The Deal

by Adam Gittlin

  Quietly, I entered the men’s room doing my best to control my breathing. The black tiles and art-deco chrome moldings instantly took me back to a time of old-world thugs. A textbook combination of antiseptic and air freshener filled my nose. Straight ahead a scrawny old white guy in a weathered tux was straightening the sink area with his back to me. He had no idea I was there. I swung my vision left, catching my own stare in the mirror along the way.

  Derbyshev was facing the wall at a urinal. Once I realized he was the only other one there, I took a deep breath and rushed up behind him. I put the gun directly to the back of his head.

  Talk about coming full circle.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” I started, unable to fight an image of Pangaea-Man.

  Movement to my right. Leaving the gun in place I checked the attendant. He was tiptoeing toward the door.

  “Not another step.”

  He gasped, turned to me, and threw his arms up.

  “I mean it.”

  He couldn’t speak. He just nodded.

  I returned my eyes to the Count’s silver hair.

  “Tell me about the transaction with Andreu Zhamovsky.”

  Nothing.

  “Tell me about the transaction and why it involves me.”

  Nothing.

  “Now!”

  Tick. Tick.

  I checked the old guy. He hadn’t moved.

  I grabbed the back of Derbyshev’s head and put his face into the wall as I simultaneously jammed the gun in farther.

  Get what you need.

  “A man named Piotr Derbyshev, same last name as you, is believed one of two men who could have crafted eight Fabergé eggs that went missing in the Russian Revolution. Six of those eggs have never been found, but two resurfaced in 1979, one of which is in the news for having been stolen. Andreu Zhamovsky’s company, Prevkos, has subsidiaries named after those eggs, subsidiaries my dead father has a ton of stock in. You and Andreu are involved in a deal.”

  I pushed the gun into his hair, skin, skull even further.

  “So I want you to start talking. I only said that I didn’t want to hurt you. I never said I wouldn’t.”

  Nothing.

  Fuck!

  Tick. Tick.

  Instinct taking over, I moved the gun to his shoulder not easing up even the slightest bit on holding his face to the wall.

  “Fuck it,” I gushed dejectedly. “I’m not leaving without information. Maybe you’ll believe this. Three—”

  I was in full improvisation mode.

  “Two—”

  I thought, what happens when I hit zero without a response?

  “One—”

  Was I more prepared to shoot or not to shoot?

  “Different!” he blurted out.

  “Different. What’s different?”

  “The eggs. We’re dealing with different eggs. I was surprised Danish Jubilee Egg was stolen. I have no idea who you are.”

  I moved the gun back to his head.

  “Tell me about the deal.”

  “I’m selling Andreu a different egg.”

  “Which one?”

  “Necessaire Egg.”

  “You said eggs. Plural.”

  “I didn’t mean to. One egg.”

  Voices were approaching the bathroom door. I looked to the attendant.

  “Lose them, now,” I barked, “Tell them you’re cleaning up some puke.”

  The guy was frozen solid.

  “Now!” I urged him through clenched teeth.

  He moved to the door and opened it a crack like a woman who’d jumped from the shower. To my relief he lost them. He retreated back into the room and resumed his stance.

  “You’re selling it to Zhamovsky?”

  “That’s right. That’s why I opened the account. You have no idea how many people would like to stake a claim on these items. Andreu knows as well as anyone that these eggs need to stay under the radar, just like any cash associated with moving them.”

  “One less transfer of funds between banks means one less stop of the cash on a federal server,” I deduced. “To shift the money from Andreu’s account to yours, in the same bank, is simply a book transfer. No other bank. No federal server.”

  “Very good.”

  “How did you get ahold of it? I mean, how—if—”

  Something wasn’t right. These eggs were said to be worth thirty to forty million each and we were dealing with a substantially larger amount of cash. Then—

  “Oh shit! Oh shit!”

  It hit me.

  Eggs. Plural.

  This much money could only mean one thing.

  I threw the gun in my pocket as I headed straight past the attendant for the door. I opened it and walked through. Boris was coming my way. I ducked back into the men’s room, gun out again.

  The attendant immediately assumed the position. Derbyshev, on the other hand, was now facing me. And he was pissed. Past him I could see a shade, not too far from the ground, pulled over what I figured to be a decent-size window. Life had become all about seconds. I needed to get to that window.

  Again, as I shook my suit jacket off while maintaining my aim, I faced that question. Did I have it in me to shoot?

  His chauffeur would be coming through the door any moment. Time had run out.

  So I let him have it.

  Boom!

  I kicked him square in the groin sending him crashing to the floor. All it took was the pull of a string to yank the black vertical blinds wide open. I rolled the pistol, like brass knuckles, into my fist, which I then wrapped with my jacket forming a makeshift boxing glove. With a pop, the glass exploded. The center was clear but the frame still contained big chunks of sharp edges. I took a few quick jabs at what remained. Most of the pieces fell just as I turned my head at the sound of the bathroom door opening.

  The window was only a few feet off the ground, no higher than my chest, so I literally propelled myself through it like a missile. Unscathed, I hit the ground and bounced up running. I darted around the building then down the street toward my car. Halfway there I looked over my shoulder. Boris was coming after me. Whether he followed me through the window or came back through the restaurant I couldn’t be sure.

  Calm, I told myself as I reached the Porsche. Be calm. I jumped in the unlocked car and unwound the jacket from my wrist, throwing it on the passenger-side floor. I tossed the gun on top of it and checked Boris through the windshield. He was gaining. He had a gun out.

  “Calm,” I whispered to myself.

  I pulled the keys from my pants pocket and started her up. Within seconds I was on my way. I flew past the approaching chauffeur who had his arm extended. I ducked, bracing for impact.

  He never fired.

  Chapter 39

  Around midnight, as I steadily moved up a straight stretch of the New Jersey Turnpike back toward Manhattan, I picked up Pop’s cell phone. I looked at the printout from Ryan again. Derbyshev’s home number. I dialed and hit “send.”

  “Hello?”

  I wasn’t surprised to hear the Count’s voice. I figured his staff had either left or retired for the night.

  “How many eggs is it, Mr. Derbyshev?”

  “This is an unpublished number. How…”

  He tapered off, probably remembering I had his social security number.

  “You said eggs, plural. More than one. How many are there?”

  “I have nothing to say to you.”

  “Zhamovsky’s going to fuck you.”

  “Ridiculous,” he scoffed.

  “Is it? How well do you know him?”

  No response.

  “Mr. Derbyshev, if anyone here should be worried about trusting the other it’s me trusting you. Take my word on that, especially given our little confrontation. Andreu’s going to seriously work you. You give me a couple minutes, answer a couple questions, I think you’ll understand that.”

/>   Derbyshev thought on it.

  “You’re expecting close to half a billion dollar payday, aren’t you?”

  Silence.

  “Mr. Derbyshev?”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’ll tell you what Andreu’s up to if you help me put this together. Tell me about the transaction. Because for the life of me, I can’t figure out how the money lines up. If—”

  “All six.”

  “All six,” I repeated, knowing full well what he meant.

  Six eggs. The six imperial Easter eggs supposedly never found.

  “Piotr Derbyshev was the mystery egg maker.”

  “He was,” the Count conceded, finally realizing he had too much to lose to not give me a chance. “I have spent my entire life gathering the ones thought to be missing all these years. His grandson, my own father, tracked them for a while and kept records. As a young immigrant I simply made my sole goal in life to get rich so I could pick up where he left off and continue our family’s quest. With so little information or records concerning their whereabouts, it feels like I had to touch every corner of the world to bring them back. But I did. All six.”

  “But how? I mean—who, or—where were they? How did they survive? Because it is my understanding that when the royal family was overthrown—”

  “Does the name Maria Feodorovna mean anything to you?”

  The Russian empress for whom many of the imperial eggs, including all eight that went missing in the Revolution, were made.

  “It does.”

  “Fascinating woman with a terrific eye for talent. The kind of woman who would fight for what she believed in. The kind of woman who would stand up for those she made a commitment to.”

  I didn’t get it.

  “Mr. Derbyshev, I’m not following.”

  “The Czarina Maria Feodorovna loved all of the eggs presented to her, but it was her keen eye that identified Piotr Derbyshev’s contributions to the eggs as superior. She asked Henrik Wigstrom herself for Derbyshev to have the opportunity to lead the creation of some eggs. When the revolution happened, Alexandra Feodorovna had her servants round up as many of the Derbyshev pieces as she could out of an obligation to someone she believed in. All eight of his creations were saved. Two were stolen soon after, not to be found until 1979 in Yakutsk.”

  “The two sold at auction,” I filled in.

  “Precisely. That’s how Andreu got to me in the first place. We have a mutual acquaintance who possesses one of the other two—obviously you know which one. I’ve been trying to buy it for years. This person told Andreu where he could find me.”

  “But then why would you sell them to Andreu? After just telling me yourself you had to reach to the corners of the world to bring them home?”

  “I never planned on it. Andreu approached me about it, but I said no. Unequivocally, no. He said he’d give me top dollar, forty million per egg, and I still said no.”

  “So what made you change your mind?”

  “His offer doubled. Eighty million per egg.”

  Eighty million multiplied by six equals four hundred and eighty million. An amount right around Andreu’s price range for our deal.

  “Finally, I thought, what better legacy could my great-grandfather have than that? Than fetching almost half a billion dollars for the craftsmanship of his own hands?”

  The count had come through. I owed him.

  “Mr. Derbyshev, when did Andreu tell you the transaction would actually take place?”

  “He said he couldn’t be sure, but—”

  “But within three weeks?” I completed his thought.

  “That’s correct. Within three weeks.”

  “Did Andreu ever tell you where the cash he would be using to buy the eggs would be coming from?”

  “Coming from? How do you mean?”

  “Andreu Zhamovsky is the chairman of Prevkos, Mr. Derbyshev.”

  “I know this.”

  “But did you know he’s using his shareholders’ money to buy your precious eggs, and not his own? Why else would he be funneling a half billion dollars of his company’s funds into this country through a real estate deal with me?”

  Nothing. I continued.

  “I’ll tell you why. Andreu didn’t tell you to open an account at Salton to avoid another transfer. He did it so he could set you, someone with an account under the same roof, up when the Prevkos cash went missing. Public money supposedly being used for the purchase of New York City real estate and not the purchase of antiques neither of you can talk about but that will already be in his possession. A little matter of them, technically, being stolen property belonging to the Russian government.”

  “That can’t be right.”

  “Oh no? Why else would he be bringing the perfect amount of cash into this country through the deal we’re working on?”

  “Andreu Zhamovsky is a wealthy man. I’m sure he has—”

  “No other bank accounts whatsoever. Not one, at least with Salton Lynear Bank, the institution Andreu told you to open an account with. The institution Andreu told you his funds would be coming from.”

  Derbyshev paused.

  “Why should I believe you? About any of this?”

  “Because I’m the only chance you’ve got. You call Andreu Zhamovsky and tell him about this chat, we’ll both learn that the hard way.”

  I ended the signal and tossed Pop’s cell on the passenger seat. Within seconds it rang again. Unavailable caller.

  “Forget to tell me something?”

  “Jonah, why are you using this line? Where is your father?”

  It was Galina Zhamovsky. I was caught completely off guard.

  “My father is dead, Galina.”

  Silence.

  “He was shot outside his townhouse yesterday.”

  “Oh my God. No!”

  “I need some answers.”

  “He was...this...he...” she went on, her stunned voice dwindling away.

  More silence.

  Click.

  She was gone.

  The highway, still running straight but over a knoll, started to lose elevation as I hit the crest. A wall of stars in front of me, my mind returned to Andreu, our deal, the timing of everything.

  Three weeks for the real estate transaction.

  Less than a month before Danish Jubilee Egg was to be moved to tighter security.

  Andreu was looking to corral these eggs, a group of six and another of two, respectively, that seemed to have gone separate ways. Plain and simple. The perfect collection. But while the nature of our property transaction perhaps now made sense, there were still so many unanswered questions. Questions like, why me? Not for the cash, now obvious, but for being the one planted with the now-famous egg less than twenty-four hours after its theft? Or the stock certificates? What was the connection there?

  I pulled off the highway to a rest area and stopped next to a pump of premium. I turned off the car. Sitting there, windows still down, I listened to the fans as they continued to run underneath the hood against the backdrop of the country calm. She was coming down from her workout, settling. After gassing up I headed into the MobilMart for a bottle of water.

  The place was empty. The wiry kid behind the counter couldn’t have been a second over fifteen. I grabbed my bottle and placed it on the counter.

  “Anything else?”

  There were still some copies of the previous day’s paper on a plastic, rolling Star Ledger rack to my right.

  “Ledger.”

  Back in my car, constantly checking all mirrors, I slowly rolled into a parking spot off to the side. I unfolded the paper. I found it on page five next to a column about the still-missing actor. Fallen Manhattan Mogul Inquiry Moves Forward.

  I started to read, but it was mostly the same facts I had already seen. I started skimming. More information on the evidence, the bullets, the body, and the testimony f
rom Mattheau about the car that sped away. The cigar ash. The supposed timeline. Where my father was going so early. Why he—

  Double take.

  Cigar ash?

  According to the article, a long cigar ash was found in the street in front of the townhouse, something authorities have deemed relevant because it was where the car supposedly sped away from “according to the testimony of the deceased’s chauffeur.”

  The compact cockpit felt like it was closing in on me. My body temperature began to soar. I could see a snapshot of his fucking face like a Polaroid tacked up on the corkboard of my brain. I had seen him smoking just days earlier. Lloyd Murdoch, that bastard who knew Pop was leaving his house early Saturday morning for a tee time. He probably just sat there in the back of his limo, his arm hanging out the window, as someone with solid marksmanship took the shot. When the car jerked as it took off the ash from his cigar must have shaken loose. I closed my eyes and felt chills as I watched a reenactment of the possible scene in front of the townhouse. What a sadistic prick, I thought. Not only did he hire the hit as a message to me, he made sure he was there to watch it go down.

  Pop had literally gotten caught in the cross fire.

  But was it he, ultimately, who had helped load the weapon?

  Parting the night, I glided toward New York City on the final leg of my journey. I was tired, angry, paranoid, yet undeterred.

  Through all of the mixed emotions, through all of the anger, one thing was for sure. Andreu was looking to gather the missing collection of eggs, which made something else, so I thought, all the more clear.

  Danish Jubilee Egg now didn’t seem to be about me at all. She seemed to be part of a bigger plan than I originally thought, one that most likely had Robie/Hart hired, for lack of a better word, by Andreu to steal her to go with the other missing treasures. As I had learned days earlier from the newspaper, the egg hadn’t been stolen even twenty-four hours before I had been saddled with it. Plus, Robie/Hart had been caught in the act on camera. These two facts pointed to one conclusion. Robie/Hart must have learned about the government’s hidden cameras. A rapidly slamming window of opportunity was the only explanation for him following me out to the Hamptons to plant the egg on me at a crowded wedding. Because the antique was scheduled to be moved to the Capital so soon, the heist couldn’t wait and they moved to Plan B. I conveniently became that plan. Andreu knew, for at least three weeks, I wasn’t going anywhere. He had made sure of it, which meant I was ripe to hold onto the egg until later retrieval. All Robie/Hart