The Final Fabergé (21 page)

Yakov put a piece of paper on the desk. “There is the name. Karsalov was transferred to Tashkent in 1973. We do not have a date. He had been in the navy, but was sent here.”

Sergeev studied the name for several seconds, as if he might remember it. Then he took the phone and barked out an order. Oxby plucked only Karsalov's name from the deputy's torrent of words, but could easily detect the universal “I am the boss” tone of voice.

Sergeev sat back, his elbows resting on the arms of his chair, and his hands folded beneath his chin. He looked pleased, as if positive results from his phone call would inevitably materialize. There was one other chair in the room and Oxby insisted Yakov take it. They waited, in silence, in the pitiless heat.

The phone rang. Sergeev answered and listened, scribbling and occasionally grunting or nodding. Finally, he signed off and put the phone down.

“Vasily Karsalov was transferred to the military hospital in December of 1990. Our records show he was still there, in the psychiatric unit, until 1997. With the change of government, the records are not complete.”

“Is he alive?” Yakov asked.

“I cannot answer. The Uzbek military command issued new regulations concerning Russian personnel, therefore we have no way of knowing what has happened to Karsalov. Possibly he is in the hospital, or he may have been sent to his home,” Sergeev glanced at his notes, “to St. Petersburg.”

Oxby tapped Yakov's arm. “Ask him where we will find the hospital.”

Sergeev raised a hand and pushed himself away from his desk. “I understand your question,” he said, then turned to face Oxby, and continued in his competent English. “I will show you.”

Oxby glared a little admiringly at the perspiring, grinning officer. Don't assume a bloody damned thing, he thought.

“First, you will need this,” Sergeev said. “No one will ask for a pass, but it is good to have in case someone decides to do their job.” He stamped a couple of pieces of paper and handed them to Oxby.

Sergeev then led the way into a large room that was filled with the noises of old typewriters and ringing telephones. The air, suffused with human smells, was sucked and pushed by fans with blades big enough to lift a helicopter. Sergeev continued on to a row of windows.

“There,” he said, pointing at a desultory building, “is where Vasily Karsalov was sent.”

Oxby looked through the unwashed windows to a blocklike building made of dark red brick and gray stone. The windows were narrow, but high, and all latticed with strips of black steel. Plane trees provided shade over meandering dirt footpaths, and a high, iron fence encircled the four-storied structure. It had a flat roof from which sprouted a thicket of antennas; seemingly an essential component in every military building.

Even an asylum, for that is precisely what Oxby knew it to be.

L
eonid Baletsky lived in a concrete-block apartment building that seemed to have been constructed with giant Lego pieces. When his wife was alive and able to bring home a small income, and his bachelor son could do the same, life in the cramped space was crowded but tolerable. Then events overtook Baletsky. His wife was institutionalized with tuberculosis and died shortly thereafter. His son suffered a kinder fate when he was suddenly struck prosperous, was married, and moved “uptown” to Tchaikovsky Ulitsa. Baletsky was far from prosperous, having received only three of his monthly pension allotments during the last six months.

Though spartan in the extreme, Baletsky's apartment had one feature that allowed him to escape the grim reality of his diminished world. It was a balcony, two by four meters, enclosed with an iron railing, with a comfortable chair and table on which he could place his glass and the cigarettes that occasionally helped drag him from his gloom. Five floors up and with an unobstructed view to the center of Petersburg, Baletsky would sit for hours, his mind slowly turning over old memories or desperately trying to conjure up new ways to cope with the inevitable shortages he would soon encounter.

It had been two days since he followed Yakov Ilyushin to the Hermitage. Two days since he took the Englishman's hundred American dollars. He emptied his pockets onto the table and put dollars in one pile, rubles in another. It was eleven o'clock, yet the evening sky was nearly as bright as an overcast afternoon. In another thirteen days the White Nights would be at their peak, but even now, there was no nighttime in Petersburg. A quarter moon had risen and hung low, directly above the Holy Trinity Cathedral, two and a half miles to the east. In midwinter, the same moon would shine like a beacon, but on June 8, it was barely discernible. He counted the money. He frowned and counted it again. There was enough to buy food for three weeks,
a few bottles of vodka, and cigarettes. He put the money back into his pocket.

Below, on the street, a car moved slowly, then pulled alongside the curb and stopped.

Galina said, “There, on the fifth floor.”

Viktor aimed binoculars up to the balcony where Baletsky was sitting. “He's there, alone,” he said.

They got out of the car and walked, first away from Baletsky's building past the apartment building next to it, then circled around to a narrow alleyway that ran behind all of the apartment buildings that lined the street. Pockets of wind swirled between the buildings, blowing thousands of fluffy white seedballs from the cotton grass into the air. They would settle on the hair and clothes like oversize snowflakes.

Viktor anticipated that the entrance to Baletsky's building would be protected by a massive, but typically outdated lock. When he reached the door he had a set of keys in his hand, and in less than a minute slipped the correct one into the keyhole. A fluorescent light in the ceiling hummed and cast a pale, flickering light over the windowless lobby. The elevator door was open and they got into it.

A medley of food odors greeted them, the usual cabbage and onion predominating. When they reached the fifth floor Galina was off first and went directly to the door to Baletsky's apartment. They were identically dressed in gray pants and sweaters, and only Galina's short blond wig and a trace of makeup distinguished her from Viktor.

She rapped gently, then listened for a noise inside. But the only sounds came from televisions in the other apartments on the floor. Viktor flipped on a penlight and studied the two locks. He had the tools and keys to open both; one in a few seconds, the other might take half a minute.

She rapped again. Then a third time.

A voice finally answered, “Who is it?”

“I could not come earlier, but I have brought a package for you. It is from Professor Ilyushin.”

“I don't know—”

“You were with him in the Hermitage. The Englishman was with him.”

There was no response. Silence. Then the locks were turned and the door opened.

As if they had rehearsed it a thousand times, Galina slipped through the opening and Viktor moved in behind her and closed and locked the door. Galina took a package wrapped in bright green paper from her handbag. She offered it to Baletsky. “This is for you.”

Baletsky stared at the package, then at Galina. He was not accustomed to visitors, yet here in his apartment were two strikingly attractive young people who had come to deliver a gift from a man who was, except for a brief meeting, a total stranger. He turned toward Viktor, and in that instant his eyes betrayed the fear that suddenly had begun to sweep over him.

He moved toward the door, as if to open it and shoo away the messengers. “I was not expecting a gift,” he said.

“Will you open it?” Galina said.

“Yes. Later.” He tapped the package. “A book?”

Viktor nodded in agreement. “Professor Ilyushin is an old friend?”

“He's not an old friend.”

“But you acted like old friends when you met in the museum. What were you talking about?”

“About nothing . . . that is . . . the museum. That was it. They are painting the outside of the museum.”

“You talked about the green and gold colors? But there was something else, wasn't there?” Viktor had placed his right hand over a leather sheath that was attached to his belt above his hip. Then his fingers snapped and a knife appeared in the palm of his hand. “Perhaps your memory will improve and you will remember what you and Ilyushin talked about?”

Baletsky shrank back a step, his eyes darting from the knife to Viktor to Galina. “It was about a story he put into the newspaper. I had information. I need money and asked him to pay for it.”

“What information?” Viktor asked patiently.

“About . . . about nothing you would care about.”

Viktor raised the knife to give Baletsky a good view of it. It was a boot dagger; its handle was stout, heavy, and circled with ridges for a firm grip. The blade was four inches long and slightly less than an inch wide and tapered to a needle-fine point. One edge was razor sharp, the other serrated.

“What information?” Viktor repeated.

“About a Fabergé egg.” Baletsky paused, transfixed at the sight of the weapon. “An Imperial egg.”

Galina intruded. “How much did he pay you?”

Almost apologetically, Baletsky said, “A hundred dollars.”

Viktor waved his knife. “What else did you tell him?”

“I said he could get more information from someone who—”

“The name?”

“Karsalov. Vasily Kasilov.”

“And what of this Karsalov?”

“I said he was in Tashkent.”

“Then what did you tell Ilyushin?”

“That is all. That is true!”

Viktor grabbed Baletsky's left wrist and twisted it sharply. “Not true! What more did you tell the professor?”

“Please, don't. I—”

Viktor sheathed his knife and got behind the older man. He took both of his wrists and pulled his arms up and across his back. Baletsky screamed.

Galina moved in front of him and slapped his cheek with the flat of her hand. “Quiet,” she demanded. “Tell us everything.”

“There is nothing to tell,” he blurted.

Galina sent her knee into his groin. It was a hard, fast blow that doubled Baletsky over. He groaned. “No more,” he said feebly. “Go away.”

“We've heard enough,” Galina said. “There is not much time.”

Viktor straightened Baletsky and pushed him into the small kitchen. “We're going to see the view from your balcony.”

Baletsky tried to break away. “Take what you want. But go.”

Galina opened the narrow door to the balcony. Baletsky struggled feebly to pull away from Viktor, but stumbled awkwardly through the door and against the table next to the chair in which he had been sitting only minutes before.

“Why are you doing this?” he said in a wispy, faraway voice.

“For the view,” Viktor said, taunting him. “Perhaps we will be able to see the Admiralty Tower from your little tower.”

Baletsky struggled to his feet but before he could take more than a single step toward his kitchen, the heel of Viktor's hand chopped down hard onto the back of his neck. He sagged into a heap, still clutching the package. Galina retrieved it. From his pocket, Viktor took a piece of cloth and ripped it into two pieces. He wound one piece tightly
around Baletsky's left hand, all but his little finger. Expertly, he sawed off the finger, then wrapped the hand tightly with the cloth. He put the finger in the other piece of cloth. Galina wrapped it in the same paper that had covered the gift that Baletsky was certain never to see.

“Will it be an accident or a suicide?” she asked.

“That will be a problem for the police,” Viktor replied. “Let them argue about the missing finger.”

He jammed Baletsky's bandaged hand into his pants pocket, then pulled the unconscious body to the edge of the balcony. Carefully they scanned the windows and balconies on the adjacent apartment building, aware it was possible someone might see the body fall. Viktor reasoned that suicides and accidents don't wait until the world is tucked safely into bed.

They lifted Leonid Baletsky up and over the railing. Neither was counting, but it took about three seconds until they heard a dull, hard sound.

Quickly, but carefully, they removed the spots of blood and any other hint that Baletsky had entertained visitors that evening. Then they went down the steps to the lobby. A lone reveler was returning from a boozy evening and they waited for the elevator to take him away. Only an old woman wailing tearfully as she searched for either her pet cat or dog was encountered as they retraced their route back to the car.

“You told us to call, no matter what the time,” Viktor said into the phone. “Leonid Baletsky fell accidentally from his balcony approximately fifteen minutes ago. Possibly a suicide. But, as I have explained to Galina, it will be up to the police to decide.”