by Adam Gittlin
He extended his large hand. I shook it.
“Do I get a name now?” he asked.
“I can’t give you my name, Mr. Mateev. I’m sorry. My last intention is to disrespect you. I prefer not to tell you because the less you know about me the better.”
A look of disappointment glossed Mateev’s face, but only for a second. The way his brows immediately furrowed showed me he was a smart enough man to get it. And after all, I had found him when he had clearly done his best not to be found. The sooner he dealt with me, the sooner he’d be rid of me.
“Like I said on the phone, I’m a friend. I just want some information and I’ll be on my way.”
“Come on in.”
I stepped inside and followed Aleksey Mateev through the sprawling bottom floor of his home.
“Let’s settle in the living room,” he said as we entered the large, triple-aspect living room.
The room was white to the point it almost felt angelic. The long, wide suede couches, the lamps, the tables, chairs, the ceramic vases—everything was white. The only color was from a couple of purple throw pillows and some of the most intense purple roses I had ever seen. He held out his hand to offer me a seat.
“Anything to drink, Mystery Man?” he asked as I sat down.
“No. Thank you.”
Mateev sat down as well. He crossed his legs, leaned back comfortably, and spread his arms out along the top of the couch.
“So. How exactly can I help you?”
“You and Alexander Zhamovsky must have been close. Apparently, you were next to him from the moment he was given control of Prevkos until the moment he was found murdered. That must have been a terrible day.”
“Terrible indeed. Alexander was a good man.”
“Tell me—how long after you resigned did you leave Russia?”
“Almost immediately.”
“On your own volition? Or were you pressured?”
“Why is that of importance to you?”
It’s not, really. We both know the answer, and the understanding of Alexander’s death was no more than my hook to get me inside.
I changed directions.
“Mr. Mateev, I’m not here because of Alexander. I’m here because of his wife.”
“In what regard?”
“In the regard that I can’t seem to find any background information on her, and I need to know where she comes from. Who she is.”
“Why?”
“That’s complicated. And gets us back to the area of the less you know the better.”
Fuck, I thought. I had to give him something if I was going to get anything.
“But I will tell you one thing. I’m quite confident Galina Zhamovsky ordered the hit on her husband.”
Mateev looked puzzled.
“Galina? No—”
“Hard to believe. I know.”
“Galina Zhamovsky always appeared a fine woman, a dedicated woman. She was one of my wife’s closest friends for almost thirty years.”
“A dedicated woman—absolutely. A fine woman—not so much. You said yourself you believed the circumstances surrounding Alexander’s death were questionable. My guess is this is the reason you resigned so quickly. I’m also guessing you believed it was a hit as well—only business related.”
“How do you know these things? And why now, so many years later?”
“Mr. Mateev, what can you tell me about Galina Zhamovsky? Please?”
“Of course we all spent a lot of time together, but as I said, it was my wife who was close with her, who would know the details of her life.”
“Is your wife home?”
“No. She passed away a few years ago.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
He nodded.
“Mr. Mateev, you did know Galina for almost thirty years,” I went on. “Anything you can remember might be helpful. Anything.”
Mateev looked away from me at nothing in particular as he began thinking.
“Galina is a passionate woman. She loves her art. She loves her son. And from what I knew of her, I would have sworn she loved her husband.”
“Where is she from originally?” I asked.
Mateev’s eyes returned to me.
“St. Petersburg. And, if I’m not mistaken, I believe her maiden name was Romanov.”
St. Petersburg.
Romanov.
The two went together somewhere in my research. And I was pretty sure where.
Back in Amsterdam, I tore into the Herengracht apartment like a cyclone. I started scanning the walls. Then I saw it. Czar Alexander III of Russia’s full name was Alexander Alexandrovich Romanov.
And he was born in St. Petersburg.
The same Czar Alexander III who married Maria Feodorovna.
I started to think about Czar Alexander III, all I had read about him over the years. I also thought about his older brother Nicholas—the true heir apparent to the throne and intended husband of Maria Feodorovna—who died young of meningitis before he could ascend. In 1864, in apparently good health, Nicholas became engaged to Maria Feodorovna, or Princess Dagmar of Denmark at the time. A year later, after mysteriously starting to show symptoms such as back pain, a stiff neck, and sensitivity to noise and light, Nicholas was dead. His last wish on his deathbed: that his younger brother marry his bride to be.
Why was this so interesting?
I’d read that Nicholas had intentions for when he took the throne—intentions that were not in line with Alexander III’s interests for Russia. In fact, between the years of 1865 when Nicholas was out of the picture and 1881 when he would finally take the throne, Alexander III made his vision of an ideal Russia very clear. Alexander wanted to reverse the liberalization of Russia born from his father’s reign. He wanted to institute—which he eventually put into motion—mandatory teaching of the Russian language throughout the Russian Empire. He wanted an Empire of a single language, nationality, and religion.
Alexander was also with his older brother when Nicholas died in the south of France, the only one present when his dying older brother declared if he couldn’t marry his beloved princess Dagmar of Denmark, his younger brother should.
Who was Czar Alexander III really?
A man willing to step up for his royal family? Or master manipulator?
Click.
It started coming together.
I remembered an article I had read online and printed out by a Russian man named Nestor Korolyev written in 1994. I easily located it on the wall and took it down. Mr. Korolyev was a doctorate candidate in history at Ivanovo State University which is located about three hundred miles east of Moscow. His thesis was based on the relationship between Nicholas and Alexander III before Nicholas’ untimely death. The piece received national attention because whereas history outlines a strong relationship, Mr. Korolyev described what he believed to be a strained one. A relationship undermined by—among other things—their mother’s love and preference for the elder Nicholas.
Nicholas was the popular type, a strapping guy with good looks and social skills. Alexander III was big and clumsy with a large, ugly wen on the left side of his nose. According to Korolyev, Nicholas received preferential treatment with regard to his education and gifts. Nicholas and his mother were so close they would tell secrets in the other’s ear in front of Alexander III. Apparently—again, according to Korolyev—there was a solid foundation for jealousy.
Perhaps vengeance?
What did this have to do with Gustav Bjerg—Maria Feodorvna’s cousin—becoming Piotr Derbyshev to make her Fabergé Imperial Easter Eggs?
Click click.
The insinuations made in Korolyev’s thesis were one thing. But it was the suggestion of foul play that made the piece headline news. According to history, after Nicholas’s death, Princess Dagmar—Maria—was distraught and returned to her hometown to be with her family. So distraught, in fact, her friends and family were worried about both her mental and physical well-being. So why the
n would she come around and marry Alexander III?
What if not only Korolyev was correct, but Maria Feodorvna was already onto Alexander III?
And had recruited her cousin, Gustav Bjerg, to help her find the truth about her beloved Nicholas?
CHAPTER 25
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND
2013
“Sir, I believe Piotr Derbyshev—at the least the one who worked for the House of Fabergé—is someone different than you believe.”
I produce the loupe from my right inside suit jacket pocket.
“If I can just have a look at these eggs, we’ll know for sure if I’m right or wrong.”
The count sits silent for a second, processing what I just said. He opens his mouth about to speak, but stops himself. He stands up and walks over to one of the bookshelves on the far side of the room. In the middle of one of the shelves, between bookends separating his Keats and Nietzsche collections, is a small, unassuming gray stone sculpture no more than six inches tall that resembles an uneven U. He puts his hand on it, looks at me, and turns it counterclockwise.
Eight white, circular columns ascend slowly from the ground as the lights go dim. They are spaced unevenly, each one’s placement as eclectic as the egg itself with regard to the collection. As the pillars rise, thin, halogen spotlights drop from the ceiling slicing through the air silently like eels through water. On top of each column is a glass case, inside each is one of the eight Imperial Easter Eggs the world believes to be missing.
The spotlights, each placed with a surgeon’s precision, eventually stop in position to maximize, highlight each egg’s lustrous beauty. The spectacle is breathtaking.
“Holy fuck,” I push out in a whisper.
My eyes, mystified, drift around the room. As they do, I notice there are eight columns, but only seven eggs. One of the glass cases perched on top of a pillar is empty. The one missing is Danish Jubilee Egg, the one that had been in my possession. That said, I’m surprised to see Empire Nephrite Egg—the other found along with Danish Jubilee Egg and also auctioned off in 1979.
I point to Empire Nephrite Egg.
“I thought when we spoke way back when—”
“I know what you thought,” the count cuts me off, “that Galina Zhamovsky was in possession of it. All I said to you was that Andreu and I had a mutual acquaintance in possession of Empire Nephrite. You assumed it was she. In fact, it was a man named Mehmet Nas who resides in Istanbul. And, for the right price, I was finally able to take it off his hands.”
I gaze around the room again.
“May I?”
“Please,” Derbyshev responds.
I stand up and slowly walk around the room. I have seen them in pictures, read about them online and in countless books and papers. I had held one in my hands. But this is truly amazing. It’s like my own private showing of a museum collection. The gems, the metals, are brilliant, transcendent. Each is like a mélange, a dessert, of the earth’s finest ingredients, plated to perfection.
“Danish Jubilee Egg,” I say, referring to one of the missing two.
“On display at the U.S. Capitol. Has been for years. Actually, since right around the time of our meeting.”
“Is that right?” I respond, feigning curiosity.
When Andreu Zhamovsky dragged me into his sordid plan way back when and saddled me with Danish Jubilee Egg, it had been on its way to the U.S. Mission at UN where it would make a brief appearance before ultimately going on display at the U.S. Capitol as a tribute to repaired U.S.-Russian relations. I was the one who made sure it got there.
Deciding I need to start at the beginning, I stop in my tracks.
“Hen Egg with Sapphire Pendant,” I say, glancing around the room. I see it. “Ahh.”
Hen Egg with Sapphire Pendant is the first one made chronologically of the eight. I notice it from the description alone; there are no visuals on record of this specific egg. I close my eyes for a moment and see Hen Egg with Sapphire Pendant’s rightful wall space at 251 Herengracht. I locate the imperial archive invoice dated February 15, 1886 through April 24, 1886, which suggests the following description: “a hen of gold and rose diamonds taking a sapphire egg out of a nest.” I open my eyes. The perceived history seems true to form, and the piece is as brilliant as it is breathtaking. Held loosely in the hen’s beak is the sapphire egg. What looks like hundreds of rose-cut diamonds adorn the gold base.
As I mentioned earlier, the materials used in these eggs were the finest that can be mined from our earth, elements like emeralds, pearls, gold, silver, rubies, diamonds, and platinum. Each egg used different combinations. But only one ingredient was the same from egg, to egg, to egg.
Gold.
Galina Zhamovsky—a black widow spider who had learned to secretly communicate through her artwork—wants these eggs desperately.
Why?
What was she trying to protect?
I move my wide eyes to the glass, but I’m still inches away. I look at the count. I hold up the loupe.
He scratches his head. He grabs the U statue with both hands, and pulls it up, off the shelf. When he does each glass cube protecting the eggs at the top of each column retracts on top like a sunroof, then descends with the sides to a comfortable resting place completely exposing the eggs.
We both suck in a breath. Mine’s out of amazement. His is out of fear.
“Not a print! I don’t want even a hard breath touching that egg.”
“Of course,” I respond.
I put the loupe in my eye and move in. To see the precious gems on top of the exquisite gold this close—it’s like looking at blinding diamond mountains sitting directly on the surface of the sun. I slowly, painstakingly, move the loupe. I don’t see anything in the gold. I move my feet and begin circling with a snail’s pace.
“Well?” asks the count.
“Nothing. As I look at it I’m trying to—”
Wait.
What’s that.
“Trying to what?” I’m prodded.
I can’t fucking believe what I’m looking at.
“Holy fuck,” comes out in a loud whisper.
“Holy—what?”
“I think I found something.”
It would be hard to slip a piece of paper between the loupe and egg and yet I move a hair closer.
“Letters. Words.”
I stop, process.
“But they don’t appear to be Russian characters.”
“What are they?”
“It says, ‘Intro til V.A. strong vinkel. Accepterer mig.’”
The count is speechless. He has nothing, just shakes his head. I, on the other hand, feel I know exactly what language it is.
If Korolyev was right, and Piotr Derbyshev was really Maria Feodorovna’s cousin Gustav Bjerg, he would be trying to communicate with her in their native language.
Danish.
I look around the room. My eyes stop on his desk.
“Your desk, your computer,” I say.
His feet start immediately.
“You know how to handle the Internet?” I ask.
He shoots me a sharp look.
“Sorry. I, uh—I just—”
“I may be an older gent, but I am living in the same year you are, young man.”
“Right. Google Danish to English translation. It will bring up like a hundred translation sites,” I continue. “All we do is type in the words, put English as the translate to language, and go down the list of languages we’re translating from.”
“Why Danish?” he asks, mid-stride.
I realize that—if I’m right—I’m about to blow up this man’s understanding of his own family.
“Let’s hold off on that until we know if I’m right or not.”
He stops in front of his computer, sits down, and begins typing.
“Here we go.”
His fingers keep going.
“Okay. Give me those words again.”
“Intro til V.A. strong vinkel. Accepter
er mig.” I repeat, then I spell each word out for him.
I take out my iPhone. I take a picture of the loupe showing the enhanced letters, making sure to get at least part of the egg behind the border of the magnifying glass into the photo.
“What are you doing?” the count snaps. “I never—”
I whip my head around to face him.
“I need pictures as evidence.”
“Evidence for whom? For what?”
“What matters is that no one will ever know where these photos came from any more than where these eggs reside. You have my word. Now, the translation.”
I turn back.
Get what you need.
Always.
He’s trusting me. He moves forward.
“Here we go,” he responds almost instantly. “Intro to V.A. strong angle. Accepts me.”
Whoa.
We look at each other.
“Intro to V.A. strong angle. What could that possibly mean? What, or who, is V.A.?” I wonder aloud.
“How did you know it was Danish?” the count asks, disregarding my question.
I take a deep breath.
“You’re not going to believe this,” I start, “any more than you’re going to like it…”
I take a few minutes and tell the count everything. I explain Korolyev’s theory explained in his 1994 thesis. I explain everything I know about not only the eggs but about the history of the players—Nicholas II, Alexander III, and Maria Feodorovna. And why it all makes sense, when looking at the history, that the man he thought his whole life to be his grandfather Piotr Derbyshev was really—quite possibly—Maria Feodorovna’s cousin Gustav Bjerg.
The count’s jaw is redefining slack. His bony, pointy chin is basically resting on his desk. He has a glazed look over his face.
“Sir?” I ask. “Are you okay?”
“I … I’m … completely speechless.”
It’s not every day one learns he and his entire family might be Danish instead of Russian.
“I can only imagine,” I respond, unsure what more to say.
My eye catches an antique clock on the wall—2:49 a.m.
Tick. Tick.
“How do you know all of this? Why?”
“Let’s just say I had good reason to do a little investigation over the years. Why don’t I keep going? Keep looking at the eggs so we can get an understanding of what we’re dealing with.”
