About Face

by Adam Gittlin

  Nicholas’s last dying wish was that his young fiancée marry his younger brother.

  Really?

  Who does that?

  In a bookstore in Amsterdam, I had picked up a book about King Christian IX of Denmark—Maria Feodorovna’s father. There was a portrait of his vast family, one of those painted-looking ones where everyone is looking regal with the women in frilly dresses and the men in their military garb. The king and his queen were standing in the center of the portrait. But one of the peripheral players off to the side made me do a double take.

  Then a triple take.

  There stood Piotr Derbyshev. The same Piotr Derbyshev from the Ekaterinburg School of Art and Industry.

  Only he wasn’t Piotr Derbyshev.

  He was Maria’s cousin.

  Gustav Bjerg.

  This was too fucked up. I was sure they were the same person. I bought the book and rushed back to 251 Herengracht. I put the two photographs side by side. Gustav was Piotr; Piotr was Gustav. It was unmistakable. Gustav Bjerg apparently became a master stone carver under the fake name Piotr Derbyshev in order to work at the House of Fabergé and ultimately make Imperial Easter Eggs for his cousin—at her request.

  Why?

  What were they up to?

  Fast-forward to our generation. Galina Zhamovsky, married to Alexander Zhamovsky, had a son—named Andreu—with my dad. And Andreu was probably, hopefully, still sitting in a Russian jail somewhere for the stunt he tried to pull with a few hundred million of his company’s shareholders’ dollars. He was paying for trying to purchase the eggs for his mother—without, it turned out, even knowing why.

  Because Galina Zhamovsky needed to “stay true to her own.”

  Who was Galina Zhamovsky, really?

  I hadn’t been sure where to begin. While her husband and son were public figures in the business world, she was not. Whether I tried to learn about her as Galina Zhamovsky or Ia—her name as an artist—I came up empty. In fact, it was almost as if she didn’t even exist no matter what I read about Alexander or Andreu. Nothing about her present, nothing about her past.

  But the more I looked, one name kept surfacing. Alexander’s right-hand man for years at Prevkos—a man who resigned from the company the day Alexander was found murdered in a Russian subway station.

  Aleksey Mateev.

  Aleksey Mateev was quoted in nearly every article written about Prevkos or Alexander Zhamovsky. Alexander was often described as the “brain” of the organization and Aleksey, the “backbone.” Then, just like that, Mateev resigned after Alexander’s death and refused comment. From that day in 1998 forward, I couldn’t even find a single mention of Aleksey Mateev.

  I was sitting at the Parsons table in my research room at Herengracht. It was the middle of the night, the only light in the room from the glow of my Mac’s screen. I had one of the windows cracked for some fresh Amsterdam air. Just as I was about to give up on this particular direction, I decided to give it one more Google search for something I might have missed. There were pages and pages of all the articles I had studied. But on page twelve there was a search result I didn’t recall, an article in the Daily Telegraph about a car accident in London. And the only witness to that accident was a man named Aleksey Mateev. The article was only three months old.

  I took down the name of the journalist who wrote the article. The next morning, from a pay phone on the streets of Amsterdam, I called the newspaper.

  “Daily Telegraph, good morning,” a cheery voice answered.

  “Joan Ellison, please,” I said.

  “Have a great day,” the voice said as I was connected.

  I took a deep breath. I couldn’t decide which I wanted more: her to pick up, or not.

  “Joan Ellison.”

  Showtime.

  “Yes, Joan. Good morning. This is Detective Egerton. I work with Detective Fletcher whom you met a few months back when writing about the hit-and-run that took place on Adam Street.”

  I had gotten Fletcher’s name from the article.

  “Right, sure—the hit-and-run on Adam Street. What can I do for you, Detective?”

  “There was a witness in the case, as you know, a man named Aleksey Mateev. It turns out I have come across something of interest perhaps to this case this morning, and I would like to ask Mr. Mateev some questions about my findings. While time is of the essence, unfortunately, Detective Fletcher is out of the country with his family. I was hoping you could give me Mr. Mateev’s phone number and address so I can properly follow up.”

  There was silence on the other end. Not good.

  “I’m not terribly comfortable giving out information like this over the phone,” she said as I had literally parted my lips to press on.

  “Of course,” I said. “I understand. I can certainly swing by your office to get it from you, but in doing so I might miss out on an associated lead. That’s why I figured I would call you directly and—”

  “No,” she cut me off, “no—you don’t need to do that, Detective. Give me one second.”

  • • •

  “Hello?” a male voice answered with a thick Russian accent.

  “Mr. Mateev? Aleksey Mateev?”

  “Who is this?” my question was answered with a question.

  “I want to speak with you about Alexander Zhamovsky. About Prevkos.”

  “I’m sorry, I cannot help you,” he responded after a brief pause.

  “But you are in fact the same Aleksey Mateev who worked at Prevkos,” I pressed.

  “As I said, I cannot help you.”

  “Actually, I believe you can,” I countered. “I’m a friend, Mr. Mateev. My guess is you resigned that day in 1998 because you never bought into the circumstances surrounding Alexander Zhamovsky’s death. You were right not to.”

  “What is it you want?”

  “Just to talk. But not over the phone. I would come to London.”

  Nothing.

  “I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t important, Mr. Mateev. And I give you my word our conversation will remain confidential.”

  “Your word? You still haven’t even told me your name.”

  “I just need some information. I have your address. Like I said, I would be happy to come to you.”

  I threw in that I had his address to motivate him. My subtle way of saying I’ll be coming no matter what, you can know when or wait for me to surprise you.

  There was a sigh on the other end.

  “When will you be coming to London?”

  CHAPTER 23

  BALTIMORE, MARYLAND

  2013

  The endless, twinkling stars are the main source of night light accompanied by a softly lit streetlight here or there. I come up to 5 Jarrettsville Pike. Within a second of seeing the high gates and high foliage that surrounds the count’s sprawling property and castle, déjà vu overwhelms me. I could swear I was just here. It seems like mere seconds since I last saw the sharp, pointed roof of the towers, which tonight, like the foliage, are just solid, outlined shapes a darker shade of black than the night surrounding them.

  I come up on the gate’s main entrance to the driveway. There’s a speaker and button, along with a prominently displayed camera to let any visitor know the game plan. I hit the button. From the speaker I hear ringing, like it’s a phone call. At this hour, I figure the staff is gone for the night or asleep, that the count will pick up. No answer. It keeps ringing. I look around. The ringing stops.

  I hear a whirring sound as the camera changes position. It stops once positioned squarely on me. I wait for words, but still nothing.

  “Hello?” I say, working the European accent.

  Still nothing.

  “Is—”

  “Who are you?” a voice cuts me off.

  The man himself. The thick Baltic accent, exactly as I remember it.

  I didn’t give him my name then. I don’t want to give it out now.

  “The restaurant Prime Rib, a number of years ago,” I resp
ond, European slant on my voice.

  “I’m the guy who kicked you in the balls then dove out the bathroom window.”

  Silence.

  “I don’t look like you remember me—I know. But—”

  “I have already dialed the nine and first one. Police will be here shortly.”

  “Please. Don’t. I promise you, it’s really me.”

  Drop the bomb.

  I lose the accent. And return to my God-given voice.

  “It’s really the Prime Rib guy. The guy who saved you from turning your family’s treasures over to Andreu Zhamovsky.”

  There’s a pause. Then: “How … what …”

  Silence again.

  “I know. It doesn’t seem possible. And God knows what you learned about me in the news. I promise you, I’m innocent. I promise to explain all this if you’ll please let me in.”

  “What is it you want from me?”

  “I need to see the eggs.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll tell you that once I’m face-to-face with them. And you.”

  Silence.

  “Please, Mr. Derbyshev. I’m sorry it’s the middle of the night. And I know my showing up here after all these years, looking and sounding like a completely different person who wants to come into your home is completely absurd. But I’ve waited a long time for the opportunity to approach you. I promise—you aren’t in any danger. Nor are the eggs. I simply need to lay my eyes on them for a few minutes.”

  “That all sounds well and good,” the count responded, “but how can I be sure it’s you? How do I know you’re not some mentally ill, unusually conniving, sinister animal who literally beat the necessary information out of the real man you’re claiming to be to put yourself in this position to possibly just walk into my home and loot me of my family’s treasures? All of this assuming I would even keep them here.”

  Huh.

  Good point.

  “Go back to that night,” I reply.

  “Excuse me?”

  “That night when we met face-to-face at Prime Rib. I remember every second of our meeting, from when I approached you and your chauffeur slash bodyguard out front upon your arrival until I jumped in my car and took off with same said chauffeur slash bodyguard coming after me with a gun.”

  “Your point?”

  “My point is that I’m confident whatever you may recall, I will recall as well. In the short time we met that night before—once again—I actually saved you from getting smoked by Andreu Zhamovsky, a lot happened. Both at your table as well as in the men’s room. An imposter would have basic information to get into position to rip you off, not the nitty gritty of our encounter. So—ask me anything. Go for details.”

  His table as well as the men’s room.

  Possible someone who had put a gun to my head to get into this position would have asked me details like that, but not likely.

  Silence.

  A good thing.

  He’s thinking of something to ask me.

  “You sat down at my table, and I asked you your name that night,” he finally said. “What did you tell me?”

  “I responded with a set of numbers. Which you immediately identified as your Social Security number.”

  The gate slowly begins to swing open.

  • • •

  As I walk toward the monstrosity of a home, the closer I get the more lights—obviously triggered by motion detectors—come on. And with each additional light, I see more of the structure against the night sky. The count’s castle is even more “castle” than I could have imagined. It’s like I left Manhattan, drove a couple hours, and somehow ended up in the Irish countryside. The castle is primarily comprised of dark brick and stone and has all the trimmings: cylindrical towers, coned roofs with pointed tops, a porte cochere, the works. I can’t help but think I’d better look down lest I fall into a moat.

  The huge, heavy wooden plank of a door slowly swings back. When halfway open, Derbyshev steps into my sight standing in the cavernous entry vestibule under the dim light of a few wall sconces. He looks older, his long face more weathered, his silver hair more silver. Nonetheless he’s looking as countlike as ever—only this time in a long, red smoking jacket that seems to be doubling as a robe over his blue pajamas instead of the razor-edge sharp pinstriped suit and alligator shoes he wore during our first meeting.

  He’s studying my face. He looks me up and down.

  “Only two types of people would change themselves as if right out of a science fiction novel. Someone very innocent or someone very guilty.”

  Way too loaded. Not touching that one.

  “I appreciate you trusting me, Mr. Derbyshev. I appreciate you opening this door. I’ve thought about this moment—this night, whenever it might come—for a long time.”

  “You saved me from handing over my family’s treasures, treasures the flesh and blood I come from crafted with their own hands, for a half a billion dollars that my accepting would have put me in jail. Please. Call me Pavel.”

  He turns around and heads into the house, which I take as my invitation to follow him. I step into the entry vestibule and close the door.

  I follow the count inside. Suddenly the lights come up. When they do, I realize I’m indeed standing in a palace that looks surprisingly similar to what I had envisioned. Behind the count is a rich, lustrous great room. The floor is white marble so shiny and clean it looks like I can eat off it. The walls are the same red as the count’s smoking jacket, robe, whatever. The furniture—all upholstered with black velvet—like the chandeliers is finished with the same gold that frames the mirrored ceiling grid topping off the room. A ceiling that looks like it’s being held up by the interspaced columns made from the same marble as the floor.

  “Are you hungry or thirsty?” he asks, pointing in a direction that I imagine leads to the kitchen. Or one of the kitchens.

  “No, thank you,” I respond. I look at my watch. “And even if I was, I simply don’t have the time to spare.”

  “Then let’s get to it.”

  The count starts off into, then through, the great room with me following. He glances back at me over his shoulder.

  “How—if—”

  He faces the direction we’re walking again.

  “Forget it,” he continues. “I don’t think I want to know.”

  “No,” I answer, understanding he’s talking about what went into this hardcore physical transformation. “You don’t.”

  Unsurprisingly, the house is like a never-ending maze. After walking for what must be a couple minutes, we enter what looks to be a very large office. The room feels out of place. Its shell is certainly part of the home it sits in—the walls, ceiling, and moldings—but all the furniture, the iMac as well as Bloomberg terminal sitting on the huge glass desk, the multiple flat-screens on the wall are all up-to-the-minute. There are antique sculptures on pedestals; there are contemporary paintings on the walls. The space is a complete contradiction of itself. A contradiction existing in harmony.

  “Welcome to my office,” the count says.

  He heads behind a desk and opens a minifridge sitting on a cherrywood credenza. He takes a La Croix from it.

  “Might I interest you in a La Croix?”

  “A what?”

  “A La Croix. Seltzer water by itself is so …boring. But this La Croix? Just the perfect hint of flavor. And they have a new peach-pear flavor. It’s just the right blend of—”

  He stops when he looks at me, and sees my “Are you fucking kidding me?” expression.

  “Please,” he says graciously, gesturing to the cordovan leather sofa. “Sit. And tell me what you’re doing in my office in the middle of the night after all these years.”

  I sit on the couch. He takes a seat on one of the leather chairs facing me. I take a deep breath.

  “The night of our meeting, once I was gone and driving back to where I came from, I called your house. And you picked up. Do you remember that?”

  “
I do.”

  “I explained to you I understood, after putting it together, you didn’t have just one of the missing eggs, but all six,” I go on. “As we got into it a bit further, you asked me if the name Maria Feodorovna meant anything to me. I said it did. I knew by this point she was the Russian empress for whom many of the imperial eggs, including all eight that went missing in the revolution, were made. It was at this point you said something that got me thinking. Something I carried with me until a time when I could investigate the matter on my own.”

  “What was that?” the count asked.

  “You told me Maria Feodorovna was the kind of woman who fought for the things she believed in, stood up for those to whom she’d made a commitment. That she had an eye for talent which is why she had Henrik Wigstrom, the man running the House of Fabergé at the time, give Piotr Derbyshev—your grandfather, and a man who had shown great promise through his contributions to the eggs—an opportunity to lead the creation of some of the eggs on his own.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “The eggs Maria Feodorovna had her servants round up as the revolution unfolded and her castle was stormed, before all the others. She managed to save all eight, two of which were stolen soon after, not to be seen again until found in Yakutsk in 1979.”

  “So as the story goes, that’s right.”

  The count shifts in his seat.

  “Where exactly are you going with this?” he asks.

  CHAPTER 24

  LONDON

  2010

  In the Hampstead Garden suburb of London I walked up to a huge country-style red brick house at the address of South Square NW3. The home was gorgeous, appeared to be immaculately appointed, and couldn’t have been any smaller than six thousand square feet. It was summer. The grass, trees, flowers, shrubs—every inch of foliage covering the large property was perfectly manicured. I walked up the half-circle driveway, climbed the stairs, and rang the doorbell.

  A very tall man, with strong facial features that included a really large nose, answered the door. He had short, almost spikey-looking, gray hair to go with a matching gray goatee, and rectangular wire-framed glasses covering his oak-tree-bark brown eyes. He wore jeans, a white button-down shirt opened to the second button, and black casual loafers with no socks.