About Face

by Adam Gittlin

  The count thinks for a second, then starts nodding his head.

  “Yes, yes, of course,” he says.

  He remains glassy eyed in the chair behind his desk as I scan for the second egg. I start thinking about the years each egg was made. The first was completed and given to Maria Feodorovna in 1886, five years into her husband Alexander III’s reign as Czar of Russia. The next I’m about to inspect—Cherub Egg with Chariot—was created two years after that in 1888.

  Like the first, there are no pictures available of Cherub Egg with Chariot and there is little known information. But there are a few pieces of documentation that suggest a gold egg, decorated with small diamonds and a sapphire, in a chariot being pulled by an angel. I spot Cherub Egg with Chariot, and it appears true to the description. I move toward it.

  “Legend has it Cherub was sold by Armand Hammer at Lord & Taylor in New York in 1934,” I mention, looking to keep the count’s mind present. “Was your family the purchaser that day? Or did you obtain it from the 1934 buyer?”

  “From the 1934 buyer,” he offers up. “A man named Griff Bienemen.”

  I reach the egg. The piece is delicate, glimmering, exquisite. I come up on it, put the loupe to my eye, and move in. I think about the artwork Galina sent to my father over the years—and the fact whatever message she was trying to convey was never front and center, but always in the periphery. Just like the egg I first inspected.

  Is Galina a direct descendant of Alexander III as Mateev may have put together for me?

  Did she learn to hide messages in artwork—because she learned this was how the truth about her lineage was passed?

  A truth she needed to protect by collecting the eggs herself?

  At all costs?

  I begin by looking at the most difficult portion of the gold egg to see, the portion toward the bottom and facing in to the back of the chariot. This time it takes no time at all; the words—again, only visible via loupe—are right there.

  “G.B., V.A., venner og fortrolige,” I begin reading aloud. “AIII, V.A., venner og rivaler. Familie af hemmeligheder. P.D.-styret af intuition. Tilsyneladende klogt.”

  The count tells me I went too fast. I say it again, spelling out each word, as I take my pictures.

  He takes a deep breath.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “No.”

  Fair enough.

  “Okay,” he continues, “here we go. ‘G.B., V.A., friends, confidants. AIII, V.A., friends, rivals. Family of secrets. P.D. guided by intuition. Apparently wisely.”

  We both sit for a few seconds in silence.

  “Right—so we’re dealing with the initials of people. V.A. again. Who could that be?”

  I think back on all my research, envision the royalty related walls at 251 Herengracht. I don’t see anyone with the initials V.A.

  But that doesn’t mean things aren’t getting clearer.

  Much.

  G.B., V.A., friends, confidants.

  G.B.—Gustav Bjerg. Her cousin, the Piotr Derbyshev imposter. Perhaps he befriended this V.A., the same person who was “friends, rivals” with AIII, clearly Alexander III.

  “Family of secrets.”

  “P.D. guided by intuition.”

  P.D.

  Princess Dagmar.

  Maria Feodorovna’s name as Princess of Denmark, before marrying into Russian royalty.

  Did just her cousin see her as the girl who would never be one of them?

  Or did Maria Feodorovna herself never consider herself one of them? And simply the Princess of Denmark on a mission to learn the truth about the man she really fell in love with?

  “What does this all mean?” asks the count.

  Not looking good, Count.

  “I’ll need to do a bit more work on all this once I leave here. I need you to open a new Word document. For each egg, I need you to write down both the Danish words and the English translation. And be clear about which passages go with which eggs. Nécessaire Egg,” I say out loud, referring to the next egg in chronological order.

  I see it immediately. Though the exact appearance of the egg is believed to be unknown, the little documentation that exists on the piece explains it was designed as an etui containing women’s toiletry items. The egg itself is gold and decorated with emeralds, rubies, and sapphires. The surprise inside the egg is believed to be thirteen diamond-encrusted pieces of a manicure set. But this has never been confirmed.

  I come up on the egg. I lean in. Before bringing the loupe to my eye, I take in its brilliance.

  “Did you ever open it up?” I ask. “You know, confirm what’s believed to be inside?”

  “I haven’t. In fact, I have never touched any of them. No one in my family has. We always believed this is the only way to ensure the authenticity and value.”

  “Makes sense,” I respond.

  I put the loupe to my eye and move in. I start where I believe I will find the words, the most difficult part of the egg to see. Unlike before, there’s nothing there. I keep searching slowly, methodically. I go from the bottom to the top, then from the top back to the bottom.

  Nothing.

  I stand upright.

  “What’s wrong?” asks the count.

  “There’s nothing there. There’s nothing on this one. Unless—”

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless it’s inside,” I say, turning to him.

  He sits back in his chair.

  “Are you sure it isn’t there? That you—”

  “I checked this thing up and down. I didn’t miss a micron.”

  The count sighs, stands up, and walks over. Once standing next to me, we just stare at the egg sitting atop the column.

  “I’ll be right back,” he says out of nowhere.

  He disappears, only to reappear a few minutes later with a pair of thin, white cotton gloves in his hand.

  “Took them from the help’s supplies. I’m simply too curious at this point not to look.”

  “You want to handle it, or should I?” I ask.

  He looks down at his huge, jagged, bony hands, trembling slightly from both age and nerves. He hands me the gloves. I hand him the loupe and put the gloves on. I inspect the egg again before handling it. I want to make sure I see where the latch is to open it so I can handle it as little as possible. I identify the tiny button. Without hesitating any longer I depress it, and the top portion of the gold egg flips open.

  “Wow!” I exclaim.

  There’s a little pile of diamonds inside, so bright it’s like their shine is making up for being locked up all these years. It looks like the history is right, that the diamonds belong to a bunch of mini women’s manicure items. But I don’t have the time or inclination to inspect them. I care about one thing.

  I take the loupe back from the count and lean in. Around the bottom edge of the inside of the top portion of the egg I see words.

  “Here we go,” I say.

  The count takes this as his cue to get back to the computer. I take my time reading slowly, spelling it out as I go along.

  “V.A. taler om gaeld, bade gaeld og omvendt. AIII. Fyldt med skyld-folelse go bitterhed. Bliver bedomt af Lord.”

  A couple more keys tapped. Then,

  “V.A. talks of debts, both owed and reverse,” the count says aloud. “AIII. Riddled with guilt, bitterness. Will be judged by the Lord.”

  Huh.

  With each egg the connection between this V.A. and Alexander III becomes clearer.

  Who the fuck is V.A.?

  And why are each of them indebted to the other?

  “Any clearer?” asks the count.

  I decide I owe it to the count to be straight. I explain to him everything I see, what each egg thus far means to me and why. What, to me, makes sense, and what still doesn’t add up.

  “What do you think?” I ask.

  “That it’s all too crazy for reality. That it means history as the world knows it is inaccurate.”

  “Yup,” I say,
nodding my head gently.

  “But, as unthinkable as it might be, it all seems to be adding up,” he continues.

  This time I recruit the count to take the picture. Then, carefully, I close the egg. I remove the gloves.

  “Shall we keep going?” I ask.

  “Yes. Please.”

  Alexander III Egg is next. I notice it right away. Unlike the previous three which have a gold foundation, this egg is very different. Alexander III Egg is blue, with a blue enamel base and features six portraits of the Czar himself. As I come up on the treasure and lean in for a good look, it is clear where I’ll be looking. The only gold on this egg is the gold paint used to outline each of the six miniature portraits.

  The first two pictures produce nothing. The words lay in the gold paint surrounding portrait number three.

  “Got ’em,” I blurt out. “Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  “G.B., V.A., luk ligesom parorende. En god mand generet; jeg er ked P.D. Familie stadig forste prioritet. Hvad du mener er rigtigt. En golden son. En gron son. En golden bror. En gron bror.”

  The count, getting better with each translation, is ready to go almost as soon as I’m finished reading.

  “G.B., V.A., close like kin. A good man burdened; I am sorry P.D. Family still priority. What you believe to be true is so. A golden son. A green son. A golden brother. A green brother.”

  I sit on the arm of one of the leather couches close by.

  “Interesting,” I say, thinking out loud. “I always wondered why there was so much time between this egg and the last. Alexander III Egg was made in 1896, a gap of seven years. Perhaps this explains why.”

  “Perhaps what explains why?”

  “‘G.B., V.A. close like kin.’ Maria Feodorovna’s cousin and whomever this V.A. is apparently becoming closer than perhaps either he or she ever envisioned happening. And, in doing so, maybe G.B. became conflicted; maybe he worried about betraying V.A … ‘a good man burdened.’ Perhaps that’s why so much time went by here, before he came back to his senses. And got back on track.”

  The count moves his eyes from me back to the computer screen.

  “I am sorry P.D.,” he reads aloud. “Family still priority.”

  “Precisely,” I concur.

  “He’s apologizing to P.D.—Princess Dagmar,” the count continues. “And affirming for her that in his heart family—the Princess, and her mission—still comes first. What about the rest?”

  “What you believe to be true is so,” I repeat, referring to the passage again. “The golden son and brother is Nicholas II—he was the apple of his mother’s eye; he was the next in line for the throne and a man with values, ideals, very much in line with those of his father. Alexander III was on the short end of all that. A green son and brother. And what has green historically signified?”

  “Envy.”

  I stand up.

  “Next.”

  I scan the room and see Mauve Enamel Egg. I only recognize the egg because of historic descriptions. It is a muted, purple enamel-based piece whose real essence is in the center. Though it has supposedly never been recovered—like all the other eggs in this room—the surprise in the middle of this egg is well documented and has been photographed many times. It was sold in 1978 at Christie’s in Geneva; at the time, those in possession had no idea it was at one point in time part of one of the missing Fabergé Imperial Easter Eggs.

  The egg has no gold outside, but I know—as does the count—the surprise in the middle has gold all over the base.

  “I need to open the—”

  “Gloves,” he cuts me off.

  I put the loupe back down, the gloves on, and open the egg. From the middle, delicate like a doctor removing a baby from a cesarean birth uterus, I pull out a magnificent surprise. The top is a translucent strawberry heart that opens into a three-leaf clover. On each of the clover leaves is a portrait: one of Czar Nicholas II, one of the Empress Alexandra Feodorovna, and one of their first-born daughter Grand Duchess Olga. The heart is supported on a white opaque stand adorned with laurel leaves, the stand sprouting from a base comprised of gold, strawberry enamel, rose-cut diamonds, and pearls.

  I place the surprise on the top of the column next to the stand holding the egg. I grab the loupe, stick it in my eye, and move in. The topmost and bottommost rungs of gold are the thickest, the most obvious. Therefore I look for one of the thinner bands. Sure enough, I find my words.

  “Min kaere P.D., min familie,” I begin.

  The count’s fingers go to work.

  “G.B., V.A., fortrolige som parorende. AIII tanket op altid af lyse vision for Rusland. Villige og i stand til at genetablere Rusland. For enhver pris.”

  Seconds later, the translation.

  “My dear P.D., my family. G.B., V.A., confidants as kin. AIII fueled always by glow of vision for Russia. Willing, able, to restore Russia. At all costs.”

  I put the loupe down, replace the surprise in the middle of the egg, and close it.

  “So what do we know now?” I ask, treating the count like the pupil.

  “Reassuring her that she is still a priority, while confirming he and this V.A. are still close like kin, hence his information being reliable.”

  “Most likely,” I respond. “And that Alexander III had an unshakable vision of what he wanted Russia to be. A vision he was going to make reality no matter who he had to, perhaps, push aside.”

  I look at the antique clock—3:08 a.m.

  Time’s running thin. I need to move.

  “Here we go,” I say. “Let’s keep moving while we’re in the flow.”

  I start toward the Empire Nephrite Egg, the next in chronological order. The one I assumed was in Galina Zhamovsky’s possession. The one bought from a man named Mehmet Nas from Istanbul. There is as little known information about this egg as any of them, but according to the actual invoice for the treasure, it is a gold and nephrite egg with two rose-cut diamonds. Siberian nephrite is a semiprecious stone the czars enjoyed as part of their jewel-making arsenal, an element they tightly controlled the mining of in order to increase its value. I had learned this in my research. As well as the fact that truly beautiful Siberian nephrite is a striking, bright shade of green.

  Seconds are officially starting to feel like minutes. Locating the most hidden portion of gold the words pop immediately, like I knew exactly where they’d be.

  “Min Kaere P.D., min familie. Gron son—Sort son! AIII knytte af Narodnaya Volya! Bekraeftelse taettere—”

  “My dear P.D., my family,” the count comes back immediately as I start in with my photographs, “Green son—Black son! AIII associate of Narodnaya Volya! Confirmation closer—”

  I stop, perk up.

  “Green son, Black son,” I repeat. “Fair to say he’s not saying the color of his skin.”

  “What the hell is—”

  The count moves his face closer to the screen to make sure of his pronunciation.

  “Narodnaya Volya?”

  “Narodnaya Volya means ‘The People’s Will.’ It was a left-wing Russian terrorist organization responsible for the death of Czar Alexander II—Alexander III’s father,” I explain. “The thing is,” I go on, “according to history, Narodnaya Volya was also plotting the assassination of Alexander III, an operation led by Vladimir Lenin’s elder brother Alexander Ulyanov. A plot that was foiled. So why would G.B. be reporting that Alexander III was, in fact, an associate of the terrorist organization looking to cut him down?”

  I look at the column with nothing on top. The one where Danish Jubilee Egg is supposed to be instead of on display in the U.S. Capitol. The seventh in chronological order of the eight.

  “What are you going to do about Danish Jubilee Egg?” asks the count.

  I turn and face him.

  “Inspect it. Just like I’m doing the rest of them. Now let’s look at number eight, Alexander III Commemorative Egg, and I’ll be on my way.”

  I pause.

  “Which,
actually, brings me to one last question. Might you have a car I can borrow?”

  CHAPTER 26

  NEW YORK CITY

  2013

  At 6:18 a.m., I pull into L’s Meatpacking District Distributorship driveway and park in a far, out-of-the-way corner. With the turn of the key I bring the grumbling engine of one of the count’s “weekend vehicles”—a black, 1961 Jaguar XKE, to a stop. While it’s a nice, classic little antique vehicle, it’s a far cry from the beast I left behind some random house in Baltimore. But I simply couldn’t take the chance of driving it back, considering how many are undoubtedly looking for it.

  Accessing the building through the always-open emergency exit in the alley, I make my way up to L’s office. In his desk’s top drawer, where I know the first thing he does each morning is drop his car keys, I leave the Jag key and a simple note reading: “Here’s a loaner; far corner of your lot that never gets touched. Call your car in stolen ASAP this morning. I know you want to kill me—sorry. I had no choice. And I know you don’t want to hear it, would have done the same for you in a second. This means that much.”

  I jump in a cab and head uptown. The blue Canali suit I’ve been in far too long feels heavy, creaseless. Fighting fatigue, but feeling my lack of sleep, I put my head back on the seat and stare at the taxi’s ceiling.

  The deal.

  The coveted Freedom Bank Building.

  Enzo Alessi and family. Ryan Brand.

  Fuck.

  Never saw this coming.

  The deal was supposed to be the easy part.

  My iPhone rings. Fumbling through the numerous objects in my right inside jacket pocket, I grab it and pull it out. The caller, surprisingly, is Julia Chastain.

  Before answering, I look at my watch and mentally review my schedule for the next ninety minutes. The plan is hotel by 6:45 a.m. for quick shower, shave, and new suit, 7:20 to 8:00—return e-mails on other corporate matters unrelated to the target. 8:00 to 8:30, review last minute changes to the Purchase Agreement and related exhibits e-mailed to me from the attorneys about six hours ago, just after midnight. Then, meet Cobus and Arnon downstairs for breakfast to discuss said changes as well as other specifics of the deal.