by Thomas Swan
Mike looked down to the keyboard and tapped on the keys, causing the cursor to dance across the screen. He tapped again and the word Fabergé appeared.
Mike said, “My father had too much to drink. He did that a lot, I remember. But that night he lost his money, his watch, then . . .” He deleted the words on the monitor and turned to Lenny. “It’s all kind of personal from there on.”
“Yeah,” Lenny said, clearly disappointed. “Can you describe the woman who shot Akimov?”
“She was tall, had short, blond hair, and damned good-looking.” Mike paused for several seconds, “That’s not much of a description but that’s what I remember.”
“Is it possible this good-looking assassin was trying to shoot you?”
“I hadn’t thought of that.” Mike smiled weakly. “I don’t think so. She wasted no time putting her gun on Akimov.”
Len paused and rubbed his hand across his chin. “What else can you tell me about Akimov?”
“I can tell you he’s a little man. Seventy or a little older. I don’t think he has a family.” Mike shrugged and added, “I said he was alive, but I’m afraid he’s going to die.”
“That bad?”
“I’m not sure how much fight he’s got in him. And he’s alone in a strange country. In fact, I’m having him transferred to a hospital in Englewood. That’s right next to us. I’m also looking for someone to stay with him. Someone who speaks Russian.”
Lenny made a final note and put his pad away. He thanked Mike Carson for his time and at ten after eleven was back in the cab.
Across from the Gold Coast on Palisades Avenue was the rest of Fort Lee; small homes and duplexes on typically suburban side streets. One such street, Slocum Way, was directly across from the circular driveway in front of the Atrium Palace, and where the yellow cab was parked. A gray Ford Taurus was parked close to the intersection. From it the driver could observe the entrance to the apartment. Viktor Lysenko had driven with all his skill to stay close to the cab on its race through red lights up the West Side Drive to the bridge. He had lost sight of it when he reached the New Jersey side of the bridge. But the yellow taxi was like a moving beacon as it reflected the bright lights that flooded over the ramps and toll plaza. He had caught up to the cab and had followed it to the Atrium Palace.
Viktor watched Lenny Sulzberger get into the cab. It immediately drove off. He picked up the phone and spoke into it.
“They are coming. Forty-five minutes and they will be at Sulzberger’s home on North Moore Street.”
It was a few minutes before twelve when Lenny’s cab stopped in front of 68 North Moore Street. The driver had computed the elapsed time for the round-trip, “Two hours and fifty-eight minutes. And four dollars for the bridge.”
“You agreed to a hundred bucks, tolls included,” Lenny said. “But here’s another ten for keeping me awake with your recipe for curried lamb and fermented eggs.” He handed the driver a wad of fives and tens. “I’ll skip the eggs.”
Lenny took his keys from his shoulder bag and went up the worn marble steps. He was about to turn the key when he was overwhelmed by the frightening sensation that he was not alone. He turned.
Standing on the step below him was a woman. She wore a black raincoat over a stocky body, a scarf covered her hair and was tied under her chin. Her face was colorless and featured a broad nose and thick eyebrows.
“Are you Mr. Sulzberger?” she inquired in a faint, accented voice.
“Lady, you scared the hell out of me. Yeah, but who are you?” Lenny looked behind the woman, searching for others in the sidewalk, or in one of the cars parked across the street.
“I am Katya Mirova. I know about the man who was shot in the automobile place.”
“It was in the news. A lot of people know about him.”
“I mean to say that I have met him. His name is Sasha Akimov.”
Surprised that a stranger would appear at midnight to tell him that she knew Akimov, Lenny pulled the key from the lock, then stepped down to the sidewalk. “Why have you come at this hour to tell me that you know Sasha Akimov?”
“I am sorry that it is late, but I am flying from New York in the morning. Are you not writing about the Mr. Carson who owns the place where Akimov was shot?”
“You seem to know quite a bit about me; where I live, that I’m a writer. How the hell do you know all this?”
“I will tell you, but you must tell me what you have learned about Akimov. Is there a place,” the woman gestured suggestively to the door, “where we can talk?”
Lenny looked up to the windows of his apartment, then turned. He said, “There’s a restaurant a block south that’s open. We can go there.”
Yaffa’s was at the corner of Greenwich and Harrison, a bar and eatery that was gaining recognition as an institution for the newly burgeoning TriBeCa neighborhood. Its aged-wood bar ran nearly the length of the front portion of the restaurant and had a back bar made from dark walnut and stained oak. Odors wafted up from a kitchen in the basement. A few young people, Wall Street and ad agency types, were finishing a late supper. Lenny led the way to a table that could be made private by pulling a stained maroon curtain. He asked the waitress for two bottles of Evian, a lime and a knife to slice it.
“I thought my day was over,” Lenny said, unzipping his shoulder bag and taking out his notepad. “But, if you’ve got something to tell me about Akimov, I’ll be happier ’n hell to listen.”
The café, while not large, was illuminated by the dull power given off by 25 watt bulbs scattered on the walls. Small candles in round globes were meant to supplement the light, though the flame in most had died hours before.
Lenny started to write. “Katya Mirova.” He spelled her name aloud as he wrote. “Did I get it right?”
He glanced up. Even in the warm light her face was pale and certainly plain enough. But there was a hint of past good looks, and somehow she seemed younger than her stocky body and graying hair signaled. She carried a cloth bag and put it on her lap when she sat down. The water came and she drank half a glass.
“You spelled it right.” She nodded. “When you met with Mr. Carson at his apartment, did he tell you why Akimov had come to see him?”
Lenny stared hard at the woman. “How could you know I was there? You were at my loft building as soon as I—”
“I don’t wish for it to be a mystery, Mr. Sulzberger, you must trust me. Akimov is wanted by the MVD.”
“Look, Katya, I’m not up on current events in Russia, except what I read and some of that stuff hasn’t been very good lately.” He scribbled the letters. “What’s the MVD?”
“The government people say it is the Ministry of Security, but it is the old KGB with a new name. The police. Including the secret ones.”
“Are you part of it?”
“No. But they have agents in America.”
“Then what are you connected to?”
“I have been hired to follow Akimov. To know where he is at all times.”
“Right now he is in a hospital at all times.”
“The one in Long Island. Called North Shore Medical Hospital.”
“Right again. But it looks like he maybe moved to one in New Jersey.”
“Then you know the hospital?”
Lenny fanned the pages of his notepad. “Yeah. It’s in here someplace. I don’t remember things like that when I’m interviewing. Tough enough to ask the right questions and get all the stuff written down. Sweat the details later.”
Katya sawed a slice of lime and pinched it into her water. She didn’t look up. “What did Akimov say to Mr. Carson?”
Lenny twisted his long body in the chair. “He said damned little. He was shot, you know.”
Katya nodded. “But he came for a reason and I thought you may have learned what reason it was.”
“You have to understand, Ms. Mirova, I’m a journalist. That means I treat all my sources as confidential and unless I have permission to discuss what I learned d
uring an interview, that information stays with me. Besides, I told you I don’t really know all the details I wrote down.” He smiled. “I surprise myself with what I find.”
Again Katya nodded. “But did Akimov tell Mr. Carson why he came this great distance to see him? You don’t have to tell me what he said, only if Akimov explained why he’d come so far.”
Lenny leafed through his notes, then suddenly folded the notepad and put it in his jacket pocket. “It’s almost one in the morning, and this is a school night for me. I’ve got to do twenty-five hundred words in two days and I want every one to be a goddamned pearl. All I can tell you is that Akimov talked about old times, and then he was shot.”
Katya put her glass on the table and cupped her hands around it. “Will you tell me more about your interview?”
“What’s going on here?” Lenny said, his voice raised. “I’ve told you more than I have any right to discuss. All I’ve learned from you is that Akimov is wanted by this MVD of yours and you haven’t told me why. It’s your turn to give me information.”
“I told you I am here to watch Akimov. The police want him, and others, too.”
“What others?”
“His enemies. There is much crime in Russia today, like the Mafia in your country. Akimov pretended to help pensioners hold on to their little apartments. He was, we say, a makler. He would buy their rooms for thousands of rubles less than they were worth. He said they could live in their apartments until they died, but Akimov would not wait for them to die. The old people would die mysteriously and Akimov would sell the rooms at a huge profit. There are many who do this. Akimov is not the only one.”
“Not a very nice guy.” Lenny uncurled his legs and got up from the table. “If you don’t mind, I’ll pay the tab and get on home. Like I said, I have to work tomorrow.”
“The name of the hospital where Akimov is going. You are not going to tell me?”
“Yeah, I’m not going to tell you.” He patted the pocket where he had put the notepad. “It’s here, someplace, but it’s privileged information. See you around.” He went to the bar, paid the bill, and continued out to the street.
Katya looked at her watch, waited exactly half a minute, then followed. The streets were deserted, only a single car was moving south on Greenwich Street. She saw the tall figure a block away turn the corner onto North Moore Street. The car passed and Katya began to run. She moved like a sprinter. At North Moore she saw Lenny Sulzberger cross the street and approach his loft building. Katya immediately crossed to the same side of the street and quickly closed the gap between them.
When Lenny reached the outside door he had his keys ready and inserted one of them into the first lock. As he turned the key, he heard a loud pop and at the same instant felt a terrible burning sensation in the back of his right thigh.
“Shit!” he yelled and reached a hand to his leg.
Then a second loud pop and the same pain erupted in his left buttock. Lenny collapsed, writhing, screaming for help.
Katya ran up the steps and knelt beside him. She put the barrel of her pistol against his cheek. “I could put another bullet here, but then you would be dead and all the pain would be gone.”
She took the notebook from his pocket. “Wait until you can’t bear it anymore, then yell all you want.”
“You bitch. You lousy, fucking bitch,” Lenny said, breathing hard, unable to control tears of both pain and anger.
But Katya was gone. She had jumped down to the sidewalk and was running east toward Hudson Street. The Taurus was parked near the corner. As she opened the door the engine started. She slipped in next to Viktor and waved Lenny’s notepad.
Chapter 11
Both phones in Mike Carson’s home office were ringing. Mike punched the hold button on one of them and said hello into the other.
“Has anyone told you what happened to Lenny Sulzberger?” It was Patsy Abromowitz.
“No. Seems like he was just here.” Mike pressed a few keys on the computer and his calendar popped on the screen. June 2—8:04 A.M. Then, into the phone, “Patsy? He walked out of here nine hours ago. What happened?”
“He went home after his meeting with you and got mixed up with a woman who said her name was Katya. They had a talk in a neighborhood restaurant, Lenny went home, Katya followed and shot him. Shot the poor bastard two times. He’s in St. Vincent’s Hospital and so am I.”
“How bad is it?”
“He was hit in the right thigh and left ass,” Patsy said without hesitation. “Right now he’s flat on his stomach and so damned pissed off he’d bust out if he could.”
“I feel sorry for him, but there’s nothing I can do. Or is there?”
“Not really. Apparently this Katya woman wanted to know what you told Lenny about Akimov. Lenny claims he didn’t tell her anything, so she shot him and took his notebook.”
“Lenny saw her? Did he describe her?”
“He told me she was a plain-looking forty-five-year old, on the heavy side.”
“That’s not the one who shot Sasha.”
“What do you suppose she wanted from Lenny?”
“I haven’t any idea. Lenny took a lot of notes, but I really didn’t tell him very much. Sasha talked about my family, and that’s off limits for Lenny or anyone else.”
“That may be, but I think whoever’s behind all this wants to know what Sasha came all this distance to talk about. More’n likely they figure it wasn’t idle chatter about your mom and dad. I think this, Mike: if they don’t find what they’re looking for in Lenny’s notebook, they might pay you a visit.”
Mike thought a moment. “I think they’re looking for something Sasha never had a chance to tell me. Hell, I’d like to know what it was myself.”
“I’ll stay with Lenny until they get him leveled out.”
There was a moment’s silence before Patsy continued, “You know, Mike, your Russian friend brought bad luck with him. Like there’s three people in the hospital? I’d hate like hell to see you make it four.”
Chapter 12
It came as a stroke of good fortune that Christopher—Kip—Forbes would be in Paris on business at the very time Oxby was planning his flight to St. Petersburg. Kip phoned the news, suggested they meet in the family’s château in Balleroy, a few miles west of Caan, in the Normandy region. The 360-year-old château had been purchased by Kip’s father in the early 1970s. Oxby knew the magnificent old château’s history, knew about its library of ancient manuscripts, that its walls were covered with historic paintings, and most especially knew that the area surrounding the château was the venue for the annual Forbes International Balloon Meet, held each year on the second weekend in June. Oxby was meeting Kip a week before the festivities. He had not made the guest list (a very short one), because he neither a) owned a balloon, nor b) was a world-famous celebrity.
Kip Forbes, a handsome young man with a strong resemblance to his unpredictable father, was at the door to the château when Oxby alighted from a pure white Citroën. They were about to have their first face-to-face encounter since Kip challenged Oxby to search for and find the Rasputin Imperial egg.
“I hoped you would send a balloon for me,” Oxby said.
“The wind is wrong,” Kip answered. “But I might send you back in one.”
Oxby insisted on a tour and Kip obliged. They talked about art and old books and about French Provincial cabinets and chairs. After that they talked for hours about Fabergé’s Imperial eggs.
“My brothers think I’ve gone off the deep end with this one,” Kip said, smiling.
“I’ve got one of my hunches,” Oxby said with total candor. “I’m going to find it.”
To avoid a long layover in Stockholm, Oxby ticketed himself on Air France to Frankfurt and Aeroflot flight 656 to St. Petersburg. The Russian TU-134 was similar in design to a Boeing 727, and despite Oxby’s premonitions of delay or worse, the plane departed on time. The pilot took advantage of the bright, clear weather and circled north
over the Baltic Sea, over Helsinki, then turned to a southeasterly heading over the Gulf of Finland, and finally over St. Petersburg. Seen from the air, cities have a distinctive personality, no two alike, and there was no danger that the city beneath the descending airplane would be an exception. At eleven in the evening on this June 3, two weeks from the beginning of the White Nights, thousands of lights burned unnecessarily under a sky that was as bright as mid-morning. Still the lights reflected off the shimmering sheets and ribbons of water that were everywhere surrounding the city; the canals, the wide Neva River, the bay, and Lake Ladoga. It was a rare picture that Oxby would not forget, one he savored until the plane was on the ground.
They landed at Pulkovo II Airport, a surprisingly small international terminal located less than a mile from the highway that connected St. Petersburg with the town of Tsarkoye Selo, or the village of the czars, and renamed Pushkin by the Soviets.
Perhaps it was the lateness of the hour, but the ritual that usually elongated the process of passport inspection and appraisal by security police moved with unusual speed and Oxby was able to claim his suitcase in less than twenty minutes after deplaning.
For fifteen years Oxby had devoted his life to recapturing, even saving, great works of art. And he had been a student of that vast world of visual and decorative arts. Yet, he had never before ventured into one of the truly great art centers of the world, an omission that was about to be corrected. Oxby would have as his host and guide a man as Russian as a country dacha, and as native to St. Petersburg as the infamous czar who founded it.
Yakov Stepanovich Ilyushin was waiting immediately outside the cramped arrivals hall. The two spotted each other, and simultaneously raised an arm and waved to the other.
“Privyet,” Oxby called out, hurrying past the final barrier. “Kak dela?”
Yakov’s smile broadened and he responded in rapid-fire Russian that was too fast and too colloquial for Oxby to comprehend.
Assuming Yakov had answered positively to his simple greeting, Oxby said, “We had better talk in English for a few days. Or in French. I can handle that.”
