The Final Fabergé (30 page)

“We have a problem,” he said, “possibly a very serious one. I thought of it on the plane, and I wrestled with it last night before I let myself get some sleep.”

Yakov looked quizzically at Oxby. “What is this problem?”

“This apartment is the problem. They—whoever in bloody hell they are—know we are here. And by now, they've figured out who I am. At the least they know I've been with Scotland Yard. When they conclude that we are going ahead with our search for the egg, we automatically become very vulnerable. Yakov, my good Russian friend, you have but one door. We come in by it, and we leave by it. There are three small windows that neither of us could climb out of, but each one is perfect for throwing something in—such as a fire bomb or canister of gas, the kind that makes you laugh, cry, or fall dead.”

Oxby circled the table, then came back to his chair. “I'm not certain there is any place where we would be completely safe, and frankly, the two of us cannot protect ourselves. We need help, someone to provide protection for us. Do you understand?”

“Yes. This protection you talk about, it is called
krysha
. We read it in our newspapers, about these
mafiya
people we have.”

“Is it possible you have a friend who imports food? I'm quite serious, someone who brings frozen chicken or fruit to Petersburg.”

“You want something special to eat?”

“No. The companies that import food or, I suppose, nearly any commodity, must have protection against the crime bosses who want to break into their monopolies. You understand?”

Yakov said that he did. “But chickens? No,” and he laughed, shaking his head. “I know someone. He is Kinsky. He has a business with his son and brings food for pets into the city.”

“That's bloody damned good. Lots of pets in Petersburg.”

“We had a cat, when my wife, Valentina, was alive. It made me sneeze. But it was my wife's family who knew Kinsky.” Yakov sighed. “Now he lives in a fine apartment and I see him in a big car. I am not sure he will remember me. Sometimes money helps them forget their old friends. The same where you live, Jack?”

Oxby nodded. “The same everywhere. Get Kinsky on the phone.
Explain that we need what you call
krysha
. Ask for the name of the people who take care of his company.”

Yakov searched and found the number and then, to his surprise, was put directly through to Kinsky. They spoke for several minutes, Yakov calling his old friend Misha, obviously delighted that he had been remembered. Yakov nodded as he wrote out the information. “
Spahseebah, spahseebah.”
He thanked Misha the obligatory half dozen times, his head bobbing, then finally put down the phone and turned to Oxby with a victorious grin.

“I have the information,” he said, pointing to his notes.

“Call them and tell them we have an urgent problem . . . ask if they can come here today.”

Yakov learned quickly that a professional crime organization can be superbly efficient, yet numbingly impersonal. A meeting was set for two o'clock that afternoon. Yakov was told to expect a phone call shortly before that hour. No names were given.

Oxby proceeded to refine his action plan, placing special emphasis on assignments he felt Yakov could handle without close supervision. First, he wanted Yakov to explore the bureaucratic jungle inside the offices of the deputy commander for personnel, Naval Forces, Baltic Fleet Operation. He was to locate and make copies of the files for Vasily Karsalov. Vasily Karsalov had also mentioned a man named Akimov. No first name, just another player in the poker game. Still, worth checking.

“Karsalov was exiled to Uzbekistan for a murder he said he did not commit,” Oxby said. “There could be a problem with that. Most criminals go to prison screaming their innocence. See what you can find in the Military Tribunal offices. They'll throw plenty of red tape at you, but you might be lucky.”

“I could write a volume on red tape. It is, after all the color of the Soviet flag and I worked under that stifling system for more than half my life.”

“I want a list of every Leonid Baletsky and Viktor Lysenko in Petersburg. I particularly want to meet Leonid Baletsky again. Normally, I would start with a phone directory, but there isn't one. Where do you suggest I begin?”

“Our Central Telephone Exchange has every name and you can try with them. It will cost money.”

“Not surprising,” Oxby said. “While you are searching the naval records, I'll go to the exchange.”

Until noon when the two men nibbled on fruit and cheese, Yakov worked the phone, preparing the way for his visit to the naval personnel files. Oxby wrote a brief letter to Christopher Forbes.

At five minutes to one the phone rang. Yakov answered, listened for a moment, then put down the phone.

“It is our
krysha
,” Yakov said, not knowing how else to identify the group that had called. “They are here. First they will inspect our building, and call to tell us to unlock the door.”

“A good sign,” Oxby said.

Ten minutes later the phone rang again, this time to announce that they were at the door to Yakov's apartment.

“They are here,” Yakov said. He pulled away the chain and turned the heavy bolt in the door. He opened it and three men entered the apartment. The last one closed the door and inspected the chain and locks.

Two of the men, including the lock inspector, wore light summer shirts and dark blue jeans. They were in their early twenties and powerfully built. They had short-cropped hair, and expressions of complete
indifference. One was swarthy, his face marked with small scars over one eye, the other had fair skin with yellow hair and blue eyes, and was, eerily, the more intimidating of the pair. Oxby studied both and made an imperceptible nod of approval. He watched their heads move in little jerks, their expressions blank, their eyes gathering in the details of the room and the rooms beyond. They disappeared, moving on to complete their examination of Yakov's apartment.

“Are you Ilyushin?” The man who asked the questions was well dressed, wearing a suit, tie with cuff links that glittered, and holding a cellular telephone in his hand, one he had used minutes before to announce his presence. He was young, thirty perhaps, and his face was only slightly more animated than the young
byki
who had come with him.

Yakov acknowledged that he was. “What is your name?”

“Ivan,” the leader said, and handed a card to Yakov and one to Oxby.

Ivan wanted to know about Yakov's neighbors, about electric lines and fuse boxes and windows and where the telephone wires entered the building and came into the apartment. There were more questions, several minutes' worth. The two muscle men returned. One stood at the door, the other took his position alongside Ivan.

“Ivan knows my friend Misha Kinsky.”

“Good,” Oxby said. “Ask him if his men will be on duty around the clock, and how many men will there be.”

Yakov relayed the question. “Ivan asks how long will they be needed and how much will you pay.”

Time and money, Oxby mused, always time and money. “God save me if it takes more than a week. Explain to Ivan that I've never hired protection in Petersburg, London, or anywhere else. How much does he want?”

Questions and answers went back and forth for as long as it took to resolve all the issues. As part of the give-and-take, Oxby learned that Ivan was part of a collection of small businesses that were engaged in the mixing and delivery of concrete, trucking, moving and storage, and, as Oxby decoded Yakov's translation of Ivan's descriptions, insurance. Ivan called himself an insurance manager. He sold insurance, but there were no written policies and no schedule of claims benefits. But there were premiums (fees), payable in advance. It was a hard currency business. English pounds or American dollars. The insurance that Ivan would provide for Oxby, Yakov, and Yakov's apartment would be put in
force with the payment of six thousand dollars. That would buy a week's insurance. This translated to four men on duty at all times, each with a phone.

Ivan explained, “If you want a man to go with you when you are away from the apartment, that will reduce the number of men surrounding the apartment to three. If you both are away with one of the men, the number guarding the apartment shrinks to two.”

“Can Ivan supply more men if we need them?” Oxby asked.

Yakov translated and Ivan smiled as he answered. “Yes, of course. For additional money.”

The how much and how to make arrangements ended the negotiations. Oxby counted out the money. Half in pounds, half in dollars. He asked Yakov to repeat his instructions so as to avoid any misunderstanding. Yakov pointed to his watch and said that the insurance was in effect as of 3:00 P.M. on June 13 and would remain in force until 3:00 P.M. on June 20.

W
hile Yakov's apartment was converted into a fortress, there became, by mid-afternoon, a vastly improved feeling of security about the little place. A Mercedes station wagon was parked across from the building and inside it was a young bull who sat hunched forward with his thick arms curled around the steering wheel. He watched the traffic and the walkers, and paid particular attention to loiterers. He was connected to his three associates by phone and whenever man, woman, or child entered the apartment, he flashed the information. It was a boring job, one that served as entry-level into a career where, with a bare-bones education, he could become a well-paid operative by wearing a pistol and having no qualms about using it.

Another member of the team was in the back of the building, on foot, and carrying a sort of rake that he occasionally used to sweep a weed-filled patch of grass. At night, his post became the cab of a pickup truck that carried a small arsenal of rifles and handguns. Two others roved through the neighborhood. They took turns going into Yakov's building and climbing up to the top floor where they had a hoodedcrow's view of the street below.

One of the rovers, the head man of the day shift, was the one with the intimidating eyes and straw-colored hair. Each time he inspected the interior of the building, he would stop to visit briefly with Oxby and Yakov. His pale blue eyes rarely blinked, and he would flex his thick shoulders in a rolling motion, as if were trying to shrug off a buildup of nervous energy. High up on his chest, to the side of his thick neck, was a scar that was the result of a gunfight during which he had taken three bullets, small perhaps, but honest-to-god bullets nonetheless. Two had been removed, one still lay deep beneath the scar. For this he had earned the name Poolya, or Bullet.

Oxby had placed a call at nine o'clock New York time to Alexander Tobias. They were friends as well as professionally acquainted, having
worked cases in both New York and London when they chased after faked da Vinci manuscripts and a crazy pharmacist who had made a nasty habit of destroying Cézanne's self-portraits. He was told that Tobias had gone off for a long weekend to his camp in the Adirondack Mountains. His exact whereabouts and phone number could not be given to anyone except, and under extreme circumstances, the mayor of New York.

“He said that?” Oxby asked.

“No, but it would be like him,” the officer who answered the phone said with a little chuckle. “You have a choice if you want to get a message to him before he gets back. Voice mail, e-mail, or fax. Got a preference?”

“This is Jack Oxby, Detective Chief Inspector with Scotland Yard. Does that get me any preference?”

“Sorry, Inspector. Alex left a short list of people we can give his phone number to and your name isn't on it.”

“Give me the voice mail number,” Oxby said.

Oxby thought of Alex Tobias in his lakeside cabin on Big Moose Lake. He had promised to take Oxby there, and under the circumstances, there was no other place on earth he would rather be at that moment. Oxby dialed the number with the hope that Alex would call for his messages before deciding to take an extra few days to empty Big Moose of all its small-mouth bass.