by Thomas Swan
He and Poolya checked the tape strips and examined both cars carefully. Poolya probed under Yakov’s car with a pole that had a mirror attached to its end. For good measure, he checked under his car. Only then did Oxby open the door and allow Yakov to brush out the glass and retrieve the green box.
“What have they sent this time?” Yakov asked.
“I’ll open it,” Oxby said, taking the box and feeling its weight, ever suspicious that little packages can pack a deadly wallop. He untied the ribbon, then set the box on the pavement, found a stick and edged the top up and off the box. Inside were loose strips of paper, and nestled in the paper was another small package.
“I wish to say, Jack, these people have little imagination. It is like the first parcel they sent, wrapped in the same cloth. You remember?”
“I remember, but this time it’s not a doll,” Oxby said. He held the little package, kneading it gently, feeling its contours. “I’m afraid I know exactly what it is.”
He began to unravel the cloth. “Be prepared,” he said. “It will not be a pleasant sight.”
When he took away the last of the cloth wrapping, Oxby was holding in the palm of his hand a folded piece of paper and next to it a human finger. Yakov recoiled at the sight of the white skin and blue fingernail. It had been cleanly severed from the hand, though blood had clotted and turned black and scabbed over the bone.
Poolya stared at the finger with professional curiosity. He said, if Oxby understood correctly, that he hoped the poor bastard was unconscious or dead when the finger was lopped off his hand.
Oxby unfolded the note and handed it to Yakov. He read it and unlike his response to the previous warning, showed new resolve. He put the words into English.
Stop your search at once. We can eliminate your protection in a minute’s time. This is the last warning.
Oxby showed the note to Poolya. He said, “They can stop you from protecting us? Is that what they are saying?”
“It is a game. You hire me to protect you, they hire someone to kill me.” Poolya grinned. “But we hire more people to protect me.”
It was like a Ponzi scheme, Oxby thought, only the stakes were murderously high.
Oxby helped Yakov clear his car of the glass. They got into it. “Follow me,” Poolya said. “When I wave my arm, turn right at the next street. Circle the block and come back to where you made the turn. I want to see if you are being followed.”
It was a strategy that won Oxby’s approval. To Oxby’s trained eye, it appeared obvious they were not followed. But Oxby was learning that in Russia the obvious was often too subtle to detect.
It was evening when they returned to the apartment, the sun now shining. Poolya reported to Oxby. “I was surprised that you were not followed.”
“You’re surprised, and I am pleased. I had hoped that Mikki might be following us. Can you guess where he is?”
“Not in the city. He’ll be away until he’s spent his money.” He shook his head. “He’ll never work with us again.”
“You will replace him?”
“Tomorrow there will be a new man.”
Oxby wondered if it was as simple as Poolya was trying to make it. Poolya had called it a game. “Like a round-robin. Even if you lose, you can still compete.”
After supper, Yakov took the papers he had collected that day and placed them on the table. He began translating Oleg Deryabin’s naval records, reading aloud portions, making occasional comments to himself. Oxby reviewed his journal and made additional notes. For an hour neither spoke, each absorbed in the work at hand. Oxby pushed away from the table. He sat quietly, staring at his friend, his expression ranging from amusement to deep concern.
“You have acted bravely in the face of several intimidating experiences today. In fact, you have acted with extraordinary courage through all of these two weeks we’ve been together. Now your life may truly be in danger. I cannot allow you to remain at risk.”
“You are going to leave my apartment?”
“Not only shall I leave, but I will make it abundantly clear to all who will listen that I am the one who is searching for Rasputin’s egg. Not you.”
“If you are concerned about my safety, put it out of your mind. You have brought some excitement into my life and I don’t want to go back to boredom and feeling useless.”
“We are having a language problem,” Oxby said. “Listen carefully to me. You are in danger of being killed. At the very least, you may be seriously injured. I can’t make it any plainer.”
“My English is thoroughly competent, thanks to you. I wish to say that I fully understand the danger, and find in some perverse way that I like it. I’ll make a small bargain with you. Pay for a new window in my beloved car, and I will continue in my role as your deputy assistant investigator.” Yakov rose and found a bottle, two glasses, and slices of dark bread. He returned to the table and poured a golden brown liquid into each glass. “This is Tutovka, a cognac from Karabakh.” He beamed. “In the Caucasus Mountains. You will like it.”
He gave Oxby a glass, then raised his. “Shall we agree? We will see this through and no more talk of your leaving?”
“I have a small bargain, also,” Oxby said. “You shall never, ever go out of my sight without permission.”
“Davay chokhnymsya,” Yakov said, inviting Oxby to clink their glasses. The cognac was strong and it burned Oxby’s throat. He drank all of it, then broke off a piece of the bread and ate it, chewing slowly, considering if his decision to stay in Yakov’s apartment was the right one. He watched Yakov return to his task. Fifteen minutes passed and Yakov announced that had completed translating all of the papers that comprised Deryabin’s naval records.
“Besides the four pages that make up his service record, there were nine additional pages,” Yakov reported. “Three were letters, five were copies of transcripts that dealt with some part of his activities, and one is a portion of a court proceeding. From what I have seen, Deryabin had a successful naval career.”
“In what way?” Oxby asked.
“He was a kapitan tretyego ranga at the time of discharge. That would be the same as commander in your navy. A very high rank for someone so young. I wish to say he was awarded enough medals to cover half his chest, also very special because when he was active there were no hot wars to fight.”
“How many years did he serve?”
“A long time. I think seventeen. Yes, he entered in 1961 and was discharged in May of 1978. But more important, he was transferred to Tallinn in July of 1963. Later he was in Tehran and Cairo. Then to Petersburg in 1971. He was sent to Washington in June of ’73 . . . appointed adjutant to the senior military officer in the Soviet embassy.”
Oxby thought about the Washington assignment, concluding that about that time, when he was thirty-four, Deryabin’s career began to blossom.
“Jack, this will interest you.” Yakov handed Oxby a page. “It is a summary of Deryabin’s testimony at Vasily Karsalov’s murder trial.”
Oxby read the translation. “Interesting isn’t quite the right word. This confirms that Deryabin and Vasily served in the navy together, and according to Deryabin, they were friends. He says that Vasily was a man of good character, but that alcohol was a constant problem for him.”
“Why would that page be in his record?” Yakov wondered.
“To make it appear he had been a loyal friend. Let me see Vasily’s records and your translation of his diaries. I’m putting two and two together and coming up with five.”
Oxby sorted through the paperwork Yakov handed him and made several neat piles. “I’m looking for the transcript that you found in Vasily’s personal records. The original, not your translation.”
Yakov shuffled through his own growing mound of papers, selected several sheets, and handed them to Oxby.
“Come around and look at this,” Oxby said. “Does the name Oleg Deryabin fit here where the first blanked-out area appears?”
Yakov said that it did. �
�And just the last name would fit in all the other blank spaces.”
“I can’t go to court with it, but what I see tells me that Vasily Karsalov didn’t commit murder. But Oleg Deryabin did.”
“I wish to say, Jack, that under the Soviet, such tampering with official records could take place only on orders from a high authority. Under the new enlightenment, an underpaid government clerk will perform the same tiny miracle for a carton of Camel cigarettes. Besides, if the name had not been blanked out, it would be Vasily’s word against Deryabin’s.”
“And Deryabin wins that little skirmish.” Oxby sat back and read all the pages Yakov had translated. “Every entry in his file was put there to add more gloss on a service record that reads like fiction. No one’s that perfect,” he said. “He was given flawless performance evaluations and awarded several dozen commendations. With every bloody commendation he got another medal and a ribbon. Right down to discharge ‘with distinction.’ ”
“There’s one thing more,” Yakov said, handing Oxby a letter. “It is a copy of a letter Deryabin sent to the commandant’s office in which he acknowledges receipt of his pension statement. You see that in spite of all his medals, he will not receive a large check each month. But you can also see that it was dated five months ago and includes Deryabin’s personal and business addresses and telephone numbers.”
“First rate!” Oxby raved. “I will give you odds that the address bureau cannot supply that information and even higher odds that Deryabin paid to have his name permanently stricken from those records.”
“Why?” Yakov asked. “No one lives in secret. And see?” pointing to the letter, “he lives on Stone Island where the tour buses show tourists our most expensive homes.”
“Men like Deryabin are like children playing hide-and-seek,” Oxby said. “They believe if they can’t see you, then you can’t see them.”
Chapter 33
Gino’s Ristorante, with its mystifying Italo-Russo cuisine, had not quite made it as a tourist mecca. It was on the Fontanka Embankment, but on the wrong side of the Nevsky Prospekt, west of the great boulevard by more than a mile. The room was dark, illuminated by candles stuck into stout chianti bottles, the kind that had never held wine, the kind with the straw wrapping that had been made in Thailand. To its credit, garlic and oregano were in the air. The little eatery was quiet, the atmosphere unhurried. Little wonder. It was, except for two tables, empty.
At a table by a window sat a mother, father, and daughter speaking in German. Galina Lysenko sat at a table next to an inside wall beneath an Alitalia Airlines poster. She stared out from behind sunglasses at the entrance, waiting. A waiter poured water in a glass and put the bottle on the table. He gave her a menu and went away. She looked at her watch, then at the family, and back to the entrance. The door opened. A man entered, spied Galina, and walked directly to her table.
It was Poolya. He was dressed as he had been earlier in the day when he accompanied Oxby to the Naval Records Office. His pale blue eyes seemed to pop out from his face, his skin a deep olive in the luteolous candlelight. His shirt was damp and smelled of his sweat. For the hard work he had put in that day he had obviously rewarded himself, for his breath stank from a cheap, sweet wine.
“You’re late,” Galina said impatiently.
“I went to the Moscow train station and mixed into the traffic. Then I came here.” He hailed the waiter and ordered a bottle of Italian wine.
Galina took off her glasses and leaned forward. “Has Oxby talked about Tashkent? Has he admitted that he killed Viktor?”
“They don’t talk about it in front of me. If I ask how Viktor was killed, they will say how do you know that he was dead?”
“You can say that half of this city knows about Viktor. And knows that he was killed in Tashkent. You can tell them that.”
Poolya laughed. “The half who know are like you and me. Oxby and Ilyushin know because they were in Tashkent when it happened.”
Galina stiffened. “We are wasting time waiting for proof that Oxby killed Viktor. I have all the proof I need.”
“What proof?”
“Inside here,” she rubbed both hands over her breasts, then down and across her stomach. “I feel it all through my body.” She lifted her face and pointed to the sores on her face. “See these? Put there by Deryabin, who tells me Viktor caused his own death. Lies.”
“He went to Tashkent because of Deryabin,” Poolya said. “He’s as much to blame as anyone.”
“I told Deryabin we were a team.”
“Then why did he send Viktor without you?”
“It was his way to come between us. He expects us to follow his orders without a mistake. Without a complaint.”
Poolya’s wine came. He poured a glass for Galina, then drank straight from the bottle. He took several long swigs, then said, “I say again that I am sorry about Viktor. He was my good friend, too.”
Galina said, “Did Oxby and the old man like the gift we gave them?”
“Ilyushin was angry as a wounded cat that the window in his car was smashed. But they weren’t frightened when they saw the finger. Oxby tore the message into a hundred pieces.”
“These are silly games Oleg insists we play.” She sipped the wine and made a face. She pushed her glass in front of Poolya.
Poolya said, “You can tell Deryabin that Oxby has a copy of his navy records.”
“How did he—”
“At the Naval Records Office. Give a name and put it on the computer. Anyone can do it.”
Galina said, “What else have they been fishing for?”
“Oxby made a phone call to New York this morning. I don’t know who he called or what he said.”
“Have you tapped the phone yet?”
“They said the lines were old and mixed with a hundred others. It should be completed tomorrow. But Oxby suspects and uses the phones in the hotel.”
Galina put an envelope in Poolya’s hand. “Here is half of your price. The other half comes when Oxby has paid everything he owes me.”
The abbreviated smile on Galina’s lips collapsed into a cold glare. “I’ll give you some advice.” She leaned forward. “Talk to Oxby like he is a lost brother. Ask him to tell you about London and about Scotland Yard. Stay close to him. Get inside the apartment and listen to what they say. Tell me everything. It’s your job.”
“Saturday is the last day for us.”
“You didn’t tell me this. What will they do after Saturday?”
Poolya leaned back in his chair and drained his glass. “They don’t talk about it.”
“Talk to Oxby. Learn what his plans are.”
“I’ll try.” He emptied Galina’s glass. “Who’s replacing Mikki?”
“I chose Boris. Ivan will call Oxby tonight and say Boris will be at the apartment in the morning.”
“I don’t trust Boris.” Poolya finished off the bottle. “Get someone else. Boris is not a team worker.”
“I picked Boris,” Galina said firmly. “He begins tomorrow morning.”
“Boris does what’s good for Boris. It is a bad mistake.”
Chapter 34
At a quarter of ten, Wednesday morning, Oxby dialed Poolya’s cellular phone and instructed him to bring the car to the front of the apartment. Accompanied by Yakov, Oxby climbed in back and gave instructions for the Hermitage.
St. Petersburg traffic had grown considerably thicker as the season of the White Nights approached. In each row of tour buses parked off Palace Square behind the Winter Palace were over thirty of the behemoths. They were lined up three abreast; more than a hundred of them, some from as far away as Madrid.
They passed the General Staff building behind the museum, Poolya searching for a parking spot. “So today we have culture,” Poolya said. “We wear out our feet while our brains become smarter. Is so?”
“Is not so,” Oxby said. “Today, Mr. Ilyushin and I will soak up the culture. You will stay with the crew and keep a sharp eye on the apartm
ent.”
“What is ‘sharp eye’?” Poolya asked.
Yakov explained, but Poolya wasn’t buying. “I must find a place to park so I can come with you. I am paid to protect you.”
“Not today, Poolya,” Oxby said. “Take us to the entrance.”
Poolya grumbled, but edged the Peugeot ahead, behind a line of cars curled around the side of the great museum. He turned onto the embankment road and stopped at the main entrance, a stone’s toss to the Neva River.
“Pick us up at this precise spot at four o’clock,” Oxby said. They went inside. Oxby stayed by the door, watching until the last of the Peugeot went from sight. He took Yakov’s arm and they returned to the street and to the south end of the building where the taxis were gathered. Several of the drivers scurried toward them, hoping for a fare. Oxby chose the car in front. The driver, a middle-age man wearing a leather cap, grinned widely and noticing the older man’s limp, took Yakov’s arm and helped him into the cab. A small gesture designed to improve his tip.
“Zagorodny Prospekt,” Yakov instructed. “Eighty-six.”
It was a twenty-minute ride that took thirty, and when they arrived it was shortly before noon.
“Ask him to wait,” Oxby said. “I’ll make it worth his time.”
Yakov spoke to the driver, who asked how much and agreed to the offer Yakov made. Yakov had become expert and generous when dispersing the American dollars Oxby handed him.
It was a familiar setting to Oxby. A row of tall apartment buildings with a patch of green overrun with cotton grass in front of each one. Here and there were scraggly bushes and even more disappointing flowers. Before the entrance to number eighty-six was an alder tree that seemed to have been sliced perfectly in half from top to bottom, the half remaining leaning as if pushed by a persistent wind. Then the high, pale gray building itself with its balconies serving as refuges from the cramped living spaces inside. Standing near the entrance was a man in his mid-thirties with thinning brown hair and wearing a heavy wool suit with white shirt and maroon necktie. He looked uncomfortably hot in spite of a gentle, cool breeze and air as dry as an old bone.