The Final Fabergé (19 page)

“Where do we start? Petersburg?”

“He tells me he was sent away by the military. To Tashkent.”

“But Tashkent is in—”

“Yes. Uzbekistan.”

“When was he sent there?”

“Many years ago. Twenty-five, maybe more.”

Yakov fired several more questions at Baletsky, who gave terse responses and showed renewed apprehension.

“There was a trial and after it, Karsalov was sent away. It was, he tells me, like an exile.”

Oxby's expression was one of intense concentration. It was difficult enough to think of a logical line of questioning, let alone convert his questions into Russian.

Oxby said, “Karsalov could be dead. Does he know?”

“He thinks not, but cannot be certain of it.”

“Then the other person. Who is that?”

Yakov relayed the question. “He says he cannot tell us the name.”

“Would he give us the name for more money?”

“No. He wants only his remaining fifty dollars.”

“Vahlootoo,”
Baletsky said, and turned to Oxby, his hand extended, palm up.
“Dollahri!”
he insisted.

Oxby looked at him sternly. “Tell him, Yakov, we want the other name.”

Yakov interpreted.

“Nyeht!”
Baletsky said resolutely, then rambled on excitedly.

“He is unhappy and will say no more. But he demands that you pay the other half of his money.”

Oxby extracted several notes from his wallet and gave them to Baletsky. “He's frightened out of his wits over something, and I'd bloody well like to know what it is. Explain to him that there is more money if he will give us the other name. And if he can tell us where we can find the egg, I'll pay him five hundred dollars.”

Yakov made the translation and Baletsky's response was to shake his head and storm from the room.

Yakov started after him but stopped before reaching the gallery door. He looked at Oxby, who had moved in front of another display case, a smile spreading over his face.

“There is something to laugh about?” Yakov said.

“I'm not laughing, not exactly, but I do find it amusing that for one hundred dollars we have learned, assuming Baltesky can be believed, that there is an Imperial egg with connections to the notorious Rasputin. Though we don't know exactly where to find it, we have the name of someone who might have the answer.”

Yakov said, “It is like an old Russian saying. ‘In Russia everything is a secret but nothing is a mystery.' ”

Leonid Baletsky walked as quickly as his arthritic legs would allow, taking some of the steps two at a time as he descended the Jordan staircase to the first level of the Winter Palace. He paused next to a column that rose nearly thirty feet to a painted ceiling. He gathered his money
from two pockets and put it into an old leather wallet which he put into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He looked carefully at the faces of the growing throng, then slipped in among them and proceeded to the exit.

Behind him was a tall, slender man wearing a tailored suit and tinted blue glasses. Trivimi Laar checked his watch and wrote notes in his small notebook.

S
cattered fog caused an airport delay in Helsinki and the Finnair flight from JFK to Petersburg arrived two hours late. Not until nearly 2:00 P.M. were Galina and Viktor inside the terminal and queued in the line designated for nationals. The tourist lines moved at an agonizingly slow pace, but the dozen or so Russians passed through passport control quickly. The Lysenkos claimed their luggage and set off for the exit.

They heard the voice before they saw the Estonian.

“He is waiting.”

Viktor scowled. “Where?”

Trivimi Laar ignored the question and proceeded through the lobby and out to a cream-colored Mercedes. Its windows were tinted a smoky gray. Eyes inside could look out, but could not be seen by those looking in. A door opened.

“In here,” a voice grumbled.

The big car had been stretched to limousine length. Oleg Deryabin sat on the soft leather seat and motioned for the Lysenkos to sit in the jump seats that faced him. They climbed into the car, each clutching a carry-on shoulder bag, both showing their irritation, both sensing the tension that inevitably surrounded Oleg Vladimirovich Deryabin.

The Estonian got into the driver's seat, closed and locked the doors, and started the engine.

“Give me your report,” Deryabin said, his first words unaccompanied with a greeting, or a smile, or a handshake.

“We are happy to be home, Oleg,” Viktor said.

“Put your sweet sayings up an asshole,” Deryabin said. “Your performance was not satisfactory.”

“What do you know of the problems we had?” Galina leaned forward. “What the Estonian tells you?”

“Trivimi tells me precisely what you say to him. He does not write
fiction.” He lit a cigarette. “So, now we face each other, separated by, what . . . a cloud of smoke?” He wore a stone-rigid expression. His deep voice was flat and unmodulated. “Your report,” he demanded again.

Slowly, Viktor began to recount each detail of their mission. Galina offered details where needed, never apologizing, never making an excuse or exaggerating the complexity of their assignment. Viktor said, “We did everything possible to stop Akimov from meeting with Mike Carson—”

“Call him by his correct name,” Deryabin snapped. “He is Mikhail Karsalov.” He drew heavily on the cigarette and blew the smoke directly at Viktor. “I don't agree. You should have found Akimov easily. He could not speak English, and he moved like a tired, old man. You had every opportunity to intercept him.”

“Understand that Akimov did not fly to New York from Russia,” Viktor said. “We could not trace him on any airline, and our best hope to catch him was to wait for him at the showroom. But there was a mad celebration. Big crowds, loud music, and police everywhere directing traffic. Two of the salespeople went for a cigarette and we followed them. We took their uniforms, then tied them together and put them in the back of a car.”

“They saw you? They could identify you?”

“No,” Viktor replied. “We knew better than to let them see us. We came up behind them. Galina took the woman and I took the man. They were young and frightened.”

“But you didn't stop Akimov from meeting with Mikhail.” Deryabin blew another stream of smoke into Viktor's face. He said, as if pronouncing a death sentence, “That is where you failed.”

Viktor pleaded, “We didn't fail, Oleg. We saw Akimov as he was going up to Mikhail's office. We couldn't run after him. Too many people. And the police. Galina followed him as quickly as she could. It was no more than ten minutes, less I think, until Galina was inside Mikhail's office.”

“My first shot should have killed him—”

“Fuck the should have,” Deryabin cut her off.

Galina said, “He is dead, Oleg.”

“Too late he is dead, goddamn it!” Deryabin shouted.

Trivimi interceded. “The writer,” he said. “What did you learn from him?”

“His name is Sulzberger. He went to Mikhail's apartment to interview
him. We hoped he would tell us what Akimov and Mikhail talked about.”

“But you shot him?” Deryabin said.

Galina explained how she had waited for him, and about their brief meeting in the restaurant, and how he stubbornly refused to talk, but that his notebook might contain the information she wanted.

“There was no other way,” Galina said. “We agreed that if necessary, I would shoot. I use a small gun and can put my shots where I want. It's better sometimes to cause pain than to kill. I have done this before.” Galina's eyes widened, and she glared forcefully at Deryabin. “I hit him here—” She slapped low on her backside.

“You crippled him? Only that?”

“Only that was needed.”

“He's still alive, and can talk about it,” Deryabin said. “He can recognize you.”

“No, he will remember a plain-looking, gray-haired woman who caused him a great amount of pain.”

“You have his notebook?

Galina unzipped her shoulder bag, found the notebook, and gave it to Deryabin. “You see that it is written in a code or shorthand. But were able to learn the name of the hospital where Akimov was sent.”

Deryabin flipped the pages, then dropped the notebook on the seat next to Trivimi. “We will send this to an old friend who is now with Internal Affairs. She will break it down.”

Then silence that stretched for several miles, and broken when Deryabin said, “There is another man in the city who has had a sudden urge to talk about old times. His name is Leonid Baletsky, a friend of Akimov. He came to see me a short time ago. After we met, I hoped not to hear more from him. But we have learned that his memory is playing tricks, and he has started to talk to people about me.”

“How do you know this?”

“Good things can happen from a coincidence. We have been watching the movements of a former teacher at the Academy, a pensioner who lives alone. He was also a curator at the Russian Museum. His name is Yakov Ilyushin. He met an Englishman at the airport and took him to his apartment.”

“Who is the Englishman?” Galina asked.

“We suspect he is a detective with the London police.”

“Scotland Yard?”

“That is possible. I will know for certain in a day or two.” Deryabin smoked his cigarette and watched a stream of smoke disappear in a round hole that drew the stale air from the car.

“Yesterday, Trivimi followed Ilyushin and the Englishman to the Winter Palace. They were met by Baltesky in the reception hall. From there, they went to an obscure gallery where the three men talked for fifteen minutes.”

Deryabin crushed out his cigarette. His smile broadened. “Trivimi can be very resourceful. He waited for Baletsky to leave the meeting, then followed him down the stairs. He caught up with him and said he was a visitor from Tallinn and would he take his photograph inside the Hermitage. Baletsky did, and Trivimi said it was his turn to take a picture. Then he asked for his name.”

Both Galina and Viktor knew not to be dissuaded by Deryabin's smile, yet they knew when he was pleased and when his creative mind was whirring. They knew, too, how Deryabin enjoyed pitting one subordinate against another.

Deryabin produced a photograph and handed it to Viktor. “Recognize him?”

Viktor studied the face, then handed the picture to Galina. Neither could identify the man.

“That is Leonid Baletsky.”

The limousine was approaching the Smolenskoye district, an area of small factories and apartment buildings. The car made two turns and came to a stop.

The Estonian said, “Directly ahead is Zagorodny Prospekt. The building on the corner, on the fifth floor, is where Leonid Baletsky lives.”

Deryabin said, “Take two days. No longer. This time there will be no mistakes.”

D
uring the evening of that same day when they encountered Leonid Baletsky, the two men had had a spirited discussion on whether they should make reservations on the next available flight to Tashkent. Oxby's contacts in British diplomatic circles were not powerful enough to initiate a search for an obscure Russian naval officer, and Yakov's contacts were of even less promise. The decision rested solely on information Leonid Baletsky had given them, and Oxby's indomitable optimism.

Hunch and hope aside, there were questions neither could answer, including: Was Vasily Karsalov still alive? Had he moved? Does Karsalov have the egg? (After all, he had lost it once in a poker game.) What had all the years done to his memory? Most worrisome was whether they could find him in a far-off city not known to either man.

“Even if you put aside those questions,” Yakov said, dispiritedly, “You won't enjoy Uzbekistan. It will be very hot. I am told that Tashkent is not a friendly city. The food is—”

“Inedible. Right?” Oxby reached across the table and patted his friend's arm. “I'm willing to take the gamble. Besides, the trip is on me, or more accurately, my client. I have a hunch that something is stewing underneath all this. First the surprise package, then Baletsky materializes out of the air in the Hermitage.” He stood and stretched. “Sometimes we have to go a long way off before we can see what's going on under our noses.”

In the end, they agreed to chance it. A phone call revealed that there was a direct connection between Petersburg and Tashkent, but it departed on Saturday, and they had missed it. The alternative was to take the evening flight to Moscow the next afternoon, Sunday, then transfer to a TransAero flight from Moscow's Sheremetyevo No. 2 airport. It would leave at ten past midnight.