The Final Fabergé by Thomas Swan Page A

hungrily on his cigarette. He inhaled deeply, then swallowed as if to keep all the smoke inside him. When he spoke, little gray wisps escaped from his mouth.
    â€œWe met for dinner, then he asked me to go with him to his office. It was his apartment but he worked out of it. He told me he was having trouble with Karsalov, that he was drinking heavily again. I gave him my ideas and thought that was that. Then a young couple came to the apartment.”
    Deryabin looked across at the Estonian. “It was a complete surprise. There was vodka and good whiskey and food you couldn’t get anywhere unless you had a top government position or were a goddamned ballet star. For a couple of hours, I didn’t mind being there. There was strange music, I remember, and a sweet odor. You might think the lights would be small and dim, but they were bright and different colors; yellow and orange and purple.

    â€œThe couple danced and kissed, then they undressed each other, sitting on a blanket in the middle of the floor. Then they began screwing. Prekhner joined them. Three of them were screwing each other. Man and woman, man and man. Then a second girl came. She had big tits and a solid ass and said I could do anything I wanted with her. She liked to fuck. We did. I was smoking marijuana. Had never done that, so I didn’t know what to expect. I didn’t feel differently, not until they showed me how to take cocaine. That was a big change. I wanted the feeling to last forever.
    â€œI looked for Prekhner and he was gone. It was a small apartment, a few tiny rooms. But I couldn’t find him. I guessed that he’d gone for more food and I paid no attention whether he was there or not. The high I was on didn’t last long and when it went away I got sick. But sober, too. Then, Prekhner was back, like he’d never gone away.”
    Deryabin rubbed his mouth. “I got out and went back to the navy base.”
    The Estonian had listened, amused by Deryabin’s embarrassment as he recounted his long-ago experience. “Why do you tell me about Artur Prekhner and his orgy?”
    â€œYou say there are no secrets between us?”
    Trivimi Laar nodded. “No secrets.”
    â€œI once described to you the way Prekhner died. A knife here, in the neck.” Deryabin planted his hand on his own neck.
    Trivimi said, “You told me that during an argument, when Karsalov was drunk, he stabbed Prekhner.”
    â€œIt’s true there was an argument and a knife. But I am the one who put the knife into Prekhner.”
    â€œYou?” Trivimi said, uncertain and surprised.
    â€œA week after his party, Prekhner was waiting for me at the entrance to the General Staff building. We got into his car. He handed me a photograph album. I had no recollection of doing what I saw in the pictures.”
    â€œBlackmail? What did he want?”
    â€œPrekhner knew that I was being trained for an assignment in the First Directorate and wanted my help on a wild scheme he had put together. He made it very simple. Either I cooperate, or he would send photographs to my superiors. He said he could send one a week for three months.”
    â€œAnd so you—”

    â€œI told him I would need time to think over what he had said. Two days later I called him and said I was going to go along with him, but I wanted to talk about the details. There were so many, I couldn’t remember all of them. Then, I set my own trap.” Deryabin’s smile lengthened. “I suggested to Prekhner that we meet in his apartment. He liked the idea, even joked about having his young friends join us. It was essential that Vasily be present. When he arrived I gave him a bottle of vodka. I didn’t have to encourage him to drink it. In an hour he was drunk and I put him in the bedroom and told him to sleep it off. To be sure he slept, I gave him a sedative.”
    The Estonian listened intently, never taking his eyes off