The Final Fabergé (24 page)

“I do not know all of the patients, I said I have just come myself. Be aware that you and your friend may be shocked by what you find. Some patients are very ill. They may stare at you and not talk. Some will make no sense if they do. And you should know that some live in a distressful way.”

Oxby understood parts of what Tonya had said. Yakov filled him in on the rest.

“Distressful,” Oxby repeated the Russian word. “Interesting way to put it.”

Tonya nodded, then tapped lightly on the door. A shuffling noise came from inside, but the door was not opened. Tonya tapped again. She said, “Vasily Karsalov, can you hear? You have visitors from St. Petersburg.”

The shuffling grew louder, then a key was turned in the lock and the door slowly opened. The man who had opened the door stood several feet inside the room. He was dangerously thin, and though he had a full beard, the hollows in his cheeks were clearly visible. He had a full head of gray hair and with the beard it made his face seem almost tiny. Oxby noted that his eyes were clear, not rheumy as he had feared. He was average height and slightly bent forward. Oxby's initial impression was that he could be fifty or as old as seventy-five.

Tonya had been correct. The room was distressful, though disheveled and unkempt more accurately characterized its clutter and the odor of unwashed clothes.

The room, like all the others, had been a classroom. It was a large room with a high ceiling, and light fixtures that consisted of round, porcelain reflectors and clear bulbs. But half the fixtures had bulbs and apparently even those had long ago burned out. Along the outside wall were several tall windows. A tattered window shade had survived in one of them. There was the usual complement of furnishings, including a bed, chest of drawers, armoire, one large upholstered chair plus two rickety wooden ones, a floor lamp and a table lamp, shelves with books, and other odd paraphernalia.

Most unusual of all was the way Vasily Karsalov was dressed. His pants and shirt were nondescript, but in a room where the temperature hovered near a hundred degrees, he had put on a naval officer's jacket. On the dark blue epaulet that hung lopsidedly from his narrow shoulders were two and a half gold stripes and a single gold star. Oxby didn't know it, but Karsalov had promoted himself two full grades from
mladshiy leytenant
to
kapitan leytenant
.

“Here is your Vasily Karsalov,” Tonya said.

“
Dobriy deyehn
,” Yakov said, and held out his hand.

Vasily did not respond, nor offer his own hand.

Yakov turned to Oxby, clearly uncertain how to proceed. “What should I—”

“Tell him we are happy to find him. That we will return in the
morning. Ask him if there is anything we can bring. Brandy or cigarettes. Or food. You might also say that we can go to the hotel for dinner tomorrow if he would like.”

Oxby patted Yakov's arm, urging him to translate the message. But it wasn't necessary.

In halting, but completely comprehensible English, Vasily Karsalov said, “I would like brandy and cigarettes.” He nodded at Oxby. “I will think of other things and tell you tomorrow.”

Oxby grinned broadly. “English? You speak it?”

Beneath the heavy beard, Karsalov, too, was smiling. “Some. I will try.”

Oxby ushered Tonya and Yakov from the room and said, as he closed the door, “This is a good beginning.”

As the elevator made its noisy descent, Yakov said, “We have come all this way to find him, and you go away without barely saying a word. Why is that?”

“Our first job was to find him. That, we accomplished. Second was to determine his state of health, particularly his mind. To that, we have a partial answer. He is articulate and, as a bonus, he has learned to speak English.”

They reached the first floor and followed Tonya to the reception office. On the desk were several folders. She sorted through them, then handed one to Yakov.

“These are medical reports. You will see that the last completed examination was made three years ago. I cannot say what changes may have occurred since then.”

Yakov sorted through the pages. “This one, Jack. It says why it is that Karsalov was sent here.”

“A diagnosis?”

“As best I can read it. Four years ago it is dated. There was arteriosclerosis, and I see this; multi-infarct-dementia.”

“Sounds bloody awful. Ask Tonya if we may borrow the records. Tell her we'll return every one in the morning.”

After Tonya agreed to release Karsalov's file, Oxby and Yakov went out to find Hoja waiting impatiently. He scolded the two men for causing him to miss a meal with his family, a brief display of anger meant
to elicit a few extra dollars, not demonstrate his familial affection. On the return trip, Yakov confessed that he continued to be mystified by the way Oxby conducted their first meeting with Karsalov.

“In my business patience is most often rewarded. Vasily Karsalov has lived in that sorry room for a long time and he will be there tomorrow and the next day. I invested the hours until tomorrow to assure his confidence in us. He has tonight to think about the brandy we'll bring, and the cigarettes. And a good meal. He's lost touch with simple pleasures and now we are going to take them to him. Thirty minutes ago we walked into his room as strangers. He was surprised. Frightened, perhaps. I did not want to begin our discussions under that cloud. Tomorrow when we meet, we will be friends.”

Yakov turned to Oxby and smiled. “And, you are a good friend.”

V
iktor Lysenko went through the tedious process of working past agents and government functionaries, then took a taxi directly to the Hotel Uzkekistan in the center of the city. He locked the door to his room and phoned Trivimi Laar.

“You arrived on time, I see,” the Estonian said.

“A good flight. Not crowded.”

Neither spoke for a half minute, each listening for the slightest hint that Viktor did not have a secure line. Likely an unnecessary precaution, one that was taken nonetheless.

Viktor spoke first. “Galina threatened to leave. Oleg is pushing too hard. And I will say that to him when I return.”

“It is his way,” the Estonian said. “He bullies so you won't forget he must have his way. Quit if you want. But consider that he will not be happy if you do.”

There was another brief silence while Viktor considered what Trivimi had said. “Where do I find Vasily?”

“Oleg was lucky. One of his old connections made a contact in the Uzbek government. Karsalov is in the military hospital—”

“But, where, damn it. I was told there are ten buildings in the hospital.”

“Building Number 7. You know it is in the north part of the city?”

“Yes,” Viktor said impatiently.

“Don't get too hot because Oleg sent you without Galina. Do your job well and he'll forget his complaints.”

Viktor made a list of purchases and chores. In the lobby he exchanged dollars for sum. He was told he could buy clothes in the GUM department store, a few blocks from the hotel. He then bought a pair of jeans, a short-sleeved shirt, socks, black sneakers, and a belt. He also found cigarettes and matches.

Back in his room he changed into the clothes he had bought and
approved of the way he would blend in among the other young Russians on the street.

A twenty-minute tram ride took him to a gate that at one time had been the entrance to the military grounds. The tram operator gave him directions to the hospital. It was now 11:30 and the sun was nearly overhead. The temperature would again climb to over a hundred degrees. A car passed and when it approached the building several hundred yards ahead, its red brake lights flashed and the car stopped. Two men got out and went into the building.

Viktor walked on. When he was alongside the car he saw an old sign that hung crookedly from a crumbling concrete post.

ZDANIE 7.

Oxby and Yakov went directly to the elevator and up to the fourth floor. Before they reached his room, the door opened and Vasily Karsalov stepped into the hallway.

“I was afraid you would change your mind.”

“No fear of that,” Oxby said. “We've been shopping.”

Each carried a package and handed their gift to Vasily as they entered his room. Yakov gave him a small bouquet of yellow roses and a single, white peony. Vasily stared at the flowers, unsure what to do with them. “In case you do not have one,” Yakov said as he produced a little vase made of plastic. The flowers went into the vase and Vasily gave it a place of importance on his bureau.

“That is good brandy,” Oxby said. “Make it last a long time.”

Vasily took the brandy and several packages of cigarettes from the bag. He opened one of the packs, took out a cigarette and lit it. The smoke made him cough, but he only smiled and inhaled deeply again.

At the path that led into Number 7, Viktor stopped and surveyed the grounds, then the building. He was close to the car that had deposited the two men and now recognized it as a taxi. He walked over to it. All the windows were lowered and the driver was slouched low in his seat, his head resting on a purple red pillow.

“Is this a hospital building?” Viktor asked.

Hoja opened an eye and looked up to find the owner of the voice. “It was, and may still be. Everything changes.”

“Was that a doctor who got out of your taxi?”

Hoja's other eye opened. “Who asks?”

“I am looking for a Dr. Stolov. My father was his patient.”

Hoja pulled himself up and rested his hands on the steering wheel. He studied Viktor carefully. “I don't know that name.”

“There was another man,” Viktor said, rummaging through his pockets. “I have the name, but can't find it. But you can help me.” He smiled. “There were two men in your taxi. Do you know their names?”

Hoja watched Viktor's smile snap on, then off. He shook his head and turned the ignition key. A simple
nyeht
was his answer and he drove off.

Viktor watched the taxi disappear behind Number 7. As it did, a bus painted in camouflage colors appeared, its diesel engine clacking loudly, its exhaust exuding a stream of black smoke. It stopped in front of him and the doors opened. One by one in what seemed to be slow motion, old men began to file off the bus and proceed up the path. Viktor fell in behind a white-haired veteran, the stump of his left arm protruding from his shirt sleeve.