor and studied the Russian letters. “Damned right! That's our man. Say the name, Yakov.”

“Oleg Vladimirovich Deryabin.”

“Where was he stationed in 1963?”

Yakov read off the critical dates. “In June of that year he was transferred to the naval base in Tallinn.”

“That should cinch it,” Oxby said. But to assuage his sense of caution, he instructed Yakov to run a check on all the Deryabins on their list. “It's no time to rush into a mistake.”

Oxby stared at the monitor as Yakov called up the records of the remaining naval veterans with the name of Deryabin. None had a fourletter first name, and none matched the dates of service.

“Bloody damned good.” Oxby beamed. “Let's get a print out of his record.”

That accomplished, the trio departed. Mikki was not in sight, and a small crowd was gathered to the side of the building, near to where they had parked their cars. Poolya ran ahead and pushed away the curious throng that was gaping at the broken driver's side window on Yakov's Lada. Oxby joined him and stared past shards of glass at the large paving stone that had caused the damage. Along with countless bits of glass, the stone was on the front seat and next to it was a green box tied with pale green ribbon.

Yakov arrived, stunned to discover that his faithful old automobile had been senselessly damaged. He swore volubly, venting his frustration, asking one or two gods to strike dead whoever had done the deed. He reached for the door handle.

“Wait,” Oxby said. “We've had company, and they've got terribly bad manners. Let's look about and make certain they haven't left any more surprises.”

He and Poolya checked the tape strips and examined both cars carefully. Poolya probed under Yakov's car with a pole that had a mirror attached to its end. For good measure, he checked under his car. Only then did Oxby open the door and allow Yakov to brush out the glass and retrieve the green box.

“What have they sent this time?” Yakov asked.

“I'll open it,” Oxby said, taking the box and feeling its weight, ever suspicious that little packages can pack a deadly wallop. He untied the ribbon, then set the box on the pavement, found a stick and edged the top up and off the box. Inside were loose strips of paper, and nestled in the paper was another small package.

“I wish to say, Jack, these people have little imagination. It is like the first parcel they sent, wrapped in the same cloth. You remember?”

“I remember, but this time it's not a doll,” Oxby said. He held the little package, kneading it gently, feeling its contours. “I'm afraid I know exactly what it is.”

He began to unravel the cloth. “Be prepared,” he said. “It will not be a pleasant sight.”

When he took away the last of the cloth wrapping, Oxby was holding in the palm of his hand a folded piece of paper and next to it a human finger. Yakov recoiled at the sight of the white skin and blue fingernail. It had been cleanly severed from the hand, though blood had clotted and turned black and scabbed over the bone.

Poolya stared at the finger with professional curiosity. He said, if Oxby understood correctly, that he hoped the poor bastard was unconscious or dead when the finger was lopped off his hand.

Oxby unfolded the note and handed it to Yakov. He read it and unlike his response to the previous warning, showed new resolve. He put the words into English.

Oxby showed the note to Poolya. He said, “They can stop you from protecting us? Is that what they are saying?”

“It is a game. You hire me to protect you, they hire someone to kill me.” Poolya grinned. “But we hire more people to protect me.”

It was like a Ponzi scheme, Oxby thought, only the stakes were murderously high.

Oxby helped Yakov clear his car of the glass. They got into it. “Follow me,” Poolya said. “When I wave my arm, turn right at the next
street. Circle the block and come back to where you made the turn. I want to see if you are being followed.”

It was a strategy that won Oxby's approval. To Oxby's trained eye, it appeared obvious they were not followed. But Oxby was learning that in Russia the obvious was often too subtle to detect.

It was evening when they returned to the apartment, the sun now shining. Poolya reported to Oxby. “I was surprised that you were not followed.”

“You're surprised, and I am pleased. I had hoped that Mikki might be following us. Can you guess where he is?”

“Not in the city. He'll be away until he's spent his money.” He shook his head. “He'll never work with us again.”

“You will replace him?”

“Tomorrow there will be a new man.”

Oxby wondered if it was as simple as Poolya was trying to make it. Poolya had called it a game. “Like a round-robin. Even if you lose, you can still compete.”

After supper, Yakov took the papers he had collected that day and placed them on the table. He began translating Oleg Deryabin's naval records, reading aloud portions, making occasional comments to himself. Oxby reviewed his journal and made additional notes. For an hour neither spoke, each absorbed in the work at hand. Oxby pushed away from the table. He sat quietly, staring at his friend, his expression ranging from amusement to deep concern.

“You have acted bravely in the face of several intimidating experiences today. In fact, you have acted with extraordinary courage through all of these two weeks we've been together. Now your life may truly be in danger. I cannot allow you to remain at risk.”

“You are going to leave my apartment?”

“Not only shall I leave, but I will make it abundantly clear to all who will listen that I am the one who is searching for Rasputin's egg. Not you.”

“If you are concerned about my safety, put it out of your mind. You have brought some excitement into my life and I don't want to go back to boredom and feeling useless.”

“We are having a language problem,” Oxby said. “Listen carefully to me. You are in danger of being killed. At the very least, you may be seriously injured. I can't make it any plainer.”

“My English is thoroughly competent, thanks to you. I wish to say that I fully understand the danger, and find in some perverse way that
I like it. I'll make a small bargain with you. Pay for a new window in my beloved car, and I will continue in my role as your deputy assistant investigator.” Yakov rose and found a bottle, two glasses, and slices of dark bread. He returned to the table and poured a golden brown liquid into each glass. “This is Tutovka, a cognac from Karabakh.” He beamed. “In the Caucasus Mountains. You will like it.”

He gave Oxby a glass, then raised his. “Shall we agree? We will see this through and no more talk of your leaving?”

“I have a small bargain, also,” Oxby said. “You shall never, ever go out of my sight without permission.”

“
Davay chokhnymsya
,” Yakov said, inviting Oxby to clink their glasses. The cognac was strong and it burned Oxby's throat. He drank all of it, then broke off a piece of the bread and ate it, chewing slowly, considering if his decision to stay in Yakov's apartment was the right one. He watched Yakov return to his task. Fifteen minutes passed and Yakov announced that had completed translating all of the papers that comprised Deryabin's naval records.

“Besides the four pages that make up his service record, there were nine additional pages,” Yakov reported. “Three were letters, five were copies of transcripts that dealt with some part of his activities, and one is a portion of a court proceeding. From what I have seen, Deryabin had a successful naval career.”

“In what way?” Oxby asked.

“He was a
kapitan tretyego ranga
at the time of discharge. That would be the same as commander in your navy. A very high rank for someone so young. I wish to say he was awarded enough medals to cover half his chest, also very special because when he was active there were no hot wars to fight.”

“How many years did he serve?”

“A long time. I think seventeen. Yes, he entered in 1961 and was discharged in May of 1978. But more important, he was transferred to Tallinn in July of 1963. Later he was in Tehran and Cairo. Then to Petersburg in 1971. He was sent to Washington in June of '73 . . . appointed adjutant to the senior military officer in the Soviet embassy.”

Oxby thought about the Washington assignment, concluding that about that time, when he was thirty-four, Deryabin's career began to blossom.