by Thomas Swan
“English. I need practice.” Yakov took Oxby’s arm and half pulling, half guiding, led the way out of the terminal.
Yakov Ilyushin might have been an inch or two taller than Oxby, but he was slightly stooped because the left leg below the knee had been amputated when he was eleven. He had lost it during the siege of Leningrad when he and thousands of others lost fingers and limbs in the record cold winter of 1941. Yakov had a narrow face with high cheekbones. His eyes were fully rounded and colored a warm brown and over each were wispy, gray eyebrows. A quite normal nose seemed large in his drawn-in face. His mouth was a circle made up of full lips, and his teeth were yellowed with here-and-there spots of gold or silver. His stringy hair, long and gray, fell over his ears and touched the collar of his jacket.
Now, barely seventy, Yakov was retired from his position as senior curator in the Russian Museum. Although not as famous as the Hermitage, the Russian Museum held the largest collection of Russian art in the world, outstripping even the Tretyakov Gallery in Moscow. The Oxby-Ilyushin relationship had been forged by their common interest in art, particularly decorative arts, which was at the center of Yakov’s academic career. He was an acknowledged expert in Russian iconology, and a collector to the extent his modest salary permitted. Oxby had called Yakov to London on two occasions to provide expert testimony on cases involving stolen art objects. Their most important collaboration involved a valuable icon painting by Andrei Rublyov that showed up at a Sotheby auction. Yakov testified that the painting had been stolen by a German army officer during the war, and somehow Yakov had uncovered the official sales records and established an unassailable provenance for the painting.
Yakov had been recruited by Oxby to direct all his skills toward discovering whether or not Rasputin had commissioned Fabergé to create an Imperial egg or if it was merely a persistent rumor that might, at last, be put to rest.
Yakov’s car was a four-door Lada sedan of indeterminate vintage due mostly to the fact that all Ladas of a certain age are exact copies of all the others. Like rings in a tree, the age of a well-preserved Russian car could be determined by the layers of its paint. Few, however, contained the accumulated detritus of academia as littered the interior of the car Oxby climbed into.
“Push it aside,” Yakov said. “Probably junk but I can’t throw away anything.” Oxby would hear the same plaintive comment every time he entered the cluttered relic. Despite appearances, the engine started up immediately and within minutes they had driven off the airport grounds and turned onto the M20, traveling north toward St. Petersburg. Though a veteran traveler, Oxby felt the keen exhilaration that invariably accompanied a new experience. He observed the landscape, the cars, buses, and trucks on the highway, and the surprisingly few buildings they passed. Just then they went by a new Coca-Cola bottling plant, sparkling in its bright red and white colors.
Oxby broke the brief silence, “I hadn’t any idea what to expect, but . . .” He made a sweeping gesture.” Except for driving on the right side of the road it looks to me like an approach to any one of our big cities.”
“Petersburg is Russia’s second largest city and this is our main highway. When you drive into London from Heathrow Airport, it is a hundred times more exciting than this uneventful drive.”
“Inhaling the exhaust from a thousand lorries isn’t my idea of excitement. Frankly, I prefer this.”
“No more complaints,” Yakov said. “I won’t spoil your first trip to Petersburg.”
“Since we talked,” Oxby said, “have you had any luck with your search to find the Rasputin Imperial egg?”
“I’ve accomplished one thing. This rumor, this seventy-year-old rumor, has new life, thanks to me.”
“Why is that?”
“I wrote a brief story about Rasputin and Fabergé and put it in one of our newspapers. I chose Nevskoye Vremia.” Yakov pulled a folded newspaper page from his pocket and handed it to Oxby. “It is in Russian, of course, but it has caused several old people to write to me. And my friends in museums call to joke and ask if I am ready to pay rewards for any person who can find Rasputin’s egg.”
“That’s it? No response worth a follow-up?”
“Not thus far. But I am encouraged to put the story in our other newspapers. A friend who knows about computers will put it on what I think you call the Internews.”
“The Internet,” Oxby corrected. “I’m sure it’s the same in Russia.”
Yakov laughed. “My computer is old and was given to me by the museum. I think it is more decoration for my home than to make my work more easy.”
“Do you believe the Rasputin rumor?”
“I wish to say to you that I heard long ago these rumors about Fabergé and Rasputin, rumors that many of us wanted to believe. Then came the war and rumors of such things were not important.” Yakov swerved to avoid a minivan that cut in front of him. He leaned on the horn and swore in English for Oxby’s benefit. “The young ones. They think only of themselves.”
“They do it in London, too,” Oxby said, and reached anxiously for the seat belt that wasn’t there. He turned to his friend. “You haven’t answered my question. Do you believe the rumor?”
Yakov replied, with a wince, “You know that Rasputin was demonized so much you could not recognize who he was. Just now he is being rediscovered for being a simple and holy man with mystic powers. Not so sinister, or evil.”
“You are not answering my question. Do you believe Rasputin asked Fabergé to make an Imperial egg?”
“If it is true,” Yakov replied, evading a simple yes-or-no response, “it is also possible he cast a spell over it.”
“A curse, you mean?”
“Not as you mean a curse. Not to cause harm or evil to another person. Blagoslovennyi, I wish to say, a Russian word that has positive meaning . . . as blessed. Imagine that this egg has power over evil. That you would say is blessed.” Yakov glanced at Oxby. “Can you believe that?”
Oxby thought for a moment. “I suppose. Here in your country there are spirits and supernatural beings. Is that what you mean?”
“We have no more spirits than in England, or Greece, or, I would think, America. Remember there is no doubt that Rasputin had his wicked moments, but wicked in matters of the flesh, and in social ways. His sexual appetite was you say gargantuan.” He winked. “And alcohol was a problem. That was true, we know. But in Russia, that can be a sign of his manhood.”
They slowed and merged with traffic entering a wide street. Yakov said, “This is the Nevsky Prospekt, our most important avenue. Farther east are shops and beyond is our Neva River and Hermitage. I live a few minutes from here. Not in that large building ahead, I am afraid.”
“It’s monstrous,” Oxby said. “What is it?”
“It was many things, like the other old palaces in Petersburg. Now it is called the Youth Palace, but it was originally the Anichkov Palace, named for a captain whose regiment built it. But Anichkov never lived in it.”
The name and the little bit of history that went with it meant nothing to Oxby and he smiled indulgently, knowing he had heard the first of many mini-lessons his scholarly host would deliver in the days ahead. If he were to ask who had lived in the palace, Yakov would tell him. And much more and all of it would be interesting, but easily forgotten.
“This is Liteyny Prospekt where we are turning,” Yakov said. “Go straight and you come to Bolshoi Dom. It means large building and was where KGB offices were until the breakup. They call it by other names, but it is old KGB.”
Again Yakov turned, “This is Belinskogo Ulitsa. Ulitsa is street and Prospekt means avenue. Okay?”
Oxby nodded with a smile, thankful for the language lesson.
It was a narrow street and immediately Yakov turned into a dirt-and-cinder-topped parking area. He stopped. “This is where I live,” pointing to the building on the corner of Liteyny and Belinskogo. “I have made maps for where you will want to go. There,” he pointed, “three hundred meters, is the R
eka Fontanka, the Fountain River. You will see it. There are buildings and apartments along the embankment. Some are very pretty.
“From here, even I can walk to the Russian Museum, though I do it rarely. There are shops along Liteyny Prospekt and it is five minutes to our metro that is surrounded by food kiosks.”
Yakov’s apartment was on the first floor, in the rear of a stone and brick building that had been constructed in 1877, the year Russia declared war on Turkey. The historical note was another small lesson passed on by Yakov. A corridor ran from the entry hall back to Yakov’s apartment, a distance of twenty-five feet, and had a stone floor. The stuccoed walls were painted in a color that was becoming familiar to Oxby; one he labeled industrial yellow. But Oxby was only able to see the color of the walls for the first few feet. Beyond, the corridor was in complete darkness.
“I am sorry, Jack,” Yakov said. “They steal my light bulbs. I try, but I cannot stop them.”
“Who steals them?”
“Perhaps Makarova in apartment 11, or Krasikov in 16, or the Skokov children in 19.” He shrugged. “I put in new ones and before you blink, they will be gone.”
It was clearly not an unexpected inconvenience because Yakov took out a pocket flashlight and shone a light on the floor for Oxby’s benefit. As they approached the end of the corridor, Yakov raised the light and it shone on the door to his apartment.
On the door was a large, bulging envelope, held there by strips of bright orange duct tape. “You have a present, Yakov.”
“Nyeht,” Yakov said and pulled away the tape. “I don’t get packages this way. Someone is playing a joke.”
Yakov turned a key in two locks and opened the door. The apartment was as black as the corridor they had just passed through, except for little orange and green lights that glowed from a clock or from what Oxby assumed were Yakov’s accumulation of electronic devices. Yakov said, “Stay where you are until I put lights on.”
The flashlight shone on a lamp. Yakov switched it on, and quickly turned on another. Oxby entered the apartment and found he was standing in a small room, tiny actually, and square-shaped. There was a door in three of the walls, and in each door were panels of painted glass. There was also a table and a bookshelf that ran from floor to ceiling. In the fourth wall were two narrow doors, one to a tiny room that contained the toilet, the other to a room with sink and small shower/tub. The doors were closed but little bits of light came through the colored glass.
“I will give you our grand tour and find drinks for us, but first this package.”
Yakov placed it on a table. With his pocketknife he cut away the tape and paper to reveal a dark green box approximately five inches in each dimension, and neatly tied with a pale green ribbon. Taped to the box was a business card.
“You may have guessed correctly,” Yakov said, with a semblance of a smile. “I wish to say it is a strange way to send a gift.” He handed the card to Oxby. “It is from the Fabergé shop on Bolshaya Morskaya Street.”
Yakov slipped off the ribbon and opened the box. Inside, wrapped in tissue, was another, smaller box. He opened it and took out a papiermâché Easter egg painted in bright colors. The egg was three inches high and held together with two rubber bands. Yakov turned the egg over in his hand, studying it.
“Strange,” Yakov said. “It is in pieces, but is held together with rubber bands.”
“Unusual gift, if that’s what it is,” Oxby said. “Open it.”
Yakov placed it on the table and when he took away the rubber bands the egg came apart into five pieces. The egg contained yet another package that was two inches long and an inch around. It was wrapped in cloth. Oxby began to unravel the cloth, pressing gently with his fingers, feeling that whatever was inside was in two pieces. When the last of the cloth was removed Oxby was holding a painted, lacquered doll, the kind found in Russian matryoshka, or set of nesting dolls. The head, that of a circus clown, had been torn loose and was crushed.
Yakov took the two pieces and joined the neck to the body. Clearly, he was puzzled. He turned the pieces over and over, searching for an identifying mark, but not finding one. Inside the doll’s body was a folded piece of paper. Gingerly he removed it, unfolded it, and read the brief message. His face paled and he stared with frightened eyes at Oxby. The note slipped from his hands onto the table.
“What is it, Yakov?” Oxby asked, looking at the unfamiliar swirls of the Cyrillic alphabet.
“They warn me not to look for information about Rasputin’s egg. Assteregaisya! they say—Look out! Or your head will be crushed like the doll.”
Oxby grimaced. He gathered the contents of the package in front of him; the tape and Fabergé box, the pieces of the egg, the cloth wrapping, and finally the broken doll and the note he could not read. All of it was evidence. On the job at home, he would package it in plastic bags and hand it to SO-10, who would photograph and examine it, then send it to Lambeth for a workover by Scotland Yard’s great forensic labs.
“Is there anything here that suggests who might have sent this to you? Could a friend be playing a joke?”
Yakov shook his head. “Nothing. The note is printed by typewriter on plain paper. And my friends are not so clever, or so cruel.”
“I don’t know about Russian dolls. But somewhere there is a nest of dolls that is minus this little man.” Oxby glanced at Yakov. “All we have to do is find it.”
Chapter 13
The Lysenkos’ persistence paid off. Viktor and Galina had pored over Lenny Sulzberger’s notebook, struggling to make sense of a strange form of shorthand that defied interpretation. Their training had not prepared them for pages of hieroglyphics laced with Yiddishisms and homemade notations probably picked up from his recently departed Japanese roommate. It wasn’t that Lenny had devised a personal language for secrecy purposes, it was just his way. But Viktor spotted an opening. Mixed in with all the gibberish were simple abbreviations, which when plucked out, could be understood.
Lenny had headed his notes with the capital letters MC, an apparent reference to Michael Carson, and throughout his notes had used a capital M for Michael. And similarly he had found it easier to write ENGLWD-RX, than render it in an undecipherable scribble. Using this information, Galina and Viktor began to make phone calls to Patient Information in the North Shore University Hospital and to the Englewood Hospital and Medical Center. After hours of continuous telephoning, on June 3 just before noon, Viktor learned that Sasha Akimov would be transferred by private ambulance to Englewood Hospital and Medical Center in Englewood, New Jersey, on the following day, June 4, at 9:00 P.M.
Now Viktor and Galina could set in motion the plan that they had created even before they knew the name of the hospital where Akimov would be transferred.
The Estonian had doggedly maintained twice-daily communication and had flashed the words of Oleg Vladimirovich Deryabin: “Any failure by the Lysenkos in dealing with the Akimov matter will not be tolerated. In such event, they will no longer be needed.”
“What Oleg means,” Trivimi explained, “there will be no excuses and no discussion. You will be . . .” He had paused before finishing the sentence. “Let go.”
Deryabin’s message was thinly veiled and ominous. It meant both he and Galina would be hunted down and killed. Destroy the evidence.
The threat had angered Viktor. “We shall see who is needed and who is not.”
The Ford Taurus Viktor had rented was gone and in its place was a black Grand Am with red stripes. Do not hold on to a rental car for more than three days was one of many commandments he had learned during his training. Though he had been cautioned to stay with popular American models, the kind that were like so many others on the road, Viktor’s personal taste in automobiles favored power and maneuverability. He stretched the rules and chose the Pontiac with a big engine and a dashboard reminiscent of a jet airplane. The catechism further required a change of address every three days or every other day if there was the slightest chance he and Gal
ina might be under surveillance.
While Viktor shopped the rental agencies for his car, Galina took on the job of finding a new place to stay. She chose a small hotel, the Adria, centrally located in Bayside on Northern Boulevard. It was accessible to the major expressways, thirty minutes to Kennedy Airport, out of the way, and had an enclosed parking area
Without consulting Viktor, she phoned an old friend from St. Petersburg, the only person in New York that she knew. Pavel Rakov had left Russia in January of 1994, two years after the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics went out of existence. He had gone directly to New York and lived where he told Galina he could see the big river. They had been introduced by Viktor, who later complained that Pavel could not be trusted. But Galina knew that it wasn’t a matter of trust. It was because Pavel had warned her that Viktor was jealous. Even more threatening, he had said that Viktor was an impetuous human time bomb.
Galina needed Pavel’s help. She had brought the little Semmerling pistol with her, carefully packing it in two pieces so that it escaped detection. There had been three bullets in the gun when she packed it, and she had brought additional ammunition in small, oddly shaped tin boxes that would show as a compact or lipstick when her cosmetic case was put through the X-ray line. But mysteriously, or because at the last minute she failed to pack them, extra ammunition had disappeared. Pavel was not anxious to oblige her, but after much imploring, he agreed to bring a quarter of a box of Remington 9mm Luger 88 grain cartridges. They met briefly at an Exxon station a half mile from the motel.
At 10:35 on Wednesday morning, June 4, Mr. and Mrs. Gustav Cernik from Prague signed in at the desk of the Adria Hotel. Their clothes and makeup had converted them to a middle-age couple, average in the usual categories. To all the world, they were a typical husband and wife on their every-other-year visit to America. Mr. Cernik, who walked with a slight but noticeable limp, had asked if passports were required. When told they were not, he had slipped the Czech passports back into his wallet along with a Visa credit card. He said he would pay in U.S. dollars.