by Robin White
“What are you doing?”
“I have to leave again tomorrow.” Nowek put his hands under the tap, turned the hot water on full, and scrubbed hard. “I won’t be back for a few days. Maybe longer. You’ll have to be on your own. Can you manage?”
“I lived through wars. I lived through Stalin. I’ll survive a few days more.” Tadeus answered by picking up the violin again. He drew the bow and played a single, high, lonely note.
The opening note unfurled. It was the sound of a winter sunset fading to deep night. But then, from underneath, a more intimate theme, pulsing, filling the darkness with light.
Nowek recognized it immediately. It was Luchinushka. “The Rush Light.” A folk melody that honored a primitive oil lamp once found in every Siberian house. A slender reed filled with cottony fibers, soaked in melted fat. No matter the cold, the isolation, the rush light held back the terrible tide of winter, of night.
Nowek turned off the tap and listened. A single flame that overcame the dark. What was that if not hope? A man who stood for what was right, no matter the cost. What was that if not Volsky?
Nowek pulled his computer out of the suitcase and plugged the phone line into the wall jack. He turned it on. The screen glowed a soft blue. A message was waiting.
To: Gregori Nowek
From: Galena Nowek <[email protected]
Father:
When I read your letter, I had to close my eyes and think that it was all some mistake, that you were saying one thing but meaning another. You know how you do that. Then I read it all again. Of course I will stay. But now even you say that living in Russia is ridiculous. Yes. I already know, thank you. Why would you stay there now? What is left to be loyal to? Your friend? Your country? Americans don’t want to hear about us anymore. Nothing good is expected to come from Russia. It’s only for gangsters and vodka and, yes, diamonds.
Nowek stopped. Diamonds? He read the last lines.
Did he tell you he’d sent them to me? The delivery truck brought this tiny box. I had no idea what it was. I mean, only you and Uncle Arkasha knew my address here. Diamond earrings!? Inside was a note: From Siberia’s eternal frost. Uncle Arkasha. I’ll wear them for him but please. You say that thinking of me safe in America allows you to breathe. Imagine what it’s like for me to think of you still there. Please come out. If not for you, then for me.
Galena
Volsky sent diamonds? Nowek felt his pulse begin to race. Was that even possible? No. But neither were Volsky’s words captured on Levin’s tape recording. Who else knew where Galena was? If not Volsky, then it had to be someone who could find her—and find her terrifyingly fast. She was safe in America. Safe. It allowed him to think, to live. Was she safe still?
Levin? He knew she was in America, but not where exactly, and he was FSB. It had to be someone else. Someone else who was sending Nowek a message: No one is beyond our reach.
Pressure and heat turn carbon to diamond. The same forces were turning Nowek’s fear into anger, his anger to fury. His best friend shot dead.
They were threatening his daughter.
Mirny, he thought as he shut the computer off. A city on the tundra, run by Kristall, totally controlled, sitting on a mountain of diamonds. A place beyond the world’s horizon. It would be so easy, so impossibly easy, to turn away, to stop. To pretend. They knew it. More, they were counting on it.
Corruption. Theft. Murder. These were everyday crimes in Russia. But someone had plundered the Closet, someone had pocketed half a billion dollars in rough Siberian gems and the IMF was set to pull the plug on the whole mess. It was crime on a scale that made the larceny of the oligarchs, the men who’d already stolen everything in Russia worth stealing, look like shoplifting.
Nowek always suspected that everything Marx had said about communism was a lie. Who could have guessed that everything he’d said about capitalism would turn out to be so right?
Chapter 14
The Entrepreneur
Chuchin pulled up at the appointed time with neither the militia jeep nor the smoking Volga in sight.
Nowek got in. “What did you do?”
“Do?”
“The militia. The FSB. They didn’t just quit for lunch.”
“Why would they tell me their plans? I’m just—”
“I know what you are.” Nowek glanced at the empty street. Losing a tail almost always made them angry. And if the militia found him alone without Sherbakov to intervene, what would happen?
They’ll send me back to Moscow.
“Your father’s all right?”
Nowek looked up. “You know, when I haven’t seen him for a while, I think he’s just a sad old man who can’t keep his hands off young girls. Sad and lonely. Then he picks up his violin. I forget how much I admired him.”
“You play the violin.”
“Not like he does.”
“Enough to be invited to Moscow.”
“Only because Tadeus had a friend who ran the Moscow Conservatory. He never told me that he’d arranged it all. He just assumed I’d go. I was seventeen. Galena’s age. What did I know? I thought geology was more exciting. Siberia wasn’t going to be tamed by musicians. When the invitation came, I threw it in the trash.” Nowek shook his head. “He never forgave me.”
“You’ve heard something from Galena?”
Nowek didn’t answer. Instead he said, “I need someone to look in on my father while we’re in Mirny. Someone tough.”
“You need Gosplana.”
Gosplana. A name from Soviet times, when mothers actually named their daughters for GOSPLAN, the central planning agency in Moscow. “Tell me more.”
“She lives in my building. She was shift brigade leader at the hydroelectric project in Bratsk. She’s on a pension now, so she could use some money. You can pay her, can’t you?”
“How old is she?”
“Old enough to handle your father. The only problem is that working around heavy machinery left her a little deaf. Her voice . . .”
“Loud?”
“It peels the paint off a cement wall.”
“Perfect,” said Nowek. “You can go find out if she’s willing after you drop me off at the airport.”
“What’s there?”
“An old friend.”
“You don’t mean . . .”
“Don’t talk. Drive.”
“Pah.” Chuchin put the Land Cruiser in gear and moved off from the curb.
For most Russians, the collapse of the Soviet Union was the end of normal life. The collapse of the new Russia in 1998 was the end of everything else. Everything they’d counted on, jobs, salary, a future, vanished. But for Yuri Durashenko, president of White Bird Aviation, the new, wild Russia offered opportunities not seen since the age of the robber barons.
The young pilot started off with a single AN-2 bush plane borrowed from Aeroflot’s arctic division. For the price of a drum of paint to cover the words AEROFLOT with WHITE BIRD, Yuri was open for business.
“Since when is that thief one of your friends?” asked Chuchin as they turned off the rolling Lystvyanka Highway and onto the airport road. Spears of tall dark evergreens stood out against the bare winter forest.
“Yuri and I understand one another.”
“He’d sell you for the right price.”
“You see? You understand him, too.”
Chuchin slowed, then pulled over to the side of the road. “You didn’t answer when I asked about Galena.”
Nowek let out his breath. It fogged the cold window glass. “They found her, Chuchin.”
“Who?”
“Whoever had Volsky killed. Whoever’s been stealing diamonds from Mirny. They found her in Idaho. They sent her a pair of diamond earrings.”
“Jewelry?”
“And signed Volsky’s name to them.” Nowek looked into Chuchin’s sunglasses and saw his own double reflection. “You understand what it means?”
“We aren’t going to Mirny?”
<
br /> “Just the opposite. There’s no way I can’t go. Listen. In Russia, stealing is an old game. Oil. Timber. Tigers. Diamonds. It makes no difference. Everyone plays it. Murder? How many contract killings happen in Moscow each week? It’s not even news anymore.”
“But this is Galena.”
“That’s what makes everything different. This isn’t Russia. That’s Levin’s worry. This isn’t my head. It’s my heart, my blood. They’re threatening her, Chuchin. They’re telling me to turn my back and if I don’t, no place is safe. Not even America.”
“So why not turn your back?”
Why not indeed. He’d thought of it ever since he’d read Galena’s message. Each time, a single word stopped him cold. A name. Nowek said, “Volsky.”
“He’s already dead, Mister Mayor. You can’t save him.”
“He trusted me with his life and I let him down. I won’t do it again. And I’m not mayor anymore.”
“You could still resign. You could go join Galena and tell the KGB to go fuck itself. That way no one would bother you or—”
Nowek smashed his fist on the dash. The glove compartment door dropped slack-jawed, its catch broken. “I’m not running.”
Chuchin shrugged. “It was just a suggestion.”
They turned onto a road leading to a tall, arched military hangar. A sign displayed the ubiquitous “brick,” a white circle and red rectangle warning drivers that deadly force was not only authorized, it should be expected. A bronze statue of a Soviet hero pilot stood beside a pair of glass doors, an arm wrapped around a propeller stuck into the ground like a grave marker. The pilot’s face was gallantly upturned, the deeply set eyes scanning the skies for enemies of the people. A wooden sign had been applied to the base of the figure: WHITE BIRD INTERNATIONAL.
They pulled up to the doors.
“Go see about Gosplana.” Nowek got out, slammed the door. The white Land Cruiser drove off. It was no longer an air force base, but the doors were still guarded. Not by a soldier in fatigues, but by a young man in a navy-blue tracksuit. He lounged in a padded leather chair, the kind so heavily upholstered you didn’t so much sit in it as sink. A Kalashnikov lay across his knees. Nowek rapped on the glass. He didn’t want to startle him. Eye contact established, he went inside.
The room was cold and dark. The guard’s hair was jet black and tightly curled in fine ringlets. His profile hawklike, his skin the color of polished wood. The rifle’s stock was decorated with the intricate, Oriental designs of a tribal kilim. A Chechen.
“Turn around and walk away. Whatever you’re looking for it’s not here.” The guard’s hand stroked the AK’s stock with intimate familiarity.
Hiring a Chechen was either very foolish, or very smart. Some Russians considered them savages. All Russians feared them. “My name is Nowek. Yuri and I are old friends. He’ll want to see me.”
The guard lifted a telephone. “Stay,” he said, as though to a dog who might not remember his training.
A display case drew Nowek’s eye. “It’s all right to look?”
The guard shrugged as he waited for Yuri to pick up.
The case was a corporate shrine to White Bird Aviation, and, more specifically, to Yuri Durashenko.
Yuri as a child with a paper airplane, arm back, ready to throw, face alight with fierce longing for the skies. Yuri astride a motorcycle, wearing the uniform of Frontal Aviation. Yuri in a pilot’s high-altitude pressure suit standing with one foot on a Mig’s boarding ladder. Next a group photo taken next to a small, expensive-looking jet. Note the faces: Yuri, of course, the governor of Irkutsk, and in between them? Boris Yeltsin. Amazing.
Then, finally, a religious relic, a piece of the true cross: Yuri’s actual leather jacket, creased and scuffed with use.
Nowek smiled. Yuri hadn’t just invented an airline, he’d invented himself. He’d never been a military pilot, though he once ran an air base motor pool where he swapped rides in jets for items tossed off the backs of his trucks. The leather jacket looked familiar, though. He’d seen Yuri wearing it in the days before he’d traded leather for Armani.
The guard said, “Any weapons?”
“A pocket knife. The blade is dull.”
The Chechen nodded at the stairs.
Nowek went up. The stairs ended at a dimly lit corridor. Nowek flipped the light switch. Nothing. He walked to a window.
An interior window. It looked down to the floor of a cavernous hangar. Below, Nowek could see people moving around an airplane using flashlights to see. The hangar doors were cracked open to let in light without letting out too much heat.
“Welcome to my disaster.”
Nowek turned. “Did you forget to pay your electric bill?”
“Just the opposite. I paid. That’s why they shut me off.”
Yuri was as tall and gawky as an adolescent. His dark hair was cut closer than before. His clothes had taken a sharp turn for the better. Instead of jeans and leather, he wore an expensive suit made of some shiny blue fabric.
“Can you believe it?” he said. “The airport hasn’t sent a ruble to the power company in years. Because we have income, they left the airport’s power on and shut me off.”
“They think you can afford to pay both bills.”
Yuri scowled. “You’re saying this makes sense?”
“I’m saying that in Russia, things don’t have to make sense.”
“It’s no wonder the world is turning its back on us. Enough of my troubles. I understand congratulations are in order.” Yuri walked to Nowek, hands out. One for Nowek’s hand, the other for his shoulder. “Delegate Nowek.”
Yuri’s cologne was strong and green. Like the dollar, thought Nowek. “How did you hear so fast?”
“Siberia’s a village.” Yuri paused. “It’s true about Volsky?”
“That he’s dead? Yes.”
“That he stole half the diamonds in Siberia. That he had a fortune hidden in some island bank. That—”
“He was going to force Moscow to pay some miners what they’re owed. That’s all. Someone stopped him first.”
“They say the militia can’t touch you because you’re working for the FSB.”
“Can you imagine me working for them?”
“It’s just what I said, too. Well, there’s no point in standing in the dark.” He took Nowek by the shoulder. “It’s dark in my office, too, but it’s warmer.”
Yuri’s office had double windows overlooking the hangar floor. Enough light trickled in to see that the furniture was heavy and rich. Nowek’s shoes disappeared into thick Oriental carpets. “The guard downstairs. He’s Chechen?”
“Like his whole family. I hired Mahmet, his two brothers, and his cousin. They’re my new security team. They’re very motivated.”
“I can imagine.” The army had turned Chechnya to rubble. Mahmet and his brothers weren’t motivated. They were exiled.
Yuri smiled as he uncapped a bottle and poured two glasses full. “You know, if Volsky did pocket a few diamonds, going to Moscow wasn’t smart.” He handed a glass to Nowek.
Nowek put his down untouched. “Why?”
“Too many thieves. Too much competition. But let’s not talk about money. There’s the future to consider.”
“What future?”
“Ours. You know, we’re in a golden position in Irkutsk. A hundred tourists a day would come if the airport conformed to international standards. By that I mean a new terminal, clean bathrooms. New customs officers. The old ones are used to being paid with bribes. There would have to be a new hotel, naturally.”
“You wouldn’t want them to realize where they were.”
Yuri pointed a finger at Nowek and said, “I knew you’d understand. Americans want to see Siberia. They don’t want to live it. You might ask, would such an investment pay off?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“It’s not even a question, not with Lake Baikal right next door. The biggest lake in the world. A quarter of all the fresh water on
the planet. Rare and endangered animals and plants. To us it’s just green slime. To them? Believe me, they love this stuff.”
“Yuri . . .”
“We’re closer to Tokyo than Moscow. We’re closer to Chicago. You see where I’m going with this? We could rename the airport Baikal International. In a year we’d be bigger than Disneyland.”
“Lake Baikal is already bigger than Disneyland.”
“Exactly. So what’s holding us back? Psychology. People are afraid to invest in Russia. Who can blame them? Even the big bankers are robbed. Even the IMF thinks Russia is a rathole.”
“Yuri . . .”
“And if the IMF can’t do business here without getting plucked, what chance is there for anyone else? But with the right political support behind the right development package—”
“I came to talk about diamonds.”
Yuri blinked. “You said Volsky was innocent.”
“He is. What do you know about Mirny?”
“Mirny? It’s chertovy kulichki.”
It meant where the Devil throws pancake parties. The middle of nowhere. “You’ve never been there?”
“It’s not permitted.”
“That’s not what I asked.” Nowek sat back in the chair.
“Ah.” Yuri wagged his finger at Nowek. “You look like a crocodile waiting for something to walk into his mouth.”
“I’m not feeling that patient.”
“Why are you so interested in Mirny?”
“Volsky was murdered over diamonds. Mirny is where they come from. So Moscow isn’t where they should go? Where would you sell them?”
Yuri poured himself another glass. “You have some to sell?”
“Consider it a theoretical question.”
“I’d run to the Chinese as fast as I could.”
“Because of the FSB?”
Yuri laughed. “They’re amateurs. If we’re talking quantities, then the cartel is going to wonder who you are and where you got them. They might try to make a deal with you. Then again, they might not. The Chinese are safer. You won’t get top dollar, but you’ll live to spend it. Those diamond bastards call smuggling leakage. They plug leaks with dead bodies. Exactly how many diamonds are missing?”
