The Final Fabergé (40 page)

“No, I love it. I like all of Mike's showrooms.”

“Maybe spook is the wrong word, but everywhere I look I see a memory that's eerier 'n hell.”

“Hey, I was here when Akimov was shot. In fact I'm the only person who heard gunfire. I didn't know what it was, but I heard it, and I saw Dennis, too. Christ, there was a lot of blood.”

Lenny drifted over to the table and eased himself into a chair next to Patsy, wincing perceptibly. He opened his shoulder bag and pulled out a pile of papers and put them on the table.

“I made a copy of the article for you and one for Mike. I think it's damned good.”

“If you do say so yourself.”

“Yeah, I say so. Read it and applaud. Hey, I hope we're not going to go through this line by line. I'll make changes within reason, but I'm damned if I want to prowl through it another time.”

“If it's as good as you say it is, that won't happen. I'll suggest to Mike that he take it home and spend a little time with it.”

“Yeah, I like that.” He gave Patsy her copy and put one on the desk in front of Mike's chair. “You said you might have another project for me. What's up?”

“Mike's joint venture with the Russians. You heard him talking about it.”

“I didn't know how serious he was. It's a done deal?”

“It's not that far along, but Mike's going to try it out. If it looks good, he'll sign a contract.”

“The Russian angle will make a hell of a story.”

“Only the business part of it. The personal stuff is still off limits.”

Lenny opened his notebook. “You know the story that really fascinates me is how Mike's grandfather came to own a Fabergé Imperial egg, and how Mike's father lost it in a card game. Then Sasha Akimov turns up, an old guy who can't speak English worth a lick, tells Mike all about his family and says he ought to take back his egg. You got to agree, Patsy, that's goddamned hot stuff.”

“Sounds like you're trying awful hard to tell a part of the family saga. I told you to forget it.” She gave him a hard look. “That's a goddamned order.”

“What's an order?” Mike had joined them, unobserved, and was standing by his desk, sorting through his messages.

“Lenny thinks you come from an interesting family and wants to write about it. I told him to forget it.”

“Patsy's right,” Mike said. He dropped the notes on his desk and took his seat at the table. “What's this?”

“Lenny's piece on you. I haven't read the final-final, but I think the draft is great.”

“Am I supposed to read it?”

“Not this minute, unless you want to. Take it home, spend some time with it. If you spot a mistake, make a note. I'll do the same, then Lenny will put it all back together and send it to the magazine.”

“What else we got?”

“The world wants to know what's been going on inside Carson Motors during the past few weeks.”

“We're busy, that's what's going on.”

“They seem to think it's more than that.”

“Who's they?”

“I got a supermarket tabloid on my e-mail every day. Then I get queries on my voice mail and fax and occasionally I even have an oldfashioned telephone conversation.

“They all smell a news story and the more I say I don't have anything, the more messages I get.”

“Maybe we'll have something soon,” Mike said. “The top man from Koleso is coming to New York in a few days. That means, Patsy, that if everything goes smoothly, you can cook up one of those press conferences you're so good at.”

O
xby's first impression of Boris was that he was like the others; thick-chested, thick-muscled, and nearly mute. But both Yakov and Oxby discovered the comparisons ended with physical similarities. Boris's youthful face belied the fact he was past thirty, older than the others, including Poolya. He had graduated from one of the institutes and had trained to be a member of Gorbachev's personal security force. He had survived the putsch in August of 1991. All was well in his world until December 25, 1991, when the man he had sworn to protect announced the end of the Soviet Union.

Boris lacked Poolya's limited command of English, but could understand, if Oxby spoke slowly. Yakov interviewed Boris and when their talk ended, he shrugged and said that Boris appeared to be reliable, but confessed that he had felt that way about Mikki and had a man's finger to show for it.

Yakov had been issued the papers that would permit him to be fitted for a new leg. He had been through the procedure before and knew the lines would be long and slow-moving. Immediately after Yakov and Oxby had vetted Boris, Yakov and his new bodyguard drove off in the Lada. The window had been replaced by an enterprising neighbor who had a reputation for repairing mechanical objects that had a motor, or made a noise. Yakov put a thermos of his tea brew and some apples in a string bag and took along a book to help pass the time.

“I'll come by to see how you're getting on,” Oxby had promised.

“You won't like what you will see,” Yakov had warned. “But come if you wish. It is the Kuybyshev Hospital.”

Immediately Oxby lifted the phone and as he was about to dial Poolya, he heard a weak, but distinctive crackling noise in the receiver. It was the sound of a phone tap made with an outdated piece of equipment. He pressed the switchhook and listened to a fresh dial tone. The
sound remained. He tried a third time with the same result. He called Poolya and ordered him to meet him in thirty minutes.

“Put me off over there,” Oxby said. He was pointing to the entrance to the Astoria Hotel.

Poolya swung the car to the curb and stopped. “You will go to the hotel?” he asked.

“It's one of the places I'm going today. I will need two hours.” He looked at his watch. “Meet me here at one o'clock.”

“But you are alone,” Poolya said, showing his annoyance that Oxby had not told him his plans for the day. Now, as on the day before, he indicated that he would again be off by himself.

Oxby was on the sidewalk. He closed the door and peered through the open window at Poolya. “It's the way I want it,” he said, then he turned and walked briskly into the hotel.

Poolya slapped the wheel in frustration, and made an abrupt U-turn, nearly sideswiping a bus and a taxi. Ahead, cheek by jowl with the Astoria, was the five-story building that housed the offices of IBM and New Century. He grabbed his phone, but before he touched the last number, he switched off the instrument and dropped it back in its cradle. In those few seconds since he had watched Oxby walk into the hotel, Poolya had had a revelation. The bright blue eyes that had been dimmed by too much wine the night before seemed to clear. He slapped the steering wheel again, but this time he was smiling, as if he had put a nagging problem behind him. He pulled away and merged into the traffic.

The inside of the hotel was a hive of activity. Tourists and turbaned businessmen paraded back and forth across the long, narrow lobby. Tour directors assembled their flocks, and mothers looked anxiously for teenagers who had fearlessly taken sightseeing matters into their own hands. Oxby purchased a copy of the English language
St. Petersburg Times
. He went into the dining room and to a table where he ordered a reasonable facsimile of an English breakfast. While his four-minute eggs were simmering, he went to the phones in the lobby and dialed the number Yakov had discovered in Oleg Deryabin's personnel files.

“New Century,” a female voice said in Russian.

“Do you speak English?”

She did, she said, though not well. “May I help you?”

“Please give Mr. Deryabin a message. Tell him that Jack Oxby will come to his office at 11:30 this morning.”

“Please repeat?”

Oxby did, then asked the operator to read back the message. She repeated it correctly and he put down the phone.

The breakfast was not up to the standards of London's Stafford Hotel, but the coffee, particularly, was a rewarding break from Yakov's powerfully scented tea.

At 11:30, Oxby stepped from the elevator. He paused in front of the company logo and read the list of subsidiaries. Then he went through the door into the reception room where he felt as if he was in the hall of mirrors on Brighton Pier by the sea. Surrounding him were dozens of his own image. Standing in front of a mirror, rigid and unblinking, was the security guard with his left hand jammed into his suit pocket. He was speaking into his right hand, which he held to his mouth. In the center of one of the mirrors, Oxby located a face looking at him.

“My name is Oxby,” he said. “Jack Oxby. I do not have an appointment, but I phoned earlier to say I would be here at this time. Is Mr. Deryabin in his office?”

The receptionist, pretty, with dark red lipstick, stared back. The answer came from behind him. From a voice that belonged to a tall man who stood next to a mirror-covered door.

“Mr. Deryabin is not in the office today,” Trivimi Laar said. “Perhaps I can help you.”

Oxby turned and walked toward the Estonian. “Forgive me for coming on short notice, but I am anxious to learn if Mr. Deryabin would be available to help me locate a valuable piece of art made by Fabergé, an item that I believe he knows something about.”

“Fabergé?” Trivimi shook his head. “We are not in the art market.”

“My questions for Mr. Deryabin are not related to his business. They are personal.”

“Either for business or personal matters, Oleg Deryabin is not available.”

“I'll wait,” Oxby said, and took a step toward one of the chairs next to a table with magazines stacked on top of it.

“You misunderstand. Oleg Deryabin is not available at any time for a discussion of his personal affairs.”

“Perhaps I can persuade him to make an exception.”

“There are no exceptions,” Trivimi said firmly.

Oxby had been sizing up the tall man, whose English was, to his practiced ear, very acceptable. And though he had but a rudimentary knowledge of Russian, of stress and inflexion, he could detect twists in the accent and knew it differed from Yakov's, a well-educated son of St. Petersburg.

Oxby said, “May I ask your name? I don't believe you introduced yourself.”

Reluctance showed on the Estonian's face. He paused, then said as if he were in some distress, “I am Trivimi Laar.”

Oxby produced one of his warm smiles. “I am delighted to meet you, Mr. Laar.” He extended his hand.

Oxby's behavior seemed to baffle Trivimi. Reluctantly he put out his hand and discovered that the smaller man's hand was both large and strong.

“Mr. Laar.” Oxby lowered his voice as if he were about to hatch a conspiracy. “Can you attach any significance to the name Vasily Karsalov?”

Oxby's smile and powerful grip had diverted Trivimi's attention for the tiniest fraction of time before he said the name. But it was sufficient. Trivimi's mouth twitched. He instantly ran his fingers across his lips, aware himself that he had flinched.

“Karsalov?” Trivimi repeated the name. “I probably know someone with that name, but—”

“Vasily Karsalov?”

Trivimi replied, his face implacable, “Probably not.”

“But Mr. Deryabin knew a Vasily Karsalov,” Oxby persisted. “I believe they served in the navy together.”

“Come in my office,” Trivimi said, motioning to the guard, who stepped back from the door. “I have ten minutes.”

Oxby eyed the guard warily and followed Trivimi past the door and to the Estonian's small office, the room without a desk or windows. “Ten minutes.” The time limit was repeated and the door closed.