The Final Fabergé (42 page)

“Poolya's as trustworthy as a convicted spy. Your phone is tapped. They spliced into your line last night.”

“Yakov Ilyushin!” a speaker boomed. “Yakov Ilyushin report to room 14-B .”

“Come with me,” Yakov said. “They are breaking speed records today.”

“I feel like there is nothing from my knee to the floor!” Yakov exclaimed. “It is the new plastics. So light.”

“Is it comfortable?”

“I have soreness from the old leg. It will take time for that to go away.”

Yakov walked in a circle for a few minutes and pronounced that all the joints flexed smoothly. Two white-cloaked therapists checked him a final time, then asked that he sign the requisite releases and forms. Yakov looked at his watch. “Twenty after five.” It had taken less than seven hours. “A Russian miracle,” he said.

But Oxby found no miracle in the fact that Boris, on the job for less than forty-eight hours, had not returned. If Mikki, and now Boris could not be trusted, what faith could he have in Poolya and the other bodyguards that had been since the first day, silent, blank-faced hulks that hovered around the apartment. They waited an additional forty minutes. Still no Boris.

“Where's your car?” Oxby asked.

“I learned to park away from the hospital. It is on the road three streets away.”

“You have the keys?”

Yakov pulled the keys from his pocket and shook them. He said, “Maybe Boris went ahead of us.”

“Don't count on seeing Boris again today,” Oxby said. “I'm of the impression that when these men go, they go for good.”

They turned the last corner and Yakov pointed to the opposite side. “There it is,” Yakov said. “You are correct. No Boris.”

“I promised you dinner. If Boris is still on our team, he'll find his way back to the apartment.”

The neighborhood was a mix of high-rise and low apartment houses. At the corner were two kiosks; one sold detergents and household items, the other stocked hardware and hand tools. Commuters carrying plastic shopping bags were on their way home, and kids on Rollerblades were attempting to skate over a street pitted with ruts and holes.

They were in the middle of the road when Oxby saw Poolya running toward them, coming from the opposite end of the street they had just entered. Then came shouts and after that the unmistakable sound of gunfire.

Poolya was waving his arms frantically, veering quickly to his left, then his right.

Oxby knew Poolya was shouting for them to stop. He also knew that Poolya, dodging and weaving as he ran, was evading the shots being fired.

When Poolya was abreast of Yakov's car there was a loud THUMP! accompanied by streams of blue and white flames from under the Lada. The hood was blown straight into the air where it hovered, then fell back on top of the car. Poolya had been lifted up by the concussion and tossed hard against the road. He lay there, motionless. Oxby ran to him. There was blood on Poolya's shoulder and on his face, which had scraped against the graveled road. Oxby lifted him and carried him off the road to a scruffy patch of grass.

Yakov stood nearby, silhouetted against a fire that had erupted inside his precious automobile, beginning to engulf his keepsakes and memories. He slouched, a pathetic figure, then went slowly to where Oxby was attending Poolya.

“How badly is he hurt?” Yakov asked.

“He's been shot,” Oxby said. “In the back. He's alive. Find someone who can take him to the hospital.”

A ring had formed and Yakov pleaded for help. A woman with a broad, mature face, and the body of a young middleweight boxer said she owned a taxi and would help. The gas tank exploded. But it was a bang no louder than a giant firecracker. Yakov added gas sparingly and the tank contained more fumes than fuel.

The taxi came. Poolya was put in the back seat, stretched flat, newspapers put under the bleeding shoulder.

The inside of the Lada continued to burn, with as much black smoke as red flame spilling out the windows. Yakov stared at his reliable old friend until they turned the corner. Then his car and everything inside of it became a memory.

P
oolya lay against a pillow looking as if he were a badly wounded Pünjabi, with yards of white gauze wrapped around his head like an oversize turban, and more bandages on his back and over his shoulder. Deep scratches on the right side of his face had been slathered over with a glistening clear gel, the eye puffed closed. His right hand and lower arm were bandaged and rested limply on his lap.

It was three in the morning and though the shades had been pulled over the windows, light seeped into the long, narrow ward from an eastern sky that was preparing for a reappearance of the sun. There were ten beds on each side of the room. Beside each bed was a table and next to it a single chair.

Yakov sat in the chair beside Poolya's bed. Oxby stood next to him.

“In spite of all, you had good luck,” Oxby said.

“The bullet was a little one,” Poolya said bravely, his voice no more than a whisper, his words slurred and thick from the heavy sedation.

“Little ones kill,” Oxby responded. “It depends where they hit you. This bullet got you in the shoulder, but they got it out.” Oxby held the bullet in front of Poolya. “They want you to have it for a souvenir.”

Yakov said, “Some bones were chipped. That is why there is so much pain.”

Poolya nodded. “They gave me something, but it's not enough.”

Oxby sat on the edge of the bed. “We'll ask the nurse to give you another dose.”

“He might try again,” Poolya said.

“Who might try?” Oxby asked.

“Boris.”

Yakov leaned closer. “He is like Mikki, a traitor?”

“It's the business. We all do it.”

“Do what?” Oxby asked.

“Take money from both sides.”

“Did you?”

“Yes. But it was a mistake.”

Oxby was puzzled. “What was a mistake?”

“To spy on you and take their money.”

“I'm learning that's the way it's done over here,” Oxby said. “Was Boris hired to kill us?”

“Boris is hired to kill. He killed my best friend. An accident he said. He lied.”

Killers lie and some are good at it, Oxby thought, and wondered if Poolya was. “Is that why you warned us away from Yakov's car?”

“I wanted Boris to look foolish. If he kills you he is a big shot again.” He shook his head. “I want him to suck shit.”

“Obviously you are not one of Boris's fans, but suppose Professor Ilyushin or I had been injured. Or killed, perhaps. Would that matter to you?”

Poolya closed his good eye. No answer.

“Has someone paid Boris to kill me?” Poolya's head was nodding, but he did not respond. “Answer me, Poolya, or I'll see that the nurse forgets to give you a painkiller.”

“
Dah
,” he said. A muttered sound that was barely audible.

“Who's paying you to spy on us? And tap the phone? Who?”

Poolya blinked, his only response.

“Who is it?” Oxby persisted.

Poolya said proudly, “I saved your life. I warned you.”

“No, Poolya. You were playing a game with Boris. You don't give a damn about me, only if I pay you money.”

“You are wrong,” Poolya said, shaking his head.

“Who paid you?” Oxby asked again.

Poolya turned away.

Oxby turned to Yakov and spoke to him with all the authority he could put into his voice, “I will stay with Poolya, while you explain to the district police that it was your car that blew up. Tell them that we are holding the person who planted the bomb.”

Poolya stiffened. “No.” He turned as if trying to get out of the bed, but a child's hand on his chest could immobilize him.

Oxby said, “You're not going anywhere. Not until you do some explaining.” Oxby lowered his head so he was inches away from Poolya's hot and glimmering face. “Who paid you?”

“Galina Lysenko.”

“She is related to Viktor Lysenko?”

“Her husband. He is dead.”

Oxby nodded. “We saw it happen.”

“Galina said you killed him.”

“I was a witness,” Yakov said. “Inspector Oxby didn't kill him. Viktor caused his own death.”

“Galina will never believe that.”

“How long have you known Galina?”

“Two years. I knew Viktor before that.”

“For how long?”

“A long time. I don't remember.”

“He was your friend?”

“A little. He was a killer.”

“And you are not?”

Poolya, in spite of his bull neck and thick body, lay helpless, a pitiful sight. He looked up to Oxby. “I am not a killer,” he said, the words coming with as much strength and clarity as any he had spoken since Oxby had come to his bedside ten minutes earlier.

Oxby nudged Poolya gently. “We'll let you sleep, but I want an answer.” Poolya's good eye opened partially and he began breathing noisily.

Oxby stared down at Poolya and said softly, “You say Galina paid you. Who paid Galina?”

“The Estonian. Trivimi Laar.”

“And who paid the Estonian?

“Oleg Deryabin.”

D
eryabin was holding court, pacing before the wide casement windows in his stronghold on Stone Island, puffing furiously on a cigarette. He was in a black, angry mood. “Tell me again. Who is this deceiving bastard Poolya?”

The question was floated out to whoever chose to answer, either Galina or Trivimi Laar, both standing a safe distance from the storm, waiting for the man's hot wrath to cool.

Galina answered. “One of Ivan's men.”

“Ivan is connected to Misha Kinsky,” Trivimi added.

“Kinsky is the worst of all! With the stinking dog food he brings to Petersburg, he will kill every animal in the city. And you took one of his
byki
?”

“Kinsky approved,” Trivimi said. “He said he might want help from us in the future.”

“Another lie. What did it cost?”

“Nothing to Kinsky. Ivan shared three hundred dollars with Poolya.”

Galina stifled her surprise. Poolya had deceived her as well as the Estonian.

“Who planned the car bombing?”

Trivimi answered. “I brought Ivan to my office. I explained that Oxby was a problem to us, and asked him to come back with suggestions for getting rid of him.”

“You blame Ivan for the bombing?”

“Yes,” Trivimi said.

“You're all a bunch of amateurs,” Deryabin said. “I gave instructions to get rid of Oxby in an accident that would not raise suspicions. But what have you accomplished? A bungled car bombing as if we are fighting a stupid guerrilla war.”

Galina pleaded, “If Poolya had not turned against us—”

“But he did!” Deryabin exploded. “The district police will dig into
this. If Oxby had been hurt, even so slightly it couldn't be seen, your goddamned car bomb would be a case for the procurator's office.”

“Why are you frightened of the procurator's office?” Trivimi asked.

“Because we have no influence there. The young zealots would say this case is about a police investigator. That Oxby is one of theirs. They would be relentless.”

“But Oxby wasn't hurt,” Trivimi said. “In the end, that is the best news.”

“Come and sit next to me,” Deryabin said to Galina. “This blunder about the bomb has caused me to think deeply about Inspector Oxby. He came here to find a Fabergé Imperial egg as a private individual, not sent by his government or Scotland Yard. Yet he is a trained police detective and has learned more than is good for him.” Deryabin turned from Galina to the Estonian. “Oxby must be disposed of, but not with a goddamned bomb that tells all of Russia that he's been killed, and with pictures on television every night and newspaper reporters asking who did it and why. A bullet for Akimov was correct. He was nobody and nobody cares that he died. Not so with Oxby. When Oxby dies there will be many who care. They will demand an investigation.”