The Deal

by Adam Gittlin

  I tucked the black box back in its safe house then picked up

  the documents to do the same. But as I lifted the surprisingly weighty stack of what seemed to be more like card stock than paper, I couldn’t fight my curiosity. I had never once looked at these articles. But now they were face up in my hands and from the systematic chad markings to the different stamps and seals it became immediately apparent what I was holding. They were stock certificates. Only the words on them weren’t in English letters. They were in the Cyrillic alphabet.

  The hair on my arms stood on end. I lightly touched the surface of the topmost certificate and looked again at the typed Russian characters in the center of the sheet. There was something written in pencil, in my father’s handwriting, underneath them. I lifted the document closer to my face. It read: Sapphire Pendant Excavation.

  Sapphire Pendant, I said to myself. Sapphire Pendant.

  It sounded familiar, I thought. But why? Aside from the name of the booze I liked to drink?

  Figuring it was Pop’s English translation of the company’s name, I moved on to the next. Same thing. Underneath the bold, centrally positioned Russian words was his penciled handwriting. The second read, Ch. Chariot Energy Inc. I could swear I had seen this one too. Just as I began whispering to myself, “What the hell—” it came to me. They were the names of two of Prevkos’ subsidiaries, companies I had read about a number of times before while keeping up with our family friends’ progress.

  I barreled through the rest of the pile. The Necessary Mining Company, Alexander Gas Construct, M. Enamel Energy Consortium, Empire Nephrite Mining and Piping. I had read about them all. But as I came upon the name on the seventh and final certificate, I understood that there was perhaps an even deeper, undoubtedly scarier, connection than I ever could have anticipated. The name of the last subsidiary was Northern Jubilee Gas Extrusion.

  Jubilee.

  As in Danish Jubilee Egg.

  I went back to the first certificate in the stack.

  “Sapphire Pendant,” I repeated again.

  Then it hit me.

  Hen Egg with Sapphire Pendant.

  I swept into my apartment like a cyclone, Neo doing all he could to keep up as I tore toward the living room. I went straight for the coffee table, more specifically the stack of five ridiculously oversized coffee-table books on top of it, and removed the top one. It was the self-serving birthday gift from my old flame Sharon. The cover was shiny, still looked brand new, which made sense since the book had only been cracked a handful of times. I tucked it under my arm and headed for the study.

  Once there, I placed my briefcase containing the stock certificates and the repossessed stolen antique on my desk and fell into my chair. I put the book in my lap. For a moment I marveled at the photograph on the cover, a shot of two imperial eggs side by side.

  “Basket of Wild Flowers Egg,” I whispered to myself, remembering the one on the left. It was one of Sharon’s favorites.

  Basket of Wild Flowers Egg was exquisite. Predominantly a silver body covered with pearly enamel and rose-cut diamonds, the top of the egg was an untamed explosion of colorful buds in full bloom. Buds so lifelike, you could swear they were prime to be plucked for a magical bouquet.

  I opened the book and started to rip through. There it was just as I thought. Hen Egg with Sapphire Pendant, produced in 1886.

  I removed the stock certificates from my briefcase, revisited the second one, Ch. Chariot Energy Inc., and returned again to the book. Cherub Egg with Chariot, 1888. I proceeded to go through the full list of companies. As I did I confirmed what my instincts had already told me. Each of the seven company names on the Prevkos subsidiary stock certificates I was holding was derived from, in some way, one of eight Fabergé imperial Easter eggs.

  The eight imperial Easter eggs that had gone missing almost a century earlier.

  The egg unaccounted for was 1909’s Alexander II Commemorative Egg. I booted my computer and jumped on the Internet to corroborate my thoughts about the subsidiaries. My thinking was dead on. Of twelve total Prevkos subsidiaries, eight were named after the missing eggs. The unspoken-for treasure’s offspring was called “Alex Com II Exploration.”

  I closed the book and dropped it on the floor. I didn’t move, barely breathed. As much as I wanted to collapse from the strain of trying to make connections from all of the information, something gave me strength. Something I couldn’t ignore, something true. It was Tommy’s voice. I could hear the thing he said to me six years earlier.

  “There’s one thing I demand of anyone who works for me, Jonah. One thing,” he exclaimed before suddenly making it a point to stare into my eyes like he was trying to hypnotize me, “that you never—ever—pass up an opportunity to gain knowledge. Because in real estate, like in life, knowledge always wins the race.”

  I took a deep breath, picked up the book, and once again placed it in my lap. I concentrated on Tommy’s words, words that professionally had worked nicely for me. I had run the real estate race with Tommy, Jake, and Perry as a team and won. But it was life’s race, I was starting to feel, where I was perhaps lost somewhere in the middle of the pack.

  I started at the beginning. Almost instantly miscellaneous information began to jump from the pages. There were the names of the two looted imperial palaces where the eggs had resided, Anichkov Palace and Gatchina Palace. There were the names of the two men believed to be the possible creators of the initial-less eggs, Piotr Derbyshev, an expert stone carver and one of Wigstrom’s most trusted hands, and Nikolai Alexandrovich Petrov, the shop’s utmost authority in enamel application. There were all types of arresting facts about not only the eggs and the players, but about the revolution and the era itself.

  I knew that I had to keep reading. I knew from Tommy’s teachings that I didn’t have a choice. I flew through the eggs and their surrounding history, but as I whisked through the sheets of paper as fast as I could, I couldn’t help getting stuck on some of the pictures. Strangely, surprisingly, Sharon’s wandering seminars had taken on a new face. Her words, her desire to share something truly beautiful with me, no longer seemed as selfish as I had once thought. I was enraptured by the colors, the intricacies, and the materials. The meticulousness of each egg that used to seem tedious suddenly

  captivated me.

  Finally, I came across Danish Jubilee Egg.

  I looked at the black-and-white photograph, as well as the publisher’s digitally enhanced supposed color version next to it, both of which paled by comparison to what I now possessed. It was one of only two of the missing eight imperial eggs with a visual record. There was mention of two smaller accompanying portraits, but since having the antique, I thought, I hadn’t seen either. Then I realized since most of the eggs opened to reveal a miniature surprise they must be hidden in the egg’s center.

  I started on the text. Because it was, for so long, considered one of the missing, there isn’t as much information available as there is for some of the others. But apparently, in basic terms, this Fabergé egg memorialized the most significant event of 1902 for Maria Feodorovna—her visit to Copenhagen to mark the fortieth anniversary of the ascension of King Christian, her father, to Denmark’s throne. It also marked the death of Queen Louise five years earlier at Bernsdorff Castle. The egg was given to her by her son Czar Nicholas II. The two portraits contained within are of her father, King Christian IX, and of the king’s queen, Maria’s mother. Once presented, Danish Jubilee Egg remained at Anichkov Palace until 1917. It then went missing after the revolution until the day it was found in 1979.

  I looked for information on the critical markings, but there wasn’t any. Not just for Danish Jubilee Egg but for any of the missing eggs. No zolotniks, no head-workmaster initials, nothing. Just more mystery.

  Chapter 30

  That night, after a raucous dinner at the Palm, the group of us headed to the new Penthouse Club on the West Side. It was Jake, Klyman, two of his pals who l
ive in the city, and me. We were pretty liquored and drugged up. Even though I had realized I needed to curb this shit, I couldn’t give Jake any reason to question me. But between the package from the girl still calling herself Angie and the stock certificates, my paranoia hit a whole new plane. Every once in a while I reached into my jacket and felt the gun just to make sure it was still there.

  The five of us were given a prime table up front. Drinks were immediately placed all around, and before we could blink there were what seemed like five girls for every one of us swarming the table. Each woman’s body was tighter than the next. One girl actually seemed to have a line of aqua-colored floss running between her legs and nothing else.

  “Hey, Jonah, Archmont’s wife working tonight?” joked Jake. “How about this one. A thin, retractable cord attached to cigarette lighters in cars? This way you can’t lose the lighter under the seat while you’re driving.”

  A hand appeared on my shoulder.

  “How you doing tonight?” asked a forced, overly sexy voice. “I’m Shawna.”

  Shawna was a blond bombshell standing no more than five foot three. She had a tiny waist, huge fake boobs, orange skin from caked-on tanning lotion, and muscle tone beyond belief. Her bleached platinum hair fell to her waist and her green-color contact lensed eyes fought hard to connect with my own. She was wearing a barely there white bikini top that only covered her nipples along with her matching, leave-nothing-to-the-imagination thong.

  “No thanks,” I said, referring to the lap dance she was offering. “I’m just drinking tonight.”

  “Well, I don’t think it’s up to you.”

  Klyman, being straddled by a hot African-American girl, raised his martini glass to me.

  “Your friend seems to think you may like me,” she continued.

  “Thank me later,” barked Klyman.

  He had pre-purchased me a lap dance. I returned my eyes to Shawna. I couldn’t afford to draw attention to myself by acting out of character. A quick dance, I figured, then I could remove myself from the table.

  “Maybe just one,” I said.

  No sooner than the words had come out of my mouth was Shawna removing her top. Slinkily she began to dance in between my legs, gyrating slowly as she ran her hands up the front of her body and began to play with her hair. Her eyes were closed, and her knees slightly brushed the inside of my thighs with each of her seductive sways.

  She then turned away from me. I took a sip of my Sapphire and tonic just as she decided to bend all the way forward, keeping her well-proportioned legs perfectly straight as she strategically positioned her ass right in front of my face. I was supposed to be focused on the results of Shawna’s countless hours on a StairMaster. Instead I was dialed into a guy sitting across the way having a lap dance of his own. He seemed to be looking my way.

  I turned my attention to Shawna again just as she swung around. She was facing me. She lunged forward, grabbing the corners of the chair out past my shoulders, then slowly slid the front of her body down my own until she was on the ground, kneeling in front of me. She ran her chest back up my crotch until her face was level with my own. Her hands now used my thighs as supports as she moved her mouth around to my ear. I could feel and smell her hot, minty breath as her lips parted and she began to speak.

  “I know you,” she said.

  “I’m sorry?”

  She moved closer until her lips lightly touched my ear.

  “I said, I know you,” she whispered.

  I cocked my head a bit to the side.

  “What exactly is that supposed mean?”

  She giggled.

  “It means I’m onto you, Jonah Gray.”

  I freaked and grabbed the back of her head like it was a grapefruit, forcing it in front of my face. Her ass knocked into the table, sending a few near-dead cocktails and beer bottles flying.

  “What the fuck did you just say?” I asked through my teeth.

  “Ow! You’re hurting me!”

  My grip was tight. Shawna grabbed each of my arms with her hands and tried to pry away my fingers.

  “You’re fucking hurting me!”

  “Who do you fucking work for?” I continued as I suppressed the full scope of my anger.

  “What are you crazy? Are you fucking crazy?”

  The music was still pumping, but all eyes, from my table as well as others, were now on me. Instinct made me search immediately for the guy who originally had me suspicious. He was gone, and I couldn’t make sense of any of it. I pulled her head in even closer.

  “How do you know who I am?”

  “Take it easy, man,” Jake chimed in.

  I never looked at him, even after hearing his voice. Then with unexpected force, Shawna managed to take a good swipe at my face as a last resort.

  “Because I’ve read about you,” she shrieked.

  “Read about me?”

  “That’s right!” she yelled, catching me in the face the second time around and setting herself free.

  Shawna shot backward and was now standing up. She was scared, embarrassed. She bent forward and at a loss for how to react, she attacked me with a few more girly swipes. I simply put my arms up to deflect her.

  “What? Some dumb whore couldn’t possibly have read about you in Crains?”

  I swallowed hard.

  “It isn’t possible I’m putting myself through business school? How dare you, you fuck!”

  I stood up. Before the bouncers could get involved, I bolted for the bathroom. Once inside I rinsed my face with cold water. I looked at my reflection in the mirror. Ashamed, scared of what I was becoming, I turned away.

  Later, after getting home and sitting wide-eyed on my patio with Neo, I decided I was in desperate need of at least a couple hours of sleep. In order to slow down my mind, I drank three quick shots of tequila. The doors leading outside were left open for the spring breeze to dance in my bedroom. I fell asleep on my bed for what would turn out to be the only forty-five minutes of sleep that night. Neo slept on my chest.

  During those forty-five minutes I had a dream. I’m not exactly sure where I was, but I was standing in front of a crowd of maybe thirty or forty people. No one was speaking. Everyone was looking intensely in my direction. And everyone, including myself, seemed to be wearing white.

  I held a gun in my right hand and it was pointed at the side of my head. I pulled the trigger. A terrifying boom went blaring, tearing through the room, through my dream. My head snapped back awkwardly, like Kennedy’s. Strangely, I wasn’t dead. My head bounced right back into position. I was standing again, looking out into the same crowd. Only this time everyone was staring back with their own unique expression of terror. There was deep red blood splattered everywhere. No one was moving. I felt absolutely

  nothing.

  I pulled the trigger for a second time. Then I awoke. Sweating hard, I sat up. Neo growled showing his displeasure at being disturbed. The room was dark, the surroundings strangely unfamiliar. Forget turning back. I didn’t have time for looking back. All I could do, whether I liked it or not, was keep moving forward.

  Chapter 31

  On Friday morning, at five fifty, I was sitting in back of my father’s limo. Dressed sharp, as usual, for my day, I read the Post as Mattheau took me to Grand Central. As I started to flip through, an article on page five jumped off the page at me. It was another

  follow-up about the egg heist.

  My eyes began to speed ahead of my brain, devouring each word. The piece delved further into the life of Robie/Hart. He was from Syracuse, New York. His father, Nolan Hart, was a political science professor at Syracuse University. His mother, Lea, was a business administrator at nearby LeMoyne College. But from an early age Lawrence Hart was more interested in the arts and left central New York to pursue a degree in photography from Parsons School of Design in New York City.

  Simple math, living in Manhattan plus no cash equals zero fun. So through his fa
ther’s political science contacts, he got a job working the phones at the U.S. mission to the United Nations on the East Side. Right from the start it worked out well. By Hart’s senior year he had spent so much time at the facility that he was helping out on weekends with security. After four years he knew all of the players, all the rules, all the drills. He knew what made our nation’s UN home turf tick and what made it cringe.

  And, perhaps most important, he found himself extremely trusted.

  So, after being unable to land steady work as a photographer, he stayed on at the mission full time. A few years later he was put in charge of the entire security department. The rest, as we all know, is history.

  The limo stopped, but my eyes remained glued to the paper. The article’s closing fact, an afterthought used to solidify a potential insider’s involvement, was more than a little disconcerting. At the time of Danish Jubilee Egg’s theft the treasure was less than a month away from a trip to Washington, D.C. As a tribute to foreign relations, she was scheduled for display, indefinitely, in the rotunda of the U.S. Capital.

  A knock on the window woke me. Like a deer surprised by headlights, my vision swung to the glass. It was Pangaea-Man. He must have recognized the limo from the day before. His face was right up close, his free hand covering the area between his eyes and the car as he attempted to keep the sun away and see through the dark tinted window.

  My heart’s pace stepped up a notch. I felt warm. I reached inside my jacket pocket to make sure I had my gun, which I did. Pangaea-Man, standing there with three huge, black canvas army duffel bags next to him on the sidewalk, knocked on the window for a second time.

  I closed the paper and threw it down next to me. Nervous, I opened the door. I quickly retook my seat. I watched as Pangaea-Man flung the three duffel bags into the car. Then he got in as well and slammed the door shut after him.