The Final Fabergé (41 page)

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.

“Cheerio,” he shouted, and in a second melded into the crowd.

Once inside the hospital, Oxby instantly realized that he faced a real challenge. Asking for information that would lead him to Yakov was problem enough, but finding someone to ask was an equally formidable task. Either mismarked, or because he couldn't interpret the signs, he spent the first minutes locating the equivalent of a registration desk. When finally he did, he patiently waited his turn to ask where the prosthetic cases were handled.

The orthopedic wing of the hospital bustled with mostly ambulatory patients. Many were accompanied by family or a friend, and a few had the gaunt look of someone in the throes of extreme discomfort. He found Yakov, sitting peacefully in a room filled with patients missing an arm, a leg, or worse, and half doing what Yakov had come prepared to do; read or compose a letter. Yakov shifted in his chair, offering half of it to Oxby, who refused.

The time had edged on and it was quarter to three. “Where are you in scheme of things? Have you been fitted, or what?”

“I was in luck. Now they take an impression and four hours later they have made the socket. They tell me I will have it before the day is over.”

“When is the day over in a place like this?” Oxby wondered aloud.

“Tonight, until nine o'clock. Time enough, but I have eaten my apples and am hungry again.”

“I'll take you to dinner to celebrate your new leg,” Oxby said, then eased himself down onto his haunches. “Where is Boris? Don't tell me another one ran off.”

“He hadn't eaten and I sent him off to find something. Poolya said it was his first assignment. Called him a baby.”