The Final Fabergé (28 page)

“It is much too generous.”

Alex Tobias looked on, an amused expression on his sunny face. He said, “It's a beautiful gift. Is it by chance the work of Peter Fabergé?”

“How did you know?” Mike exclaimed. “Look at the inscription.” He handed him the cup. “On the bottom.”

Tobias studied the silverwork and the stones with a professional eye, then turned it over to see the markings.

“I've seen some bad imitations of Fabergé's work. It's much more enjoyable when I know I'm holding the real thing.”

Tobias handed the cup to Mike, then faced Trivimi. He said, “Trivimi
Laar is an interesting name, but it doesn't have a Russian sound to it. Are you Russian?”

Trivimi shook his head. “My name,” he said proudly, “is Estonian. It was also my grandfather's. Parts of Estonia have been governed at one time or another by every country that surrounds it. The Soviet Union, most recently. We protect ourselves by learning everyone's language. I learned to speak Russian when I was very young.”

“And you speak English very well,” Tobias said.

“English is the world language.”

“May I ask another question?”

“Of course. And I will answer, if I can.”

“Not quite two weeks ago, a young woman came through that door and shot a man who stood exactly where you are standing. We don't know who that woman was, but we do know that the man was named Sasha Akimov. He had come to America to visit Mr. Carson. Akimov survived the bullet wound, but not an overdose of a drug that was secretly given to him four days after he was shot.”

Alex Tobias talked slowly, pausing between sentences, carefully evaluating every tiny reaction Trivimi made while listening to the tragedy of Sasha Akimov's first and final visit to America.

“Is it possible that you knew Sasha Akimov?”

The Estonian looked from one face to the other, settling on Alex's. He said, unblinking, “No, I did not know him.”

E
ven as the airplane gained altitude, the air that whooshed noisily from the vents in the overhead did little to relieve the oppressive heat in the cabin. Not until they had leveled out was the stale, hot air of Tashkent replaced with the cool, dry air scooped up at thirty-five thousand feet. Yakov escaped the torment by falling asleep, his head slowly listing and coming to rest against Jack Oxby's shoulder.

Oxby had not recorded the details that had filled the previous thirty-six hours and had begun to compile a chronological account of all that had transpired. An hour into the flight he put down his pen and looked down to the vast emptiness of the land below. The air was clear, not a cloud between him and the vast Muyunkum Desert in neighboring Kazakhstan.

He closed his notebook. His thoughts returned to a room in a converted military academy that had been Vasily Karsalov's haven, home, and prison. He remembered the events as if they were unfolding before him on a motion picture screen.

The burst of violence that broke out in room 411 brought death to Vasily Karsalov and, in a bizarre twist of events, the same fate to the man who had thrust a knife into Vasily's chest. When Yakov Ilyushin finally returned, he brought Tonya and a man with a thick, black beard. They stared, helpless and horrified, at the sight of Vasily slumped in his chair, covered by his own blood, wet and glistening. Lying on the floor, his head turned as if he were curious to see who had come into the room, was the dark-haired intruder. One eye was open and staring wildly, protruding from the other was the handle of the knife.

It would have been charitable to say that the man who returned with
Yakov was a doctor. But whatever his specialty may have been, it did not include traumatic injury. He stared at the dead men, blanched, spoke to Tonya, then rushed from the room.

“Nikitin is a dental assistant,” Tonya said. “There was no one else to bring. He will arrange to have the bodies taken away.”

Oxby went to the man lying on the floor. “Who the bloody hell is this? And who sent him?” He had stared at the awful sight until he could tolerate it no longer and got onto one knee and slowly wrapped his fingers around the heavy knurled handle of the knife. For an instant his stomach muscles tightened as if they might explode, then the nausea subsided and he pulled the knife free. Blood over the eye had begun to darken. Oxby closed the other eye. He stood, still staring at the face, a handsome face he realized for the first time.

Oxby had asked Tonya if she would report the killing to the police. Her reply was perfunctory. “This is a military hospital. The general's office will make that decision.”

Oxby had not waited to observe whatever protocol still existed. “We'll look at his belongings. There may be jewelry or family mementos that should be returned to his wife. Or his son.”

“The veterans who die are usually without any family. They have no possessions. Nothing to pass on.”

“Will he get a proper burial?” Yakov asked.

“Sometimes yes . . . sometimes—” Tonya didn't finish.

It seemed there was little for Oxby and Yakov to account for in Vasily Karsalov's tiny empire. On the wall were prints in thin black frames and two small icons that had been valuable only to Vasily. The old furniture was worthless, and the clothes that hung in a musty armoire were tattered and soiled. In the chest of drawers they found what remained of his pathetic wardrobe. Oxby searched his pockets and found a piece of cloth that served as a handkerchief, scraps of paper neatly folded with notes scribbled in a tiny scrawl on each, a couple of pencils, and no money.

On the table beside the bed was a brass lamp with a torn shade, and a radio that dated to the 1960s. Neither appeared to be in working condition, yet Oxby discovered they both did, though the thin sound of music that came from the radio was accompanied by a high whistle. Next to the radio was a calendar. Xs had been penciled over each day through June 9, a nightly ritual Oxby surmised. Oxby X'd out the 10th, the final day of Vasily Karsalov's life.

There was also a small stack of books; a Russian-English dictionary, a few paperbacks, a thin book of poetry, and a well-thumbed anthology of the works of Mark Twain with little slips of paper marking favorite passages in
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
.

There was a single, deep drawer in the table. The contents were neatly separated by boxes of varying size and arranged as neatly as a museum presentation. One of the boxes contained jewelry; brooches and earrings along with a man's rings and a pair of cuff links. In another were pipes and pipe reamers, cigarette lighters, and empty matchboxes. In one were small tools including pliers, screwdrivers, and assorted small wrenches. Two boxes were filled with photographs. Two more were stuffed full with old notepads and sheets of paper clipped together and a package of postcards and letters tied with a length of thick, brown string. In one small box was a wristwatch. Oxby recognized the name. It was Bure, worth more than all of Vasily's possessions combined. Both hands pointed to 12. Noon or midnight, Oxby wondered.

Oxby emptied one of the boxes. He selected a notepad, one Vasily might have owned when he was a schoolboy. Yakov recognized it as such. A thick elastic band held it together. Its pages were smirched, a few torn, others dog-eared, and all were impossible for Oxby to decipher.

Yakov managed to read several entries in another notepad. “This one is his diary, or it was when he had something to write about. The last date I see on these pages was made six years ago. But, look here . . . it must have been written yesterday.”

Yakov had struggled to make out the handwriting: “Two men came today. They will come back tomorrow and will bring brandy and cigarettes. Why have they come to see me?”

“He finally had something to look forward to,” Oxby said.

Oxby untied the string around the postcards and letters. He and Yakov searched for postmarks or dates to give some idea how old the correspondence might be. The package yielded four letters written by Sasha Akimov. Anxious as Oxby was to learn what Akimov had written, the contents of all this largesse of letters, diaries, and correspondence would have to wait until Yakov could place it under a strong light and transcribe the scrawls and scribbles.

Both men sorted through the photographs. Vasily had put them in chronological order and had written notes on the margins or on the back of each one. As in the diary, his handwriting was a tiny script, impossible for Oxby to read. All of the older photographs were black and
white, a few more recent ones in color. They recorded times in Vasily's life when he was a family man; a husband and father.

“Yakov, look here.”

Oxby was holding a faded photograph, the blacks now sepia. It was a picture of a young woman flanked by Vasily and an old man Oxby judged to be seventy-five or perhaps older. The young woman was holding an object, looking at it self-consciously as people do when they are asked to pose. Though very small, Oxby could see bands of metal and small jewels on the object, which was unquestionably shaped like an egg.

Oxby asked Yakov if he could make out the impossibly cramped chirography. Yakov said that the old man was Vasily's father and the young woman was named Anna. Anna was holding a Fabergé egg. Yakov strained to make out the words. “Vasily's note says that Count Yusupov gave his father the egg . . . that he had worked for the count and that he was sorry that Nina could not be in the photograph. It was her camera, she took the picture.”

“Who is Nina?”

Yakov shook his head. “This does not say. The diary may tell us.”

Oxby studied the faces in the photograph; Vasily, his father, and his wife. He remembered their tiny embarrassed smiles. How normal. He looked long and hard at the egg, convinced that it was the egg that Rasputin had commissioned Fabergé to design, worried at the same time that it was nothing more than a cheap imitation.

Then he remembered the sight of two dead men, their blood congealing, their tragedy so terribly fresh. And he recalled the sights and smells of Tashkent, especially his introduction to
choy
and
plov
; honeysweetened tea, and rice with boiled meat.

Yakov snored peacefully. Oxby gently moved his head onto a pillow. The stewardess brought a cold bottle of beer and Oxby relished it. Tucked into his notebook was the Karsalov family photograph. He studied it. He knew their names now; Vasily, Anna, and Mikhail. The little boy was probably six when the photograph had been taken. In Yakov's search of the photographs he had found another photograph of the little boy with the name Mikhail printed on the back. “Mikhail, my little man,” Oxby said, “your daddy is dead. I'm sorry.”

He opened his journal and wrote: