Code Name Igor

by Pam Uphoff

  Lord Axel snickered. "The cup is a dare. So sit and have some tea and munchies. Is the night team just to secure the evidence, or is one or more of your superiors going to . . . supervise?"

  "Yes, they'll just watch the room, until ordered otherwise. I hope my superiors won't butt in, and I work with a team of detectives, who will all want a toe in, and I'll be getting . . . an . . ." Vlad watched in astonishment as Lord Axel Ivan Vinogradov, descendant of the two most famous men in Siberia Max history, nudged a chair out and signaled a Cyborg to sit. Hefted a tea pot and poured.

  The expression on Forty-one's face was priceless.

  " . . . uh . . . an accountant."

  Lord Axel nodded. "Maybe someone familiar with fraud?"

  "You are the strangest High Society Mentalist I've ever even heard of, let alone met."

  ***

  Given the hour . . . he keyed up a quick summary . . .

  [What looks like a natural death, a massive stroke, will be checked by the Coroner, because of the social prominence of this particular Councilman, because of the timing giving a cousin control of the estate, and because of the accusations of the two sons.

  The scene is secured. Fast lab found no poison, detailed tests underway. A financial examination is in order.]

  Enough. I need to get some sleep, some lab reports, before I do anything more. All my chain of superiors can chew on this for now.

  He attached his own and Forty-one's lapel AV recordings, in case his superiors were masochists, and hit send.

  It was five in the morning before he made it home. His parents’ home. Not that he couldn't have afforded an apartment closer to HQ, but he'd have been seriously short on money for anything else, and his parents, living on his Dad's retired policeman's pension with a handicapped daughter, would have been scraping the bottom of the barrel for anything beyond the basics.

  Renting their spare bedroom worked quite well for all of them.

  His dad and his sister were up early.

  His sister smiled vaguely. "Red and brown." She waved and wandered off to a big chair with a tattered, much taped and glued book.

  My big sis. I looked up to her all my young life . . . I didn't realize how bad a bad grow-in could be.

  He caught a few whispers as she scanned the book for the few words she could recognize.

  "Red and brown, red. . . and . . . and . . . red . . . brown . . . and . . . " She turned the page, and kept whispering.

  The Adventures of Red and Brown. Number twelve. Her favorite book, from before the chip. I think she remembers the story even if she can only say three words . . .

  His dad sighed. "I wish she could learn a few more words, just for variety. C'mon in, both of you. I hope you haven't been up all night?" He shook hands with the old Cyborg, his own partner when he was an experienced cop, and Forty-one straight out of training.

  My courtesy uncle, for as long as I can remember.

  "I have. I was trying to finalize a report when a call for a senior officer at Central Mercy came in at midnight."

  "They needed a Senior? What happened?" His dad tossed ham in a pan, grabbed a carton of eggs.

  "A Councilman, Lord Vladimir Vinogradov, had a stroke and the doctor was recommending removing life support. They got a Council Observer in, then a Records fellow and a man from Intel, because the Councilman was on the Intel committee. But mainly because Lord Vladimir's two sons were accusing their cousin of murdering him." Vlad snorted. "They figured—probably correctly—that the average patrolman would get steamrollered."

  Forty-one nodded. "I've got to say Vinogradov House is really impressive up close and in person."

  Vlad nodded. "And the twin sons were both solidly in the spoiled nobles category. The nephew, on the other hand . . . scared the hell out of me . . . then baffled me . . . and . . . then surprised the hell out of me."

  Forty-one nodded. "I did not expect to be invited to sit down and have a cup of tea. I liked those kids though."

  "Yeah. I'd like to recruit all four of them." He caught an inquiring look from his dad. "Three boys and a girl. Servants' kids. I swear Lord Axel's training them to be domestic spies or somesuch."

  "Axel Vinogradov!" His dad tossed food on three plates and they sat. "I always wondered what happened to that boy. Redhead, right?"

  "Right . . . so how did you meet him?"

  "Heh. You remember I told you about the Ogre?"

  "The serial murderer? Your story gave me nightmares, what's that got to do with Lord Axel?"

  "When we finally caught him . . . good grief. Six foot eight of muscle and mean. A seventy year old Mentalist. One of the Koslovs. Well, two days after we caught him, the Council grabbed him for a Challenge."

  "You are kidding me!"

  "Nope. I blasted down there, madder than hell, intending to tear into them, murdering an eighteen year old in order to get their fellow mentalist freed . . . I got there in time to see this knobby-kneed skinny redhead—five foot eight or nine, looked more like he was fifteen than eighteen—standing there as the Ogre rushed him."

  Dad shook his head. "He dodged at the last minute, and side-kicked the Ogre's knee. Didn't break it, but it sure slowed the son of a bitch down. The boy dodged him for a while, blocked Mentalist attacks—the sand flew—push, pull and slash, I guess, fireballs bouncing. And probably the Ogre's forte, mental control . . . didn't phase the kid. The boy got in a few more kicks, used push and pull to flatten him a few more times. The Ogre never even touched him. The kid kept his eyes on the man the whole time . . . and suddenly the Ogre just stops. Hands to throat, to diaphragm, pushes it to try to force a breath . . . that's when I realized the boy'd grabbed the brain center that controlled breathing. And the Ogre collapsed, and the boy held it until he was dead.

  "I'm no great shakes as far as power's concerned, but the Ogre was strong. Experienced at mental domination. Once we identified him, we'd had to get an Inquisitor in to control him for the arrest.

  "And that scrawny boy beat him physically and mentally. When he walked up to the judges, I swear a couple of them were sweating. They passed him, of course."

  "Huh. You never told me that part."

  "Well, it happened before you were even born. By the time you were old enough to hear a grisly story, well, I left out the challenge because you were seventeen and I didn't want to worry you." Dad grinned wryly. "I had nightmares enough about your challenge for both of us."

  Forty-one looked at him. "What did they throw against you?"

  Vlad winced. "A Cyborg, an old guy with brain fever. I . . . it felt horrible. He had no defenses."

  Forty-one thumped his shoulder. "Because he wanted you to kill him. I've seen it enough times to know that. Brain fever's a horrible way to die, and cutting it short is a mercy. We put up a fight so the kid shows he can fight both physically and using his Talent. And expect a quick merciful ending."

  "Yeah. That’s what everyone says. But it was still horrible."

  "Yeah." Dad stabbed his breakfast. "Just . . . if Lord Axel turns out to be a bad one . . . get an Inquisitor. You're going to need one badly. Maybe two."

  "Huh. Well, he's an inch or so shorter than me, and looks fit. I didn't see much mentalist usage." He bit his lip. "But he wasn't the least bit worried. Exasperated over his idiot cousins, definitely."

  "Idiots?"

  "They set an example for why Young Mentalists are kept on a leash. Mouthy and rude, not thinking, yelling accusations of murder, and that he was scheming to steal the Trusts and all that."

  "Ah, emotional diarrhea we used to call it."

  Forty-one choked.

  "Unsavory, and usually only useful in that by saying too much they give themselves away." Dad grinned. "Well, it sounds like you two are going to be busy."

  "Yes." Vlad glanced at his phone as it chimed. A good sized download from the University of Siberia Max. "Oh, fun! This will be the two sons' and the cousin's college records. Reading these ought to put me right to sleep."

  T
he Twins had general Liberal Arts degrees—everything a Mentalist Lord needed to run his estate—while the layabout cousin had two years of classes in statistics, accounting, history, and . . . then two years later, transferred credit from Aslan University on Tier Four Regulus. Then Mentalist studies? The University of the Alliance on Home! And a Doctorate in Power Applications! With credit from Research done here in conjunction with the university here, but his thesis out of UA Home. He'd started college young, and completed the four lower level degrees in a total of six years. The higher degree was spread out over the next five.

  While he was working?

  Then he remembered the card the observer from Intel had handed him and fished it out of his pocket. The three lobed Alliance Crest. Director Mikhail Rasputin. A phone number. Nothing else.

  The Head of Alliance Intelligence on Siberia Max showed up for this death?

  And not just Intel, all Alliance level matters.

  Well, it could have been worse. An Inquisitor straight from the 300 could have come to witness the decisions being made. Rasputin merely answers to the bureaucracy that runs the Alliance for the 300.

  I sincerely hope this is just a family squabble over all the money outside the Trust and there's nothing hidden in the fine print of the Trust like "and the whole World" because for all I know Ivan the Founder did own it.

  But even boggling over all the horrible possibilities didn't stop Vlad from grabbing three hours of sleep.

  Chapter Seven

  Banking on it

  Thursday, November 15, 3738

  Axel made it to the Records Office an hour after it opened, and there was still a long line.

  A clerk trotted up and hauled him out of line and into an office. Lots of bowing and scraping, the whole raft of identity checks, then he was handed a huge file.

  "Enough copies of everything to deal with . . . everything." The nervous clerks escorted him back out as Sixty-two pulled up to the door in the small car. Which was only small by his family's standards.

  I wonder who's pulling strings, and why?

  Then he spotted the banner headlines.

  Last Grandson of Ivan the Founder Murdered

  And in slightly smaller type,

  Nephew Accused in Violent Confrontation at Deathbed

  "Oh God, it's starting already." Those poor clerks probably wanted the killer out of there as quickly as possible.

  "Just drop me off and go home. I'll call if I need a ride home."

  At the bank, the Trust Manager wasn't in yet. The accounts manager looked worried.

  "Perhaps you should give him a call. If he's ill, I can . . ." Axel turned to look where the man's eyes had gone. A heavy-set man, looking upset. Executive plate.

  "Mr. Semyon Chaykovski?" Axel eyed the man. "I see that you've gotten the distressing news. I am Lord Axel Ivan Vinogradov. I regret having to meet you on short notice after such a shock." Sweating and pale. "In fact, I think you need to sit down." He looked back at the first fellow. "Could you have someone fetch some tea for Mr. Chaykovski? We'll be in his office."

  And find out if this is just the headlines. Or if there's a problem with the trusts.

  Back in the nice, modern, efficient-looking office, Mr. Chaykovski . . . still looked bad. And worse as more people showed up. The Bank Manager, Lord Artem Orlov, walked in, all smiles, as he shook Axel's hand, smile fading as he eyed the Trusts Manager.

  The others hustled about, apologetically checking Lord Axel's identity, verifying the seals on his collection of certificates, then departing. Leaving the two managers and four accountants. All eyeing Axel.

  "Mr. Chaykovski, I've had enough people dropping dead in front of me to satisfy me for life. You look horrible. So instead of drawing this out, just tell me, before you have a heart attack or something."

  The man nodded jerkily. "There's nothing seriously wrong with the any of the Trusts, it's just . . . I know I don't have good solid documentation on a few things."

  Axel nodded and tried to keep his voice soothing. "So, what's likely to be the worst?"

  "It's just . . . seven years ago, there was a really bad winter, and pipes froze, burst . . ."

  Axel nodded. "I remember that. Horrible mess with the house, having to be so careful with the historical paneling when getting to the pipes and so forth. What was the problem?"

  "The Trust just flat didn't have the cash on hand to pay for the repairs. It runs pretty close to the bone as it is . . . There's a huge deductible on the insurance policy to keep the cost down. So Lord Vladimir paid for most of the repairs himself, and when the Trust had built its cash account up—it took five years—we repaid him. But it was on an invoice from him, without specific bills attached . . . and he was a bit irritated that it had taken so long . . . and I didn't ask, after five years, about documentation for what he'd actually spent."

  "Oh . . . well, just because that sounds like it could have been questionable, doesn't mean there was an actual . . . overcharge." Oh like Hell there wasn't! "I mean, I saw all the repairs while they were being done."

  "But the whole thing, the original 'I'll pay for it, and the Trust can repay me' agreement was all verbal." The poor man was shivering.

  "Ah. Well, as I go through all my Uncle's records, I'll look for the receipts for repairs, and hopefully we'll find enough to be close to the repayment amount and can accept the rest on faith."

  My ass. I wonder just how much Dear Uncle managed to liberate from the Historical Trust? And I wonder if I haven't over-estimated the Family Trust? I hope to hell they haven't been living on the principal.

  "So, with that over, please take a deep breath and let's take a good look at the state of the Trusts. Let's do the Historical Trust first . . ."

  It had been doing quite well under the stewardship of Axel’s father.

  Dear Uncle had taken twenty percent of the entire hundred and sixty-five million ruble Vinogradov House Historical Trust the day of Lord Mitchel Ivan Vinogradov's funeral.

  At least there was no growth for him to leech off of after that!

  It took hours. They sent out for lunch and worked though it. Everyone looked surprised that he knew anything about finances and law. That he spotted all the minor irregularities. That he spotted his father's Trust's annual summary being manipulated, picking stock price highs, rather than price at closing to manipulate the annual payouts.

  "Bloody stupid, you only really get a boost the first time you do that. And you slow the growth of the portfolio, so you're cutting future payouts." Axel shook his head. Did Uncle Vladimir need money two years ago? Why? He'd just gotten the Historical Trust repayment.

  He signed a bunch of documents, taking control, stopping the automatic annual payouts to Dear Uncle, and reauthorizing the annual summation and transfer of ten percent of increased value to his cash account.

  The Vladimir Vinogradov Trust was dismaying. But at least not disastrous. Since it started out with sixteen million, probably from the manager's fee on the Historical Trust.

  "And they were making up for shortfalls in the income by rather frequently dipping into the principal, and not building it back up later?" Axel shook his head. "Andre and Nikoli are not going to like this news at all." Lost half the value in fifteen years? Dear Uncle was a financial idiot.

  Lord Vladimir's personal account was . . . interesting. It had started with the deposit of the manager's fee. As he'd suspected, Dear Uncle had transferred half to his trust. The rest was badly depleted, with several large payouts Axel was going to have to track down. Three and a half million to "V and V Business Rentals." What the hell? For that much he ought to have bought whatever, not paid rent! Or perhaps he did? There may be some real estate to track down. I hope. Maybe a secret vice?

  He finally got to the end, with everyone there looking relieved after the series of shocks.

  Axel stood up. "Thank you gentlemen, for this unfortunately necessary examination. There doesn't look to be anything worse than a bit of sloppy record keeping, a bi
t of spite, and some unwise financial decisions. However, because my cousins, distressed by their father's death, spoke unwisely while in an over-emotional state, there will be a police investigation."

  An uneasy stir.

  "Well, given Uncle Vladimir's prominence, most likely there would have been one anyway. In any case, if they show up and want information, or to audit the entire collection of Trusts and accounts . . . Ask to see their warrants, then cooperate fully and completely. Refer them to me, as needed. I'll be trying to fill in the holes in the documentation."

  He looked over at Mr. Chaykovski. "You're looking better, but it's been a very stressful day for you. Will you please go see a doctor? Right now?" He looked back at the Bank Manager. "You can ream him after his doctor has cleared him for it. But really, even if I can't account for the repairs at all, it's less than five percent of the portfolio, and barely more than a percent of the whole trust. I'm frankly relieved the Historical Trust is sound. And I'll work with Andre and Nikoli about the Family Trust situation. As Andre and Nikoli are just three months away from their majority, no doubt we'll be splitting Uncle Vladimir's Trust soon. Mine? I expected spite, and I'm glad to see that my father and his lawyer managed to keep it to that.

  "Thank you all for spending a rather harrowing day dealing with this."

  Holy crap, I need a drink!

  ***

  He thought it over, and instead of calling for a limo, like a proper Mentalist Lord, he caught a cab to a different grocery store, bought a healthy snack, a gallon of ice cream and hiked for home.

  Half a mile away his watch vibrated a warning. He punched the code for specifics— intruder outside attempting illegal entry, caller at the front door, observer on the street . . .

  Police? Or a criminal gang?

  He trotted to the next corner . . . The observer was a gray haired woman looking anxiously up at the out-jutting rock cliff between his house and the nearest neighboring house.