The Final Fabergé

by Thomas Swan

  “How will you do that?”

  “We will do it. The first step we’ll take is to return to the Naval Offices where you will find the records of a man named Deryabin who served alongside Vasily Karsalov and has a first name that contains four letters.”

  Chapter 31

  “These toxins are elaborated by soil bacteria,” the bearded, slight little man intoned in a manner that might resonate in a biochemistry classroom. He held two bottles in his hand. They were two inches square and three quarters of an inch thick and made of heavy glass. They were sealed closed with a heavy cap over which was a molded, clear plastic overwrap. He handed one to Oleg Deryabin, the one that contained a small amount of a gray powder.

  “Anthrax,” he said solemnly. “The activity is at the limits of our laboratory’s capability, but exceeds by a wide margin the specifications we were supplied. We have found excellent sources for the bacteria, most especially in the farm country along the Volkhov River south of here. Three bottles of the size you are holding could, depending on the method of dispersion and density of the population, disable ten thousand people.”

  Oleg eyed the contents respectfully, then gingerly placed it next to the second bottle on a table that was in the center of a “clean” room, one of four rooms that comprised the premises of Neva Specialty, the little enterprise which produced perfumes that paralleled the high quality of the world’s most famous fragrances. The division employed two laboratory technicians, led by the biochemist Maurice, who was skilled in duplicating haut parfum.

  The room was windowless and the ceiling, walls, floor, and table were covered with a glistening white vinyl. Though the air was scrubbed and filtered, an unmistakable hint of a delicate odor came from the ceiling vents. Deryabin sat, motioning for Maurice and Trivimi Laar to join him. All three wore pale blue coveralls as well as hoods and goggles, and their shoes had been replaced with cloth boots laced tight below the knees.

  Deryabin fidgeted with an unlit cigarette he was dying to put a match to. He said, “Time is important, as well as the purity of the toxin.”

  The Estonian reached toward the two bottles, not sure of which to pick up, then, thinking better of it, pointed a long finger at the bottle next to the one that contained anthrax. “Are there Clostridia toxins in this bottle?”

  Maurice pushed the jar in front of Trivimi. “That bottle contains ten grams, or a third of an ounce of a mixture of Clostridium botulinum, type A and B toxins, and I will warn you, it is potentially an overwhelming amount.”

  “How much can you produce in a week?” Deryabin asked.

  “A problem,” Maurice said. “Our equipment is only sufficient to produce sample quantities. It is slow and hazardous work to make larger amounts.”

  “I asked how much you can produce in a week,” Deryabin said impatiently.

  “As much as that bottle will hold. Thirty grams.”

  “Only that?” Deryabin asked.

  “This laboratory is designed to make small quantities of perfume, not toxins of such virulence.” Maurice drew himself up, and said proudly, “It is a major accomplishment to produce these toxins in any quantity.”

  “Can you produce thirty grams each week until October 1? That would be fifteen weeks, or about 450 grams. A little less than half a kilogram.”

  “I cannot promise that. It would be too dangerous. And we could not make perfume during that time.”

  “How much can you promise?” Deryabin insisted.

  “We will do our best to make thirty grams a week. But, week in, week out? I cannot promise that much. We do the best we can.”

  Deryabin pulled off his hood and slapped it against his thigh. “What would it take to bring in larger equipment? The kind that would let you make five kilograms by October 1?”

  “There’s no money for new equipment,” Trivimi said.

  Deryabin shut the Estonian off with a glare and eyed Maurice. “How much?”

  “Expensive,” Maurice said. “Then it must be shipped and installed.”

  “How much and how long?” Deryabin persisted.

  “There is a source in Zurich that can supply what is needed for, I will guess, a hundred thousand Swiss francs. To ship and install would take six weeks.”

  “Leaving nine weeks to produce five kilograms of Clostridia toxins. You could do that?”

  “Please, this is not boric acid we are making.” Maurice picked up the bottle and held it uncomfortably close to Deryabin’s face. “I cannot describe the risk. The very slightest breath of what is in this jar can mean a horrible sickness. Or death.”

  Deryabin glared at his chemist. “I pay you to solve problems, not whine about them. I ask again. With more equipment, can you produce five kilograms in nine weeks?”

  Maurice put up his hands in mock surrender. “It would be possible to produce a half kilogram a week.”

  The answer, which Deryabin computed to mean four and a half kilograms, satisfied him. He relaxed and seemed about to adjourn the meeting when Trivimi spoke up. The Estonian had listened patiently and had heard the unspoken caveats that Maurice had been bullied into letting go unsaid.

  Trivimi said, “As we are unable to spend a thousand Swiss francs for new laboratory equipment, it is impossible for us to spend a hundred thousand.”

  “Find the fucking money!” Deryabin shouted. “I will not let this opportunity go past us.”

  Trivimi responded, “You are ahead of yourself, Oleshka. No price was set on the toxins, and we agreed only to ship a trial quantity. Five kilograms was your idea. Half a kilogram would be more than enough, that is somewhat more than a pound. Am I correct, Maurice?”

  Maurice nodded and said that it was.

  Trivimi continued, “If the sample quantity is approved, we will receive a larger order and demand partial payment in advance. Then Maurice can order his new equipment.”

  Deryabin flicked on his lighter, then extinguished the flame with his thumb. Nervously he did it a half dozen more times before snapping the lighter closed.

  Trivimi said, “Maurice has told us he can make thirty grams a week with his present equipment. Maybe a little less, but I believe that is all right.”

  Deryabin bit on his lip. “Then get on with it.”

  Maurice stared first at Trivimi, then at Deryabin. “Monsieurs, you must know that while I said it was possible to produce a half kilogram of Clostridia toxins, you must also know that there will be a great risk in using only laboratory instruments to accomplish it.”

  Deryabin rose from his chair. “You repeat yourself too much. Your responsibility is to assure me that no mistakes are made.”

  Maurice nodded, but not enthusiastically. “I make no promises. Remember that until October, we will not make any perfumes.”

  “We will survive,” Deryabin said.

  “You asked for an empty bottle,” Maurice said, and pushed one in front of Deryabin.

  “Is it absolutely empty and clean?” Deryabin roared. He inspected the bottle minutely, but without touching it. After Maurice assured him that the bottle had, in fact, been sterilized, he picked it up, and walked from the room, leaving the bewildered scientist alone at the table wondering what sort of mad person he was dealing with.

  The Estonian joined Deryabin and both removed their coveralls and boots.

  Deryabin handed the bottle to Trivimi. “You see the size, and the shape? It will fit exactly into the battery.”

  The Estonian wrapped his long fingers around the bottle. “Excellent,” he said. Then he added, “You gave Maurice a difficult assignment. If it is too much for him, there could be trouble.”

  Deryabin slipped on his shoes. “It is my job to give Maurice his orders. It is your job to make certain he carries them out.”

  Chapter 32

  Oxby chose to use a telephone in the Grand Hotel Europe rather than risk calling Alex Tobias from the phone in Yakov’s apartment. Odds that a tap had been put on Yakov’s phone were reasonably high, and so the inspector felt more co
mfortable aligning himself on the side of caution.

  There were other benefits; the Grand Europe served rare African coffee, was private, and he could bill the charges to a credit card. He could also have a lunch of smoked salmon in the Brasserie, better even than a rare indulgence in the Grill Room of London’s Connaught Hotel.

  Yakov, along with Mikki, had gone early to his district office, a kind of municipal government agency that was a holdover from the old days, and where now a new breed of civil servant plied their trade in the same old obstinate ways that prevailed under the Soviet. He was appealing for his back pension payments, and permission to book entry into the polyclinic. The stump on his leg had become uncomfortable and he was due for a replacement prosthesis. From the district office, Yakov would continue on to the Naval Records Office and join Oxby.

  Oxby placed the call at 7:00 A.M. New York time, confident that Tobias would be shaving or on to his first cup of coffee. Wrong.

  “I’ve been up for over an hour, read the paper, and had made up my mind to go off to work whether you called or not.”

  “How were the fish?”

  “God knows I spent the weekend with a hammer in my hand. What’s with you, Jack? You gave me plenty to worry about.”

  “Sorry, I might have laid it on a bit thick. My real problem is that I can’t see who or what I’m up against. I began to think I should consult the local police.”

  “Why the hell don’t you?”

  “In this country the police come in two flavors, and I’m not sure where I’d be welcome. They’ve got the militia and the procurator, and if you don’t know your politics, you don’t know which one to see.”

  “Can you get help from your British consulate?”

  “They’ll tell me to get my nose out of the mess.”

  “Aren’t you staying with a national? A homegrown Russian native?”

  “Yakov’s Russian, all right, and an intellectual who doesn’t trust the police either.”

  “I thought the days of the evil empire were over.”

  “Replaced by what they loosely refer to as free enterprise. I’m playing it as safe as I can.”

  “I got back to the city on Monday and had a meeting that generated a little news you might be interested in.”

  “You saw Kip Forbes?”

  “Afraid not. He’s in Colorado. I did better than dig up some dry, old information about Fabergé’s eggs.”

  “How’s that?”

  “It’s your nickel, so listen carefully. Before I went up to the lake, I was asked if I’d help out on a nutty case that involved a guy who got shot in the TriBeCa section of Manhattan. He’s a writer, a little loopy, but I like him. He got a hell of a scare along with getting shot a couple of times. Took a hit in a thigh and another in his right buttock where it hurts like hell, so right now he’s nursing a couple of bad sores. At any rate, I thought I was through with this sort of thing, but schedules are screwed up with guys on vacation. So I said okay and first thing you know I’m in a brand-new Cadillac dealership talking to a young Russian who’s got more smarts than any ten car dealers I’d ever met.”

  “A young Russian?”

  “How about that? Told me he left St. Petersburg when he was a kid. Went to London, learned to speak English, then New York where he put himself through school. That’s when he got into selling cars and today he’s got a couple dozen showrooms up and down the East Coast.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “He changed it to a good old American name. Would you believe Mike Carson? Not bad for someone selling automobiles, don’t you think?”

  “That’s what I think, Alex. Go ahead.”

  “Well, it seems there’s an outfit in St. Petersburg that wants Carson to buy and prep late-model American luxury cars—mostly Caddys and Olds—and ship them to St. Petersburg.”

  “It’s getting better. Go on.”

  “The guy that was doing the negotiating for the St. Petersburg outfit is Estonian. Last name’s spelled L-A-A-R. His company is called Koleso. If you don’t know, that means ‘wheel’ in Russian.”

  Oxby was getting a language lesson from his friend in New York. He smiled. “Move along, Alex, remember it’s my nickel.”

  “Two and half weeks ago Carson had a surprise visit from an old gent named Sasha Akimov. Akimov was—”

  “Hold on!” Oxby exclaimed. Say the name again?”

  “Sasha Akimov.”

  “Okay. Akimov paid a visit to Carson. Go on.”

  “They were having a discussion when a woman burst in on them and put a nine millimeter in Akimov’s throat.”

  “Kill him?”

  “No, that didn’t kill him. He died a few days later after a nurse with a Russian accent needled him with sodium pentobarbital.”

  “Russian nurse? Are you being serious?”

  “I think it was the same woman who shot him, but we don’t have evidence to prove it. And I know damned well we couldn’t find her if we had any. I’ll say that whoever it was went to hell of a lot of trouble to finish the job.”

  “Why did Akimov go all that distance to see Carson?”

  “He knew Mike’s family, claimed he first saw Mike when he was a day old. He was going on about the family and the old country, then bang!”

  “What was Carson’s name before he changed it?”

  “I got it here . . . Karsalov. Mikhail Karsalov.”

  “Incredible,” Oxby said, “bloody incredible. What’s this got to do with the shooting in TriBeCa?”

  Alex gave an abridged version of the Lenny Sulzberger saga.

  “Do you know if Carson’s mother is alive?”

  “Mike said he wasn’t sure, but thought she might be.”

  “What else did Akimov have to say?”

  Tobias retold Akimov’s story of the card game, and how Mike’s father gambled and lost a valuable Fabergé egg, and more tragically, how Vasily Karsalov had been accused of murder, presumably confessed to it, and had been sent to Central Asia.

  Oxby did not respond, he was making notes and digesting all that his friend had told him.

  Tobias interrupted the silence. “Jack? You still there?”

  “I’m here. A little stunned, trying to put all this in perspective. What you’ve told me is something damned close to a miracle.”

  Alex laughed. “It’s that good?”

  Immediately after Oxby finished speaking with Alex Tobias, he and Poolya drove to the Naval Records Office. Waiting in his car, alone, was Yakov.

  “Where’s Mikki?” Oxby demanded.

  “Your associate,” Yakov said to Poolya, “asked if he could go to one of the shops over by the metro station. I felt safe in front of all these buildings filled with military people, and said that he could.”

  “How long has he been gone?” Poolya asked, bridling his fury that Mikki had violated instructions.

  “Twenty minutes.”

  Poolya parked alongside the Lada. He carefully examined Yakov’s relic, then applied his tape to both cars.

  Yakov spoke to an officer at the reception desk, pointing first to Oxby, then Poolya, jabbering as best Oxby could determine about relatives and loved ones. A ten dollar bill appeared in Yakov’s hand , one of several Oxby had given him, and the officer, without changing a bored expression, waved all three toward an elevator. Yakov led the way to a series of rooms on the third floor and to a counter where he immediately filled out a two-page form. He asked for an attendant by name, and when she appeared, handed her the form and another ten dollar bill appeared.

  Minutes later they were seated in front of a computer and Yakov was entering the search information he had learned during his previous visit.

  Oxby handed Yakov a page from Karsalov’s diary and pointed at the name.

  Yakov typed in Cyrillic: DERYABIN.

  The computer began a name search. After half a minute, the first of sixteen names appeared, all with a first and middle name or initial. The names appeared randomly, not by age, date
s served, or alphabetical order. Yakov called up each name in the order it appeared, searching for one who had served during the period 1961 to 1973.

  Oxby struggled to read the first few lines of each file, but could not keep up with Yakov, who scanned the information as quickly as he might grab the headlines in the morning newspaper. He would glance at it, then delete it and enter the next name. Twenty minutes into the search Yakov waved to Oxby.

  “Come around here, Jack. This might be it.”

  Oxby moved in front of the monitor and studied the Russian letters. “Damned right! That’s our man. Say the name, Yakov.”

  “Oleg Vladimirovich Deryabin.”

  “Where was he stationed in 1963?”

  Yakov read off the critical dates. “In June of that year he was transferred to the naval base in Tallinn.”

  “That should cinch it,” Oxby said. But to assuage his sense of caution, he instructed Yakov to run a check on all the Deryabins on their list. “It’s no time to rush into a mistake.”

  Oxby stared at the monitor as Yakov called up the records of the remaining naval veterans with the name of Deryabin. None had a fourletter first name, and none matched the dates of service.

  “Bloody damned good.” Oxby beamed. “Let’s get a print out of his record.”

  That accomplished, the trio departed. Mikki was not in sight, and a small crowd was gathered to the side of the building, near to where they had parked their cars. Poolya ran ahead and pushed away the curious throng that was gaping at the broken driver’s side window on Yakov’s Lada. Oxby joined him and stared past shards of glass at the large paving stone that had caused the damage. Along with countless bits of glass, the stone was on the front seat and next to it was a green box tied with pale green ribbon.

  Yakov arrived, stunned to discover that his faithful old automobile had been senselessly damaged. He swore volubly, venting his frustration, asking one or two gods to strike dead whoever had done the deed. He reached for the door handle.

  “Wait,” Oxby said. “We’ve had company, and they’ve got terribly bad manners. Let’s look about and make certain they haven’t left any more surprises.”