The Master Craftsman, page 28
Carol sighed and shook her head.
“Where do we need to go when we arrive in Helsinki?” Zak finally asked.
“You’ll have to rent a car,” Nick replied. His voice broke up as the signal on the phone faltered once again. “I’ll send the address of the home you’re going to . . .” His voice faded and the line went staticky.
“Nick? Nick?”
“Call when . . .” Nick’s voice broke through the static briefly, then the line went dead.
Carol looked up at Zak. “Well,” she said, her voice tight.
“Yeah,” he replied.
They leaned back and rode on in silence.
St. Petersburg, 1918
I have to go. I have to go now.”
Augusta watched him bustle through the room, hands shaking, as he threw a few items into a cloth bag. She walked behind him, nodding her head in agreement.
“Yes, yes,” she murmured. “We should all go.”
“No. My darling, no.”
Augusta stopped and stared at him. “What do you mean, no?”
“It’s too dangerous. They’ve already arrested Agathon and Alexander.”
Augusta thought of their sons, currently locked up in a secret prison somewhere in the city, arrested, she believed, for no other reason than they were the sons of the House of Fabergé. Karl’s association with the Imperial family had put them all at risk. It was time to get out.
The Bolsheviks had succeeded in their plan to nationalize the country by February of that year. When word of Lenin’s urging to the commoners to “loot the looters” reached her husband, Augusta knew the writing was on the wall. Though Karl had already liquidated many of his assets and sent some hard currency abroad, she knew that it was only a matter of time before the company was liquidated for good, and a target was on Karl’s back.
The Bolsheviks had renamed themselves the Communist Party of Russia, and word quickly got to them that Karl had been identified by Leon Trotsky, Lenin’s right-hand man, as a war profiteer.
“They’re coming for you,” Albert whispered late one night as the three of them walked across Anichkov Bridge, coats pulled up tight around their necks.
Shortly after that meeting, impossible taxes were levied against the company. They’d had to let most of the employees go, a fact that Augusta knew tormented her husband. Famine had reached them all, with bread being nearly impossible to come by. None of them were immune to its effects. Even their dear friend and chief designer, Francois Birbaum, had been hit, losing his wife to starvation just two months before. Karl closed his eyes and swayed on his feet. Augusta watched her husband with a swirl of emotions, from pity to anger to compassion.
“The officials told me last week that the boys will be released soon,” Augusta said, breaking the silence.
Karl shook his head. “How can we know that’s true, my dear?” he asked, his eyes wet.
She crossed the room and stood before him, her hands clenched at her waist. “We all need to get out,” she said, her voice firm. “None of us are safe.”
Karl nodded. “Yes, I agree with you, but I need to go on my own first. The officials will come for me before they come for you. If we’re all together, they will immediately take you. I must leave tonight. You and Eugen make arrangements to get out as soon as possible. I will meet you when I can.”
Augusta shook her head, her lips pursed. “You’re a stubborn man,” she said.
Karl’s face softened. He leaned forward, placing his forehead against hers.
“Perhaps,” he agreed. “But for far too long, I’ve been a foolish man, and I cannot be that right now. Me leaving is the best way to protect the rest of you.”
Augusta grabbed his hand. His fingers were cold, his palm slick. His hand felt bony and frail inside hers. The last year had aged him. The great Peter Karl Fabergé had become an old man nearly overnight, as all that he had ever worked for had been taken right out from beneath him. The company dissolved, all assets confiscated by the communists. They’d been evacuated from their building on Bolshaya Morskaya and had moved in with their oldest son. They were able to keep very few of their possessions, everything else remaining behind to be pillaged by the new leadership. They had sent word to all the employees who had worked at the House of Fabergé to stay away from the building.
“It isn’t safe to return,” they wrote in a letter that they distributed to each family. “The building is in the hands of the communists. Leave everything behind. Do not attempt to retrieve your possessions.”
The situation was bleak, and Augusta knew it.
Rumors were flying that the Imperial family, long since exiled to Siberia, would be executed. Other rumors circulated that the family was poised to regain their power and return. Augusta suspected they would never really know the truth, and she had resigned herself to the fact that life as they had known it would never be the same. The weight of it all had taken its toll on everyone, but none more so than her husband whose health was fragile.
“There is a diplomatic train leaving tonight,” Karl said, breaking her thoughts. “I need to be on it.”
“But you’re not a diplomat.”
“I can pretend. I will disguise myself as one of the British legation.”
Augusta looked at him skeptically.
“I only need to get as far as the border,” he continued, defending his plan, “and then I’ll get to Riga. The communists haven’t taken Latvia yet. I will figure out what to do from there.” He looked hard in her eyes. “I’ll find you, my darling.”
Augusta shook her head. “This plan is crazy.”
Karl nodded. “It’s the only way.”
She pulled back and searched his face, the lines of stress and age having etched a path down his cheeks. “What did you do with it?” she asked quietly.
Karl didn’t even try to pretend he didn’t know what she was talking about. “I took care of it.”
Augusta raised one eyebrow. Karl sighed.
“I wrote it all down in a letter to the boys, which I’ve put in the pocket of my old trench coat. You may read it after I’m gone.”
Augusta blinked back tears. Unaccustomed to seeing his wife show emotion, Karl grabbed her hands and pulled them to his lips.
“You’ve been my pillar all these years, my darling,” he said. “I do not deserve you.”
Augusta leaned into him. “I’ve loved you all along,” she said. “And I’ve loathed you at the same time. I still do.”
Karl nodded. They stood together for a long time, years of unspoken confessions and heartaches lingering between them, melting in the familiar embrace that had drawn them together when they were young so many years before.
“We’ll find one another,” he whispered. “I believe that we will. I’ll make it, and I will wait for you. As soon as I settle, I’ll send word for you to join me.”
“I’m going to Finland,” Augusta said. “I need to go back to my family.”
Karl searched her face. “I cannot go to Finland. I’ll never make it there.”
Augusta drew in a deep breath. “I know,” she replied softly.
Understanding washed through his eyes. “I see,” he finally said. He turned his face from hers and tugged his watch from his pocket. “It’s time for me to leave.”
Augusta nodded, holding her chin high and meeting his gaze. “I do love you,” she whispered, fresh tears pricking her eyelids.
“And I you, my dear,” he replied, lips trembling.
He tugged his bag up off the ground, then pulled a hat onto his bald head, low over his eyes.
“I’ll be off now,” he said. “I’ll try to send word when it is safe.”
Augusta nodded. She leaned forward and kissed his cheek, her wrinkled lips pressed against his sandpaper skin. He nodded at her once, then turned, trudging out the door. Augusta listened until she could no longer hear his shuffling footsteps. She turned and walked to the small armoire, pulling it open and tugging his old trench coat off the hanger. Her fingers trembled as she dug into the inside pocket, pulling out a piece of paper that had been neatly and symmetrically folded. She dropped the coat on the bed, then sank into her chair in the corner, opening the letter and reading it slowly. When she was finished, she lowered the letter back onto her lap and let out a long sigh.
“Alma.”
Present Day
The car slowed to a stop just as Ava felt her eyelids getting heavy, the sound of tires on gravel jolting her awake. The moon was high in the sky, casting down a glow bright enough for her to make out hills on the horizon. The reflection of the moon on the lake left a trail that cut a path across the water. Ava turned to look out the front window of the car at the house they had stopped in front of, its porch illuminated by a yellow light bulb that hung outside the door. The house looked sturdy. It was tall and narrow, stretching back almost like an old barn. It looked dark and cold on the inside, and Ava couldn’t quite make out the color in the moonlight.
“Alright,” Xander said, turning to face her. “Time to call Nick.”
She glanced at her watch. “It’s the middle of the night there. He’ll be asleep.”
Xander cocked his head to the side and looked at her curiously. “Do you really think so? Even though his only daughter has been missing now for about seven hours? Do you really think he won’t care at all?”
Ava swallowed. It hadn’t even occurred to her that her father might care.
Xander pushed open his door and stepped outside. Lazovsky walked in front of the car, the orange dot of his cigarette dancing before his face.
“Where are we?” Ava asked, stepping out of the car.
“This is your old family home,” Xander replied.
Ava turned to look at him, eyebrows raised. “This is where my great-grandmother lived?”
“It is. She grew up here with her sister, Isla.”
“Alma’s friend,” Ava said. She shivered. The air was wetter in Finland, especially on the lake. The cold seeped through her coat and into her bones. Ava crossed her arms over her chest and watched Xander and Lazovsky walk up the steps of the front porch casually, as though they were there for a weekend getaway. Lazovsky had one hand hanging by his side, the gun glinting in the moonlight. Ava closed her eyes and marveled at the quietness that surrounded them. It was as though the entire world had stilled and silenced.
“Let’s go,” Xander said. He spoke softly, but his words carried through the air as if they had wings.
Ava glanced at Maxim, the driver. He leaned against the side of the car, a cigarette dangling from his lips, arms crossed in front of him. He looked indifferent to the transpiring events, as though this were simply another day at the office.
Ava stepped forward, the sound of her boots on the gravel magnified. Everything sounded louder and brighter, but she couldn’t tell if it was because of the circumstance or the environment.
She climbed the steps, stopping beside Lazovsky as Xander glanced over his shoulder. He gave her a little wink, turning her stomach, before he reared his arm back and smashed his elbow into the glass of the front door. Ava jumped as it shattered. Xander reached inside the broken window and unlocked the door, then pushed it open and gestured Ava to step inside.
She was thankful that the house seemed to be warmer than the outside, though clearly there was no heat. It was dark, and Ava stepped to the side as Xander and Lazovsky followed her through the threshold.
Xander reached over and flipped the switch on the wall, illuminating the front room in a dull glow. Ava looked up and took it all in. Three weeks ago, she had been a restaurant hostess with daddy issues and no discernible family history, and now here she was, standing in the Finnish foyer of her great-grandmother.
“How did you know about this place?” she asked Xander, as he stepped into the next room and turned on the light. She followed him in and blinked at how cozy and put-together the space looked. A red-and-gold area rug covered hardwood floors. A small brown couch sat facing the redbrick fireplace, which still had broken pieces of wood in it and ashes in the bottom, showing that it had been used multiple times before. A round table sat next to the couch, which had a coffee table in front of it.
“After my dad died, I found a few letters your dad and my dad had written to one another,” Xander said. He walked to the fireplace mantel and glanced at the photos that were scattered across the length of it. “You’d be surprised what the two of them discussed in those letters.”
Ava stepped up to the mantel and took in the images. They were photographs of her at various stages of her life. There was the one of her and Nick when she was two, the same picture she had at home. There was a picture of her in second grade when her mother had taken her deep-sea fishing and she’d caught a small blacktip shark. There was her senior portrait, and a photo of her in her Easter dress, wearing the ridiculous straw hat her mother insisted she wear every Easter until she grew old enough to refuse.
Every image was of her. Ava blinked as tears pricked at her eyelids. She swallowed over the lump in her throat and turned to look at Xander, who watched her with an odd sense of glee.
“Almost creepy, isn’t it?” he asked. “The way he stalked you all those years but never reached out.”
Ava blinked several times, then raised her chin. “So, how do we call him?”
Xander grinned. “That’s a good girl.”
Ava rolled her eyes. “Seriously, don’t talk like that. You’re being so quintessential British bad guy right now that I don’t even believe you.” She hoped she sounded braver than she felt. She shoved her hands in her pockets so that Xander wouldn’t see them shaking.
He chuckled. “Still writing that story in your head, are you?”
Ava shrugged.
“Alright, then.” Xander turned to Lazovsky and spoke to him in Russian.
Lazovsky nodded. He set his gun down on the coffee table and reached in his pocket, pulling out a phone and turning it on. He looked up at Ava.
“Is special phone for calling Nick,” he said.
She hated his voice, the way his words rolled and formed so that he sounded all-powerful. Xander took the phone from him and dialed Nick’s number.
“Hello? Ava?” Nick’s voice broke through the speaker after the first ring, and Ava’s eyes flew open. She felt a shiver rock through her entire body.
“Hey, Nick,” Xander said. He held up his hand toward Ava, then put his finger to his lips.
“Xander, you dumb—”
“Nick, I’m going to stop you right there,” Xander said. “I’m the one who is currently holding all the power here, so I guide the conversation, understood?”
The other end of the line was silent, though Ava could hear the faint rattle in Nick’s breathing.
“Classic. Now, I’ll begin. How are you doing, Nick?” He grinned. It was a petulant, obnoxious smile like that of a child who thought he was getting away with something grand.
“Xander, I have no interest in playing your little mind games,” Nick said. “For the record, you’re not the first one who has tried to steal a treasure from me, and you’re also not the cleverest, so let’s drop the pretense that I’m terribly surprised and wringing my hands with worry, okay?”
Xander’s eyes flashed as he leaned toward the phone. “There’s someone here who wants to say hi, Nick,” he said, his teeth clenched.
Ava stepped forward, then stopped as Xander held up his hand again. Instead, he nodded at Lazovsky who stepped forward.
“Zdravstvuyte, Nick,” he said, his voice low and gravelly.
Nick was quiet for a brief moment before he responded, this time his voice notably more tight. “Lazovsky.” Ava could hear the change in Nick’s voice. “I should have known,” he growled.
Lazovsky chuckled. “I tell you last time that I will beat you at this game someday. Is someday now.” He turned to look at Ava, his eyes cold and distant. “I am looking at your daughter. She is very pretty.”
“If you lay a hand on her, Lazovsky, I will kill you.”
Lazovsky laughed, this time the sound bold and brash and filling every corner of the room. “How you will kill me? From your deathbed with your mind?” He laughed again.
Xander leaned back into the phone. “So, I’m with you, Nick. Let’s drop the pretenses. You don’t need to pretend to be surprised, and I won’t pretend to care about whether or not you’re disappointed in me.”
Nick remained silent on the other end of the line. Xander gestured for Ava to step forward.
“Here you go.” Xander handed the phone to Ava. She drew in a deep breath.
“Hey, Nick,” she said, and then against her better judgment and despite her best efforts to remain in control, she began to cry.
St. Petersburg, December 1918
Alma sat on the edge of the bed, her stomach tight and empty, and she watched her husband move slowly through the room. He caught her eye and gave her a small smile.
“It will be fine, my darling,” he said. “I’m working on the paperwork to get us out of here. We just have to continue to remain quiet and keep our heads down.”
Alma nodded. Her hair was loose around her shoulders. She caught sight of herself in the mirror on the wall. Her face had grown thin and drawn. She wondered how her husband could even enjoy looking at her these days.
Nicholas crossed the room and knelt before her, grabbing her hands in his. Both of them had lost weight, the famine making it difficult to stay nourished. He still held his job, but every day was tense as he waited for the communists to shut his company down and put them out on the streets permanently. For months, he and Alma had been trying to figure out a way to get out of the country.
