The Final Fabergé by Thomas Swan Read Free Book Online Page A

thinning hair Lenny thought he saw was, in fact, a heavy thatch of blond, the kind most women would kill for. Then his face, his features. All standard except when looked at individually were better than average; strong nose, alert, solidly blue eyes, an expressive mouth with even a tiny cleft in the chin. And yes, there was a small gap in the teeth on his left side, but a minor flaw. He stood five eleven, no flab at the waist. His voice was solid, and if there was any accent at all, it was Rochester, New York, or was it Ogden, Utah? This, in spite of having spoken only Russian until he was fourteen? But something else. A supremely confident aura surrounded Mike Carson. He seemed relaxed and mature, traits that usually came from a secure and wellprovided environment, not from a broken family, or from a youngster who had emigrated on his own terms when he had barely reached his teens.
    Mike’s hand went to his side. “I’ll call you Leonard, and you call me Mike. Okay?”
    â€œOkay, but make it Lenny. That’s what everyone calls me. Can we talk now? Is that good for you?”
    â€œWhatever Patsy says.”
    Patsy said, “Sooner you get started, the sooner it will be over.”
    â€œBefore we do anything, let me show you the store. It’s our newest design, something you might use in your story.”
    They were about to go down to the main floor when a loud squabble broke out at the bottom of the escalator. Dennis LeGrande and a small, balding man were jawing at each other, the man obviously frustrated
in his attempt to make himself understood, but unable to find English words to help his cause.
    â€œWhat’s the problem, Denny?” Mike looked curiously at the man, who started to scramble up the steps toward him.
    The man broke into an enthusiastic smile. “ Mikhail! Mikhail Vasilyovich—myenya zavut Sasha Akimov. ”
    For a split moment Mike Carson was confounded, then greeted the newcomer warily. “Akimov, it’s a surprise to—” He didn’t complete the sentence, instead, he took hold of the man’s arm. He called over to Patty Abromowitz and Lenny Sulzberger.
    â€œAn old friend of the family. It shouldn’t take long.”
    Sliding glass panels completely covered one side of the office that was Mike’s when he visited the dealership, an office with a conference table, and a view past the floor-to-ceiling glass to the showroom immediately below. It was there that Mike took his unexpected guest, repeating that he was surprised by the visit.
    Akimov said, in Russian, “I am not good with English, will you speak in Russian?”
    Mike nodded his grudging reluctance. Akimov spoke rapidly, spilling out a polite and more formal greeting, one he had probably rehearsed during the long journey, moving all the while to the wall of glass, where he stared intently down at the growing crowd. Mike watched, amused.
    â€œAre you expecting someone?”
    Akimov said he was not, then retreated to the table where he produced a package out of which came a bottle of vodka. “A toast, Mikhail?”
    â€œI am not Mikhail,” Mike said forcefully. “I am called Michael. Mike Carson . . . not Karsalov, not Vasilyovich.”
    Akimov took two glasses from the tray on the conference table and poured vodka into both and handed one to Mike. He proposed a toast to their reunion and drained his glass. Mike sipped. Akimov was a surprisingly small man, smaller even as he had aged. His body was no longer stout, but more like that of a young boy, and covered with a dull, wrinkled gray suit that was brightened by a row of military ribbons pinned above the breast pocket and a necktie that lay against a shirt with frayed collar and cuffs.
    He refilled his glass and toasted to Mike’s success, then said, “Please, you sit, and allow me to tell you why I have come to New York. And
please, also, allow me to call you Mikhail, as that is the name I knew