The Final Fabergé (10 page)

Deryabin, as he approached sixty, was losing the hardened look of the athlete he had once been. His dark hair was graying and thinning and he had a round spot in the back of his head that looked from not far away as if he might be wearing a pink yarmulke. His skin was a pasty white, and over his cheeks and nose were flecks of tiny bursted capillaries. He had a fighter's nose, broad and bent slightly, and beneath his eyes was a fresh crop of tiny lines. His lips moved constantly as if he were speaking and would part from time to time to reveal teeth that were stained from a lifetime habit of heavy smoking. A canine tooth was covered with gold and behind it was an empty, black hole.

Even though the edges of Deryabin's mouth curled up and his eyebrows arched, there was rarely genuine mirth in his face. Those who knew him or worked for him were aware that his cold, perpetual grin
served to mask an unbridled temper that put dread in the heart of many a subordinate.

Oleg Vladimirovich Deryabin was a complicated man who had learned that success in the restructuring and struggling Russian economy came to those who had survived the old system, had learned to act decisively and boldly, and were well connected to the new bureaucracy. In his office, in silver and enameled frames, were photographs of Deryabin with men he worked alongside in the navy and later in the KGB when he was attached to the Soviet embassy in Paris, followed by two years in Baghdad, where he made significant friendships and gathered important IOUs. Then a final three-year assignment in Washington.

During each tour of duty his official title was communications officer. His true role had been as a member of the First Chief Directorate, the espionage branch of the KGB. He had distinguished himself by ferreting out two Soviet counterintelligence agents suspected of doubling back on Mother Russia. One perished in his car, a suspected suicide, and the second died from an extreme case of food poisoning. In each case, Deryabin had assumed direct responsibility and had been the executioner, as well.

He had spent twenty-seven years in the navy and with the KGB, and the range of experience and positions held had taught Deryabin how to sacrifice others for what he had deeply believed was for the common good; the valiant cause inspired by Lenin. But loyalty to a dead cause was out of fashion. The cause that now inspired him was the accumulation of personal wealth. It was sufficient for Deryabin to constantly remind himself that real power was no longer achieved inside the government as it had been for seventy-five years. Money was power, not party recognition, not advancement up the labyrinthine trail of what had become a discredited political philosophy.

Deryabin was also proving the wisdom of a new adage that was gaining popularity: old KGB officers don't die, they go into business and become capitalists.

There were demerits in Deryabin's résumé if one were ever to be accurately written. He could be cruel, dispassionately and indiscriminately, as demonstrated by the failure of his one abbreviated marriage. Blessedly, he never attempted another. In spite of what appeared to be a spotless military and government record, Deryabin's penchant for revenge
had become legendary by the time he returned to civilian status. With Deryabin, it wasn't an eye for an eye, but two eyes for one eye.

But most damning to a man who craved to be admired as a Russian Renaissance man was his complete inability to handle money. While he had never been trained in economics or banking, he lacked even the most basic talent or ability to shepherd resources wisely and keep his books in balance. While he worshipped money and excelled at devising ways to obtain it, he would spend without discipline, then vent his notorious temper if he were dunned with an overdue invoice.

New Century, for all its glitz and sparkle, sat atop a shaky financial foundation. It was held together, however tenuously, by the one man who had Deryabin's unswerving confidence. He was also the only person who knew the dark secrets that Deryabin tried so desperately to hide.

Deryabin pulled a chair away from the table, sat, and pressed a button on a panel set into the table. The door opened and he was joined by a tall, thin man who took the chair on Deryabin's left. He had a long neck and narrow face with high cheekbones and full brows. He wore glasses framed by a rim of thin steel and frequently carried a second pair in his left hand. He might wear the spare glasses during a negotiation to obscure his eyes behind lenses that had a deep, bluish cast. His voice was gentle and unhurried. He was older by four years, more fit, perhaps, and his name was Trivimi Laar. Trivimi Laar was listed on the roster of the company as simply an aide to the chairman. He would be spotted entering or leaving the building, but only a select few had actually been introduced to him. It was generally known that the tall man could see Deryabin any time he chose. Some had heard the two arguing, their voices rising until it seemed the next noise from behind the closed doors would be a pistol shot. To most New Century employees, Trivimi Laar was known simply as the Estonian.

The two men had a relationship that went back to the time they were in their mid-twenties in Estonia when Deryabin was stationed at the Soviet naval yards in Tallinn and Laar was a government clerk. Later, showing rare diplomatic skills, Laar rose through the tangle of departmental officialism and at a time when the Estonian government was under the thumb (and heel) of Moscow. Their paths crossed again during Deryabin's tour with the KGB. A unique friendship ensued and eventually grew to where Deryabin brought Trivimi and his special skills into New Century.

Deryabin spoke first. “I sent the Lysenkos to put an end to Akimov.
They failed.” He got up from his chair and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. “I don't tolerate incompetence. Tell me everything.”

The Estonian also stood, his feet apart, his head lowered, to put him level with the shorter Deryabin.

“Galina did not catch up with Akimov until he was in Mikhail's office. She doesn't know how long they had been together. She found them standing beside a table, each holding a glass. There was a bottle on the table. Mikhail spoke to her but she paid no attention. She aimed at Sasha's chest—she's a crack shot and doesn't miss at that range. But Mikhail threw the bottle. It hit her arm just as she fired.”

“She uses a Semmerling double-action that holds five bullets,” Deryabin said impatiently. “She's been trained to kill. Why didn't she?”

The Estonian shook his head. “I don't have an answer. Mikhail may have charged at her. She may have tried again. I'll get a report. She swears they will learn what Akimov said to Mikhail.”

“Where did the bullet hit Akimov?”

“In his neck. It tore up his larynx. If he survives, in time he will be able to write—”

“No! He won't live to hold a pen again. What did Viktor tell you?”

“He estimated that Akimov had been with Mikhail for ten minutes. Even less time than that, he thought.”

“He thought, he thought. That's bullshit, Trivimi. How long were they together? Five minutes? Eight minutes?” Deryabin shouted. “They were sent to stop Akimov
before
he got to Mikhail.”

“It would have been a miracle. They tried.”

The anger subsided. “When did you talk with Galina?”

“Early this morning. It was after midnight in New York.”

“What were your instructions?”

“To learn what Akimov said to Mikhail. They know that he was spreading false rumors about you and New Century.” Trivimi added solemnly, “I told them that Akimov was not to leave the hospital alive.”

Deryabin nodded, then returned to his chair and lit a fresh cigarette from the old one. “He would talk about the Fabergé egg, and tell Mikhail that I should give it to his mother. The simple ass was saying foolish things.”

“Why would Akimov suggest that you give the egg to Mikhail's mother?”

“Because he was like a brother to Mikhail's mother. Anna Karsalov and Akimov were from the same city. From Sochi.”

“Yes,” Trivimi said. “I'd forgotten.” He walked slowly around the conference table. “You have a very fine collection of Fabergé, your office is filled with them. But the Imperial egg is locked away. Why not put it out for everyone to enjoy?”

“Because I prefer not to,” Deryabin said, as if closing off any further discussion.

“Have you thought more about putting it into auction?”

“I don't want to discuss it.” He stared at Trivimi, the smile missing. “Understood?”

“No, I don't understand. You agreed the market was ripe for a sale. There's new interest in Fabergé and particularly in the Imperial eggs. I think you should sell it.”

“It's not your fucking decision,” Deryabin said angrily.

“You're still afraid of it, aren't you?”

Deryabin drew heavily on the cigarette, then shook his head. “That's my affair. Not yours.”

Trivimi sat in the chair next to Deryabin. He shook his head slowly. “I don't agree. It might be my affair also. You claim you've told me everything about the egg. Perhaps I've forgotten something, Oleshka.” He had spoken softly and called Deryabin by his familiar name. “Tell me again.”

Deryabin crossed his arms over his chest. He drew on the cigarette and with his eyes fixed on a point beyond the Estonian, he began. “Fabergé made Imperial eggs under commission from the Czars. Easter gifts for the Czarina or the Czar's mother. Grigori Rasputin asked Fabergé to make one. As a gift for Alexandra, it is supposed. The mad monk had money. I don't know how it happened, but Mikhail Karsalov's grandfather got the egg at the time Rasputin was murdered.”

“I remember you telling me this, but what proof do you have that the egg is authentic? It's possible that it's a forgery. ”

“The crossed anchors and scepter marks of Fabergé are on it,” Deryabin replied. “So is the date and the initials of the designer.”

“Then the card game and you won it from Vasily Karsalov. Except you didn't actually win it. You stole it.”

Deryabin bristled. “We swore a blood oath to keep the confidence of what we have told each other.”

“I have told no one about the egg. I have kept my side of the bargain.”

Deryabin caught Trivimi's eyes. “And so have I.”

“But now you want to do business with Vasily Karsalov's son?”

“If Akimov spread his lies, there is a problem. But if Viktor is correct, Akimov had ten minutes or less with Mikhail before he was shot. First he would talk of old times, of Mikhail's mother, of Petersburg and how it has changed. All that before he would begin to spread his lies.”

“Tell me again about the card game.”

“There were five. Vasily Karsalov, Sasha Akimov, Artur Prekhner, and Leonid Baletsky. Of course, I was the fifth.”

Trivimi studied his hands. “You were playing draw poker, I believe it is called. And you won the Imperial egg with four queens.”

Deryabin nodded. “I have told you that several times.”

The Estonian smiled. “Four queens? Very strong. And no wild cards the way the Americans play.”

“I told you there were no wild cards. Why do you bring it up?”

“Because you held four queens, and Vasily held four jacks. Without wild cards, the odds are incredibly high.”

“It was damned unusual. I have always said that.”

“But when Vasily got up from the table to get his precious Imperial egg, you only held three queens. Is that so?”

Deryabin bit on his lips. “I told you that.”

“And in the cards that had not been dealt, you found the fourth queen?”

“Why are you digging this up again? I've told the story before, and I don't have to go over it again for no reason.”

“Oh, there is a reason, Oleshka.”

“What fucking good reason do you have?”

“I want it all in front of us one more time. You won Vasily Karsalov's Imperial egg by cheating. That was thirty-five years ago and you've done nothing with it. Never shown it to the museum, never let anyone see it in your office. And, of course, you've never sold it.”

“What are you getting at?” Deryabin asked.

“I'm getting at why you felt it was so terrible for Akimov to go to New York and tell Mikhail that his father lost a Fabergé Imperial egg to you in a card game. Is that a reason to have him killed?”

Deryabin screamed his response, “I told you the bastard Sasha would tell lies about me.”

“What lies, Oleshka? What lies would be so terrible that you wanted him killed?”

“I don't know which ones . . .” Deryabin seemed at a loss to explain.
“But whatever he might say could destroy my plans to bring Mikhail Karsalov into our new venture.”

“But not because of the Imperial egg. Even if Sasha told Mikhail you cheated to win the Imperial egg, you would have a chance to explain.”

“I hired Akimov when he left the navy. His pension was a laugh and he needed work, so I took him on. But he thinks I was unfair to him, that I cut him off for no reason. He would tell Mikhail anything to get revenge over me.”

“He was an old friend. It was a mistake to turn him out. And a mistake to send the twins to kill him.”

“I don't make mistakes!” Deryabin roared. “The lying bastard would say anything against me. He was acting like a crazy old man.”

The Estonian moved his chair so that he was squarely in front of Deryabin. He was silent for a moment, and when he spoke his words were hushed.

“There is something in this Akimov matter that is puzzling.” A bemused look covered the Estonian's face “The Fabergé egg? An expensive bauble and frankly, I don't give a damn how you came to own it.” The Estonian wrapped his long fingers around Deryabin's arm. “But, remember, Oleshka, there is trust between us.” He squeezed the arm gently. “Tell me about these ‘lies' that you were afraid Akimov would say about you.”