The Final Fabergé

by Thomas Swan

  Trivimi loomed tall and gaunt. He stood erect and spoke with his usual ease and soft voice. He extended his hand and Mike took it.

  “I’ve asked Mr. Tobias to join us,” Mike said. “He’s with the New York police department and has been investigating some problems that cropped up around here about ten days ago.”

  Trivimi Laar didn’t flinch, blink, or look anything but pleased to shake hands with Alexander Tobias. Tobias greeted him cordially, then backed away and took a seat at the table.

  Trivimi insisted on making several preliminary statements. He assured Mike that he was grateful for the opportunity to meet, and said that he brought with him the kind wishes from the chairman of Koleso. And he acknowledged that Mike had made a brilliant success of his life in a short time and under extremely difficult circumstances. And finally, Trivimi proclaimed that Mike had greatly honored his Russian tradition.

  Mike listened patiently, accepting the flattery that he recognized was half ceremony and half preamble to the sales pitch that was about to come.

  Mike returned to his seat at the head of the table and motioned for Trivimi to sit next to him. Trivimi placed a thin briefcase on the table and placed a small box beside it. He took some papers from the briefcase.

  “These are in Russian,” he said, referring to the papers he placed on the table. “I apologize, but there was no time to make translations.”

  “I read Russian better than I speak it,” Mike said.

  Trivimi put his blue-tinted glasses on the table beside the box. “As you will remember from our conversation, Koleso is a subsidiary of New Century, which in America might be called a mini-conglomerate.” He turned to Tobias and smiled. “Koleso means wheel in Russian, a name we think will appeal to our young people.” Tobias smiled back, pleased to be included in the conversation.

  “American cars, the big ones, are popular in our cities. We hope to bring late models to St. Petersburg. In special cases we would try to match what the buyer wants. For example, a year-old Cadillac that is black and with a sunroof.”

  “Isn’t that happening now?” Mike asked.

  “In a small way, but in all of St. Petersburg, there are not thirty places to buy a car. And for repairs, it is very difficult.”

  “You will have mechanics?” Mike asked. “Good ones?”

  “We will get only the good ones.”

  “Tell me how my company fits your plans.”

  “You have many showrooms. And they are all located on this coast of America. Is that not right?”

  “We’re sitting in number 24. We go from Boston to Miami.”

  “I believe I know where they are.” He produced a map. A red dot representing each Carson Motors dealership was spotted along the East Coast. “Is this correct?”

  Mike studied the map, moving his finger from Boston south. “You have them all. Except we moved out of Washington into Virginia a few weeks ago.”

  Trivimi made the correction. “Just so. There are three ports on the East Coast where cars can be shipped. Newark, Baltimore, and Jacksonville.”

  “We’ve shipped cars to Europe from all of them. Plus Providence.”

  “We are aware of that,” Trivimi said.

  Mike reacted to Trivimi’s comment, wondering what else he knew about Carson Motors. He said, “Who will supply the vehicles?”

  “We thought of buying from other dealers, but we prefer to deal only with you.”

  “There will be papers and forms to complete. And every car must be prepped.”

  “What is this prepped?”

  Mike grinned. “An inspection. To make sure the cars are in good condition.”

  “You will do that,” Trivimi agreed. “You will also prepare the documents for the shipping company and U.S. customs.”

  “We must have what is called a title for every car. A dock receipt can’t be issued unless the vehicle’s VIN number matches the title exactly. There are customs police in the yards and on the docks. They search for stolen vehicles and look for counterfeit paperwork.”

  “I have heard of this VIN. It is what, exactly?”

  “Every car sold in America has an identification number that contains seventeen numbers or letters. The first number is for the country where the vehicle was made. The second number is for the name of the maker, the third is the vehicle classification, and so forth to seventeen. The number is engraved on a metal or plastic plate and concealed at three different places on the vehicle. One is under the windshield, and can only be replaced or altered by taking off the glass. One may be located where it requires special tools to find it. When customs suspects a stolen car is being shipped out of the country, they will check all the VIN locations in that vehicle for a counterfeit number. From experience, I know they can be tough on cars going to Russia.”

  “Everything will be legal. I assure you.” Trivimi referred to his notes. “Next, you will put the car on board a ship?”

  “No. We will deliver the car to a stevedore contractor, along with the title and delivery instructions. The stevedore then prepares dock receipts and notarized copies of the title. Our driver will park the vehicle inside the security gates, the stevedore will tell him exactly where it is to go. That is the last time we will touch it. The vehicle will be tagged with shipping information and at a later time it will be driven onto a ship by a stevedore. The contractor charges a fee for each car. We will pay the fees and bill you for reimbursement.”

  Trivimi nodded, slipped off his steel-rimmed glasses and replaced them with the blue-tinted pair. He added to the notes he had been taking, then looked up. “We come to the costs,” he said. “I hope that today I can give you a trial order to see how a permanent relationship between our companies can be arranged. If that order is for fifteen cars, how much will it cost?”

  “What kind of cars? What model year?”

  “We start with Cadillac and maybe work down from there.”

  “The Seville or Fleetwood or the least expensive model?”

  “In the middle. Not the top, not the bottom.”

  Mike searched among the papers in front of him. “I can sell you a year-old Seville SLS for twenty-six thousand dollars. A little more or less, it will depend on what we’ve got in the system. That’s an average price.”

  “If it is two years old?” Trivimi asked.

  Mike looked at his numbers. “Five thousand less. Maybe twenty-one thousand.”

  “What are the other costs?”

  “Prep, delivery to the port, paperwork. Another three hundred and fifty. Including the stevedore.”

  “For an Oldsmobile or a Pontiac. How much?”

  “Eleven to fifteen. Average cost about thirteen-five. The other costs are the same.”

  Trivimi put a pocket calculator to work, punching in numbers, grimacing each time he hit the subtotal button. “Fifteen cars, a year old, split ten Cadillacs and five Oldsmobiles, will cost . . .” He printed the numerals, large and bold on the paper.” A little more than three hundred and thirty thousand dollars.”

  “Add shipping costs. Those cars will have to go through Bremerhaven and be transferred to another ship into St. Petersburg. Another thousand per car should cover it.”

  “Three hundred fifty thousand. An average of about twenty-three thousand a car.”

  “How much will you sell them for?”

  Trivimi smiled. “More than twenty-three thousand.”

  “Are you giving me an order for fifteen cars?”

  “Before I leave I will tell you how many of which models we will order from you.”

  “You must pay all the costs before the cars are shipped to the port.”

  “All costs, you say?”

  “We’ve never done business before. So I can’t accept credit terms. Only full payment. Perhaps later, if we have a permanent arrangement between our companies, we can make credit arrangements through one of our banks.”

  “How long will it take for you to find the cars and make them ready for shipment?”

/>   “Less than a week.”

  Trivimi nodded, showing a little surprise, as such a transaction in Russia would require several months and involve a half mile of bureaucratic red tape.

  Mike had additional questions regarding the pending and more permanent affiliation with Koleso; nuts-and-bolts types of details. He asked about insurance and liability and said he would require a guarantee against fraud or the risk of forwarding stolen vehicles.

  “We will guarantee every car we sell you to have a clean title. But understand this. When you buy expensive late-model cars on the open market, expect to find that one out of every twenty is a stolen car. It goes with the territory.”

  “I understand,” Trivimi said. “You can expect that Koleso will have everything in correct order. We will see to that.”

  “Do you have a lawyer? An American lawyer?”

  Trivimi searched his pockets. “The lawyer is in Brooklyn. That is New York, correct? And like you,” Trivimi said with an ingratiating smile, “he is a young Russian who came to this country and is very successful.” He found a business card and handed it to Mike.

  “I’ll have our lawyer contact him.” Mike wrote out a name and phone number and gave it to Trivimi.

  “I will do this today.” The Estonian put his worksheets and folders in his briefcase and exchanged the blue-tinted glasses for the steel-rimmed ones. He turned to Tobias.

  “What do you think, Detective Tobias. This is a good business?”

  “You’re out of my league. I drive a Chevy Prizm.”

  Trivimi said, “There will be very big profits for everyone.”

  “Very big doesn’t mean everything,” Mike rejoined. “A 15 percent return on investment, with minimum risk. That’s when I get interested. When I build a new showroom, I know exactly how much profit I will make after two years, and after five.”

  “Russia will someday be a rich country. The richest in the world!”

  “But America is the richest. No waiting for it to happen.”

  There was no arguing the point. Trivimi said, “Is there some other information I can get for you?”

  “No. I’ll call you if I think of something.”

  Trivimi put his papers back into his briefcase, leaving behind the proposal. “Now that our business is concluded, I would like to present a gift from our company.” Trivimi opened the box that he had put on the table at the beginning of the meeting. From it he took a package wrapped in a luxurious gold paper. It was a small package, and Trivimi handed it to Mike ceremoniously.

  Mike knew that Russians liked to give and receive gifts, and to refuse would be an insult. He took the box and placed it on top of the papers in front of him.

  “Open it,” Trivimi said. “I think you will be pleased.”

  Mike unwrapped the box and opened it. The gift was a silver and enamel charka, a drinking cup. The bowl was chased with miniature icons, the side straps and edges of the cup set with crimson red rubies. Mike turned it over admiringly. Indeed, he thought to himself that the cup might be worth several thousand dollars.

  “You like it?” Trivimi said.

  “It is much too generous.”

  Alex Tobias looked on, an amused expression on his sunny face. He said, “It’s a beautiful gift. Is it by chance the work of Peter Fabergé?”

  “How did you know?” Mike exclaimed. “Look at the inscription.” He handed him the cup. “On the bottom.”

  Tobias studied the silverwork and the stones with a professional eye, then turned it over to see the markings.

  “I’ve seen some bad imitations of Fabergé’s work. It’s much more enjoyable when I know I’m holding the real thing.”

  Tobias handed the cup to Mike, then faced Trivimi. He said, “Trivimi Laar is an interesting name, but it doesn’t have a Russian sound to it. Are you Russian?”

  Trivimi shook his head. “My name,” he said proudly, “is Estonian. It was also my grandfather’s. Parts of Estonia have been governed at one time or another by every country that surrounds it. The Soviet Union, most recently. We protect ourselves by learning everyone’s language. I learned to speak Russian when I was very young.”

  “And you speak English very well,” Tobias said.

  “English is the world language.”

  “May I ask another question?”

  “Of course. And I will answer, if I can.”

  “Not quite two weeks ago, a young woman came through that door and shot a man who stood exactly where you are standing. We don’t know who that woman was, but we do know that the man was named Sasha Akimov. He had come to America to visit Mr. Carson. Akimov survived the bullet wound, but not an overdose of a drug that was secretly given to him four days after he was shot.”

  Alex Tobias talked slowly, pausing between sentences, carefully evaluating every tiny reaction Trivimi made while listening to the tragedy of Sasha Akimov’s first and final visit to America.

  “Is it possible that you knew Sasha Akimov?”

  The Estonian looked from one face to the other, settling on Alex’s. He said, unblinking, “No, I did not know him.”

  Chapter 23

  Even as the airplane gained altitude, the air that whooshed noisily from the vents in the overhead did little to relieve the oppressive heat in the cabin. Not until they had leveled out was the stale, hot air of Tashkent replaced with the cool, dry air scooped up at thirty-five thousand feet. Yakov escaped the torment by falling asleep, his head slowly listing and coming to rest against Jack Oxby’s shoulder.

  Oxby had not recorded the details that had filled the previous thirty-six hours and had begun to compile a chronological account of all that had transpired. An hour into the flight he put down his pen and looked down to the vast emptiness of the land below. The air was clear, not a cloud between him and the vast Muyunkum Desert in neighboring Kazakhstan.

  He closed his notebook. His thoughts returned to a room in a converted military academy that had been Vasily Karsalov’s haven, home, and prison. He remembered the events as if they were unfolding before him on a motion picture screen.

  The burst of violence that broke out in room 411 brought death to Vasily Karsalov and, in a bizarre twist of events, the same fate to the man who had thrust a knife into Vasily’s chest. When Yakov Ilyushin finally returned, he brought Tonya and a man with a thick, black beard. They stared, helpless and horrified, at the sight of Vasily slumped in his chair, covered by his own blood, wet and glistening. Lying on the floor, his head turned as if he were curious to see who had come into the room, was the dark-haired intruder. One eye was open and staring wildly, protruding from the other was the handle of the knife.

  It would have been charitable to say that the man who returned with Yakov was a doctor. But whatever his specialty may have been, it did not include traumatic injury. He stared at the dead men, blanched, spoke to Tonya, then rushed from the room.

  “Nikitin is a dental assistant,” Tonya said. “There was no one else to bring. He will arrange to have the bodies taken away.”

  Oxby went to the man lying on the floor. “Who the bloody hell is this? And who sent him?” He had stared at the awful sight until he could tolerate it no longer and got onto one knee and slowly wrapped his fingers around the heavy knurled handle of the knife. For an instant his stomach muscles tightened as if they might explode, then the nausea subsided and he pulled the knife free. Blood over the eye had begun to darken. Oxby closed the other eye. He stood, still staring at the face, a handsome face he realized for the first time.

  Oxby had asked Tonya if she would report the killing to the police. Her reply was perfunctory. “This is a military hospital. The general’s office will make that decision.”

  Oxby had not waited to observe whatever protocol still existed. “We’ll look at his belongings. There may be jewelry or family mementos that should be returned to his wife. Or his son.”

  “The veterans who die are usually without any family. They have no possessions. Nothing to pass on.”

&n
bsp; “Will he get a proper burial?” Yakov asked.

  “Sometimes yes . . . sometimes—” Tonya didn’t finish.

  It seemed there was little for Oxby and Yakov to account for in Vasily Karsalov’s tiny empire. On the wall were prints in thin black frames and two small icons that had been valuable only to Vasily. The old furniture was worthless, and the clothes that hung in a musty armoire were tattered and soiled. In the chest of drawers they found what remained of his pathetic wardrobe. Oxby searched his pockets and found a piece of cloth that served as a handkerchief, scraps of paper neatly folded with notes scribbled in a tiny scrawl on each, a couple of pencils, and no money.

  On the table beside the bed was a brass lamp with a torn shade, and a radio that dated to the 1960s. Neither appeared to be in working condition, yet Oxby discovered they both did, though the thin sound of music that came from the radio was accompanied by a high whistle. Next to the radio was a calendar. Xs had been penciled over each day through June 9, a nightly ritual Oxby surmised. Oxby X’d out the 10th, the final day of Vasily Karsalov’s life.

  There was also a small stack of books; a Russian-English dictionary, a few paperbacks, a thin book of poetry, and a well-thumbed anthology of the works of Mark Twain with little slips of paper marking favorite passages in The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.

  There was a single, deep drawer in the table. The contents were neatly separated by boxes of varying size and arranged as neatly as a museum presentation. One of the boxes contained jewelry; brooches and earrings along with a man’s rings and a pair of cuff links. In another were pipes and pipe reamers, cigarette lighters, and empty matchboxes. In one were small tools including pliers, screwdrivers, and assorted small wrenches. Two boxes were filled with photographs. Two more were stuffed full with old notepads and sheets of paper clipped together and a package of postcards and letters tied with a length of thick, brown string. In one small box was a wristwatch. Oxby recognized the name. It was Bure, worth more than all of Vasily’s possessions combined. Both hands pointed to 12. Noon or midnight, Oxby wondered.