The Final Fabergé

by Thomas Swan

  If Oxby could get into his apartment, he might find the answers. Answers that might lead to the Fabergé egg.

  The possibilities were endless, and became somewhat more problematic when they stopped in front of 9 Kubansky Street. It was the first address of the five Oxby had purchased. It was a bakery shop.

  They had no luck at the second, third, and fourth addresses. Oxby was ready to declare that Viktor Lysenko had been a phantom. Hired killers he had known were that way.

  The fifth address was near St. Petersburg University on Vasilievsky Island, the largest of all the city’s islands. The apartment buildings were attached to each other in a long row, and every one showed scars from the heavy German artillery shelling during the long siege in World War II. Every third building had been destroyed and rebuilt to its original specifications. There were two apartments on each floor, and according to Oxby’s list, Viktor Lysenko’s apartment, kvartyra 2, was on the second floor. Poolya leaned on the button. They heard a bell ring and reacted to the simultaneous loud report from a truck’s backfire. Poolya pressed again. Oxby glanced at his watch. It was 7:30 and fatigue was setting in. Oxby pressed the button, waited half a minute, then sought help from the occupants in the other apartment on the floor. No sound came when the button was pushed, so they rapped repeatedly on the heavy wooden door. Still, no response.

  “Enough for today,” Oxby said, and preceded Poolya out to the street and the car. The bodyguard examined his strips of tape while Oxby leaned against a tree and gazed up to the windows where, according to the list of two dollar names he was holding, a man named Viktor Lysenko was supposed to live.

  Staring down at Oxby from behind heavy, crocheted curtains was a young woman dressed in black pants and sweater. Her blond hair was combed severely back and tied with a black ribbon. She was tall and slim. She wore no makeup. Galina Lysenko had stood at the window waiting quietly and patiently for the doorbell to stop ringing. Her lovely features were marred by a dampness and slight puffiness around her eyes. A telephone was pressed to her ear.

  “Describe him,” Galina said.

  “I’ve never seen him,” Trivimi said. “I’ve been told he’s average height, light brown hair, mid-forties. I can’t give you more.”

  “I know it’s Oxby,” Galina said. “He was at the door. Ringing and ringing. What is he looking for?”

  “Information,” Trivimi said.

  “Has Oleg learned how Viktor was killed?”

  “We’ve heard nothing.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Galina said too softly for the Estonian to hear. “I know who killed Viktor.”

  “I can’t hear you.”

  They’re getting into the car.”

  The Peugeöt pulled away from the curb.

  “They’re leaving,” Galina said.

  Chapter 30

  The sky had cleared and at 9:30 in the evening it was brighter than it had been all during the wet, gray day. Occasional bursts of fireworks punctuated the evening air, early signals that the summer solstice and the official onset of the White Nights was six days off. The pyrotechnics were probably the work of early celebrants, themselves ignited by too much high-voltage vodka. After their meal, Yakov’s kitchen once more assumed its role as an incident room.

  “You’ve been quiet,” Yakov said “I’m beginning to understand your moods. You haven’t told me the news about Baletsky.”

  “Bad news I’m afraid. We found the apartment all right, but not Leonid. He’s dead. Murdered, the police are saying.”

  Yakov stared blankly for a moment. “Now three are dead.”

  “Not a pleasant number. Of course one is too many.”

  “What happened?” Yakov asked.

  Oxby related his conversation with the precinct chief. “There was no suggestion of a robbery. They believe he was pushed off his balcony. He could have jumped, but there wasn’t a note and his son told the police he doesn’t think his father would commit suicide.” Oxby turned toward Yakov. “Sons and fathers try desperately not to think ill of each other. But, whatever caused it, a drop from the fifth floor onto concrete is a bloody long, hard fall.”

  “You talked to the son?”

  “No, but I plan to. I’ve got his phone number, compliments of the police. In spite of negative reports to the contrary, I find your police very cooperative.”

  “To you they might be. You are like a brother.”

  Following his visit to the Naval Records Office, Yakov had continued to translate Vasily’s diary and the letters he had received from Sasha Akimov.

  “Once I put the diaries under a magnifying glass I could see more clearly how Vasily formed his letters. Then I was able to understand his handwriting and could transcribe nearly everything he wrote. Fortunately, Sasha Akimov wrote very neatly. He was my age, and we learned our penmanship at the same time. It makes a difference when you are writing in Cyrillic.”

  “Start with Vasily. Based on his diary and notes, do you have the impression he was rational or did he ramble on without making much sense?”

  “I thought his insights were very rational, not at all what I expected after so long a time away from home and the last years in that dreary asylum. Though toward the end, he seemed to lose interest and would go on without much purpose. When I pieced together the dates, it was obvious that many pages and perhaps entire tablets were missing. He listed several names, ones he was convinced were stealing from him. Some years ago he was writing a diary, adding a little every day. But in the recent years, there was nothing to write about. So he added an occasional note and inserted a date only now and then.”

  “Were you struck by anything unusual?”

  “Yes, very much.”

  “What was that?”

  “Let me say that the earliest date I could find was ten years ago, and that appeared about a quarter of the way into the diaries that we found. I imagine the stolen notebooks he refers to cover the years before that time. He wrote on many occasions about a military trial in which he was involved, and how he had never been allowed to prove his innocence.”

  “Convicted criminals go to their grave protesting their innocence,” Oxby said. “They all do it, and sometimes they’re right. If he claimed he was innocent, he must have had a good idea who was guilty. Did he say?”

  “Not directly.” Yakov referred to his copy of the translation. “He was obsessed by the fact he could not get the court to grant his appeal for a new trial. He repeated this same thought several times. And always pointing a finger. Here is a typical entry. It’s not dated, but he says it is Sunday: ‘They deny my appeal again. They are cowards. Stupid asssucking bastards. Sasha tells me in his letters that Deryabin gains power with the committee. He says I must continue to write. But letters are a waste. I should kill Deryabin.’ ”

  “Steady, mate!” Oxby said anxiously. “Show me where he wrote that. And your translation.”

  “It’s here, at the top of a page ten.” He passed over the pages to Oxby.

  Oxby read it and the pages before and after. He looked intently at Yakov. “Think hard. Have we heard the name Deryabin?”

  Yakov pondered. “No, this is the first time.”

  “Does Vasily refer to Deryabin again?”

  “Yes, quite a few times.”

  “How many? Ten? Fifteen?”

  “No, no. I think four or five.”

  “That’s enough. His nemesis was Deryabin. I bloody well would like to read what he wrote in all those missing pages.”

  “I am not a psychologist,” Yakov said, “but I can see a great amount of anger and guilt in Karsalov. It is most clear in his recent notes, as if he were aware that he would die soon and wanted to absolve himself by writing about his shortcomings and his failures. I saw this in the strange way he wrote, as if his cramped little words would disguise his confessions. In other places he seemed pleased to get these troubling thoughts off his chest. He says very clearly that he deeply regretted the way he had treated his wife and son.”


  “Is it so clear from what he wrote, or is this Yakov Ilyushin reading these sentiments into the diary?”

  “When you read the translation, you will find for yourself that this is true.”

  Oxby scanned several pages. “I see that he makes numerous references to Sasha Akimov.”

  “They were friends. Apparently they worked as a team before all of his troubles. I suspect they served in the navy together.”

  “What other names are repeated?”

  “He mentions his son frequently, the name Mikhail appears more than any other. Then his wife, Anna, and his sister, Nina. He rarely put a first and last name together but of course these were very personal notes, and these were people he knew intimately. For example, he writes about Leonid and Prekhner and Artur, but I can’t determine if that is two or three different people. He also wrote about his father, Nikolai, from time to time.”

  “Prekhner,” Oxby repeated the name. “How is it spelled?”

  “It is there, in my translation.”

  “He mentions Baletsky?” Oxby asked.

  Yakov nodded. “Yes, and a judge that he wrote the words yab tvoyo-mat, which I will only say is a terrible obscenity. And he wrote about a doctor a number of times because I think he liked him.”

  Oxby flipped to the last page. “Bedtime reading.” He smiled. “Excellent work.”

  “Thank you, but it is not all. I have the letters of Sasha Akimov.” He gave Oxby four pages, each a summary of the correspondence.

  “What are the dates?” Oxby asked.

  “Old, I’m afraid. The most recent I am estimating was written more than four years ago. I have numbered them in sequence. I think I have done it correctly.”

  Oxby placed the pages side by side in front of him and began a slow perusal of each letter.

  “Akimov wrote to Vasily many times, I see.”

  “Yes, but most of those letters were thrown away or stolen. Who would steal a letter?”

  “Hmmm, yes,” Oxby said absently, not answering the question. “He writes about Anna. You say she was sick, but I don’t understand the word you use.”

  “It is like a pneumonia that will not go away. I don’t know the English word for it.”

  “Consumption? Or tuberculosis?”

  Yakov shrugged. “I think something like that.”

  “A sick lady, no matter what it was. Do we know if Anna is alive?”

  “In the diary Vasily hopes she is well. That could have been written two years ago. Then, she was alive.”

  “Can you ask some of your friends to find her?”

  “It will be difficult, but yes. I will try.”

  “In this letter—” Oxby pushed it to the side. “Akimov tells about the appeal for a new trial. ‘There is a new judge,’ he tells Vasily, and writes his name. ‘You must write to him.’ ”

  “That is the letter where he mentions Deryabin,” Yakov said, “but it is confusing what he writes.”

  “ ‘I have met with Deryabin,’ ” Oxby quoted, “ ‘and may have a position in his company. Then I will have the chance to learn the truth.’ ”

  “There was nothing more. No more letters after that one,” Yakov said.

  Oxby read the last letter again. “It’s about politics and Yeltsin. He says ‘democracy means a few get rich and the rest of us don’t get our pensions.’ He says ‘mudozvon.’ What is that?”

  Yakov laughed. “It is a word I cannot accurately translate. He means all the politicians were talking shit. We have many words like that. Some very much worse, I fear.”

  Oxby gathered the letters and put them aside. “Good work. Now tell me what you discovered in the Naval Records Office.”

  Yakov was a willing and energetic investigator who possessed a natural talent many police investigators would kill for. Earlier in the day, he had entered the labyrinthine halls of the Russian Naval Offices, Baltic Division, and in two hours had charmed his way into the office of the official in charge of personnel records. It took until late in the morning for him to be assigned to a clerk who led him to a room with several computers. He had been put in front of one of the machines and shown how to search the files, select a name, then bring up a complete dossier on the screen. He was shown how to create a hard copy of the information.

  “At noon I was prepared to bring up Vasily’s file, but was told that it was the meal hour and that I must come back after 1:30. I ate my apple and waited. At quarter to two I was back in front of the computer and here is what I was able to find.” He smoothed out the curled facsimile copy and his own notes.

  “Because I had met Vasily, and had been with him in that awful place where he died, I was most interested in finding his records. So, I typed in Vasily Karsalov’s name. In all those records of tens of thousands of Soviet and Russian navy servicemen, I was able to sort him out from others with the same name. Years ago, the record keeping was incredibly voluminous. You will see that Vasily attended the Nakhimov Naval Secondary School and the St. Petersburg Naval College. You can see that he achieved average marks and considerable criticism for disciplinary problems and underachievement.”

  “What did you learn about his trial?”

  “That he had been charged with the murder of a civilian named Prekhner who supplied nonmilitary provisions to the base where Vasily was stationed, and where he was senior procurement officer of navy stores. Vasily was also charged with stealing property from the State and accepting bribes from Prekhner. The court found him guilty of bribery and theft, but the murder charge was reduced to self-defense.”

  Oxby said, “Vasily told me before he died that he didn’t kill Prekhner.”

  Yakov lay the papers down. “You must realize that during the time when the Soviet was trying to appear progressive and benevolent, justice was not meted out with the same heavy hand as in earlier times. In those terrible days, Vasily would have been hanged or put immediately in front of a firing squad. As it was, he was transferred to a permanent post in Uzbekistan.”

  Oxby tried in vain to read the copy of the official file, finding the military and legal jargon beyond him. “Tell me, Yakov, how did he plead?”

  “Vasily pleaded innocent to all the charges. He testified that he had been invited to Prekhner’s apartment, along with—the name is blanked out—and that he drank too much and went into the bedroom and fell asleep. When he woke up several hours later, he found himself lying next to Prekhner’s body, a knife in his hand. He swore he had not killed Prekhner. He insists that—again the name is blanked out—was the murderer and had made it appear that Vasily was guilty. ‘Why would I kill Artur Prekhner? He was my good friend.’ ”

  “When was the trial?”

  “November 1972. On the 25th and 26th.”

  “When was Vasily sent to Tashkent?”

  Yakov turned to the last page of the transcript. “January 7, 1973.”

  “You said a name was blanked out of Vasily’s testimony. How could that be?”

  “I can not answer such a question, but you can see that there is only an open space in the transcript.” Yakov pointed with his pencil at the blank spaces in the report. “It was blanked out on the original file and transferred to the computer in that same way.”

  Oxby studied the report, frowning as he tried to read the words that appeared before and after the blank areas.

  “How many letters were eliminated?”

  Yakov studied the printout. “Here,” he pointed to the first instance of an open space, “I count twelve spaces. But the blank spaces are shorter after that. In those I find seven spaces.”

  “Twelve, then seven.” Oxby mulled over the numbers, then wrote them down. “Twelve . . . then seven. Suppose that initially the first and last name had been inserted in the transcript, and then, in succeeding references, only the last name was used. That would be a normal practice in English. Would that be a normal practice in Russian?”

  “Who can say what is normal practice?” Yakov asked. “Names are important to Russian
s, and the normal practice might be to use the first and the patronymic name before the familiya, or last name. But in military records, who is to say what is correct? I would think with only twelve letters, the patronymic name was eliminated and there were the first and last names as you suggest.”

  Oxby’s frown deepened. “If what you say is correct, and I fear it is, then my suspicion that the missing name is Deryabin has evaporated.”

  Yakov’s face wrinkled into complete surprise. “Deryabin? How is it you select that name?”

  Oxby forced a weak smile. “I was working on an obscure theory known as Occam’s razor that allows the possibility of identifying the person whose name was deleted from the transcript of Vasily’s trial by applying facts we know, and arriving at an answer in an uncomplicated way. We know that Vasily Karsalov was tried for murder, but he claims he was innocent. He also tells us a person named Deryabin had influence with the committee that could grant an appeal of his conviction. He writes in his diary, ‘I should kill Deryabin.’ ”

  “And those facts lead you to believe it was Deryabin’s name that was deleted from the transcript?”

  “Yes, until you calculated that there were a total of twelve characters deleted in the first instance, and seven thereafter. If I’m correct, the missing character has a first name containing four and a last name with seven characters. I assume there was a space between the first and last names.”

  “It would be that way,” Yakov said, trying to be helpful.

  “But then I wrote Deryabin’s name. It contains eight characters.”

  Yakov took the pad on which Oxby had written the name. “In English, you are correct,” Yakov said. “But not when the name is spelled in Russian. Then it has seven characters. Like this . . .”

  “You see we have one letter that does the work of two English letters.”

  Oxby smacked his hands together. “Bloody good, Yakov. My hunch is still alive. Now let’s see if it holds up.”