The Final Fabergé by Thomas Swan

a loss to explain.
“But whatever he might say could destroy my plans to bring Mikhail Karsalov into our new venture.”
    â€œBut 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.”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œHe was an old friend. It was a mistake to turn him out. And a mistake to send the twins to kill him.”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œThere 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.”
    Deryabin glared and pulled away from the Estonian. “Damn your fucking trust. I told you Akimov was losing his senses. He was inventing wild stories about me.”
    â€œHe came to me, Akimov did, after you told him he no longer had a job. He was angry because you made him go back to his paltry pension. He said there was bad blood between you and Vasily Karsalov.”
    Deryabin flinched and glared wildly at Trivimi. “What bad blood was he talking about?”
    Trivimi shook his head and shrugged. “He never found the words.”
    â€œSniveling bastard never found the courage. Besides, what of it? He’ll soon be dead.”
    â€œWhat was he going to tell me, Oleshka?” Trivimi hardened his tone. “Tell me what Akimov has on you.”
    â€œNot a fucking thing, you Estonian bastard.”
    â€œNot as bad as Russian bastards. That’s what you are.”
    â€œLeave! Get your stinking ass out of here!” Deryabin was on his feet, pointing fiercely at the door. “Go!”

    â€œI’m going nowhere until we talk this through.”
    Deryabin grabbed the phone and began jabbing numbers, but the Estonian pulled the phone away from him. He said calmly into the phone, “Everything is all right.” Then he clicked off.
    Deryabin glowered. “You’re pushing too far.”
    â€œNot far enough,” Trivimi said firmly. “It’s time you come clean with me.”
    Deryabin’s face was flushed, and his eyes darted from the Estonian to the ceiling to the door. He put a match to another cigarette while fussing with the one still smoldering in the ashtray. He swept up a red felt marking pen from the table and went hurriedly past the drawings of the proposed Koleso showroom to the long, white writing surface. In block letters two inches high he wrote a name: Artur Prekhner.
    He turned and faced the Estonian.
    â€œPrekhner and Vasily were old school friends. They started a business while Vasily was at the naval base in Tallinn, and Prekhner was a clerk in the commissary in Petersburg. That’s where I met him. It was a small operation, just the two of them. Part of each shipment never got to Tallinn, but ended up in a warehouse in Pushkin. Then they shipped the meat and liquor to the black market in the Petersburg region. I hadn’t seen Prekhner in over a year, then, in September of 1972, I met him at a wedding party for a mutual friend. He asked if I could meet with him two nights later, said he was having a problem and wanted my advice.”
    Deryabin drew