by Thomas Swan
“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.”
Chapter 8
IBM 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 f
or 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.
Deryabin, as he approached sixty, was losing the hardened look of the athlete he had once been. His dark hair was graying and thinning and he had a round spot in the back of his head that looked from not far away as if he might be wearing a pink yarmulke. His skin was a pasty white, and over his cheeks and nose were flecks of tiny bursted capillaries. He had a fighter’s nose, broad and bent slightly, and beneath his eyes was a fresh crop of tiny lines. His lips moved constantly as if he were speaking and would part from time to time to reveal teeth that were stained from a lifetime habit of heavy smoking. A canine tooth was covered with gold and behind it was an empty, black hole.
Even though the edges of Deryabin’s mouth curled up and his eyebrows arched, there was rarely genuine mirth in his face. Those who knew him or worked for him were aware that his cold, perpetual grin served to mask an unbridled temper that put dread in the heart of many a subordinate.
Oleg Vladimirovich Deryabin was a complicated man who had learned that success in the restructuring and struggling Russian economy came to those who had survived the old system, had learned to act decisively and boldly, and were well connected to the new bureaucracy. In his office, in silver and enameled frames, were photographs of Deryabin with men he worked alongside in the navy and later in the KGB when he was attached to the Soviet embassy in Paris, followed by two years in Baghdad, where he made significant friendships and gathered important IOUs. Then a final three-year assignment in Washington.
During each tour of duty his official title was communications officer. His true role had been as a member of the First Chief Directorate, the espionage branch of the KGB. He had distinguished himself by ferreting out two Soviet counterintelligence agents suspected of doubling back on Mother Russia. One perished in his car, a suspected suicide, and the second died from an extreme case of food poisoning. In each case, Deryabin had assumed direct responsibility and had been the executioner, as well.
He had spent twenty-seven years in the navy and with the KGB, and the range of experience and positions held had taught Deryabin how to sacrifice others for what he had deeply believed was for the common good; the valiant cause inspired by Lenin. But loyalty to a dead cause was out of fashion. The cause that now inspired him was the accumulation of personal wealth. It was sufficient for Deryabin to constantly remind himself that real power was no longer achieved inside the government as it had been for seventy-five years. Money was power, not party recognition, not advancement up the labyrinthine trail of what had become a discredited political philosophy.
Deryabin was also proving the wisdom of a new adage that was gaining popularity: old KGB officers don’t die, they go into business and become capitalists.
There were demerits in Deryabin’s résumé if one were ever to be accurately written. He could be cruel, dispassionately and indiscriminately, as demonstrated by the failure of his one abbreviated marriage. Blessedly, he never attempted another. In spite of what appeared to be a spotless military and government record, Deryabin’s penchant for revenge had become legendary by the time he returned to civilian status. With Deryabin, it wasn’t an eye for an eye, but two eyes for one eye.
But most damning to a man who craved to be admired as a Russian Renaissance man was his complete inability to handle money. While he had never been trained in economics or banking, he lacked even the most basic talent or ability to shepherd resources wisely and keep his books in balance. While he worshipped money and excelled at devising ways to obtain it, he would spend without discipline, then vent his notorious temper if he were dunned with an overdue invoice.
New Century, for all its glitz and sparkle, sat atop a shaky financial foundation. It was held together, however tenuously, by the one man who had Deryabin’s unswerving confidence. He was also the only person who knew the dark secrets that Deryabin tried so desperately to hide.
Deryabin pulled a chair away from the table, sat, and pressed a button on a panel set into the table. The door opened and he was joined by a tall, thin man who took the chair on Deryabin’s left. He had a long neck and narrow face with high cheekbones and full brows. He wore glasses framed by a rim of thin steel and frequently carried a second pair in his left hand. He might wear the spare glasses during a negotiation to obscure his eyes behind lenses that had a deep, bluish cast. His voice was gentle and unhurried. He was older by four years, more fit, perhaps, and his name was Trivimi Laar. Trivimi Laar was listed on the roster of the company as simply an aide to the chairman. He would be spotted entering or leaving the building, but only a select few had actually been introduced to him. It was generally known that the tall man could see Deryabin any time he chose. Some had heard the two arguing, their voices rising until it seemed the next noise from behind the closed doors would be a pistol shot. To most New Century employees, Trivimi Laar was known simply as the Estonian.
The two men had a relationship that went back to the time they were in their mid-twenties in Estonia when Deryabin was stationed at the Soviet naval yards in Tallinn and Laar was a government clerk. Later, showing rare diplomatic skills, Laar rose through the tangle of departmental officialism and at a time when the Estonian government was under the thumb (and heel) of Moscow. Their paths crossed again during Deryabin’s tour with the KGB. A unique friendship ensued and eventually grew to where Deryabin brought Trivimi and his special skills into New Century.
Deryabin spoke first. “I sent the Lysenkos to put an end to Akimov. They failed.” He got up from his chair and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. “I don’t tolerate incompetence. Tell me everything.”
The Estonian also stood, his feet apart, his head lowered, to put him level with the shorter Deryabin.
“Galina did not catch up with Akimov until he was in Mikhail’s office. She doesn’t know how long they had been together. She found them standing beside a table, each holding a glass. There was a bottle on the table. Mikhail spoke to her but she paid no attention. She aimed at Sasha’s chest—she’s a crack shot and doesn’t miss at that range. But Mikhail threw the bottle. It hit her arm just as she fired.”
“She uses a Semmerling double-action that holds five bullets,” Deryabin said impatiently. “She’s been trained to kill. Why didn’t she?”
The Estonian shook
his head. “I don’t have an answer. Mikhail may have charged at her. She may have tried again. I’ll get a report. She swears they will learn what Akimov said to Mikhail.”
“Where did the bullet hit Akimov?”
“In his neck. It tore up his larynx. If he survives, in time he will be able to write—”
“No! He won’t live to hold a pen again. What did Viktor tell you?”
“He estimated that Akimov had been with Mikhail for ten minutes. Even less time than that, he thought.”
“He thought, he thought. That’s bullshit, Trivimi. How long were they together? Five minutes? Eight minutes?” Deryabin shouted. “They were sent to stop Akimov before he got to Mikhail.”
“It would have been a miracle. They tried.”
The anger subsided. “When did you talk with Galina?”
“Early this morning. It was after midnight in New York.”
“What were your instructions?”
“To learn what Akimov said to Mikhail. They know that he was spreading false rumors about you and New Century.” Trivimi added solemnly, “I told them that Akimov was not to leave the hospital alive.”
Deryabin nodded, then returned to his chair and lit a fresh cigarette from the old one. “He would talk about the Fabergé egg, and tell Mikhail that I should give it to his mother. The simple ass was saying foolish things.”
“Why would Akimov suggest that you give the egg to Mikhail’s mother?”
“Because he was like a brother to Mikhail’s mother. Anna Karsalov and Akimov were from the same city. From Sochi.”
“Yes,” Trivimi said. “I’d forgotten.” He walked slowly around the conference table. “You have a very fine collection of Fabergé, your office is filled with them. But the Imperial egg is locked away. Why not put it out for everyone to enjoy?”
“Because I prefer not to,” Deryabin said, as if closing off any further discussion.
“Have you thought more about putting it into auction?”