About Face (25 page)

Silence.

“I don't look like you remember me—I know. But—”

“I have already dialed the nine and first one. Police will be here shortly.”

“Please. Don't. I promise you, it's really me.”

Drop the bomb.

I lose the accent. And return to my God-given voice.

“It's really the Prime Rib guy. The guy who saved you from turning your family's treasures over to Andreu Zhamovsky.”

There's a pause. Then: “How … what …”

Silence again.

“I know. It doesn't seem possible. And God knows what you learned about me in the news. I promise you, I'm innocent. I promise to explain all this if you'll please let me in.”

“What is it you want from me?”

“I need to see the eggs.”

“Why?”

“I'll tell you that once I'm face-to-face with them. And you.”

Silence.

“Please, Mr. Derbyshev. I'm sorry it's the middle of the night. And I know my showing up here after all these years, looking and sounding like a completely different person who wants to come into your home is completely absurd. But I've waited a long time for the opportunity to approach you. I promise—you aren't in any danger. Nor are the eggs. I simply need to lay my eyes on them for a few minutes.”

“That all sounds well and good,” the count responded, “but how
can I be sure it's you? How do I know you're not some mentally ill, unusually conniving, sinister animal who literally beat the necessary information out of the real man you're claiming to be to put yourself in this position to possibly just walk into my home and loot me of my family's treasures? All of this assuming I would even keep them here.”

Huh.

Good point.

“Go back to that night,” I reply.

“Excuse me?”

“That night when we met face-to-face at Prime Rib. I remember every second of our meeting, from when I approached you and your chauffeur slash bodyguard out front upon your arrival until I jumped in my car and took off with same said chauffeur slash bodyguard coming after me with a gun.”

“Your point?”

“My point is that I'm confident whatever you may recall, I will recall as well. In the short time we met that night before—once again—I actually saved you from getting smoked by Andreu Zhamovsky, a lot happened. Both at your table as well as in the men's room. An imposter would have basic information to get into position to rip you off, not the nitty gritty of our encounter. So—ask me anything. Go for details.”

His table as well as the men's room.

Possible someone who had put a gun to my head to get into this position would have asked me details like that, but not likely.

Silence.

A good thing.

He's thinking of something to ask me.

“You sat down at my table, and I asked you your name that night,” he finally said. “What did you tell me?”

“I responded with a set of numbers. Which you immediately identified as your Social Security number.”

The gate slowly begins to swing open.

•     •     •

As I walk toward the monstrosity of a home, the closer I get the more lights—obviously triggered by motion detectors—come on. And with each additional light, I see more of the structure against the night sky. The count's castle is even more “castle” than I could have imagined. It's like I left Manhattan, drove a couple hours, and somehow ended up in the Irish countryside. The castle is primarily comprised of dark brick and stone and has all the trimmings: cylindrical towers, coned roofs with pointed tops, a porte cochere, the works. I can't help but think I'd better look down lest I fall into a moat.

The huge, heavy wooden plank of a door slowly swings back. When halfway open, Derbyshev steps into my sight standing in the cavernous entry vestibule under the dim light of a few wall sconces. He looks older, his long face more weathered, his silver hair more silver. Nonetheless he's looking as countlike as ever—only this time in a long, red smoking jacket that seems to be doubling as a robe over his blue pajamas instead of the razor-edge sharp pinstriped suit and alligator shoes he wore during our first meeting.

He's studying my face. He looks me up and down.

“Only two types of people would change themselves as if right out of a science fiction novel. Someone very innocent or someone very guilty.”

Way too loaded. Not touching that one.

“I appreciate you trusting me, Mr. Derbyshev. I appreciate you opening this door. I've thought about this moment—this night, whenever it might come—for a long time.”

“You saved me from handing over my family's treasures, treasures the flesh and blood I come from crafted with their own hands, for a half a billion dollars that my accepting would have put me in jail. Please. Call me Pavel.”

He turns around and heads into the house, which I take as my invitation to follow him. I step into the entry vestibule and close the door.

I follow the count inside. Suddenly the lights come up. When they do, I realize I'm indeed standing in a palace that looks surprisingly similar to what I had envisioned. Behind the count is a rich, lustrous great room. The floor is white marble so shiny and clean it looks like I can eat off it. The walls are the same red as the count's smoking jacket, robe, whatever. The furniture—all upholstered with black velvet—like the chandeliers is finished with the same gold that frames the mirrored ceiling grid topping off the room. A ceiling that looks like it's being held up by the interspaced columns made from the same marble as the floor.

“Are you hungry or thirsty?” he asks, pointing in a direction that I imagine leads to the kitchen. Or one of the kitchens.

“No, thank you,” I respond. I look at my watch. “And even if I was, I simply don't have the time to spare.”

“Then let's get to it.”

The count starts off into, then through, the great room with me following. He glances back at me over his shoulder.

“How—if—”

He faces the direction we're walking again.

“Forget it,” he continues. “I don't think I want to know.”

“No,” I answer, understanding he's talking about what went into this hardcore physical transformation. “You don't.”

Unsurprisingly, the house is like a never-ending maze. After walking for what must be a couple minutes, we enter what looks to be a very large office. The room feels out of place. Its shell is certainly part of the home it sits in—the walls, ceiling, and moldings—but all the furniture, the iMac as well as Bloomberg terminal sitting on the huge glass desk, the multiple flat-screens on the wall are all up-to-the-minute. There are antique sculptures on pedestals; there are contemporary paintings on the walls. The space is a complete contradiction of itself. A contradiction existing in harmony.

“Welcome to my office,” the count says.

He heads behind a desk and opens a minifridge sitting on a cherrywood credenza. He takes a La Croix from it.

“Might I interest you in a La Croix?”

“A what?”

“A La Croix. Seltzer water by itself is so …boring. But this La Croix? Just the perfect hint of flavor. And they have a new peach-pear flavor. It's just the right blend of—”

He stops when he looks at me, and sees my “Are you fucking kidding me?” expression.

“Please,” he says graciously, gesturing to the cordovan leather sofa. “Sit. And tell me what you're doing in my office in the middle of the night after all these years.”

I sit on the couch. He takes a seat on one of the leather chairs facing me. I take a deep breath.

“The night of our meeting, once I was gone and driving back to where I came from, I called your house. And you picked up. Do you remember that?”

“I do.”

“I explained to you I understood, after putting it together, you didn't have just one of the missing eggs, but all six,” I go on. “As we got into it a bit further, you asked me if the name Maria Feodorovna meant anything to me. I said it did. I knew by this point she was the Russian empress for whom many of the imperial eggs, including all eight that went missing in the revolution, were made. It was at this point you said something that got me thinking. Something I carried with me until a time when I could investigate the matter on my own.”

“What was that?” the count asked.

“You told me Maria Feodorovna was the kind of woman who fought for the things she believed in, stood up for those to whom she'd made a commitment. That she had an eye for talent which is why she had Henrik Wigstrom, the man running the House of Fabergé at the time, give Piotr Derbyshev—your grandfather, and a man who had shown great promise through his contributions to the eggs—an opportunity to lead the creation of some of the eggs on his own.”

“That's correct.”

“The eggs Maria Feodorovna had her servants round up as the revolution unfolded and her castle was stormed, before all the others. She managed to save all eight, two of which were stolen soon after, not to be seen again until found in Yakutsk in 1979.”

“So as the story goes, that's right.”

The count shifts in his seat.

“Where exactly are you going with this?” he asks.

L
ONDON
2010

In the Hampstead Garden suburb of London I walked up to a huge country-style red brick house at the address of South Square NW3. The home was gorgeous, appeared to be immaculately appointed, and couldn't have been any smaller than six thousand square feet. It was summer. The grass, trees, flowers, shrubs—every inch of foliage covering the large property was perfectly manicured. I walked up the half-circle driveway, climbed the stairs, and rang the doorbell.

A very tall man, with strong facial features that included a really large nose, answered the door. He had short, almost spikey-looking, gray hair to go with a matching gray goatee, and rectangular wire-framed glasses covering his oak-tree-bark brown eyes. He wore jeans, a white button-down shirt opened to the second button, and black casual loafers with no socks.

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.