The Final Fabergé (39 page)

As the water was heating, Oxby drifted into the kitchen and from there to the balcony. The railing was high and argued against an accidental fall. There were no hanging plants, nor anything else Baletsky might have reached for to cause him to lose his balance. The balcony was also a place to store boxes and odd household items like an ancient pair of snowshoes and skis, and a suitcase and box stuffed with old cooking pots and chipped plates and cups. A plant stand with an ivy plant that needed water. It had been Baletsky's getaway; the single chair with an ashtray next to it seemed ideal for a nap or a few hours with a book. A place for a drink and a cigarette and a view of Petersburg's skyline.

The space was cluttered but orderly and showed no evidence of a struggle. But Oxby had not seen the balcony the morning after the discovery of Baletsky's body. He searched the floor. It was a reinforced
concrete slab cantilevered from the building. The surface was smooth and splotched with splatterings of grease and other droppings of food that had been brought onto the balcony for alfresco dining. He kicked at a piece of bread or cake and a small bone that might have been the drumstick from a chicken. Then he dropped to one knee and ran his finger over three smudges, each the size of an old sixpence coin. Each had the distinctive color of dried blood. Oxby knew blood when he saw it, whether it was fresh and glistening or old and the color of dried mud.

“Can't tell how old it is,” he murmured softly to himself, “or where it came from. A piece of meat, a bloody nose. Or the blood that spills when a finger is lopped off.”

He joined the others. A cup of tea awaited him, served in a mug with the Olympic symbol on it. He added the prerequisite six spoonfuls of sugar and sat between Yakov and Pavel at a round table in the kitchen.

Oxby chattered easily with Pavel. Pointing to his mug he asked if his young host had attended the Olympics in 1980. Pavel said he had, that his father had taken him, that he was a teenager at the time and wished he could have been a champion sprinter. Oxby's skill at interrogation was enhanced by his natural gift for setting a stranger at ease. His open face concealed nothing, his smile was genuine, his eyes always warm and unthreatening. Yet Oxby missed nothing. He read volumes from vocal inflections, body shifts, and eyes that the owner could not prevent from shifting or turning away at precise moments of indecision or at the telling of a small, careless falsehood.

“If I ask questions that are the same as the ones you have been asked before, please forgive me. Is it true that you lived with your father until a short time ago?”

“Yes.”

“When did you move away?”

“In January when I was married.”

Oxby beamed. “Well, then. Congratulations are in order. During the months since January, did you see your father often?”

Pavel lit a cigarette. “No, not as much as I would like. My wife has family, too.”

“Loyalties are difficult, aren't they?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see him once a month, or less often?”

“Each month, at least that often.”

“Did you notice any change in your father? His health, or how he felt?”

“He didn't like living alone. He wasn't eating regularly.”

“An unhappy circumstance,” Oxby said. “But not an unexpected one. Was your father employed? Even on a temporary basis. Or was he retired?”

“He wanted to work, but he complained that his arthritis had became very painful. He had a pension, but the checks were late.”

Yakov cleared his throat at the mention of missed pension payments.

“Were you able to help your father?”

“He was proud, but near the end he accepted some money I gave him.”

“Did he have many friends?”

“Most of them had died or moved away. Some were in hospitals.”

“Any friends at all?”

“A few. They would get together each month or two.”

“Can you think of anyone your father didn't like?”

Pavel smiled ironically. “There was one.”

“Who was that?”

“His oldest friends were the ones he met when he was in the navy. It was one of those men that he didn't like very much.”

“Did you meet any of these navy pals?”

“I believe there were four of them.” He nodded. “And I met them all.” Pavel stood. “There is a photograph—” His voice faded as he went into the next room. He returned and put an opened photo album on the table. “There is a date: May 10, 1964.”

Oxby looked closely at the four young officers. Though the photograph was three inches square and slightly faded, each face was in clear focus.

“Can you tell me their names?”

“On the back my father wrote their names.” He took the photo out of the plastic sleeve. “This one was Karsalov.” He pointed. “Vasily was his first name. I was told that he killed a man, but my father thought it was an accident. I never knew the full story. He was sent to Kazakhstan or Uzbekistan, I'm not sure which.”

Pavel handed the photo to Oxby and pointed to another face. “This one is Sasha Akimov. He was the oldest and he was like an uncle to me. He was my favorite.”

“You have good memories of Akimov?”

Pavel nodded and smiled. “He was funny and brought me a gift every time he visited us.”

“Do you ever see him?”

“Yes, he came to the wedding. And once after that. When he was with us we had a good time.”

Oxby inspected the faces carefully. “That accounts for three of them, including your father. What about this one?”

“I'm not sure if my father disliked him, or was frightened of him.” He considered what he had said, and added, “Both, I am sure.”

“Who is it?” Oxby urged.

“Oleg Deryabin.”

“Why do you think your father might have been frightened of him?”

“He was the one who was most successful. He was in the KGB after the navy.”

“Is that a reason for your father to dislike him?”

“My father thought that old friends should help each other. The KGB changed Deryabin. My father didn't want charity, just a chance. When my father asked him for help and said he would do whatever his legs allowed him to do, Deryabin all but laughed at him.”

“What happened?”

“Deryabin stuffed two hundred dollars in his pocket and walked away from him.”

“When was that?”

“Not long ago. Two weeks I think.”

“Do you recall hearing your father talk about a Fabergé egg?”

Young Baletsky thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No.”

“When was the last time you saw your father?”

“Ten days before he died. He came to my apartment. It was my wife's birthday.”

“Did he enjoy himself?”

“A little.”

“The commandant explained that you did not think your father committed suicide. Is that how you feel?”

Pavel stared at Oxby as if he were looking for an answer. He blinked, the involuntary blinks that come with tears. “I have thought about that many times since he died. He had changed and was unhappy. But I can't believe he would kill himself.” He wiped his eyes. “And I can't allow myself to think someone was so cruel and pushed him to his death.”

“I'm afraid,” Oxby said, his voice lowered, “that someone was that cruel.”

Pavel's face showed an odd combination of sadness and surprise. “You know who it was?”

Oxby nodded. “I'm certain that I do.”

“You'll tell the police?”

“The person who killed your father is dead.”

“I hope he died painfully.”

Oxby bit on his lip and nodded.

“Why would anyone want to kill my father?”

“That's why I'm asking you these questions. When I have the answer, I will tell you. That's a promise.”

They were in the taxi, headed toward the center of the city. Oxby was making notes while Yakov silently watched him. Oxby folded his pad and slipped it into his shirt pocket. “What did you think of Pavel?”

“That he's a very unhappy young man who doesn't think well of Oleg Deryabin.”

“So far, no one does. I plan to make my own evaluation.”

“You are going to meet him?” Yakov said excitedly. “I will go with you.”

“No. Though I don't expect a surprise visit will cause a problem, there is the chance that it will.”

“No, Jack. I insist.”

Oxby gave Yakov a reproving glance. “And so do I.”

After Poolya had deposited Oxby and Yakov at the entrance to the Winter Palace, he had continued along the embankment road and past three adjoining buildings. The four combined were what the world knew as the Hermitage, and as he reached the fourth and last building, he had suddenly wakened to the realization that Oxby had tricked him. Dulled by the excess of wine the night before, Poolya believed that he, along with Oxby and Ilyushin, would tramp through the museum's galleries and corridors for the better part of the day. He had even allowed himself to become elated when he was excused from the torture. Instead, he had been eased out of the way so that Oxby could be free to roam the city unobserved.

Poolya had turned at the first opportunity and, after an argument with a driver and his crew, parked in the shadow of a giant moving truck waiting its turn to move to the loading docks. Then he had run back to the entrance with the faint hope he would find them. Neither
bahbooshkah
at the ticket booth recalled seeing Ilyushin or Oxby, nor were they to be found in the book and souvenir shop. He returned to the street and saw the gathered taxis, their drivers milling about. He jogged over to them and described both Ilyushin and Oxby.

“They went with Lipkin ten minutes ago,” one of the drivers said.

“They drove west,” said another, helpfully.

“They went east, you idiot!” a third chimed in.

“Which way!” Poolya asked a driver who struck him as the most reliable out of a poor batch. “What kind of car . . . what color?”

He was told Oxby was in a black Volga. A terrible car, Poolya thought, prone to breakdowns. He hoped he would find it pulled to the curb with its hood up. But after an hour's futile search he concluded that Oxby and Ilyushn had been delivered to wherever they were going. He stopped at the entrance to a metro station and found a kiosk that sold fruit ades, liquors, and vodka made from pure ethanol. He bought two bottles of beer and drank both. He thought of calling Galina but lit a cigarette instead.

“Fuck Galina,” he said, accompanied by a roar of stomach gas, loud enough for the women queued at a bakery kiosk to react with black, scornful stares. He glared back at them, “Fuck all of you, too.”

He drove back to the Hermitage, found another spot to put his car. He roved between the street and the rooms immediately inside the museum for the next several hours, expecting that when four o'clock arrived, both Oxby and Ilyushin would arrive at the main entrance in yet another taxi. But at two o'clock, and unknown to Poolya, Yakov had led Oxby into the museum's administration offices located a block away and also accessible from the embankment road. While Yakov had rested his leg, Oxby had had free run of the museum. Then at the appointed hour, both men appeared.

“You enjoyed?” Poolya asked.

“Very much,” Oxby said.

“You have been here since I last saw you?”

Oxby gave one of his disarming smiles and said, “Where else do you think we might have been.” It was a statement, not a question.

“G
od but this place spooks me,” Lenny Sulzberger said. He was at the long stretch of glass in Mike Carson's office, looking down on the tops of sparkling new Cadillacs and Georgia Gradowski trying to sell one of them. He gave Patsy Abromowitz a sideways glance. “You feel that way?”