by Robin White
“A line?”
“A mob. The doors were open, and people were inside tearing everything apart like animals. Not just the old men and women who’d put their money there for safekeeping. Tellers. Secretaries. Managers. They were taking computers, lamps, lightbulbs. They were prying marble off the walls and pulling the glass from the windows. There was no one to stop them. If anyone had tried, they would have been torn apart, too.”
“If I don’t go to Mirny, it’s going to happen again?”
“The IMF is supposed to send us fourteen billion dollars next month. This loan is secured by diamonds in the State Repository. They’re coming in two weeks to inspect their security. The Closet is empty. The diamonds aren’t there.”
Good, was Nowek’s first thought. Who trusted banks anyway? But then he thought, What would be left? A country that was struggling to find its way in the world, a country that might be slowing down like an unwound clock, but was still ticking? Or a pile of smashed gears, snapped springs, rusted wires?
“It’s not a matter of helping yourself,” said Levin. “Or proving Volsky’s innocence. You want to know something? I shouldn’t be telling you any of this, but you claim to care about what happens to your country.”
Nowek should have found it difficult to trust the word of an FSB major. But he believed Levin. Another mystery. “Two weeks?”
“Two weeks. What’s your decision?”
“I would say,” said Nowek, “that it depends. If I go, it has to be with the authority of the Siberian Delegate’s office.”
“Volsky is dead.”
“Mirny’s the moon. It would be easy to vanish. I’d rather not. Find a way to get me official standing.”
“Incredible. You were in a cell an hour ago and now you want to be authorized by the Kremlin? Nothing more?”
“Yes. I think Petrov murdered my friend. I want the investigation taken wherever it leads. However big the names. Do I have your word on that?”
Levin tapped the cover sheet of Nowek’s file. “If I tell you I will do everything in my power, you’ll go to Mirny for us?”
“How far will you go, Major?”
Levin looked out the window. “I can only give you my word that I will pursue it as far as I can.” He turned. “Will that do?”
“I wouldn’t have believed you if you’d said anything else.” Nowek stood. “I’d better start making arrangements.”
“We’ll take care of your travel to Mirny.”
“Not Mirny. Irkutsk,” said Nowek. “I’m taking Volsky home.”
Chapter 10
Barbarian’s Hour
“Goloshev.” The voice boomed with AUthority and impatience.
“Good afternoon, General. This is—”
“I know your voice, Levin. Is there progress on the diamond front?”
Progress on the diamond front. It had a nice ring. “Nowek agreed to go to Mirny.”
A grunt, then “I was hoping for something substantive.”
Like what? A confession? “He didn’t shoot Volsky.”
“You thought Petrov was white as snow, too.”
“Actually, I said he placed too much trust in Kristall.”
“Now you put your trust in another Siberian?”
“I’d prefer to let the evidence speak for itself, General.”
“I have yet to hear any evidence.”
“Chairman Petrov said no Americans were licensed to import our diamonds. That Golden Autumn didn’t exist. He was wrong.”
“How do you know?”
“I spoke with a colleague at the Ministry of Finance. They have records there on Golden Autumn. Quite a few, actually.”
“There must be a dozen companies with that name.”
“But only one that imported Russian diamond-cutting machinery to the United States. Only one that received a loan directly from the state treasury. It’s why they’re so worried.”
Goloshev was silent, then “How much of a loan?”
“A deposit was made to the Bank of America last year in the amount of one hundred forty million dollars. So far, nothing has been repaid.”
“Who approved it?”
“The request came straight from the Kremlin. General, you asked about evidence. I think this is evidence of—”
“Stop.” Goloshev took in a deep breath, then let it out. “A good investigator pays attention to more than just evidence. You must remain focused on what is vital. Tell me. What is that?”
“Finding the diamonds and recovering them before the International Monetary Fund representatives arrive.”
“Pravilna. Suppose this Golden Autumn exists. You’d have to go to America. What are the chances of your finding anything useful in the time we have?”
“It might be difficult.”
“Or impossible. And this loan authorized by the Kremlin. Suppose it does smell? This will make the IMF want to send more?”
“No.”
“Exactly. Plow your own fields, Levin. Before you dream of America, remember we have plenty of criminals to track down right here. Volsky. His connection in Mirny. And before you pronounce Nowek innocent, remember that he traveled a long way to meet with Petrov. When the bullets began to fly, where was he? This is also evidence. What did you do to get him to agree to go to Mirny?”
“He wanted official status.”
A pause. “From us?”
“No.” Levin took a breath, then said, “From the Kremlin.”
A longer pause. “This is a joke?”
“No, and I can see his point. Documents signed by the Presidential Administration would give him some protection.”
“From whom? If he’s worried Volsky’s accomplices will throw him down a mine shaft, let him tell us who they are now.”
“He says he doesn’t know.”
“Let me guess. You believed him?”
Yes. “It doesn’t matter. Nowek was Volsky’s assistant. If Volsky does have a black connection at the mines, it would be only logical for Nowek to come in his place. We’ll be there when he does. Even more, if the Kremlin appoints him Delegate pro tem, whatever happened would be their responsibility.”
“You’d have them appoint one thief to replace another.”
“Yes,” said Levin. “Exactly.”
You could hear the creak and gnash of Goloshev’s reluctant gearing. “And if Nowek is just as dirty as Volsky . . .”
“It will cast a shadow on them. Not on us.”
“And if by some miracle he’s clean . . .”
“We’ve been absolutely fair.”
A final clank, and Goloshev chuckled. “You’re a devil, Levin. Mind that you watch out who you’re being a devil around. When do you leave for Mirny?”
“Sherbakov will travel with Nowek to Irkutsk tomorrow. I’ll meet them in Mirny later. I’ve asked our Irkutsk office to arrange a cover for Sherbakov.”
“Why? There are good security people at Kristall.”
“What if one of them was Volsky’s connection?”
Goloshev grunted an agreement. “All right. What else?”
“I’d like to meet that Cayman Islands lawyer. I want to know how far back his relationship with Volsky goes.”
“Leave him to me. You concentrate on Nowek. About the security tape,” said Goloshev. “How many copies were made?”
“One. It’s in my office safe with the original.”
“Who else has seen it?”
“Only the guards at Ekipazh. And Sherbakov.”
“Don’t make too much of it, Levin. The eye is not always the most reliable witness. Stick to Nowek. Don’t let him out of your sight.” With that, the Toad hung up.
Levin put the phone down and turned to face his window. Across Derzhinsky Square, a man dressed as Ded Moroz, Grandfather Frost, braved the chill outside Detsky Mir wearing his traditional thin blue robe.
You’d think a Russian would be better dressed for the cold.
At first Nowek thought it was a riot. The street outside
the music store Melodiya pulsed with young men pushing, shoving, arguing. Above it all, a chorus of raucous female voices blared across the crowd from a pair of giant loudspeakers in the alley next door. They were singing loud and belligerently off-key. The song was as recognizable as it was unexpected.
“Great Russia has forged an inviolable union of free republics. Glory to you, homeland! The great, the powerful Soviet Union!”
The old Soviet anthem elicited images of scarved peasant blondes joyously thrusting pitchforks into hay, of hearty proles wrestling glowing hunks of steel out of forges, of tractors rolling off assembly lines. As Nowek listened, the stirring tune changed into a call to action of a different sort.
“We will, we will, ROCK you!”
The men surged forward. Fists flashed. Bottles sailed through the air and crashed against the wall of what had once been the Soviet Home for Working Artists. It was like watching the turbulent flow of some thick liquid, with eddies of hot violence spinning off into the cold night.
The steaming mass poured into the alley, where the men were pressed together like atoms approaching critical mass. The zone of maximum density occurred at a velvet rope blocked by four bouncers in military fatigues. Behind them, an open door throbbed with heavy bass notes. A sign flashed in English above it all, HUNGRY DUCK.
“We will, we will, ROCK you!”
A roar, and the men at the head were shoved against the ropes.
“Hey you!” Someone grabbed Nowek’s shoulder with a hard pinch. “Buy me some vodka!”
Nowek turned. The man fastened to his shoulder was already drunk. What more did he want? “What did you say?”
“I want to drink vodka with you!”
Nowek took in the coarseness of his language, the bandit haircut and figured he was a second away from a mugging. Who would he report it to, the militia? “Why should I buy you anything?”
The drunk leaned into Nowek’s face. The air was rank with peregar. Was there another language that had a word for the smell of alcohol on breath? “I’m bandity,” he said with a menacing jut of his jaw.
Nowek laughed in his face. “Bandity without money?”
The drunk deflated. “I’m just starting out.”
“Get lost.” Nowek pushed him into the crowd, then made for the music store.
Inside it was quiet as a library. A young man with vivid yellow hair and a glittering violet jewel set into a nostril stood behind the counter.
Bodies slammed hard against the plate glass window. Nowek watched it bend like a fragile bubble. It didn’t break. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“It’s Ladies’ Night at the Utka.”
Utka. The Duck. “Is Tatiana around?” Nowek thought she should be warned. If the militia really wanted him guilty, they would have to deal with any witnesses to his innocence.
“Forget it. She’s unconscious.”
“What happened to her?”
“She’s next door. Ten rubles gets a girl in on Ladies’ Night. Then it’s free drinks until ten. Half of them are up dancing on the bar tearing their clothes off. The rest are passed out on the floor. At ten, they let the guys in. They call it Barbarian’s Hour.”
Nowek looked at his watch. Almost ten. He could imagine what would happen. Men drunk with anticipation, add violence and pour into a closed container filled with steamy, semiconscious, half-naked girls. Like two hypergolic liquids, they’d explode on contact. It wasn’t a dance club. It was organized rape. Except the girls had paid the equivalent of fifty American cents for the privilege. “I’d like to use one of your computers.”
“Take your pick.” He waved at the empty cybercafé.
Nowek went over to a table with a small screen. He tapped in a password, and his free elektronka account appeared. He started to type.
To: Galena Nowek <[email protected]
From: Gregori Nowek
Galena:
Something huge, something terrible, has happened. Your uncle Arkasha is dead. They shot him and he died at my knee in Moscow. They’re calling him a thief, which is ridiculous, but Russia has become a ridiculous place. The situation is very complicated. I don’t even know where the story begins, much less how it might end. But I do know this, and it’s important: Do not return to Irkutsk until I can say that it’s safe. If you can arrange an extension for your visa at the university that would be best. But if you can’t, just stay and we’ll worry about laws later. I leave for Irkutsk tomorrow. I’ll send word when I can. For now, know that I love you, and that Volsky loved us both. I don’t know what will happen, but thinking of you there, safe, makes it possible for me to keep fighting, to keep breathing.
With all my love,
Your father.
Levin left work as the sun flattened into an orange band on the horizon. He maneuvered his wheezy Zhiguli around lumbering electric trams and diesel-spewing buses bursting with people returning to drab, cramped apartments their parents would have had no trouble recognizing.
Lights flashed in his mirror. Levin looked. Here was something that had changed. He moved over to let a large American car roar by. Mafiya, and he wouldn’t be alone. There. A jeep, so filled with weapons the barrels poked out the windows, appeared, then passed. Only then did Levin move back into the correct lane.
Once, you knew who to be careful around. Now the world was a lot less familiar, a lot more dangerous. The Soviet monolith had been carved up into one hundred and fifty slices, each controlled by its own criminal organization. Moscow alone was home to eight.
The bottom layer of each was occupied by the runners and lackeys. A half step up were the small-time speculators and smugglers who depended on mafiya connections for both supply and demand. The third rung made the headlines: the khuligany, the hooligans and hitmen who made sure debts were paid on time, troublemakers discouraged and competitors eliminated. At the top were the chiefs, the “Red Barons”: district party men, factory managers, ex-KGB officers. Men who combined the power of their old-time Party connections with freelance mafiya enforcement.
The various clans were in competition, and their fortunes waxed and waned. Levin had an infallible measure of their status: the Planter’s Cheese Ball Index. The imported snacks were wildly popular in Moscow, and so, in short supply. Kiosks that still stocked them were blessed with a reliable supplier. That meant the most powerful mafiya clan. You could chart their ups and downs by how scarce Cheese Balls were on its turf.
He came to Kalinin Prospekt. His apartment was to the right. Levin turned left. He was heading for Number 16, a small nineteenth-century mansion that had once been the Moscow branch of the British Merchant’s Bank. The Revolution sent the bankers packing, and the small Moorish mansion with its turrets and arches became the House of Friendship with Peoples of Foreign Countries; a front for supplying Third World revolutions with guns and money.
Then diamonds were discovered in Siberia, and the property was sold to a foreign enterprise: City East West, Ltd. It was a wholly owned subsidiary of the diamond cartel, and like the House of Friendship, it was a front.
The Communists were anathema to the rich capitalists of the diamond cartel. The cartel was anathema to the Communists. It was in everyone’s interests that City East West’s purpose, the quiet transfer of Siberian rough gems out of Russia and the equally quiet transfer of funds in, remain well cloaked. Two billion dollars in a regular year. In exceptional times, advances three times as large were made against future diamond sales. That was why the Kremlin called the small mansion at Number 16 Kalinin Prospekt the House of Friendship with Currencies of Foreign Countries.
Levin parked in an old tour-bus stop down the street. He shut down the rattling engine and fished out a flashlight from under his seat. He checked the battery. Weak. He tapped it against the dash, and the bulb brightened. He got out.
The street was almost deserted. His shoes rasped the gritty sidewalk, as though it were made from sandpaper, not concrete. The mansion had a tall, arched entry. Columns
carved in ornate spirals flanked the marble staircase leading up to a pair of wooden doors. Soft light filled ivory curtains drawn across curved windows. There was a small garden to the left of the mansion, fenced in wrought iron with brick piers topped with polished golden globes. He poked the feeble flashlight through the bars.
Four Range Rovers were parked inside, their gray paint black in the fading light. One of them had appeared in the security camera tape taken outside Ekipazh. The plate number he’d scribbled down, KZ131, was registered to City East West, Ltd. He aimed his light at the first Rover’s plate: KZ128.
An electric tram rumbled down the street beneath a shower of white-hot sparks. Levin checked the next car. KZ116. He was about to check the third when the tall doors opened, and a light so thick and golden it could be bottled and poured over blini spilled down the marble stairs, across the sidewalk, out onto the dirty street, and into Levin’s eyes.
“Don’t move.” A loud voice.
Levin saw two dark figures silhouetted in the doorway. One carried a large bag. He dropped it and ran down the stairs, reaching into his jacket as he came. Levin stepped back and let his hands fall to his sides, trying to look unthreatening.
The guard wore a dark leather aviator’s jacket, unzipped, over a pure white shirt. “What are you doing?”
“Wondering how much you have to steal to be able to afford one of these cars.”
Levin remembered a writer of the sea describing how a storm wave “picked up his small boat in a giant’s fist.” This was the same. The guard rushed him, spun him, and slammed him chest-first against the iron bars of the fence. There was nothing to be done about it. Levin was carried along. His flashlight cracked to the sidewalk and went out. The bars were cold against his cheek.
The guard patted Levin down with one hand, quickly, professionally, while pressing the short barrel of a snub-nosed pistol deep into his ear.
“Bandity?” asked the other man.
Foreign accent. Levin tried to turn to see, but the guard mashed his face back against the cold iron and jammed the barrel halfway to his eardrum.
