About Face

by Adam Gittlin

  Yeah, right.

  A foreign license, showing my false identity. In L’s car. My real identity? A global fugitive sitting somewhere on the FBI’s Most Wanted List for the murder of a New York City cop. I could see the conversation now. “I see. And how is it that you know one Tangueray Luckman? Who lives in New York City? Whose car you’re driving? What, exactly, takes you so far away from New York City this time of night? I’m sorry, you said you were in the States for business from Amsterdam? Now, if—”

  I look quickly at my neatly folded suit jacket in the passenger seat. I think about the phones. The gun! The flash drive. The keys. The loupe.

  Can I pull it off?

  Probably.

  But if I don’t? If something seems off to this cop?

  I simply can’t take that risk.

  There is only one option. And it isn’t option one.

  It’s dark. To that cop, all I am is an 89 mph blur speeding away in the opposite direction. The speed gun he shot me with—all that gives him is a number. I’m moving too fast for him to have gotten my license plate, the make or color of the car, anything more than my speed. Which, already, is substantially higher than 89 mph as my foot presses down harder.

  In the rearview mirror, I see the fading red, white, and blue lights start to move. He’s coming. My eyes move again to the speedometer. The dial shows a top speed of 200 mph.

  Get what you need. Clean up the mess later.

  I scan the road ahead. Light traffic, probably as many trucks carrying overnight cargo as there are cars. My head start is more than substantial, only enhanced because of the beast I’m driving. I start manipulating the paddles and the pedals. My speed starts steadily rising. 100. 105. 110. An image from my previous life flashes in my mind—me and my old Porsche heading out to Limerock Raceway on weekends for both of us to let off a little steam.

  I’m not amongst the usual weekend warriors tonight.

  But I’m sure as hell ready for a race.

  Cruising in the left lane, my fingers tighten around the steering wheel. I press the gas harder. 120. 130. Slicing through the night, my heart rate climbs in synchronicity with my speed. There’s a car up ahead in my lane, but I’ve got room. I glance in the rearview. The flashing, swirling lights suspended in the black behind me aren’t getting any bigger. They’re not getting smaller either.

  My eyes move back to the road.

  Fuck!

  Brakes! Downshift!

  Driving the Maserati as if on a runway looking to take flight, I’m about to drive straight through the car I thought was way in front of me.

  My speed is essentially cut in half. I glance in the mirror. The lights are getting larger.

  Instead of honking or flashing my brights, I slam the car right. I hit the paddles. The gears shift; the beast roars. I hit the gas. Truck in front of me. Paddles, shift, roar—this time as I pull the car farther right, I look in the rearview. The lights are larger, closer. I focus in front of me. Open road. I hit the gas. The needle rises again. 80. 90. 100. 110. 120.

  The lights are getting smaller again.

  I pass a bunch of cars and trucks on my left. Once I do, and I’ve got four-lane, wide-open road, I move back into the center.

  130.

  The screaming nighttime air bum-rushing me is loud, hard. Like fists punching me from every direction. Realizing I can probably hear the sirens better at this point with the windows up I raise them. The more I can gauge the siren’s sound, the less I have to look back.

  Back in the day, because of business, I had known Baltimore pretty well. That’s why I knew my way around in a basic sense when I first met Derbyshev just before my departure from the States. My eyes move to the navigation system screen. I need to hold him off. The next leg of the trip isn’t far away. Once I hit it, I can explore losing him.

  140.

  The siren is fading.

  Or, wait, is it?

  No.

  Out of the corner of my eye, in my peripheral vision, a new set of lights enter stage right. And they are slightly ahead of me, about two o’clock.

  No!

  I move into the left lane.

  The new lights slow down a bit as they curve around the ramp entering the highway. I fly by them; get a good jump.

  But the chase is definitely on.

  150.

  A clump of cars is approaching fast. They seem to be stacked toward the left of the highway. Anticipating where my open road will lie, I slam the car right. Behind me the suspended cop lights separate. Without truly knowing what lies ahead, in terms of obstacles, they must figure this increases their odds of not losing me.

  I’ve got some solid separation. My eyes find the navigation system screen again. My exit is coming up. Seeing this, a strategy slaps me across the face. I hit the paddles and downshift. I move left into the small patch of cars and trucks drifting down the highway like a school of fish. I coast behind a car going about seventy-five in the second lane from the left.

  My eyes move to the screen.

  One mile.

  My eyes bounce to the rearview mirror.

  The lights, still spread apart, are growing.

  I continue coasting.

  Navigation screen again.

  Three-quarters of a mile.

  Fuck. The timing is off.

  I can’t have them get too close.

  I upshift and floor the gas. I move the beast left into the fast lane. The tires grab the road like they have teeth as four hundred and fifty horses under the hood take off like they’re all in the home stretch of the Kentucky Derby. In two seconds flat, I move right again. Just like that, the car that was in front of me is behind me. Up ahead I have a good hundred feet to the next car. Beyond that, I see a car up ahead in the left most lane, a semi in the second lane from the right.

  Half a mile.

  Rearview mirror. The lights have grown considerably. I move my eyes back to the windshield, shift, and hit the gas. Not too much, just enough to get the beast into acceleration mode again.

  80.

  90.

  I creep up on the Audi Q7 in front of me.

  I sit tight for one more second.

  Navigation system.

  Three-eighths of a mile out.

  Wait. Wait.

  I take a deep breath.

  Now.

  I tear out into the left lane. The sound of my engine makes my intentions clear, I’m ready to rock. Shifting the paddles, I floor it and take off screaming down the fast lane.

  110.

  120.

  My eyes bounce to the rearview. Just as I hoped, both sets are coming together towards the two left most lanes, behind me. Just as they do, navigation system screen again.

  Quarter of a mile.

  Speedometer.

  130.

  140.

  Just as I approach the car blocking me in the fast lane, I pull the car right as hard as I can. I downshift; I pass between a few cars in the middle two lanes with my eyes on both the semi moseying down the right lane and the exit ramp just beyond it.

  Rearview. The cop cars are both doing their best to fight back right across the highway to me. Eyes ahead again. I stay on my hard angle line, tires screeching. The space between the front of the truck and the exit ramp is closing. My mind, like the beast, hits overdrive. I calculate my speed and angle in relation to the patch of road I need to hit—an off-ramp that, if memory serves me right, is so sharp going thirty is probably too fast. Immediately I come to a conclusion.

  Looks like I overshot.

  Fuck.

  Fearing this situation may be beyond my control and simply a matter of physics, I hold my breath. I pull the car even harder. As the angle I’m traveling in relation to the highway moves from forty-five to somewhere between thirty-eight and forty, I feel the beast’s inside wheels actually lift off the ground. Just as they do, and what must be an inch from getting tagged by the semi, I catch the corner of the exit ramp’s shoulder just where it meets the gras
s leading to the woods beyond. Downshifting, but applying just enough gas to give me the velocity I need to get the wheels back down, I regain full control of the car. When I do, I downshift even farther as I now brake and reduce my speed just enough to keep me from flying off the road. Once sure I’m good, I move the steering wheel into the proper position for the hard-right ramp.

  I exhale.

  My eyes pop back to the rearview, remembering I have two cop cars on my ass. Just as my vision hits the glass, I see one of the two go flying into the woods. The other is a bit spun around, but seems to have held the road. Just as I see the car propel forward again, the hard angle of the turn forces him out of my line of sight.

  One down.

  Time to refocus. Now on the Baltimore beltway outer loop, I’m not far from my destination. No doubt more backup is on the way. Now is not the time to be bashful. I accelerate again as the beast glides through the Baltimore city limits like a figure skater’s blade across ice. That’s when I decide it’s time to let the nice woman on the navigation system start earning her keep.

  Left here.

  Right there.

  The beast’s ability to corner like it’s on rails, coupled with my lovely friend’s ability to “recalculate route” on a constant basis, I decide the immediate need is separation. Moving like it’s on the prowl, needs to feed, the beast aggressively scours the neighborhood. With each second, the volume of the pursuing siren remains the same or loses a notch. With each turn, between the acceleration and deceleration, it seems the cop car is huffing and puffing to stay with me.

  Just as I feel I’m gaining some real separation, I hear another siren approaching. That’s my cue. I look at the navigation screen. Then, I punch it.

  I blast off down a main drag that will take me toward Phoenix, Maryland—one of Baltimore’s suburbs.

  100.

  110.

  I look in the rearview again. As I do, out of the corner of my left eye, I sense something. I jerk my head; it’s too late. A cop car—no lights, no siren—is coming from nowhere straight at me. I flatten the gas pedal, and the car lurches forward. I propel myself forward enough to avoid a complete battering, but it’s still too late. The cop car clips the back of the beast. The crunching sound of metal on metal fills up the night, my ears. My hands still on the steering wheel, but my fate completely out of my hands, the beast and I are spinning. What must be a split second feels an hour. It’s like I’m in slow motion until both cars stop, leaving the beast and I facing the direction we were going after a complete three-sixty.

  Then, nothing.

  Both cars are stalled.

  The only thing I hear is hissing. I turn and look back over my right shoulder.

  The hissing is steam coming from under the cop car’s hood, he—still in the driver’s seat—and the car about a hundred feet away.

  We look at each other.

  Our eyes lock. His door swings open.

  Fuck.

  I turn the key. Nothing. I look in the rearview. Two sets of lights now—one closer than the other—both coming on strong.

  I look over my shoulder at the cop again. A white guy, approaching fast, his hand now moving to his gun. I face forward again and turn the key.

  The beast roars to life.

  Paddles, shift—I slam the gas pedal to the floor. I look over my shoulder again. The spinning, screeching tires spew smoke into the air as the rubber finds the road. Once it does, and the two become one, I shift again. Just as I do, through the smog I’m creating, I see the cop. He has his gun extended.

  I barely hear the words coming from his mouth, then—

  BOOM! BOOM!

  As I’m peeling away, my head now in my lap, two shots hit the back of the beast with two loud tings. A hundred yards or so away, I look up again. Just as I do, I wince from the sound of more gunshots. Only they don’t seem to be coming at me. In the mirror I see the cop standing in the street, firing yet again, only in what appears to be another direction.

  What the—

  Is someone shooting at the cop?

  How is that possible?

  Time for confusion is pushed aside when another of the pursuing cars comes screaming by him.

  Fuck—he’s close.

  The closest he’s been yet.

  My breathing is getting faster. I reel it in, pounding my right fist into my right thigh as I do.

  This is it.

  All these years.

  All this running. The deception.

  The lies.

  The truth.

  You all want to get wild, then let’s get wild.

  I’ve got work to do.

  100.

  110.

  120.

  The third car is significantly behind the second—which I’m now creating decent separation from again. I look at the navigation screen. I’m only a few turns, and a couple miles, from Derbyshev’s neighborhood. Suddenly I downshift and turn off the main drag. Doing so immediately puts me in suburbia. Narrow, winding streets lined with nice homes where families are sleeping soundly on both sides of me.

  I’m calm, collected. So much so I even focus on my breathing for a few moments as I upshift again.

  My breaths are even, steady, like the beast.

  That’s more fucking like it.

  I hear the sirens. They’re still coming, but I clearly have the advantage as I’m out of sight. The streets are short, choppy. There isn’t much room to hit higher than sixty mph before being forced into a turn.

  Left here.

  Right there.

  Within a few minutes, once the sirens’ volume has dissipated to my satisfaction, I manage my way with the assistance of my navigation consultant to the street perpendicular to Jarretsville Pike—the street where Derbyshev’s mansion sits. I scan the area, lights off. We’re moving slowly, steadily through the night.

  I look at my watch—2:23 a.m.

  I’m actually a bit ahead of schedule.

  Guess hitting 160 mph can do that for you.

  Finally I see it—the beast’s perfect resting spot. There’s a large home with a long driveway that wraps around the back of the house. I turn in, and the beast crawls up the driveway purring quietly. Once behind the house, I shut him down.

  I grab my suit jacket, get out, and gently close the door. Using my iPhone’s flashlight app, I survey the damage to L’s car.

  The rear, left corner got smashed pretty good. I walk around the back. I clearly see the two bullet holes.

  Fuck.

  I scratch my head. Then I head off on foot.

  CHAPTER 22

  AMSTERDAM, THE NETHERLANDS

  2010

  After five years in Amsterdam, my research regarding the eggs had intensified, leading me to unbelievable results. First, let me refresh your memory:

  There were fifty Fabergé Imperial Easter Eggs made between 1885 and 1916. Only forty-two of them were believed to have survived the Russian Revolution in 1917. At the House of Fabergé, two men oversaw the creation of these eggs—Mikhail Perkhin and Henrik Wigstrom. Whichever of the two oversaw a particular egg, their initials were on the egg along with assay marks relating to the karats and gold and either crossed anchors for the shop in St. Petersburg or St. George and the Dragon for the shop in Moscow. Not so for the one planted on me in New York City six years earlier or, as I would soon learn, any of the eight that went missing in the Russian Revolution. These had the assay marks as well as the mark denoting the house of origin. But they were all without initials. And all eight were made by a man named Piotr Derbyshev, an expert stone carver at the House of Fabergé.

  Piotr Derbyshev was the grandfather of Pavel Derbyshev, the man in Baltimore, Maryland, in possession of the missing Imperial Easter Eggs. He—Piotr—was requested to oversee the creation of these eight eggs in particular by the Empress Maria Feodorovna herself. The woman for whom they were made.

  Galina Zhamovsky—or the artist known as Ia—secretly communicated with my father through her ar
twork. And she wanted these eggs so badly she was willing to sacrifice even her own son, Andreu Zhamovsky, to get them. The reason I could never let any of this go—why I remained obsessed with figuring out the true story behind the missing Fabergé Imperial Easter Eggs—was not simply because they were the undoing of my life and the reason my father was dead. It was because of the message in the last piece she sent Pop.

  “I must stay true to my own. Cement my legacy. At all costs.”

  This much I knew.

  Now, here’s what I have learned.

  I scoured every available piece of material on the planet about the eggs. While I didn’t learn anything from this in terms of what Galina could be looking for, I did learn every available detail about the missing eggs. Most notably the materials used in each. We’ll get to this later.

  I ultimately decided to learn as much as humanly possible about all the players connected to the story, if you will. I started with Piotr Derbyshev. He was a master stone carver at the House of Fabergé. He studied at the Ekaterinburg School of Art and Industry in Ekaterinburg, Russia. Apparently, the school no longer exists. I’d reached out to the Ekaterinburg City Hall online in search of something, anything, and managed to befriend a clerk. She was a seemingly lonely type looking for a pen pal, and it turned out she liked the challenge of corresponding in the English she’d been studying. She sent me everything she had on record about the school, the bulk consisting of group photos of each graduating class. And in one of those pictures was Piotr Derbyshev, allowing me to finally put a face with the name.

  Next up was Maria Feodorovna. I reacquainted myself with her life, her path. Born into Denmark royalty in 1847 as Princess Dagmar of Schleswig-Holstein-Sonderburg-Glucksburg, she would die in 1928 as the Empress Maria Feodorovna of Russia. She had four sons and two daughters with Czar Alexander III, including Emperor Nicholas II—Russia’s last monarch whom she outlived by ten years. The more I learned about Maria Feodorovna, the more intrigued I became. She was supposed to be married to Nicholas, the heir apparent to Czar Alexander II, but he was ill and died of meningitis in 1865. Lore has it that his last dying wish was that Maria marry his younger brother Alexander III, who would eventually have the throne. I found this fascinating.