“Jack, this will interest you.” Yakov handed Oxby a page. “It is a summary of Deryabin's testimony at Vasily Karsalov's murder trial.”
Oxby read the translation. “Interesting isn't quite the right word. This confirms that Deryabin and Vasily served in the navy together, and according to Deryabin, they were friends. He says that Vasily was a man of good character, but that alcohol was a constant problem for him.”
“Why would that page be in his record?” Yakov wondered.
“To make it appear he had been a loyal friend. Let me see Vasily's records and your translation of his diaries. I'm putting two and two together and coming up with five.”
Oxby sorted through the paperwork Yakov handed him and made several neat piles. “I'm looking for the transcript that you found in Vasily's personal records. The original, not your translation.”
Yakov shuffled through his own growing mound of papers, selected several sheets, and handed them to Oxby.
“Come around and look at this,” Oxby said. “Does the name Oleg Deryabin fit here where the first blanked-out area appears?”
Yakov said that it did. “And just the last name would fit in all the other blank spaces.”
“I can't go to court with it, but what I see tells me that Vasily Karsalov didn't commit murder. But Oleg Deryabin did.”
“I wish to say, Jack, that under the Soviet, such tampering with official records could take place only on orders from a high authority. Under the new enlightenment, an underpaid government clerk will perform the same tiny miracle for a carton of Camel cigarettes. Besides, if the name had not been blanked out, it would be Vasily's word against Deryabin's.”
“And Deryabin wins that little skirmish.” Oxby sat back and read all the pages Yakov had translated. “Every entry in his file was put there to add more gloss on a service record that reads like fiction. No one's that perfect,” he said. “He was given flawless performance evaluations and awarded several dozen commendations. With every bloody commendation he got another medal and a ribbon. Right down to discharge â
with distinction
.' ”
“There's one thing more,” Yakov said, handing Oxby a letter. “It is a copy of a letter Deryabin sent to the commandant's office in which he acknowledges receipt of his pension statement. You see that in spite of all his medals, he will not receive a large check each month. But you can also see that it was dated five months ago and includes Deryabin's personal and business addresses and telephone numbers.”
“First rate!” Oxby raved. “I will give you odds that the address bureau
cannot supply that information and even higher odds that Deryabin paid to have his name permanently stricken from those records.”
“Why?” Yakov asked. “No one lives in secret. And see?” pointing to the letter, “he lives on Stone Island where the tour buses show tourists our most expensive homes.”
“Men like Deryabin are like children playing hide-and-seek,” Oxby said. “They believe if they can't see you, then you can't see them.”
G
ino's Ristorante, with its mystifying Italo-Russo cuisine, had not quite made it as a tourist mecca. It was on the Fontanka Embankment, but on the wrong side of the Nevsky Prospekt, west of the great boulevard by more than a mile. The room was dark, illuminated by candles stuck into stout chianti bottles, the kind that had never held wine, the kind with the straw wrapping that had been made in Thailand. To its credit, garlic and oregano were in the air. The little eatery was quiet, the atmosphere unhurried. Little wonder. It was, except for two tables, empty.
At a table by a window sat a mother, father, and daughter speaking in German. Galina Lysenko sat at a table next to an inside wall beneath an Alitalia Airlines poster. She stared out from behind sunglasses at the entrance, waiting. A waiter poured water in a glass and put the bottle on the table. He gave her a menu and went away. She looked at her watch, then at the family, and back to the entrance. The door opened. A man entered, spied Galina, and walked directly to her table.
It was Poolya. He was dressed as he had been earlier in the day when he accompanied Oxby to the Naval Records Office. His pale blue eyes seemed to pop out from his face, his skin a deep olive in the luteolous candlelight. His shirt was damp and smelled of his sweat. For the hard work he had put in that day he had obviously rewarded himself, for his breath stank from a cheap, sweet wine.
“You're late,” Galina said impatiently.
“I went to the Moscow train station and mixed into the traffic. Then I came here.” He hailed the waiter and ordered a bottle of Italian wine.
Galina took off her glasses and leaned forward. “Has Oxby talked about Tashkent? Has he admitted that he killed Viktor?”
“They don't talk about it in front of me. If I ask how Viktor was killed, they will say how do you know that he was dead?”
“You can say that half of this city knows about Viktor. And knows that he was killed in Tashkent. You can tell them that.”
Poolya laughed. “The half who know are like you and me. Oxby and Ilyushin know because they were in Tashkent when it happened.”
Galina stiffened. “We are wasting time waiting for proof that Oxby killed Viktor. I have all the proof I need.”
“What proof?”
“Inside here,” she rubbed both hands over her breasts, then down and across her stomach. “I feel it all through my body.” She lifted her face and pointed to the sores on her face. “See these? Put there by Deryabin, who tells me Viktor caused his own death. Lies.”
“He went to Tashkent because of Deryabin,” Poolya said. “He's as much to blame as anyone.”
“I told Deryabin we were a team.”
“Then why did he send Viktor without you?”
“It was his way to come between us. He expects us to follow his orders without a mistake. Without a complaint.”
Poolya's wine came. He poured a glass for Galina, then drank straight from the bottle. He took several long swigs, then said, “I say again that I am sorry about Viktor. He was my good friend, too.”
Galina said, “Did Oxby and the old man like the gift we gave them?”
“Ilyushin was angry as a wounded cat that the window in his car was smashed. But they weren't frightened when they saw the finger. Oxby tore the message into a hundred pieces.”
“These are silly games Oleg insists we play.” She sipped the wine and made a face. She pushed her glass in front of Poolya.
Poolya said, “You can tell Deryabin that Oxby has a copy of his navy records.”
“How did heâ”
“At the Naval Records Office. Give a name and put it on the computer. Anyone can do it.”
Galina said, “What else have they been fishing for?”
“Oxby made a phone call to New York this morning. I don't know who he called or what he said.”
“Have you tapped the phone yet?”
“They said the lines were old and mixed with a hundred others. It should be completed tomorrow. But Oxby suspects and uses the phones in the hotel.”
Galina put an envelope in Poolya's hand. “Here is half of your price. The other half comes when Oxby has paid everything he owes me.”
The abbreviated smile on Galina's lips collapsed into a cold glare. “I'll give you some advice.” She leaned forward. “Talk to Oxby like he is a lost brother. Ask him to tell you about London and about Scotland Yard. Stay close to him. Get inside the apartment and listen to what they say. Tell me everything. It's your job.”
“Saturday is the last day for us.”
“You didn't tell me this. What will they do after Saturday?”
Poolya leaned back in his chair and drained his glass. “They don't talk about it.”
“Talk to Oxby. Learn what his plans are.”
“I'll try.” He emptied Galina's glass. “Who's replacing Mikki?”
“I chose Boris. Ivan will call Oxby tonight and say Boris will be at the apartment in the morning.”
“I don't trust Boris.” Poolya finished off the bottle. “Get someone else. Boris is not a team worker.”
“I picked Boris,” Galina said firmly. “He begins tomorrow morning.”
“Boris does what's good for Boris. It is a bad mistake.”
A
t a quarter of ten, Wednesday morning, Oxby dialed Poolya's cellular phone and instructed him to bring the car to the front of the apartment. Accompanied by Yakov, Oxby climbed in back and gave instructions for the Hermitage.
St. Petersburg traffic had grown considerably thicker as the season of the White Nights approached. In each row of tour buses parked off Palace Square behind the Winter Palace were over thirty of the behemoths. They were lined up three abreast; more than a hundred of them, some from as far away as Madrid.
They passed the General Staff building behind the museum, Poolya searching for a parking spot. “So today we have culture,” Poolya said. “We wear out our feet while our brains become smarter. Is so?”
“Is not so,” Oxby said. “Today, Mr. Ilyushin and I will soak up the culture. You will stay with the crew and keep a sharp eye on the apartment.”
“What is âsharp eye'?” Poolya asked.
Yakov explained, but Poolya wasn't buying. “I must find a place to park so I can come with you. I am paid to protect you.”
“Not today, Poolya,” Oxby said. “Take us to the entrance.”
Poolya grumbled, but edged the Peugeot ahead, behind a line of cars curled around the side of the great museum. He turned onto the embankment road and stopped at the main entrance, a stone's toss to the Neva River.
“Pick us up at this precise spot at four o'clock,” Oxby said. They went inside. Oxby stayed by the door, watching until the last of the Peugeot went from sight. He took Yakov's arm and they returned to the street and to the south end of the building where the taxis were gathered. Several of the drivers scurried toward them, hoping for a fare. Oxby chose the car in front. The driver, a middle-age man wearing a leather cap,
grinned widely and noticing the older man's limp, took Yakov's arm and helped him into the cab. A small gesture designed to improve his tip.
“Zagorodny Prospekt,” Yakov instructed. “Eighty-six.”
It was a twenty-minute ride that took thirty, and when they arrived it was shortly before noon.
“Ask him to wait,” Oxby said. “I'll make it worth his time.”
Yakov spoke to the driver, who asked how much and agreed to the offer Yakov made. Yakov had become expert and generous when dispersing the American dollars Oxby handed him.
It was a familiar setting to Oxby. A row of tall apartment buildings with a patch of green overrun with cotton grass in front of each one. Here and there were scraggly bushes and even more disappointing flowers. Before the entrance to number eighty-six was an alder tree that seemed to have been sliced perfectly in half from top to bottom, the half remaining leaning as if pushed by a persistent wind. Then the high, pale gray building itself with its balconies serving as refuges from the cramped living spaces inside. Standing near the entrance was a man in his mid-thirties with thinning brown hair and wearing a heavy wool suit with white shirt and maroon necktie. He looked uncomfortably hot in spite of a gentle, cool breeze and air as dry as an old bone.
“That should be our man,” Oxby said.
Yakov approached and said, “I am Yakov Ilyushin. Are you Pavel Baletsky?”
The man smiled self-consciously. “
Dah
,” he said simply.
Yakov shook his hand and introduced Oxby. Oxby tried his Russian and Pavel responded in English. Though he was a Russian language neophyte, Oxby was a master at identifying English dialects and idioms.
“Your English is excellent,” Oxby said. “I detect one of our London schools. Which one?”
“The London School of Economics.” Then, with an embarrassed smile, he said, “Is it so obvious?”
“Only to someone who loves his language as much as I,” Oxby said. “It's like a hobby. I congratulate you for choosing an excellent school.”
Pavel unlocked the door and they entered the lobby. The elevator creaked its way to the fifth floor. Pavel produced two more keys and unlocked one of the apartment doors. He stepped back and let Oxby and Yakov go inside before he followed and closed the door behind them.
“Am I correct in saying that you once lived here with your father?” Oxby said.
The young man nodded. “When my mother died it was the two of us.”
Oxby recalled meeting the elder Baletsky in the Hermitage and was struck by how much they resembled each other. Both shared the same features, even to the same chestnut brown hair. They were the same height and their voices were remarkably alike.
They were in an all-purpose room, small, with odd pieces of furniture. A sofa, chair, the inevitable television on a table angled into a corner, another table. On the walls were prints of country scenes and photographs in thin, black frames. Suspended in wire frames attached to the wall were colored globes that held philodendron plants that had spread across the wall in spidery patterns. A door inset with colored glass led to a bedroom. Then, two narrow doors to the bathroom and toilet. Through an opening was the kitchen with a window and door to the balcony.
“I am happy you agreed to meet with us,” Oxby said. “I know it is a difficult time, but you may have information that could help us understand what happened to your father.”
“Thank you,” Pavel said. “Let me put water on to boil. We can have tea while we talk.”
The prospect of tea was, as usual, anathema to Oxby. He grimaced, then forced enthusiasm into a response, “Splendid idea. There is something special about Russian tea that I must describe to my friends when I return to London.”