The Final Fabergé (22 page)

L
ittle more than a mile north of the city's center was Kamenny Ostrov, or Stone Island, arguably the most beautiful residential area in all of Petersburg, filled with birch and elm, ponds and gracious homes protected by walls and high fences. Here lived foreign embassy dignitaries, wealthy non-Russians with an unbreakable attachment to Petersburg's cultural attractions, and a more numerous population identified as modern-day entrepreneur. Mixed among this latter group were men who had turned the meaning of capitalism on its ear. Here were former USSR officials or high-ranking operatives from the KGB who had transmogrified into the modern Russian businessman. Nearly all of them were owners or high-ranking officials of companies that operated in an economy where there were no laws to curb monopolies, and, indeed, few laws of any importance to regulate commerce. Those laws that existed were circumvented or violated with impunity.

Unlike the Mafia in America, the new Russian mafiya consisted of many nonallied business owners, each dealing in their own specialty, each with his own organization. In Petersburg, as in other major cities, single-owner cartels had sprung up, many controlling a popular commodity.

On Stone Island, on Bokavaya Alley, near Oleg Deryabin's house, was a magnificent wood and stone affair owned by Yuri Ryabov, president of North Russia Poultry Industries. Ryabov's organization monopolized the importation and distribution of 95 percent of the chickens and turkeys consumed within a hundred miles of Petersburg. The business had been built with a two-hundred-man force who met resistance to buy North Russia Poultry by torching the shop or restaurant kitchen. Each new customer was sold a package of security services, a euphemism for “protection” against the high-voltage presentations by others offering a competing package of security. Other
wealthy businessmen on Stone Island included Vorotnikov in flowers, Zorkin, who controlled imported wine and liquor, Almasov, the dominant force in consumer electronics. Dealers in drugs and pornography had higher walls protecting their houses.

Oleg Deryabin's home was an architectural mixed metaphor. An exterior of Victorian turrets and gables that featured a single, glittering onion dome, and an interior furnished with fixtures and appliances that were the most modern that dollars and rubles could buy. Throughout the house were art and artifacts that contrasted eclectically; centuries-old Orthodox icons mixed with silver and enamel pieces from the houses of Saltykov, Rückert, and of course, Fabergé. Several paintings occupied a wall in the living room, undiscovered masterpieces by Russian artists whose works had been suppressed during the age of communism. The house was surrounded by an iron fence, every inch of which was under constant surveillance from television cameras mounted on towers that even a high-power rifle could not disable. The bars on the gate were doubly reinforced and attended around the clock.

In addition to four bedrooms on the second floor, there were bedrooms on the third and several more in a garage that accommodated eight people. These were the necessary facilities for the twelve men who protected Oleg Deryabin twenty-four hours a day, and every day of the year.

During Deryabin's tour of duty in Washington, he had been introduced to the Cosa Nostra by way of contacts his associates had made in the Justice Department. He attended lectures and seminars, including three days of congressional hearings on organized crime in America. He learned how the Mafia was organized and how members were recruited. He had learned about the unwritten codes by which each member participated, was rewarded, or terminated. He had been in Washington when the Berlin Wall crumbled, tensions eased, and U.S.-Russian relationships relaxed to allow cooperation between the MVD and the FBI.

As evidence gathered that
demokratiya
was about to sweep over Russia, a new cadre of businessmen were building the country's new growth industry: organized crime. Deryabin's military training had taught him to look for an enemy's weakness and it had been from that perspective that he studied the Mafia, seeking only to emulate its strengths.

He had bought a dozen videotapes of American movies that romanticized the Mafia. Even had memorized parts of
The Godfather.
And he
had read. It was an enriching experience because he had learned to read and speak English. Though his accent was heavy and his vocabulary limited, it was enough. Something inside him said there would be times when he could have a unique advantage over competitors and adversaries if it were not known that he understood English. When he returned to Petersburg he polished the image by apologizing for being such a poor language student. Only the Estonian knew.

To Deryabin's way of thinking, the American Mafia was too structured, too many king's men, consiglieri, underbosses, capos, and soldiers. Too many meant a high payroll and extended communications that could break down. In his organization, the chain of command was simple: Deryabin was chairman and Trivimi Laar was his counselor. Beyond that were office workers and the inevitable security personnel. Each subsidiary business was administered by a man with the title of executive in charge.

Deryabin was alone on the first floor of his house. He stood in front of an open window, a cool, morning breeze blowing over him and sweeping away the smoke from his cigarette. Minutes before he had received an envelope from the executive-in-charge of Neva Specialty, a new and promising subsidiary. It was, ostensibly, the purpose of the small subsidiary to duplicate expensive perfumes, then ship it in litersize bottles to Moscow, where it was poured, a quarter ounce by quarter ounce, into exotic bottles and then packaged identically to the authentic product. The envelope he held contained a note which described the newest scent perfected by Neva Specialty. When he opened the envelope the space around him was filled by the sweet floral scent of Giorgio perfume.

When Neva Specialty was not in its ostensible mode, its laboratories could be easily adapted to produce a variety of rare chemicals, compounds, and more ominously, virulent biological toxins that could be marketed through an arms dealer in Nicosia, Cyprus, and with whom Deryabin had been negotiating.

The executive in charge was Swiss and a biochemist with experience in the cosmetics industry and in the research laboratories of Hoffmann-La Roche. He went by the single name Maurice.

Chemically produced perfumes was a practical little business, one with the potential for repeat sales and growing profits. But somewhere in the system there had been a series of monumental blunders; the misspelling of Shalimar was a dead giveaway the perfume was bogus.
Chanel No. 5 in a bottle clearly intended to hold Joy brought irate customers back to the shop where the discovery of the hoax caused a flood of rejected merchandise along with dozens of demands for Neva Specialty to return payments that had been made.

Losses were mounting inexorably, and for the recent month, mistakes had cost the unseemly total of twenty thousand dollars. Clearly, New Century could tolerate no further bleeding. Yet Deryabin persisted. His vision of how sophisticated new products produced by Neva Specialty would generate huge profits shouldered aside whatever shortterm problems the little perfume factory was experiencing.

The Estonian drove a two-year-old Volvo, his single extravagance. It wasn't the largest model, but was comfortable and reliable. A hundred yards from the gate he tapped his ID numbers on the wireless transmitter. When he reached the gates they opened and he continued through and stopped in front of the house.

Deryabin sat at a table next to the window. He started another cigarette, then put a sheaf of papers into a folder which he placed on the table next to his chair. A minute later, the Estonian was seated across from him.

“What is the report from the twins?”

“Viktor called to say that Leonid Baletsky committed suicide.”

“Give me details.”

“Neighbors of Leonid Baletsky discovered his body last night, a few minutes after midnight. The district police were called. They declared it was suicide.”

“How did he do it?”

Patiently Trivimi retold what Viktor had reported to him. “They carried out their instructions. They did not raise suspicions. It was done quickly.”

“I'll be the judge of how well the Lysenkos performed. What did they learn of Baletsky's conversation with Yakov Ilyushin?”

“Baletsky told them that he had seen Ilyushin's newspaper article, that because he had valuable information and needed money, he wanted to be paid for his information. He told Ilyushin that Vasily Karsalov could tell him about the Fabergé egg.”

“That was all they learned from him?”

“He told Ilyushin that Karsalov had been sent to Tashkent twenty-five years ago.”

“What did Baletsky say about me?”

“Nothing, Oleshka. Your name was not mentioned.”

“
Govn'uk
! He is a bastard and told lies to Viktor. What lies? I must know!”

“What is the difference? He is dead. Viktor threatened him, but Baletsky could only babble.”

Deryabin exploded. “I hold you responsible that we know so little about Baletsky's conversation with Ilyushin. You have no control over Viktor, and again, his impulses overtook him.”

“Listen to reason, Oleshka. Viktor learned all that is necessary. Early today I was in the Aeroflot offices, and explained how my dear friend Yakov Ilyushin left Petersburg unexpectedly. I gave a sad story, sweetened it with money, and the assistant manager said she would help me find where he had gone. She retrieved the passenger lists for the past three days and discovered that Yakov Ilyushin flew to Moscow and from there to Tashkent on June 7. He arrived yesterday. The 8th. With Ilyushin was his English friend, Jack Oxby.”

Deryabin immediately assessed the task faced by Ilyushin and Oxby. He considered the difficulty of finding a total stranger in a strange city of two and a third million Uzbeks, Kazakhs, Tatars, and Russians. “It will take them at least three days to become oriented and work past the red tape before they find Karsolov.”

“We are assuming that he is still alive.” Trivimi smiled. “It would be so much simpler for us to discover that he is dead.”

“We must proceed on the basis that Vasily is alive, just as this Englishman has assumed. This Oxby.” He lit a cigarette. “Seven or eight years ago Vasily was put in a military hospital. A problem here.” Deryabin tapped the side of his head.

“If Vasily is not so sick that he can talk, and remember—”

“Of course, that is our problem. They must be stopped. Send Viktor. Galina does not go with him. No distractions.”

The Estonian pushed himself back from the table. He studied his hands, rubbing them together. “You are misjudging the Lysenkos. Their assignment in New York was only a hair less difficult than performing a miracle. You demand perfection, and I don't argue with that, but you withhold credit when it is due. They eliminated Akimov, not as quickly as you wished, but they did the best that was possible under extreme
circumstances. Then, in less than the time you allotted, they have silenced Baletsky forever.”

“What is this soft spot you have for the twins?”

“They are your invention, not mine. I keep them in line, that is my job. But they have begun to mistrust me because of you. They are not twins, they are husband and wife and—”

“They are the twins!” Oleg shouted. “Or should we call them the Gemini? Is Viktor half female, or is Galina more man than woman? Whatever they are, they've been trained to carry out my orders and I will accept no less!”

“There's a limit to how much you can treat them like servants. Their tempers are a match for yours.”

Deryabin stared icily at Trivimi, his lips moving as if rehearsing his next outburst. Instead, he said calmly, “You have your instructions. Send Viktor to Tashkent immediately.”

“It may be too late.”

“And it may not be!” Deryabin shouted. He crushed out one cigarette and started a new one. “Tell Viktor to go directly to the military hospital. There will be a ward for mental patients. He is to contact us as soon as he is in Tashkent.”

“Consider, Oleshka, that Viktor can not reach Karsalov in time. That his memory is excellent and he tells Oxby all that he knows about you. I don't believe Oxby has learned for certain there is an egg commissioned by Rasputin, but Vasily may tell him there is. And he could say that he lost the egg to you and believes you still have it. And, he could also say, Oleshka, that you killed Artur Prekhner.”

Trivimi carefully observed Deryabin's reaction. As if the Estonian had tapped imaginary nails into an imaginary coffin with each bit of information Oxby might receive from Vasily.

Trivimi said, “What then are Viktor's instructions?”