by Greg Dinallo
Melancholia turns to anticipation as we spread the documents on a small conference table and begin reviewing them. They’re all unsigned drafts with blank spaces where names and signatures will be inserted. They confirm Vorontsov was over-seeing deals with companies wishing to invest in various Russian businesses and industries. The investors run the gamut from small businesses to multinational giants: IBM, ITT, ATT, ITZ, TWA, Amex, Exxon, Levi Strauss, Caterpillar, Agritech, GM, GE, CNN, Royal Dutch Shell, Pizza Hut—but that’s it. There’s nothing in the documents that indicates illegitimate money sources are involved; nothing that smells of capital flight; that connects the deals to Seabeco, Galaktik, Istok, or any of the other companies with foreign charters founded by former Party officials to move money out of Russia; or that even hints at corruption, let alone implicates Barkhin or anyone else. It’s a waste of time. A crushing disappointment. Shevchenko was right.
We’re staring at them in gloomy silence when Yuri’s phone rings. “Ternyak,” he answers, in a voice laden with uncharacteristic authority—but the phone continues ringing. He groans, slams it down, and scoops up another. But the ringing continues. The victim of ancient technology that dooms those important enough to have multiple lines to working at desks covered with phones, Yuri unearths another, and yet another from beneath the papers and printouts in a frantic hit-and-miss routine bordering on slapstick. “Ternyak—Ternyak—Ternyak—Ah,” he replies, brightening when finally greeted by a voice instead of a dial tone. Then, seeming a little self-conscious, he lowers his voice and says, “Uh-huh . . . uh-huh . . . of course. I have someone in my office. I might be a little late.” He hangs up and pushes the phone aside. “It’s a conspiracy. I mean, I don’t know how they do it, but somehow it’s always the last one I pick up.”
I smile at the irony and begin gathering the documents. “So, who is she?”
Yuri looks puzzled.
“The phone call. Sort of sounded like a date.”
“I wish,” Yuri replies with a wistful sigh. “It was just someone confirming a meeting.”
“Sure it was. Come on, stop being so evasive. What’s her name?”
“Igor,” he replies with a chuckle. “My policy team is meeting tonight to get ready for a meeting tomorrow; after which, we’ll have a meeting to review the meeting, and schedule more meetings.” His eyes roll in dismay. “If talk could drive this economy, we’d make Japan look like Honduras. Sorry, where were we?”
“Throwing in the towel.” I’m about to put the documents back in my briefcase when something dawns on me: We identified all the companies except one—ITZ. Neither of us have any idea what it stands for. The documents, dealing with privatizing State distribution systems—trucking, shipping, rail freight, air cargo, and warehousing—are filled with phrases like: ITZ will do . . . ITZ will receive . . . ITZ will guarantee . . . ITZ will have access to . . . But unlike other companies that are first identified by their full name—International Business Machines ("IBM") will provide—with initials being used alone for the sake of brevity thereafter, ITZ is never fully identified.
“I probably stands for International,” Yuri suggests, printing the three letters on a pad.
“Probably. Then again, it could be Institute, Independent, Inter, Intra, Intelstat, Interstellar—”
“Okay, okay,” Yuri interrupts like an impatient parrot. “Let’s stick with International for now. What about T? Transport, Telephone, Telecom, Telesis, Technics, Thermodynamics . . .”
“Thermonuclear, Telegraph, Television, Trans, Tri, Trade, Transfer, Transworld, Technology, Techtonics, Tactics, Textile . . .”
“Enough,” Yuri says, quickly jotting them down. “What about Z?"
“Zoo, Zipper, Zone . . .”
“Zephyr, Zinc . . .”
“Zilch.”
Yuri nods. “Tough one.”
I fetch an English dictionary from the bookcase behind his desk, and turn to the Zs. “Zenith, Zircon, Zither, Zurich . . .”
“International Telecommunications Zurich,” Yuri suggests, taking a stab at a combination.
“Institute of Trade Zagreb.”
“International Textile and Zipper.”
“International Technology and . . . and . . . and what? Zinc? Zirconium?”
“Zoology.”
“Zucchini.”
“Independent Transport . . . something or other,” Yuri suggests halfheartedly; then his eyes brighten with a thought. “Maybe it’s a law firm? The Ministry’s overrun with attorneys lately.”
“Not surprising. An active legal system is as crucial to making democracy work as a free press.”
He throws up his hands in protest. “Please, these lawyers are driving us crazy. From what I’ve seen, ITZ probably stands for Inept, Tedious, and Zany.”
“Well, as long as we’re indulging in lawyer-bashing—Ignominious, Tautology, and"—I scan the dictionary for an appropriate pejorative that starts with Z—"and Zoanthropy.”
“Zoanthropy?”
“A form of mental disorder in which the patient imagines himself to be a beast.”
“How about, Illusive, Temperamental, and Zaftig?” Yuri fires back.
“Attorneys?”
“No. My ex-wife.” More laughter before Yuri sags in capitulation. “Forget it, Nikolai. This is ridiculous. We’re wasting our time.”
I’m prone to agree. But his joke has brought Agent Scotto to mind, which reminds me of something she said, which, if I’m not mistaken, solves the puzzle.
Yuri notices the smile spreading across my face. “What? Come on, I know you have it.”
I shake my head no, savoring the irony. “It doesn’t stand for anything, Yuri.”
“It doesn’t?”
“That’s why it’s not identified like the others. I take the pad and pencil from him, and in front of the letters ITZ I write the letters R-U-B-I-N-O-W—so it now reads RUBINOWITZ.
“Rubinowitz?” Yuri wonders, clearly baffled. “I don’t get it. Who’s he?”
“Michael Rubinowitz. That was thirty years ago. Now known as Michael Rubineau. Hangs out at the Paradise. Runs a chain of hotels in America—”
“I still don’t get it.”
“—connected to the Jewish mafia.”
Yuri’s brows arch with intrigue. “I get it now. You think he had Vorontsov killed?”
“I don’t know. Shevchenko said he didn’t think Barkhin was behind it.”
“You realize how big this is, if you’re right?”
“Well,” I say, glowing with satisfaction, “it’s a lot bigger than a shoe factory in Zuzino.”
“What’re you going to do? Go to the cops?”
I shrug; then my mind starts racing, and I hear myself say, “Yeah—an American cop.”
“That woman?”
“That illusive, temperamental, zaftig woman,” I reply with a grin, crossing to the phone. “You have the number for the U.S. Embassy handy?”
Yuri fetches his little black book—leatherbound, chock-full of alphabetized phone numbers and addresses, and stuffed with odd slips of paper on which others are scribbled, awaiting entry. It’s among his most valued possessions. Westerners say the same of their Rolodexes and Filofaxes, but it’s not the same. They haven’t lived in closed societies, in cities without telephone directories. Their black books haven’t been their only link to family, friends, and business associates through decades of secrecy and oppression. Yuri dials the number on one of the phones and hands it to me.
“Yes, I’m trying to reach Special Agent Scotto. Gabriella Scotto . . . That’s right, with your Treasury Department. A group called FinCEN. . . . Oh . . . Yes, please. . . . Uh-huh . . . uh-huh. . . . Thank you.”
Yuri questions me with a look. “She’s gone?”
I nod glumly. “Back to Washington. They gave me a number for her.”
“Good. Call. Be my guest. On second thought, better wait till you get back to my apartment. It could take hours to get an overseas line.”
&nb
sp; “I know.”
“What does that mean?” Yuri challenges, picking up on my lack of enthusiasm. “You’re giving up?”
“No. No, just thinking. I’m out of work. I’ve got no place to live. People have been trying to kill me. Might be a good idea if I got away for a while.”
Yuri recoils slightly and makes a face. “You mean to America?”
“Why not? My great-grandfather went over a hundred years ago. I’ve never been out of Russia. Maybe it’s time.”
“How? Airfare alone is more than a million rubles. And in case you’ve forgotten, along with being homeless and unemployed, you’re also broke.”
“I don’t need to be reminded, believe me; but you’re forgetting about these.” I remove Vorontsov’s medals from my briefcase. “They might be my ticket out of here.”
“You’re going to sell them?”
“The thought’s crossed my mind.”
“How much are they worth?”
“Thirty thousand.”
“Dollars?”
I nod.
“You could do a lot of traveling on that,” Yuri muses, running his fingertips over his mustache. “And you wouldn’t have any trouble selling them?”
“On the black market? They’d be gone like that.”
“Yes, Nikolai, I’m quite sure they would,” he says disapprovingly.
“What’s that mean?”
“Nothing.”
“Come on, Yuri. I know that tone. You’re accusing me of something unethical.”
“Yes. Frankly, the thought of selling them makes me uncomfortable. It’s not like you. The medals belong to Mrs. Churkin. I thought you were—”
“Of course they do.”
“Well, then you should return them.”
“I am,” I say with a little smile. “I don’t recall saying, I wasn’t. I said they might be my ticket out of here.”
There is a newspaper on the mat in front of the door to Mrs. Churkin’s apartment when I arrive. She doesn’t respond to the buzzer, and I return to the lobby and settle in one of the big leather chairs. They feel smaller than they did thirty years ago, but they smell the same. The musty odor conjures up distant memories, unpleasant ones of my father being led away, of my mother crying, of being forced to move in with relatives, of the disgrace. I’m lost in my thoughts when the huge door creaks open and the children burst through it, pulling me out of the reverie. Mrs. Churkin is right behind them, carrying a chic, pastel blue shopping bag that proclaims ESTÉE LAUDER. Her eyes flare at the sight of me, leaving no doubt she’s seen the story in Pravda.
“I have some good news, Mrs. Churkin,” I say, hoping to defuse her anger before it erupts.
“Blackmail?! My father was a blackmailer!” she exclaims as she blows past me, shooing the children toward the elevator. “That’s good news?!”
“I didn’t write that story.” She stops dead in her tracks and turns to face me. “Any of it.”
“You started it,” she counters, thumbing the elevator button angrily. “You were supposed to get his medals for me. You—”
“I did,” I fire back.
She tilts her head and stares at me skeptically.
“I have them right here,” I explain, holding up my briefcase.
Her eyes flicker with hope that turns slowly to delight. “Oh. Oh, that’s wonderful.”
The moment is broken by the rumble of the elevator door rolling open. The four of us pile in. As soon as we enter the apartment she sends the children off to their rooms, then takes the envelope from me, crosses to the dining room table, and sits down. Her hands quickly undo the clasp and open the flap. She pauses momentarily, then gently slides the medals onto the white lace. A colorful pile of satin and gold shimmers in the soft light. She picks up one of the medals, straightens the ribbon, and sets it down, reverently. She does the same with another and then another.
“Did your father ever mention the name Rubineau?”
She shakes her head no, her attention riveted to the medals that she’s arranging in neat rows as if pinning them on a jacket.
“What about Rubinowitz?”
“No, not that I recall,” she replies, looking up at me, her eyes glistening with emotion. “Why?”
“Well, I’m betting that’s who your father was involved with—blackmailer, coconspirator, whistle blower, I’ve no idea.”
“I don’t recall seeing either of those names in the story.”
“They weren’t.”
She sighs with impatience. “What do you want, Mr. Katkov, money?”
“No, Mrs. Churkin. I want the truth.”
“So do I. I’ve little hope of ever finding it.”
“Depends on where you look.”
“You know where?” she asks, picking up on the inference as I intended.
“USA.”
“America?” she wonders, a little awestruck.
I nod.
“Well, we’re all free to travel now. Why don’t you go there and find it?”
“I plan to, but there are a few things I have to work out. First, this is ugly business and could get uglier. It’s important you understand that instead of clearing your father’s name, I may end up proving he was every bit the corrupt apparatchik they claim he is.”
She nods smartly. “I don’t care. I have to know. What else?”
“I don’t have a ruble to my name.”
Her eyes narrow, then shift from mine to the medals and back, softening with understanding and admiration. “I didn’t know there were any honest men left in Moscow, Mr. Katkov.”
“Thank you. Nikolai. Please.”
“Nikolai,” she repeats with a friendly smile. “Let me know how much you’ll need.”
20
First thing in the morning I head over to the U.S. Embassy, a rococo, mustard-colored building on Tchaikovsky Boulevard, to get a visa. It’s not as easy as I thought, and I return to Yuri’s apartment without it. As he predicted, it takes almost the entire afternoon to get a call through to Agent Scotto in Washington, D.C.
“Run that by me again,” her dusky New York accent crackles over the line. “You need a special letter from me to come here?”
“Your embassy does. Someone in the United States has to vouch for me. No letter, no visa, I’m afraid.”
“What about your cousin in Brooklyn?” she jokes.
“Even if I had one, Scotto, I’m coming to see you.”
“Hey, with what’s going on in my life these days, Katkov, flattery’ll get you everywhere. Mind telling me why?”
“I have some information.”
“No kidding? What kind of information?”
“The kind you’ve been looking for.”
“Don’t play games with me, dammit. Come on, what do you have?”
“Vladimir Illiych Vorontsov’s documents.”
“Geezus. What’s in ’em? What do they say? Stuff about that pipeline deal?”
“Not so fast. If I tell you now, there’s no reason for me to come, is there?”
“What is this? Some ploy to get FinCEN to pay for your trip?”
“No, that’s all taken care of. It’s a ploy to earn a living. I give you the documents when I arrive, and you give me first crack at whomever and whatever they give you. Deal?”
“I don’t make deals, Katkov. Especially with journalists. They all seem to have a problem when it comes to taking sides.”
“You know, you’d make a rather good Communist, Scotto. They think the media exists to pump out propaganda for the State.”
“Where do I sign up?”
“I’m afraid they’ve been outlawed, but you’re in luck. We’ve been puppets for so long, there’s not a journalist in Moscow who isn’t taking sides now. I’m offering to take yours.”
“Big of you.”
“I’m quite certain you’ll be more than delighted when you see the documents. Are you going to send me the letter or not?”
She emits an exasperated groan. “I’ll pouch
it to our embassy. You have the name of the immigration officer you saw?”
“Of course, his card’s right here.” I give Scotto the name, then turn my attention to getting a passport—a passport for foreign travel.
For the last sixty years, all Soviet citizens were required to carry an internal passport containing two crucial items: the residency stamp on page fourteen was used to restrict where we could live; and the infamous Item Five, which listed ethnic background, was used to discriminate against non-Slavs and Jews when they sought employment and access to government services. As part of the commitment to individual liberties, the internal passport has been declared unconstitutional and replaced with a plastic-encased identity card that contains neither item—though there are those who view the magnetic data stripe on the back with suspicion.
Of course, the internal passport had nothing to do with travel abroad. An exit visa—routinely denied to most citizens, especially Jews who were dubbed refuseniks—was required to leave the country. These have also been outlawed by the reformists, and only the standard traveler’s passport is required now.
Unfortunately, the Foreign Ministry is swamped with applications, and the issuing process can take up to a month, sometimes longer. I spend countless days standing in lines, filling out forms, and dealing with a succession of envious, mean-spirited passport officers. They have nothing but disdain for those able to travel—and the power to delay or deny one’s application.
My evenings are spent in Yuri’s apartment, helping him catalogue books in his library, and thinking about Vera. I’m tempted to call her back but, despite knowing that I was in trouble, despite knowing I needed a place to stay, she’s neither beeped me nor even contacted Yuri. He gently suggests that, since she’s shown little interest in my whereabouts or well-being, and since, with any luck, I’ll soon be leaving Moscow, a lengthy cooling off period might be in order.
After more than three weeks of tedium at the Foreign Ministry I finally make it to the window where passports are issued. Looking at the bright side, instead of being in winter’s grasp when I arrive, Washington—unlike Moscow, where harsh weather lasts well into April—will now be basking in spring. A gray-faced bureaucrat rolls a blank into her typewriter and asks for my identity card. She stares at it for a long moment, then looks up. “This is your current address?”
