by Thomas Swan
Chapter 36
Oxby’s first impression of Boris was that he was like the others; thick-chested, thick-muscled, and nearly mute. But both Yakov and Oxby discovered the comparisons ended with physical similarities. Boris’s youthful face belied the fact he was past thirty, older than the others, including Poolya. He had graduated from one of the institutes and had trained to be a member of Gorbachev’s personal security force. He had survived the putsch in August of 1991. All was well in his world until December 25, 1991, when the man he had sworn to protect announced the end of the Soviet Union.
Boris lacked Poolya’s limited command of English, but could understand, if Oxby spoke slowly. Yakov interviewed Boris and when their talk ended, he shrugged and said that Boris appeared to be reliable, but confessed that he had felt that way about Mikki and had a man’s finger to show for it.
Yakov had been issued the papers that would permit him to be fitted for a new leg. He had been through the procedure before and knew the lines would be long and slow-moving. Immediately after Yakov and Oxby had vetted Boris, Yakov and his new bodyguard drove off in the Lada. The window had been replaced by an enterprising neighbor who had a reputation for repairing mechanical objects that had a motor, or made a noise. Yakov put a thermos of his tea brew and some apples in a string bag and took along a book to help pass the time.
“I’ll come by to see how you’re getting on,” Oxby had promised.
“You won’t like what you will see,” Yakov had warned. “But come if you wish. It is the Kuybyshev Hospital.”
Immediately Oxby lifted the phone and as he was about to dial Poolya, he heard a weak, but distinctive crackling noise in the receiver. It was the sound of a phone tap made with an outdated piece of equipment. He pressed the switchhook and listened to a fresh dial tone. The sound remained. He tried a third time with the same result. He called Poolya and ordered him to meet him in thirty minutes.
“Put me off over there,” Oxby said. He was pointing to the entrance to the Astoria Hotel.
Poolya swung the car to the curb and stopped. “You will go to the hotel?” he asked.
“It’s one of the places I’m going today. I will need two hours.” He looked at his watch. “Meet me here at one o’clock.”
“But you are alone,” Poolya said, showing his annoyance that Oxby had not told him his plans for the day. Now, as on the day before, he indicated that he would again be off by himself.
Oxby was on the sidewalk. He closed the door and peered through the open window at Poolya. “It’s the way I want it,” he said, then he turned and walked briskly into the hotel.
Poolya slapped the wheel in frustration, and made an abrupt U-turn, nearly sideswiping a bus and a taxi. Ahead, cheek by jowl with the Astoria, was the five-story building that housed the offices of IBM and New Century. He grabbed his phone, but before he touched the last number, he switched off the instrument and dropped it back in its cradle. In those few seconds since he had watched Oxby walk into the hotel, Poolya had had a revelation. The bright blue eyes that had been dimmed by too much wine the night before seemed to clear. He slapped the steering wheel again, but this time he was smiling, as if he had put a nagging problem behind him. He pulled away and merged into the traffic.
The inside of the hotel was a hive of activity. Tourists and turbaned businessmen paraded back and forth across the long, narrow lobby. Tour directors assembled their flocks, and mothers looked anxiously for teenagers who had fearlessly taken sightseeing matters into their own hands. Oxby purchased a copy of the English language St. Petersburg Times. He went into the dining room and to a table where he ordered a reasonable facsimile of an English breakfast. While his four-minute eggs were simmering, he went to the phones in the lobby and dialed the number Yakov had discovered in Oleg Deryabin’s personnel files.
“New Century,” a female voice said in Russian.
“Do you speak English?”
She did, she said, though not well. “May I help you?”
“Please give Mr. Deryabin a message. Tell him that Jack Oxby will come to his office at 11:30 this morning.”
“Please repeat?”
Oxby did, then asked the operator to read back the message. She repeated it correctly and he put down the phone.
The breakfast was not up to the standards of London’s Stafford Hotel, but the coffee, particularly, was a rewarding break from Yakov’s powerfully scented tea.
At 11:30, Oxby stepped from the elevator. He paused in front of the company logo and read the list of subsidiaries. Then he went through the door into the reception room where he felt as if he was in the hall of mirrors on Brighton Pier by the sea. Surrounding him were dozens of his own image. Standing in front of a mirror, rigid and unblinking, was the security guard with his left hand jammed into his suit pocket. He was speaking into his right hand, which he held to his mouth. In the center of one of the mirrors, Oxby located a face looking at him.
“My name is Oxby,” he said. “Jack Oxby. I do not have an appointment, but I phoned earlier to say I would be here at this time. Is Mr. Deryabin in his office?”
The receptionist, pretty, with dark red lipstick, stared back. The answer came from behind him. From a voice that belonged to a tall man who stood next to a mirror-covered door.
“Mr. Deryabin is not in the office today,” Trivimi Laar said. “Perhaps I can help you.”
Oxby turned and walked toward the Estonian. “Forgive me for coming on short notice, but I am anxious to learn if Mr. Deryabin would be available to help me locate a valuable piece of art made by Fabergé, an item that I believe he knows something about.”
“Fabergé?” Trivimi shook his head. “We are not in the art market.”
“My questions for Mr. Deryabin are not related to his business. They are personal.”
“Either for business or personal matters, Oleg Deryabin is not available.”
“I’ll wait,” Oxby said, and took a step toward one of the chairs next to a table with magazines stacked on top of it.
“You misunderstand. Oleg Deryabin is not available at any time for a discussion of his personal affairs.”
“Perhaps I can persuade him to make an exception.”
“There are no exceptions,” Trivimi said firmly.
Oxby had been sizing up the tall man, whose English was, to his practiced ear, very acceptable. And though he had but a rudimentary knowledge of Russian, of stress and inflexion, he could detect twists in the accent and knew it differed from Yakov’s, a well-educated son of St. Petersburg.
Oxby said, “May I ask your name? I don’t believe you introduced yourself.”
Reluctance showed on the Estonian’s face. He paused, then said as if he were in some distress, “I am Trivimi Laar.”
Oxby produced one of his warm smiles. “I am delighted to meet you, Mr. Laar.” He extended his hand.
Oxby’s behavior seemed to baffle Trivimi. Reluctantly he put out his hand and discovered that the smaller man’s hand was both large and strong.
“Mr. Laar.” Oxby lowered his voice as if he were about to hatch a conspiracy. “Can you attach any significance to the name Vasily Karsalov?”
Oxby’s smile and powerful grip had diverted Trivimi’s attention for the tiniest fraction of time before he said the name. But it was sufficient. Trivimi’s mouth twitched. He instantly ran his fingers across his lips, aware himself that he had flinched.
“Karsalov?” Trivimi repeated the name. “I probably know someone with that name, but—”
“Vasily Karsalov?”
Trivimi replied, his face implacable, “Probably not.”
“But Mr. Deryabin knew a Vasily Karsalov,” Oxby persisted. “I believe they served in the navy together.”
“Come in my office,” Trivimi said, motioning to the guard, who stepped back from the door. “I have ten minutes.”
Oxby eyed the guard warily and followed Trivimi past the door and to the Estonian’s small office, the room without a desk or windows. “Ten minutes.” The time
limit was repeated and the door closed.
Trivimi said, “What are you looking for?”
“I believe you know the answer to that,” Oxby said. “I came to this city to search for the truth to an eighty-year-old rumor and for reasons I cannot explain, three men have died. Can you possibly imagine why?”
The Estonian said, implacably, “No.”
“Because you don’t know? Or because, how should I say, it would be bad business?”
“I said I can’t answer,” Trivimi snapped.
He took out his blue-tinted glasses and exchanged them for the steel-rimmed pair. Oxby watched, unaware the glasses were a ploy Trivimi Laar used when he was in serious negotiation, but very much aware that the opaque lenses gave shelter. It was effective, as it denied Oxby the opportunity to read the eyes of the man who was sitting a mere seven feet away from him.
“What is your interest in this egg?” Trivimi asked.
“You must know that I am on leave from Scotland Yard . . . am I right?”
“If you say that you are.”
“I was retained to explore the possibility that Grigori Rasputin commissioned Fabergé to design an Imperial egg for Czarina Alexandra. An intriguing speculation. Yes?”
“Perhaps so.”
“While exploring, I have uncovered information that connects Oleg Deryabin’s name to the egg.”
“I had never heard that was so.”
“You can bloody well believe that it is so,” Oxby said solemnly. “The particular Fabergé egg I refer to changed ownership during a card game thirty-five years ago. At that time the egg became the possession of Mr. Deryabin, and unless he has sold it or given it away, he continues to own it.”
“Only Deryabin can speak to that.”
“When can I meet with him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Tomorrow, perhaps. Or the next day?”
“At this moment he is preparing for a trip to New York.”
It was surprising news to Oxby but he concealed his joy. “Perhaps I can visit with him when he returns. When is he going to New York?”
“On Saturday.” Trivimi got to his feet and gave every indication that the conversation was fast approaching an end. “If you leave a phone number, it is possible an appointment can be made.”
“But you already have my phone number. Correct?”
Trivimi wagged his head. “No. You did not give it to me.”
It was a fact that Oxby had not given Trivimi the phone number, and while it missed the point, he decided not to press the issue. He said, “Perhaps it is a coincidence that Mr. Deryabin is going to New York. I say that because I understand you were recently in that city.”
Trivimi shifted in his chair. “I have not been—”
“Please, Mr. Laar.” Oxby’s smile returned. “I am not conducting a deposition, though I urge you not to commit perjury. I learned of your visit to Carson Motors from an associate who attended a meeting at which you were present. It’s an undeniable fact, as quite plainly, there were witnesses.”
“We are having confidential negotiations and don’t want competitors to know of our plans.”
“I assure you that neither my friend nor I have the vaguest idea who your competitors might be.”
Trivimi looked at his watch. “You have one minute. I have appointments.”
“Of course,” Oxby said. “Please understand the problem I am facing. If I had tried to make an appointment you would have refused. Police work can sometimes lead to bad habits.”
“You are wasting time.”
Oxby had surveyed Trivimi’s office, searching for microphones, or a miniature closed-circuit television camera. He hoped the room was wired, as that would assure that there would be no slippage between what he said and what Trivimi could remember. The most likely place to conceal a microphone was in the telephone, which in this case was a modernistic affair that resembled a miniature flying saucer. It was in the middle of the table that separated them.
“A man named Akimov was shot in Michael Carson’s office. This, too, was reported to me by my associate. You were asked if you knew Akimov.”
“And I said that I did not know him.”
“Oleg Deryabin knew him. In fact Akimov was an employee of New Century at one time. You stand by what you said? That you did not know him?”
“It’s possible that I met him years ago and have forgotten his name. There are many employees. They come and go.”
“Akimov came and went and was killed.” Oxby could feel Trivimi glowering at him from behind his glasses.
“Has your company concluded its arrangements with Carson Motors?”
“You must leave now.”
Oxby edged forward in his chair as if he were about to get to his feet. Instead, he turned his gaze up to the Estonian and said, “My client may wish to buy the egg. He is a serious collector with considerable resources. A private sale is quick and the money would be transferred immediately.”
Trivimi was at the door. “You must know that a public auction for such a rare item would bring the highest price.”
“A sound observation, but auctions for a piece of decorative art of this importance occur infrequently. The Sotheby’s auction was early in June, and there won’t be another for a year. There are high expenses, also commissions and fees.”
“I commented only for the sake of argument.”
Oxby had obstinately remained in his chair. “I must ask one more time. Will you confirm that the Fabergé Imperial egg is in Oleg Deryabin’s possession?”
Trivimi pulled the door open. “You have no more time.”
“And will he take it with him to New York?”
“I repeat. There’s no more time. Go before you are forced to leave.”
The Estonian seemed outwardly calm, but Oxby, superbly expert in detecting tiny defections others fail to observe, realized that Trivimi Laar was at the brink of losing his temper.
“Leave!” Trivimi roared.
“I think you are serious about this,” gathering himself as if to rise, “and I shall take your advice. Except for one last question.” He turned quickly, leaned into the strange-looking telephone and said, “There are strong suggestions that a crime of murder, of which Vasily Karsalov was accused, was actually committed by Oleg Deryabin. How do you or Mr. Deryabin respond?”
On saying the last word, Oxby was on his feet and in three strides reached the door and went through it. He did not wait to be escorted to the reception area, but walked past the guard with the earplug and the mini-microphone and the bulge in the left side of his jacket.
Oleg Deryabin was behind his desk, tapping the sharp end of a letter opener into the polished wood. No lights were on and the draperies had been pulled, except for a slim shaft of bright yellow sunlight that shone over the rug, across the desk and against the wall directly behind the chairman of New Century.
The Estonian came and sat in his usual chair. “You heard?”
“Every fucking word.”
“How could he learn so much in so little time?”
“Because he’s good. Too damned good.”
“He asked about the murder. He meant Prekhner?”
“He was fishing. That’s how they do it. Scotland Yard wrote the book on it.”
“Only fishing?” The Estonian exchanged his glasses once more. “What if he knows?”
Deryabin grasped the letter opener and, holding it like a dagger, he stabbed at the leather inlay in his desk. He struck again and again as if the destruction of a beautiful piece of furniture would turn every wrong into a right. “If he does, he can’t prove anything.”
Trivimi was undisturbed by the outburst. He said calmly, “Now that we know what Oxby is up to, what do we do about it?”
“Kill him! Kill the son of a bitch now!”
“How do you suggest it be done? With a gun? Blow up the apartment?”
“No, you fool. An accident.”
Trivimi was well aware that Oxby’s death
must be planned carefully and carried out in the same way. He was also aware that planning was the easy part, the execution much more difficult.
Trivimi said, “Viktor was the expert. He’s gone.”
“Work it out with Galina. She has her own reason for killing him.”
Poolya had gone into the hotel and when he returned he found his Peugeot squeezed between a bus from Germany and one from Sweden. The German bus was a double-decker affair and one of its young tour guides was amused by the problem Poolya faced. The guide might have posed for a 1930s poster extolling membership in the Hitler Youth. His hair was pale yellow, his eyes were a perfect blue, and his skin was as fair as milk. It was like a movie set and he had just come out of the makeup trailer. He scowled at Poolya, who scowled back. In a street fight, smart money would have been on the Russian.
Oxby got into the car. “The Kuybyshev Hospital. Fifty-six Liteyny Prospekt. Do you know it?”
Poolya moved the car forward and back in the tight spot until he was finally able to turn away from the curb. “Two months ago my job was to take a doctor to Kuybyshev. I have been there many times.”
“I will stay with Mr. Ilyushin and return to the apartment with him.”
“You will be alone again. That is not good.”
“Boris will be with us.”
“He is not a byki,” Poolya said derisively. “He’s never guarded anyone.”
“He’ll get on-the-job training. Best kind.”
“Is the worst kind. What is more, Boris is dishonest.”
Oxby smiled at the irony. These were all petty crooks. No one of them to be trusted more than the next.
He said, “Drop me, then go back to the apartment and keep an eye on things.”
Poolya remained silent, but drove on disconsolately, a cigarette dangling from his lips.
There were no parking garages near the hospital, and no lots, paved or dirt, to put the new population of cars that had sprung up in the city. Cars of every size and age were parked along the street and over the curb. Taxis carrying sick patients were hooted out of the way. Poolya was forced to stop in the middle of the street. Oxby jumped out.
