The Final Fabergé (51 page)

“Bastard prick,” she shrieked, and took aim again.

Deryabin rolled over and came up facing Galina, holding his own gun and firing wildly at her. He emptied the clip.

Galina shot twice in the exchange, and hit Deryabin high in the chest, not a kill shot. Only one of Deryabin's seven shots hit Galina, but that one caught her in the temple on the right side of her face. The bullet, a heavyweight .38, transformed her truly beautiful face into a horrible mass of bone, blood, and silky blond hair.

The word floated out and hung tantalizingly in the air for a half minute. Oxby broke the silence. “I don't have a good answer, but I'll do my bloody best to come up with one.”

He sat next to Mike Carson. Across from him was Kip Forbes seated in front of a painting that filled the wall behind him. Oxby recognized the picture, an immense portrait of Empress Eugénie, wife of Napoleon III, surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting. On the adjoining wall was a bookshelf crammed with museum exhibition catalogues, biographies, and references covering the life and production of Peter Carl Fabergé. Oxby made a professional appraisal of Kip's office, concluding that the room with all its paintings, sculpture, and hundreds-year-old furniture belonged in the Louvre Museum in Paris, not in one of America's great publishing companies.

Oxby continued, “I didn't know what either one looked like, until yesterday. My alleged bodyguard gave me some sketchy bits about Galina, including the fact she and her husband Viktor Lysenko were Oleg Deryabin's enforcers.”

Kip shot a wide-eyed glance at Oxby. “Then why in God's name was she going to kill him?”

“That's what I don't have an answer for. Maybe nothing more than the fact that Deryabin was a mean son of a bitch who deserved all the bullets she could put into him. What I know about Deryabin I learned from his naval records and fifteen minutes with Trivimi Laar. He's a
pakhan
, a crime boss. One of the businesses he owned is a delivery service that he planned to expand into a chain of automobile showrooms. Deryabin said he was going to sell American cars. Expensive ones. That's one of the reasons he was in New York. To work a deal with Mike.”

“But buying and selling American cars isn't a crime,” Kip said.

“No, but Deryabin intended to export the cars to Cyprus—to an arms merchant with clients throughout the Middle East. Inside each car would be a quantity of a deadly biological toxin.”

Kip exhaled a low whistle, “That could mean big money.”

“Risky, too. Deryabin was having the stuff made in another of his little companies, one with a chemistry lab he set up to duplicate expensive perfumes. A harmless dishonesty, I suppose. They switched from making perfume to
Clostridium botulinum
. A drop of that can kill a dozen people.”

“That doesn't explain why they were shooting each other,” Kip said.

“When Galina popped out of the Jeep I fully expected her to shoot me.”

“You said you'd never seen her. Why would she want to hurt you?”

“She thought I had killed her husband.”

“You're going too fast,” Kip said, incredulously. “You killed Galina's husband?”

“I had no choice.”

“What in God's name happened?”

“You've heard this, Mike. Do you mind hearing it again?”

“Not at all.”

Oxby relished telling his tale again, sharing his impressions of his friend Yakov, of Poolya, of Tashkent and Mike's father, Vasily Karsalov. And about the Hermitage, the broken
matryoshka
doll, and watching an aged Lada he was supposed to be sitting in explode into flames. Kip Forbes listened, enraptured, rarely letting his eyes stray from Jack Oxby.

Mike also listened attentively. “I didn't make the connection the other evening. Are you saying it was Galina who came in my office and shot Sasha Akimov?”

“Bloody right. She was also the nurse who finished off Sasha with sodium pentobarbital. And she was the woman who shot the writer.”

“Lenny Sulzberger. He'll be angry that he can't have his own revenge.”

“Revenge is what this is all about,” Oxby said. “And this—”

He reached for a plastic shopping bag that he had put on the floor by his chair.

When Kip saw Oxby remove the distinctive pale brown presentation case, he edged forward. “Incredible,” he said, anxiously anticipating his first view of what he hoped would become the most famous of all the Fabergé eggs. “How did you get hold of it?”

“After we put Deryabin in an ambulance, we let Trivimi consider his new circumstances inside a holding cell in a New York City precinct station. We told him to cooperate or else. The or else being that he would be charged as an accessory in the murder of Sasha Akimov, and as an accomplice in the death of Galina Lysenko. He told us that Deryabin had brought the egg to New York with the intention of finding a buyer for it. In fact, you were on his list of prospective buyers. I told him that the egg belonged to Mike Carson's family, that it would be to his advantage if he would show me where Deryabin had put it. He did, and here it is.”

Oxby placed the egg in front of Mike. “It belongs to you, Mike.”

Mike studied it for a moment, then, timidly, picked it up. He lifted the egg off the golden hands that held it. He touched one of the diamonds. “Beautiful,” he said, as if saying it only to himself. He looked at Oxby. “But I can't take it.”

“Think again, Mike. I told you that your father paid a heavy price for a murder Deryabin committed. If you refuse to take the egg, does that mean you want Deryabin to have it?”

He shook his head. “Hell, I don't know what I want.”

“I have a suggestion,” Kip said. “Suppose you don't return the egg to Deryabin and suppose also that you don't take it. Suppose further that we have it appraised by three experts and average the prices. I will pay you that amount plus five percent. The money will be placed in an escrow account which you will designate. It can then be apportioned out to your family, to a charity, or for whatever purpose you choose.”

“That's fair all around,” Oxby said. “How does it sit with you, Mike?”

Mike cradled the egg. He looked squarely at Oxby and said, “How many people are dead because of this?”

“I counted six, though I suspect there were more.”

Kip Forbes was no stranger to the outpouring of decorative arts from the workshops of Peter Carl Fabergé. He had moved to his desk where he was evaluating the egg; studying each of its precious stones, the basket with its flowers made of small but beautiful jewels, and the brilliant blue enamel surface. He made accurate copies of the engraved marks on the bottom of the egg, and the scratched markings that had been incised into a silver band that encircled the egg.

Oxby was making his own evaluation of Kip Forbes's office, admiring
a unique collection of paintings, portrait busts, and Staffordshire pottery figures, all portraying Napoleon III or members of his family. The furniture, including Empire and Biedermeier, was from the same period. Opposite the large painting of Empress Eugénie was a life-size portrait of Napoleon III. Oxby was in front of it.

“You're a fan of Louis Napoleon. How did you choose him?”

Kip grinned. “I discovered long ago that old Louis hadn't been shown the respect I thought he deserved, so I began to build a little collection around him. Like it?”

“I do.” He spun to face the Empress and her ladies. “Especially Eugénie.”

“I like her, too,” Kip said, then turned his attention back to the Imperial egg.

“What do you think of it?” Oxby asked.

“That it's an authentic Fabergé, dated 1916, the last year Fabergé made an Imperial egg. I predict that when this one is catalogued it will be known as the Final Fabergé. The workmasters made peculiar scratches on certain items. Like these—” He showed Oxby the marks he had duplicated. “These scratches were like a code and were copied into Fabergé's record book. One of the marks might tell us if Rasputin commissioned the egg.”

“Where's the record book?” Oxby asked.

Kip laughed. “Sorry. It's been missing since the communists closed the Fabergé shops in 1918.”

“Any other surprises?”

“If you're asking if there's a surprise compartment, I'm sure there is.”

“I'll be in St. Petersburg during the second week in September,” Oxby said. “Yakov assures me the weather will be pleasant. Any chance either of you can meet me there?”

Mike had been quiet, preferring to listen. He responded enthusiastically. “I've decided to go.”

“And you, Kip?” Oxby asked.

“I've got an impossible schedule coming up, but I'll try. If I can make it, where do I reach you?”

Oxby flipped through his notepad for one of his cards. The piece of paper containing the numbers fell out. He put it in front of Kip.

“I copied these numbers from the note that was left behind by the old woman in Schaffhausen. The translation doesn't explain what these numbers mean. Got an idea?”

Kip Forbes glanced at the piece of paper. “Two—eleven—nine.” He shook his head slowly. “They don't mean a thing to me. Not now.”

“Hold on to it.” Oxby gave one of his knowing, warm grins. “I have a hunch they might mean something important.”

When they reached the lobby of the Forbes Building, Mike turned to Oxby. “I owe you something for all you've done for me. Trouble is—”

“You don't owe me a thing,” Oxby said. “I've been paid doubly with memories and new friendships.”

“Except for you, Deryabin would still have the egg.”

“And if I hadn't meddled, your father might still be alive.”

Mike pressed Oxby's arm. “You can't blame yourself for that. From what I've learned, my father was a dead man breathing.”

Oxby smiled at Mike's eerie oxymoron. “I very much want Yakov to find your mother.”

“Not more than I do.”

“I'll show you St. Petersburg,” Oxby said with a perfectly straight face. “I'm practically a native.”

“Okay, you're hired.” They shook hands, each acknowledging the beginning of a friendship.

“Can I drop you somewhere?” Mike said.

“Thanks, but I want to see the collection Kip helped put together. I'll call before I leave.”

There was an awkward pause. “So long,” Mike said, sounding as American as the flag he walked past on his way out to Fifth Avenue.

Oxby watched until he was gone from sight. Then he crossed the lobby and went into the Fabergé Galleries. He had just reached the first display case when a familiar voice came from behind him.

“How'd it go?”

Oxby turned and faced Alex Tobias. “You're a bloody scoundrel,” he blurted out. “It went splendidly, but I wanted you with me.”

“I couldn't. I had two Russians to baby-sit.”

“Correction. One Russian, one Estonian.”

“They're all the same to me.”

“How's Deryabin?”

“Better than he deserves. He tried getting help from the Russian cunsul's office, but they weren't interested.”

“And Trivimi?”

“The DA's cooperating, but they can't hold him for more than a couple of days.”

“Would Lenny Sulzberger like to interview Deryabin?”

“Why would he want to?”

“Because it would make a bloody good story. There's a good chance it would be picked up in St. Petersburg. The procurator's office might get interested and suddenly Deryabin would have a lot of explaining to do.”