“Good luck,” Heston shot back rapidly and retreated to his chair. “What happens after you play golf? Write an exposé of all the deep, dark secrets you uncovered in historic Scotland Yard?”
Oxby smiled. “Hadn't thought of that, but I might.” He pulled away the chair in front of Heston's desk and settled into it. From his shirt pocket he took out a business card and put it in front of Heston.
“Ring a bell?” Oxby asked.
Heston reacted immediately. “Of course. Christopher Forbes is the son of Malcolm Forbes. I knew the father slightly. Met him at the time he bought Old Battersea House.” Heston grinned. “The old boy enjoyed a good time. Rode motorcycles, began going out with Liz Taylor. What are you doing with Chris?”
“Kip, as he likes to be called, wants me to find an egg.”
Heston ran a finger slowly down the length of his nose and made a wry face. “What sort of an egg?”
“Start with the fact that Kip helped his father accumulate the largest private collection of Fabergé Imperial eggs in the world.”
“I didn't know it was larger than the Queen's, but answer my question. What egg does Kip Forbes want you to find?”
“An Imperial egg commissioned by Grigori Rasputin.”
A disbelieving frown erupted on Heston's face. “That's preposterous. Who thinks there's such an egg?”
“Apparently, quite a few people. It's one of those delicious rumors
that's been around since Rasputin was assassinated. It was given new life a short time ago when a newspaper article appeared in Schaffhausen, Switzerland. Forbes sent me a copy of it. It seems that a ninety-four-year-old spinster died without heirs or a will. When the court examined her little estate, they found a trunk containing records belonging to her father, a man named August Hollming. Hollming had been an assistant workmaster in Fabergé's shops in St. Petersburg at the time of the revolution.”
Oxby handed a copy of the newspaper clipping to Heston. “You read German.”
“Passably,” Heston said.
“You'll see that Hollming exchanged notes with other workers in Fabergé's workshop. One of the notes refers to Rasputin.”
Heston read the clipping. He said, “Fabergé must have known that Rasputin was a charlatan. Hell, the man was a drunk, and a womanizer.”
“Not to Alexandra. The Czarina thought he was a saint. She believed he'd saved her son's life more than once. Besides, women liked the scoundrel and gave him jewels or gold. That's how he could pay Fabergé, and rather well, I imagine.”
“On the basis of this paltry piece of news from, where the hell was itâSchaffhausen? You're going to leave the Yard and a futureâ?”
“Elliott, don't be redundant. We've covered that ground.”
“But you've got to have more to go on than a newspaper clipping.”
“I have.” Oxby produced a second piece of paper, unfolded it, and showed it to Heston.
“It's a handwritten note by Henrik Wigstrom to August Hollming in November of 1915. They were both Finns, so it's written in Finnish. Forbes came on to it somehow through his contacts in Geneva. At that time, 1915, Wigstrom was the head workmaster for the Imperial eggs. I can't read Finnish but I'm told the note merely confirms a detail concerning the construction of an Imperial egg. All I can make out are three numerals: 2, 11, and 9.”
Heston took the memorandum, glanced at it quickly, then gave it back to Oxby.
“I'm not impressed.”
“I didn't think you would be.”
Heston shook his head, then sighed heavily and said, “So you're going on an Easter egg hunt?”
“It looks that way. First I'll confirm that Rasputin gave Fabergé a
commission. Then, and I don't expect it will be easy, I've got to be convinced that the bloody thing still exists. That it wasn't blown up or melted down in the war. If it all checks out, then I go hunting.”
“Be worth a bloody fortune, I suppose.”
“In dollars, it might bring five million. If Rasputin is part of the provenance, it will be worth even more.”
Heston's frown grew bigger. “If the fool thing hasn't popped up after eighty years, what makes you believe there's any chance you'll find it?”
Oxby grinned. “That's the challenge, Elliott. That's what I like about it.”
“And I think you're going on a wild goose chase.”
Oxby smiled. “God knows I've been sent on plenty of those around here.”
Heston hunched forward, both arms resting on his desk. “You're being paid, of course. Plus expenses.”
Oxby nodded. “First class. But I might need your help, Elliott.”
“Go to hell,” Heston said, glowering. “You've never been to Russia. It will take even you a month to learn the damned alphabet. You won't like the food and they make their wine from prunes.”
“You're positively crazy about the country, aren't you?”
“Just want you to know what you're getting into.”
“I've got a good friend in St. Petersburg. In fact you know him. Yakov Ilyushin. He's agreed to be guide and interpreter.”
“Yakov's an old man,” Heston said.
“Seventy doesn't make him an old man. You'll be lucky to do as well when you are his age.”
Heston seemed finally resigned to Oxby's inevitable departure. “When do you go off on this crazy chase?”
“I leave on Tuesday. Forbes is in Paris. I'll go on from there.”
I
BM Sales & Service was on the third and fourth floors. Business for the American computer giant had been expanding and the director of the office, a local boy in the process of making good, was planning to expand. The building, on Majorova Prospekt, was a Stalin-era design of straight lines and yellow bricks and was about to go through yet another metamorphosis. IBM would move into the first and second floors once a half dozen tenants were relocated.
On the top floor, the fifth, were the headquarter offices of a Russian company. Walk off the elevator and one was accosted by a huge outline of post-Soviet Russia with the words NEW CENTURY emblazoned across it. Incorporated into the flamboyant logo were the names of seven subsidiaries. Double doors opened into a reception room, the carpet, lighting, and furnishings executed in a rich medley of copper, gold, red, and a warm brown.
Mirrors covered the walls and nearly half the ceiling, and gave the square room a feeling of spaciousness. Visitors announced themselves to a receptionist who sat behind an opening in the mirrors. Seated less than ten feet away was a large man wearing a gray suit, white shirt, and vintage Countess Mara necktie. A folded, unread newspaper rested on his lap. One hand held a cellular telephone. The man, or one exactly like him, was present throughout the day.
Visitors never entered the inner offices unless accompanied, but when they were admitted they found offices that were large by Russian standards and equipped with the same stylish furnishings as were in the reception room. Computer screens beside every desk glowed either with a work in progress or the soundless animation of animals that turned into flowers, then into gyrating geometric designs.
There was an air of activity accompanied by the sounds of electronic machinery; soft clicks of the keyboard, rapid whooshing of printers, xylophonic chimes of phones and fax machines. And a feeling of tension,
too, that grew out of the relentless high speed and seeming impatience of the myriad machines, and from the people who stared at the work before them.
Every door in sight was open, save for one. Another man wearing a similar gray suit, and looking remarkably like the guard encountered before, stood in front of the closed door. His arms were folded across his chest and his head turned slowly from side to side. A wire ran from inside his jacket to a tiny earplug. He was connected.
A corridor led to a suite of rooms. First was a windowless sitting room of medium size, then a room that looked all the world like a fine bedroom with private bath. The third room, in a corner location with windows on two sides, was a large office. In contrast to the contemporary design motif encountered earlier, the office appeared as it might have looked in the final years of the Romanov dynasty. The furniture was made of oak and walnut and was massive. In a corner opposite from the desk stood a huge charcoal-fueled heater covered with white and blue Delft tiles. Next to it, nearly indiscernible, was a door that opened into a private conference room. On the wood floor were heavy carpets, hundreds of years old, still thick, the colors unfaded. The wall sconces held fat candles in hand-blown globes and were flanked by a variety of large and small icons; brilliantly painted pictures on sheets of silver depicting Mary, the Christ child, or St. George the dragon slayer. Two of the museum-quality icons measured four feet in length and dated to the fourteenth century.
On shelves, on occasional tables, and in one cabinet were displays of jewelry boxes, perfume flasks, picture frames, vanity cases, and a particularly spectacular collection of cigarette cases. Every piece was in mint condition and each carried a mark that distinguished it as having been crafted by the House of Fabergé.
Angled into the corner, near the windows, was a desk of great proportions. It was truly wide, long and high, and made of woods that had been stained and polished to a dark and shining finish. It was covered with more of Fabergé's production; a silver ink stand, picture frames, and a collection of animals carved from quartz, jasper, nephrite, and black onyx. On top of round bands made of silver and gold were brightly painted porcelain Easter eggs.
On the desk in front of two visitor's chairs was an oval-shaped silver
kovsh
embossed and chased with the Russian Imperial Eagle. The ceremonial drinking cup contained business cards on which was emblazoned
the New Century logo and beneath it the name: Oleg Vladimirovich Deryabin. On his desk was an out-of-focus photograph of Deryabin with a pretty young woman. It was the only suggestion of a family; no pictures of children or family pets, or even of the family
dacha
.
The view from Oleg Deryabin's corner office was out to St. Isaac's Cathedral, a summer sun reflecting dazzingly off its immense, gilded dome. A glance down to the street and one saw the red awnings of the Astoria Hotel. Farther south was a statue of Nicholas I, and just visible, perhaps a half mile distant, was the top of Yusupov Palace, where a piece of history had played out on a winter night in 1916 when young prince Felix Yusupov put a bullet into the back of the infamous Grigori Rasputin. Deryabin knew of the incident, and cherished it in a maudlin way. For it added a novel touch to the history of the most valuable piece of Fabergé art in his collection. Stashed away in its own hiding place in a wall safe behind one of the icons was the Imperial egg that he had won in a poker game on the day after John F. Kennedy was assassinated.
The office was quiet, except for the din from the traffic that poured past Isaakiyevskaya Square directly below. Deryabin got up from his desk and walked to the door that connected with his conference room.
It was a square, brightly lit room, and equipped with phones, fax, and another computer that was up and ready for use. In the middle of the room was a long table covered with leather that was tooled with a gold leaf design that encircled New Century's corporate logo. Nine chairs surrounded the table. There were four chairs on one side of the table, three on the other. The chair at the head of the table was bigger and higher-backed and upholstered in a heavy tapestry cloth in reds and golds. It was where Oleg Deryabin sat when he led the occasional meetings that were attended by the division managers of the corporation. There was another chair at the foot of the table, one that would be occupied by Deryabin's counselor. A shelf ran the length of one wall, a built-in bar at one end, a refrigerator and microwave oven at the other.
Above the shelf was a large, rectangular-shaped white board and a tray with felt pens and erasers. Beside it, and nearly as big, was a surface of cork on which were pinned architectural renderings of buildings, each a different design for an automobile showroom. Deryabin stood in front of the drawings, studying each one as he had done many times before. He took down one, then another, until his final choice remained. He pinned it in the center of the board, stepped back, and stared at it.
The little grin that seemed at times as if it had been tattooed to his face stretched into a satisfied smile.
Next to the drawing he pinned a photograph of another automobile showroom. The similarity between the two was unmistakable. The photograph showed the banners and streamers that heralded the grand opening of Carson Motors' newest showroom in Roslyn, New York.
At the top of the cork board was a banner with the name KOLESO printed on it. Koleso, the Russian word for wheel, was the newest division in the galaxy of New Century subsidiaries. At present, Koleso provided limousine and overnight package delivery service to Moscow, Kiev, Novgorod, and Helsinki. Before the year was out, Deryabin planned to open a glamorous showroom that would offer a selection of late-model American Cadillacs and Oldsmobiles.
And, while Deryabin would announce that the Koleso showroom in Petersburg would be the first of a chain to spread across all of Russia, there were no plans to actually go forward with such an aggressive program. The cost would be prohibitive, the competition fierce, and the economy unprepared. Boris Berezovsky, one of Russia's wealthiest businessmen, had pioneered with the Logovaz chain of car dealerships.
Deryabin had another reason to be in the business of selling Cadillacs and Oldsmobiles. Out of every ten cars he planned to import from America, three would be sold in Petersburg, and seven would be put back on a cargo ship and and sent to Nicosia, Cyprus. Concealed in each car headed for the Mediterranean would be a small cylinder containing a substance worth twenty times the value of the automobile.