The Final Fabergé (23 page)

Deryabin inhaled deeply. “Another accident. Unfortunate, but that is how it must be.”

“What kind of accident?”

“Whatever the circumstances dictate. If Oxby hears what Vasily remembers, then he, too, must be killed.”

The Estonian got to his feet and went to the window. He turned and faced Deryabin. “You order the death of Karsalov to stop him from talking to Ilyushin and Oxby. But if Viktor cannot stop him from talking, then you say kill them, too! This is craziness, Oleshka.”

Deryabin glared at the tall man, then turned away from him. “Give Viktor his orders.”

The Estonian hesitated, then went to the phone and dialed a number. He spoke, then listened, then spoke sotto voce, gesturing and imploring. His voice slowly grew louder and more forceful. Finally, he nodded and the conversation was ended.

“It was not easy to persuade Viktor to go on this assignment alone. He said he will not forget that you are dividing him from Galina.”

“Did you remind him that he brought this on himself?”

“No, because you are wrong about that.”

“We'll see who's right or wrong. When is he leaving?”

“This evening.”

“That is settled, then. Good.”

With the chore of arranging for the disposal of Vasily Karsalov completed, Deryabin's spirits rose several notches, his little smile once more in place. “I have something to show you.” On the floor beside his chair was a corrugated box. He lifted it onto his lap, opened it and took out a car battery. He put it on the table beside his chair. The marking on the battery was DELCO, an American brand, one used in General Motors cars, one Deryabin said had been taken from a year-old Cadillac.

“There is a compartment in this one?” Trivimi asked.

Deryabin inserted a knife blade in a slight depression near the bottom of the battery. Carefully he pried away a two-square-inch section of the outer wall, exposing a cavity that was the size of a package of cigarettes.

“It's like one of Fabergé's Imperial eggs,” he chortled. “A door you can't see and a hiding place for whatever surprise we want to put in it.”

Trivimi examined the battery, marveling at how expertly the inner function of the battery had been remade to accommodate the hollow space. He replaced the little door, noting that by adding back a year's coating of dust and oil, the battery would survive the closest scrutiny.

“The battery will function the same as before?”

“Not for as long, but it will hold a full charge for several months.”

“How many have been modified?”

“Only this one. When we bring the cars in from America, we will take the batteries from the cars and change them.”

“Very impressive,” Trivimi said. He tilted his head back and sniffed the air. “I can tell that Maurice has been here.”

“He sends me a sample of each new formulation. It is Giorgio Perfume. Like it?”

Trivimi leaned forward, his hands clasped and resting on his lap. “I don't want to dampen your optimism, but I have looked at the numbers again. Neva Specialty is draining a very poor asset base and unless there is a dramatic turnaround with other divisions, you must suspend operations in Neva Specialty immediately.”

Deryabin stiffened. “Reduce expenses, do whatever you must, but we will not close it down!”

Trivimi unfolded a piece of paper and placed it in front of Deryabin. “At the end of this month, New Century will have lost nearly two million dollars for the first half of the year. We will owe, in total, just under five million.”

“We'll pull out of it. We always have.”

“Not exactly. A year ago you were forced to sell your most promising division, the only one, incidentally, that was operating within the law.”

“The law, the law. Fuck the law!” Deryabin shouted. He grabbed the Estonian's paper and rolled it into a ball.

With his voice at high pitch he said, “You can't do business in this country within the law. When I try it, someone beats the shit out of me.” He threw the ball onto the floor.

“The law is one thing,” Trivimi began to explain, “but money is something you can't just pretend you have. Bills don't get paid by telling some poor bastard ‘fuck the law.' ”

“We pay our bills.”

“That's not true, and you know it.”

“Don't tell me what I know and don't know,” he screamed, his face nearly scarlet from both anger and fear. “You come here and show me a piece of paper that says we owe money and tell me to shut down the best hopes we've got to pay our debts and become profitable. Don't throw problems at me. Put answers on your fucking pieces of paper.”

“I try, Oleshka. But you take your own counsel. I showed you the numbers a week ago. They weren't as bad then.”

“What about all the other operations. Aren't they making money?”

“Income is up, but so are expenses. It costs more money to borrow money. Worst of all, we can't borrow any more. We've hit our limit.”

“What limit?”

“The limit the banks have put on us. Not a single bank will lend us money.”

“Zuganov will. He promised.”

“No. Not Zuganov, or Lobov, or Soskovets.”

“The Americans—”

“They were the first to cut us off.”

Deryabin's lips moved furiously and silently. Then he said, “How bad is it?”

“We can stretch operations for three months if we cut expenses severely.”

Deryabin nodded. “During that time we can bring in the cars and adapt the batteries—”

“You'll need additional money to buy the cars,” Trivimi said.

“How bad is it? Deryabin asked again.

The Estonian retrieved the ball of paper. He unraveled it and smoothed out the sheets, then once more placed his financial report in front of Deryabin.

“I will explain all the numbers if you wish, but the important figures are here—” He jabbed at the rows of numbers.

Deryabin stared at Trivimi Laar's precise handwritten notations. “You didn't show me this a week ago,” he said in a subdued voice.

“I didn't have all the numbers. Now everything is here.”

“Five million dollars?” Deryabin said.

“You might be able to liquidate for about that much money, if you could find a buyer.” Trivimi shook his head. “But I promise, you won't.”

“What do I do?”

“There is a solution. The amount you need, if my research is correct, is the selling price of the Fabergé Imperial egg.”

Deryabin reacted strangely, as if the Estonian's words had a ring of inevitability to them. His body slackened and for moment he was motionless. Then he rose, left the room briefly. He returned carrying a small box.

“I brought it home a few days ago. It might be safer here.” He opened the box and took out the Imperial egg. He studied it for a moment. Then he said, solemnly, “No other person has seen this in thirty-five years.” He handed it to Trivimi.

Trivimi turned the jeweled egg in his hand, looking with inquiring, interested eyes at the enameled surfaces, at the precision of the workmanship, at the diamonds and sapphires.

“Are you still afraid it carries a curse?” Trivimi asked.

“I thought about it, but I believe the odds are on my side.”

“I will make some quiet inquiries about selling it. An auction may be difficult. I think a private sale will be best.”

Deryabin nodded, then pushed a folder in front of the Estonian. Emblazoned on the cover was the word KOLESO. Beneath were the words: “Joint Venture Recommendation.”

“Go to New York and show this to Mikhail Karsalov.”

Trivimi looked through the pages inside the folder. “When?”

“As soon as you know Viktor is on his way to Tashkent.”

T
he dark and forbidding building Jack Oxby identified as an asylum was officially known and commonly referred to as Number 7. Inside, the walls and high ceilings of the corridors had been covered with a thin, cream-colored paint that allowed streaks of the old paint to show through. All else, doors, fans, light fixtures, was painted in a pale shade of institutional green. The unpainted and unpolished wood floor made snapping and creaking noises as it was walked over. It was a standard design, multiuse army building, probably put up some time in the mid-1930s and used during one of its incarnations as a training academy.

Until recently, Number 7 had been part of the hospital, accommodating military patients and their dependents. Now, the remaining mental patients were housed here, affording them shelter, meager food rations, and a rare meeting with a clinical psychologist who, often as not, was a nurse from the psychiatric ward in the city hospital.

Oxby and Ilyushin circled, found the main entrance, and went in. On the walls were bronze plaques and a bulletin board cluttered with notices and months-old announcements. Four recesses in the wall were empty of the busts that once had been in each, only the plaques that identified the honorees were present. Behind a sliding glass window was a small reception office. In it was an ancient telephone switchboard, a desk, chair, three fans, and no one to tell Oxby and Ilyushin where to find Vasily Karsalov.

Ilyushin discovered a button and a sign next to it that said push for assistance. A distant bell rang, but no one came. He tried again, with the same result.

“Let's see what we can find,” Oxby suggested.

There were two large rooms on the first floor. One was a dining room filled with a pungent food aroma and empty of patients. A lone, heavyset woman in a dingy white uniform and cap pushed a cartful of
dishes into the kitchen. The other room had tables on which were uncompleted jigsaw puzzles, paper and crayons, assorted magazines less their covers, and paperbacks, also without covers. The room was empty save for two men bent over a chessboard at a table next to an open window.

Oxby approached them. “Vasily Karsalov?” he asked.

There was no answer. Ilyushin tried to engage them, but neither responded.

Then a woman's voice came from behind them. “You must not disturb the patients.”

They turned to find a young woman standing at the entrance to the room. She was dressed severely; dark skirt, white blouse with necktie, black stockings, and flat, black shoes. Her hair, a deep copper brown, was braided and rolled into a chignon.

Ilyushin spoke to her, his tone conciliatory. “No one answered the bell, and we are trying to find a patient.”

“Vasily Karsalov. Is that the name I heard?”

The woman came into the room, and Oxby and Ilyushin walked toward her. Her face, without a trace of makeup, Oxby evaluated, was beautiful. Only that, or a word like it, described her. He answered her, choosing his words carefully.

“Yes, Vasily Karsalov. We wish to talk with him.”

“Who are you?” she asked.

“I am Yakov Ilyushin. My companion is Jack Oxby. We have come from Petersburg to find Karsalov.”

“You tell me your names, but I do not know who you are. There is strict policy with visitors. Do you have permission?”

Yakov waved his pass, Oxby did the same.

“Why you are looking for this person?”

Oxby attempted to answer. “It is,” he looked at Yakov, “how do you say, ‘family affair'?”

Ilyushin explained.

“Come with me,” she said.

They followed her from the room and back to a door that opened into the reception office. She sat at the switchboard and dialed several numbers before she smiled and began speaking. After a minute's conversation she put down the phone.

“This is a new position for me,” she said. “I have not heard that name, but there is a V. Karsalov. I have asked for his file.” She talked
with Yakov for another minute, then grew silent and sat bolt upright, alternating fixed stares at Yakov, then toward Oxby.

“She tells me she is the assistant supervisor, but there is no supervisor at this time. And it is a new position for her. Her name is Tonya. She was born in Russia, but has lived in Tashkent from the time she was three years old.”

Oxby looked at his watch and shifted impatiently in the chair. “Do you speak English, Tonya?” Oxby asked.

“Ahngleeyskee?”
she said, drawing out the word. “
Nyeht
.”

Oxby turned to Yakov. “Do you believe her?”

Ilyushin said he did.

“I don't think there's an abundance of efficiency in this place,” Oxby said wearily. “Can you think of a way to speed things along?”

“They don't hurry in this country. Especially in the summer months.”

“Perhaps she would like a nice dinner tonight. Or a few thousand of the local currency.”

“You would corrupt a pretty lady by giving her a handful of sum?”

“She's too pretty to be corruptible. But, even here, everyone has a price.”

Yakov shook his head. “We could lose her cooperation.”

The telephone rang. A jingling, metallic sound. “Allo, allo,” she said, then followed a stream of Russian sprinkled with Uzbek phrases, all of it speeding past Oxby without recognition. Some of the Uzbek was lost on Yakov.

“I have asked for V. Karsalov's file,” Tonya said in her efficient way. “I cannot say how soon it will be brought to us. For now, it is not necessary.” She stood, and motioned toward the door. “Come with me.”

Off they went, Tonya taking long strides, leading the way to an elevator that dated to the year Number 7 was built. Making sounds Oxby had never heard, it creaked and ground its way to the top floor. Tonya spread the gate apart and walked to the middle of the floor. She stopped in front of a door with number 411 on it. She turned to Yakov.