The Final Fabergé

by Thomas Swan

  “Where’s Galina?”

  “You wouldn’t let anyone touch a phone. I told her to use the one in my room.”

  “What does she want a damned phone for?”

  “She didn’t tell me.”

  “Ideas get into her head, then nothing stops her.” He glared at Trivimi. “Find her.”

  Galina made one phone call from the Estonian’s room, then called for her rental car and went to the lobby. She bought a road map that covered a radius of fifty miles from Columbus Circle in Manhattan at dead center. It included nearby portions of New York state on both sides of the Hudson River. At 12:30 the sun was directly overhead and it was as stifling hot as only New York can become on the first day of summer. She opened the top buttons on her shirt but she was still too warm in clothes meant to be worn in the cool air that blew across the Gulf of Finland.

  The parking attendant told her to drive west to the Hudson River, then north on Route 9, beyond the George Washington Bridge to the Tappan Zee Bridge.

  She found her way onto the bridge, crossed it, and took the exit to the town of Nyack, a residential community with antique shops and colonies of artists and writers. There was another colony; one comprised of the descendants of Russian émigrés who had fled Russia in the 1910s and 1920s. Though most were second- or third-generation, a few still came from the new Russia, searching after, they would say, the American dream.

  She stopped at a motel in the center of town for directions, referring to the notes she had made during her earlier phone call. She was told how to get on the road north from Nyack. She followed it over the low hills that sprang up from the big river below, continuing for three miles until a sign directed her onto a road leading to the village of Valley Cottage. There, on her right, she would find a campuslike setting with rows of white frame houses and small cottages. She had been told to look for a small, white church topped by a gold onion dome and a cross rising above it.

  There it was. Near the road, a small building, unmistakably a Russian Orthodox church. It was a reminder of home that, for an instant, sent a touch of excitement through Galina. But to have any feelings surprised her. In her entire twenty-nine years she had been in two churches; a Lutheran church in Petersburg where as a teenager she went swimming in a pool installed in the sanctuary by the Soviets when it proclaimed the church as State property. And once when she and Viktor were completing their training and had been sent to follow a doddering old doctor who went each day to his church for prayers. She turned into the parking area and stopped beside a sign. It read: TOLSTOY FOUNDATION.

  She knew that Tolstoy was a famous Russian author, yet knew little about his books. What was this place? The little cottages and the houses had been converted to tiny apartments. Beyond the church was a large house, and beyond that, more buildings. Weaving among the trees were paths that crisscrossed the campus and on the paths were men and women. She noticed they were elderly, every one. They walked slowly, many carrying a cane.

  The passenger door opened and Pavel Rakov slipped in beside her. They had seen each other less than three weeks before, but in that time Galina’s life had been tortuously twisted and forever changed. Pavel wore sunglasses that resembled two green, luminescent reflectors. His shirt was a bright blue and red plaid, his dark hair was graying and cut short. He took off the glasses and they eyed each other familiarly.

  He said, “Hello, Galina, you are as pretty as ever.”

  Galina acknowledged the compliment with a nod.

  “You found your way all right?”

  She continued to stare at him. Not answering.

  “How is your friend Oleg Vladimirovich?” he said icily.

  “He is not my friend,” she snapped. “He pays me for what I do.”

  “How much did he pay you for Viktor?”

  Her gaze hardened. “What do you know about Viktor?”

  “We learn quickly over here. The news comes to us from all over, including Tashkent. When a stranger dies in that city and no one pays to send him home, there is only a box for the body and a hole in the ground to put it in. But someone paid all the people who had their hands out, and for a zinc box and space on the airplane to take it to Petersburg. My friends learned Viktor Lysenko was in the zinc box. It was Oleg Deryabin who paid.”

  “If I had been with Viktor, he would not be dead.”

  “I am sorry.” He tried to smile. He opened the door. “It’s hot. Let’s walk. I want to show you something,” he said, and took her arm. He guided her onto a path and toward the church.

  “No, Pavel. Not there.”

  “It’s all right,” he said gently. “Nothing will bite you,” he smiled. “I promise not to tell anyone you went inside.”

  “I feel odd about it.”

  “Come.” He urged her ahead and they entered the church.

  Somehow it seemed larger inside. One room, square, its ornately painted ceiling thirty feet above, and directly in front of them an icon wall with a fresco of Christ and his disciples painted in bright colors. A man with a full beard was at work on a side wall, working his brushes over a mural that had been water-damaged in the spring.

  Galina was subdued, her head bent forward as she turned to face each wall. She tugged on Pavel’s arm. “Can we go?”

  Pavel nodded, and they went back out into the sun. They walked on the path and to a bench that was in the shade of a cluster of birch trees. They sat. Neither speaking.

  Pavel broke the silence. “How long will you be here this time?”

  Her head shook. “When I’ve done my job. Maybe two or three days.”

  “What kind of job?” he asked.

  “Moy zadanie?” she repeated. “The same as before.”

  “Who will you kill this time?”

  She lowered her eyes. “A man.”

  “What man?”

  She didn’t answer immediately. Then she brought her gaze up and said, “The man who killed Viktor.”

  “Do you know the man?”

  “I don’t know him. I’ve seen him. He’s English.”

  “I was told that Viktor fought with an Englishman in Tashkent.”

  “Viktor was tricked. I don’t know all that happened, but he was outnumbered, ambushed.”

  “The Englishman is here in New York?”

  “His name is Oxby. He is with Scotland Yard, but is on a private assignment. Oleg was told that Oxby killed Viktor. That is all I know.”

  “Who told Oleg?” Pavel asked, his tone doubtful. “He has friends in Uzbekistan?”

  “He has friends everywhere. From the KGB.”

  “You said this was a job. Is it really, or is it your revenge for Viktor’s death?”

  “Oxby has meddled in Oleg’s business. He can make trouble.”

  She was staring at a long scar above Pavel’s left eye, the result of a wound he had received a year after they met. There were the welts of flesh, remnants from a knife wound that had nearly destroyed that eye, and had taken away all but traces of hair in his eyebrow. It was a horrible irony, she thought.

  He said, “Viktor was my friend, too.”

  Galina studied the whole face. A face she knew as intimately as Viktor’s. Galina had fallen in love with Pavel when she was eighteen and he was twenty-seven. She was a student, he was a teacher. She wanted to be an actress, he wanted Russia to be a capitalist superpower overnight. The reforms moved too slowly for Pavel and he found his way into a company owned by communist retreads, but run by intimidation and murder. A business that took the life of a close friend. That friend’s young brother was Viktor Lysenko.

  Fatefully, Pavel introduced Viktor to Deryabin. A year later Galina and Viktor met. After five successful years, Pavel met with a string of failures and was summarily evicted from the company. He scrambled for some IOUs, found a few that were owing from old cronies in the government, then received a visa and moved to America.

  “What is this place?” Galina asked. “And the church—”

  “The church is cal
led St. Sergius of Radonezh and all that you can see is a home for old people. Old Russians who escaped from the Soviet.”

  “There is no Soviet,” Galina said. “It is Russia now.”

  “And still they come. I have friends here. They are old, but good people.”

  “Your friends are here?”

  “It is not so strange, Galina. I have many friends here. And more in the city where I live. I have a good life.”

  She turned and looked intently at her friend. “And you are married?”

  A little smile crossed his lips. “Yes.” He nodded. “And I have a son.”

  Slowly her eyes shifted away from him. Her response was silence. Pavel watched her carefully and waited patiently for her to speak.

  “You have a son.” There was a sweetness to the way she spoke the words. And envy.

  She spun around, her eyes flashing. “I have no one.”

  Pavel wrapped his arms around her and hugged her tightly. “You have friends,” he said, kissing her forehead. “I am your friend.”

  She buried her face against his shoulder, holding him tightly. She cried. But only for a moment. She pulled free, her face wet from tears that rarely came. Now she was staring at Pavel’s familiar face, at the scar above his eye, at his lips that had kissed her so many times. A good face, in all. She spoke softly, “You knew that Viktor and I were—” She rubbed her fingers across her lips to smother the rest of her sentence.

  Pavel said, “How much longer are you going to be Deryabin’s assassin?”

  “As long as he needs me. And pays me.”

  “Without Viktor, he might decide he doesn’t need you any longer.”

  “That could happen.”

  “If he cuts you off, he’ll have you killed.”

  Galina felt herself take a short, deep breath. “He wouldn’t do that to me.”

  He snapped his fingers. “Like that. He might want you around if you’ll go to bed with him.”

  “I’d rather be fucked by a dog.”

  “Then leave. Go to Moscow. Get a visa. Come here and start over.”

  She looked at Pavel, her face wreathed in sadness. “I can’t,” she said quietly. “I can’t.”

  The breakfast cart had been replaced by another. This one with plates mounded with sliced beef and cheeses, salads, and a huge bowl of fresh fruit. But like the food on the first cart, it had been scarcely picked at. Deryabin was alone, still in the bathrobe, still unshaven, still hot with anger. He mumbled, a kind of gibberish laced with vile obscenities. He tore open a fresh package of cigarettes, took one and lit it, then went to the window and stared down at the broad avenue below. The door opened. It was Trivimi Laar.

  “Where the fuck is she?” Deryabin roared.

  “Gone. With the car. They said she asked for directions to the Tappan Zee Bridge. Have you been there?”

  Deryabin said he had, that it was north of the city. That the bridge went over the Hudson River.

  “Can you guess why she went there?”’

  Deryabin blew a stream of smoke. “How the hell would I know? Maybe she’s trying to find Oxby.”

  Chapter 43

  The cables and towers of the George Washington Bridge were sharply silhouetted by a hot, orange sun that would set in an hour and half, which would be, on this first day of summer, 8:31 P.M.

  Tobias turned into the right lane. “We’re going over there,” he said, pointing to a row of high rises on top of the Palisades. “Mike Carson’s in one of them.”

  Oxby shifted in the seat for a better view of the western side of the Hudson River. His thoughts moved forward to the impending introduction to Mike Carson, aka Mikhail Vasilyovich Karsalov. There were intensely private portions of Mike’s life that he knew, and now, the realization he was about to meet him caused a sudden rush of anticipation. In his mind flashed the vivid sight of the room in the asylum in Tashkent when Mike’s father died in his arms. That indescribably tragic incident served to bond Oxby with the son even before the two men laid eyes on each other.

  “You’re big on bridges,” Tobias said. “If you go by the traffic count, this one’s a real workhorse. But the Verrazano, the one you asked about when we came in from the airport, she’s my favorite.”

  Oxby considered, fleetingly, whether a bridge was masculine or feminine, concluding that, as in French, bridges were masculine. While Alex may think of the Verrazano as a lady, the GW was a man.

  Once on the Jersey side, Tobias took a series of loops and turns and guided his car onto Palisades Avenue. He proceeded slowly until he spotted the sign in front of the Atrium Palace. At 7:00 P.M., promptly, the lobby attendant rang Mike Carson’s apartment, and the two men went up.

  “Mike, this is Detective Chief Inspector Jack Oxby, pride of Scotland Yard and an old friend of mine. Jack, this is Mike Carson.”

  The two shook hands, each taking the measure of the other.

  “I’ve been looking forward to this,” Oxby said. “And ignore the formalities. I’d like for you to call me Jack.”

  Mike smiled. “And I’m Mike,” he said simply. “Come in. I finally got rid of the painters and funny little people who’ve been trying to make this place look presentable. Hope you like it.”

  There was nothing not to like. They entered a large room furnished with modern sofas, chairs, and side tables, the colors muted, the lines soft and flowing. In sharp contrast were three large paintings, each in vivid colors. One, on the inside wall, was a Stuart Davis landscape in turquoise, blue, and a yellow sky with setting sun. Oxby moved to the windows, scanned the view from north to south, then turned and admired the room, which still held the scent of fresh paint and polyurethane.

  “Spectacular view,” Oxby said.

  “They charge extra for it,” Mike said. He was standing at an opening in the wall, a wet bar behind him. “If you’d like something cold, come help yourself.” A few minutes later they were seated, each with a drink.

  “How was the ball game?” Alex asked.

  “Boring,” Mike replied.

  “Yankees win?”

  Mike smiled. “I was with the sales manager of Cadillac and he roots for Detroit. Though he’s from Chicago, he . . .”

  Oxby settled back into a thick cushion and listened to Mike and Alex, a die-hard Yankee fan, discuss baseball. Mike’s Americanization had not included a love for the national pastime, but he made it clear he enjoyed the football season and his favorite team was the New York Giants. Oxby observed Mike closely, listening to him speak and hearing evidence that he had learned English in London, then had skillfully attuned to the American idiom. Mike and his father were not lookalikes, but there was a resemblance. Mike was blessed, Oxby determined, with a natural ability to put a stranger at ease. He projected sincerity and complete trust.

  “...and so the Yanks won and my friend was very quiet after the game.”

  “Detroit took the series; two out of three,” Tobias said. “Can’t complain about that.”

  Mike turned to Oxby. “So, you’re with Scotland Yard.”

  Oxby smiled. “I’m on what the we British call a busman’s holiday.”

  “You’ve been to Russia,” Mike said. It wasn’t a question, but a flatout statement. “What cities did you visit?”

  “Only one, in Russia. St. Petersburg.” Oxby watched Mike carefully when he said, “And three days in Uzbekistan. In Tashkent.”

  Mike never wavered, but frowned, thoughtfully. “Tashkent,” he repeated the name. “It’s been in the news, something about oil and natural gas. Major cotton producer, right?”

  “They seem to be stuck with cotton,” Oxby said. “In fact there’s talk of making automobiles from cotton. I read somewhere that they’re planning to convert cottonseed oil into a tough polymer plastic.”

  “I know something about automobiles,” Mike said. “They better think twice before getting into that business. But why Tashkent? What made you go there?”

  “I am going to share with you some of my experiences
in Petersburg and Tashkent. But I must warn you that some of what I will tell you will be difficult for you to hear. Fair enough?”

  Mike glanced at Alex, then back to Oxby. “Go ahead.”

  “Mike, it was never my intention, but while I was on leave and conducting what I thought would be a pleasant, but challenging investigation, I uncovered some extremely personal information about you and your family. I want to be very clear about this. Whatever I know I have treated as privileged and have shared it only with Alex and Yakov Ilyushin, an old friend who I lived with during the time I was in Petersburg. A good man who has my complete trust.”

  “Before you go on, does what you are going to tell me have any relationship to the death of Sasha Akimov?”

  “Yes,” Oxby said. He waited while Mike considered his answer. Mike moved to the windows, where he stared down to the cars and trucks whizzing across the bridge. He turned and faced Oxby.

  “What have you learned?”

  Oxby had carefully prepared for this moment. He began by describing the challenge he had accepted, and how the opportunity came at a time when he felt a need to take a leave from his duties at Scotland Yard.

  “I considered it a marvelous opportunity to visit St. Petersburg, and I was fascinated by the rather astounding proposition that Grigori Rasputin had commissioned Fabergé to create an Imperial Easter egg for Czarina Alexandra.”

  He then told his odyssey. He could see beyond Mike to the bridge, and the mellowing light of the setting sun against the high towers. As his tale unwound, and the sun fell low in the sky, shadows slowly climbed up the towers until, when he completed his story, the sunlight had completely disappeared.

  A long silence followed, then Mike spoke. “You said my father was not in pain before he died. Was it that way, or did you want to spare me from the truth?”

  “His wound was mortal and I suspect there was pain, but only for an instant. He went into shock very quickly.”

  “His diaries and photographs, and the other odds and ends he left, have they been put someplace where can I claim them?”