Rubenstein's Augur

by Henry Hollensbe

  “Sam, I—”

  “Sheila, we don’t have to do this. I’ve given you my apology. You’ve given me

  yours. I don’t owe you anything else. You don’t owe me anything. We’re okay, right?” She didn’t respond. “We’re business partners. Nothing more. If you drop me at Parrott’s, I’ll be out of your hair.”

  She remained silent.

  “Call the prediction to me at home Monday morning and we’ll see how much money we can tear out of the market.” He finished his coffee and stood. “Okay?”

  She put her hand on his. “I don’t want you to leave.”

  Chapter 29

  August 8

  There was an e-mail message from Duouadier at nine-thirty. Fifty million dollars had

  been credited to the account of Monarch Georgia Limited Partnership.

  Larson called the Trust after the market closed, but Sweet and Hazlett were both out. “Nothing big, Bev, just tell Richard and Norm we made a little over a million dollars today.”

  “Sam! Congratulations! One of them will want to call.”

  “Same cell phone number.”

  “Congratulations again.”

  Hazlett called twenty minutes later. “Sorry I missed your call. Bev said you sounded pretty blasé over earning a million and I wanted to hear that myself.”

  He chuckled. “She exaggerated.”

  “The money or the attitude?”

  “Attitude.”

  “Maybe. We want to know if you’re ready to take all of the money back?”

  “I sure am.”

  “We’ll transfer as we gather money. Call Bev with your distribution plan.”

  Kostov called half an hour later. “So, Sam, you are again employed?” Larson struggled to hide his exuberance. “Back to the grind.”

  “You have a hard life.”

  “How about coming over for the weekend. I’m in the hills now, but I can come to

  town for a little excitement.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll call you later with a plan.”

  August 9

  “Tell him it is Marina Pavelovna and it is urgent.”

  Staranov came on the line. “Make me happy.”

  “We have detected a trading pattern identical to that produced prior to July third.” “Wonderful! Who is the broker?”

  “Mori Brothers. Osaka, Japan.”

  “Excellent, excellent! Proceed apace.”

  She replaced the telephone and blotted her face with the towel she had prepared.

  She called Mori Brothers and asked for the managing director. “No Russian,” the reception said. “English?”

  Ammonova repeated the request,

  “May I know who you are, please?”

  “Manya Varbenova. Of the Federal’naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti, Moscow. “A moment please.”

  The next voice sounded excited. “Hideki Mori. You are who?” Ammonova repeated the name and the name of Russian internal security service. “Ah, Miss Varbenova. I know of the FSB and its work. How may I help you?” “You have a customer who is trading a great many options on the American S&P100

  and S&P500.”

  Mori hesitated. “Perhaps.”

  “I want his name, address, and telephone number.”

  “Upon whose authority, please?” He paused. “The names of our customers may not

  be released except on order of our Ministry of Finance. Have you contacted the Ministry?” “Ah, no. This is an urgent matter, Mr. Mori. If we could bypass the usual requirements on this occasion?”

  “I fear not, Miss Varbenova. The subject rules are designed to—”

  Mori’s caller had gone.

  Mori reported the telephone call to the Japanese Ministry of Finance, whose liaison officer with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs telephoned the Foreign Ministry’s duty officer. The Foreign Ministry’s liaison officer with the Russian Foreign Ministry telephoned Russian Foreign Ministry’s duty officer. The Russian Foreign Ministry’s liaison officer telephoned the Russian Finance Ministry and talked with the officer on duty, one Iakov Nikolayevich Ushensky.

  Ushensky telephoned the Japanese Ministry of Finance directly. “The name sounds like, perhaps, Manya Varbenova on the recording. Regrettably, I have no Russian.”

  “Nor I any Japanese,” Ushensky said. “She wanted the name of a customer trading options?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I have it?”

  “I must refuse.”

  “I am not sure that we are concerned, but is there a way, ministry to ministry, for you to give us the information?”

  “Yes. I shall fax the name to our embassy there. You may contact Mr. Taragana in the commercial section in, say, one hour.”

  Ushensky understood the significance of the call. The question was whether he could neglect to pass the information to Minister Kudrin. He decided that he could not.

  He was wrong. Kudrin found nothing of significance in the report, but remembered Kostov’s interest. “Nothing for us, but as I recall, Ivan Arkadyevich has an interest in the trader. Larson something or other, you said?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let him know.”

  Ushensky again considered allowing the matter to drop, but couldn’t be certain that the subject wouldn’t arise in some future Kudrin-Kostov conversation. He telephoned Kostov.

  “And Minister Kudrin remembered my interest and ordered you to inform me?” “Yes.”

  “Please thank him for me.” Ushensky’s hand was shaking. He misdialed Staranov’s telephone number twice. “How long have you had this information?”

  “Five minutes—no more. What does it mean?

  Staranov screamed. “It means that Ammonova’s search for the American stock

  market predictor is known!” Half an hour after Staranov located him, Dreshchensky was on the way to Newark International with Staranov’s screams still in his ears. “The predictor is in use again! Find Cooper and then find the user. Do not allow this opportunity to slip away from me again!”

  In the meantime, Kostov called Larson. “To boil it all down, Ivan, your people say some Russian woman was inquiring about my trading at a brokerage in Japan?”

  “Yes.”

  “A government employee?”

  “Given the circumstances described, I think not.”

  “Who, then?”

  “Mafya, perhaps.”

  “A Russian mafya?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why do you suppose a Russian gangster wants to know about my operations?”

  “I do not know, but I thought you should know about the call.”

  Larson and Sheila had seen little of each other. The Augur daily reading had been delivered on time and food had been available, but there had been no shared sunsets.

  He described his call from Kostov.

  She shook her head. “It only computes one way—someone looking for you translates to someone looking for Augur.”

  He nodded.

  “What do we know about this Jeff Miller whom Cooper introduced to Aaron as a New York mafia agent?”

  “Just what T.C. told Aaron.”

  “But you say that Russians are involved? What if Cooper had his mafias mixed up?”

  “Possible, I suppose.”

  “It seems odd to me there are two gangster organizations in hot pursuit of Augur, a capability that should be known to almost no one.”

  “I agree.” Larson placed his coffee cup in the sink. “Sheila, I’ve got to get to town. I want to be on the scene to deal with whatever’s going on. Call readings to me at home. I’ll have Maggie back on the job. Either of us can handle the transactions. ”

  She hesitated, then nodded.

  August 10

  Maggie took Sheila’s call the next day. “220 and six. Thanks.” She handed the

  handset to Larson.

  He hesitated. “Are you okay? How was the sunset?”

  “I don’t think that—” She paused. “I’m sor
ry. I didn’t mean to snap at you.” “Think nothing of it. I—”

  She paused. “Sam, if you don’t object, I’d like to switch to the internet to transmit

  the readings. That way you won’t have to wait for my call. And—”

  “Hey, good idea! That’ll provide some flexibility and—” He paused. “And it’ll

  allow you to avoid unnecessary personal encounters.”

  “I’ve angered you, haven’t I?”

  “Me? Not a chance.” He paused. “Use larsonint at aol dot com.’” She began discussing his attitude, but he had gone to pack.

  Half an hour after he arrived home he was holding a first class reservation on Delta Airlines for Los Angeles.

  He called Kostov. “I’m off to California. I think I should put as much distance between me and our computer operations as I can.”

  “I see that. What about your transactions?”

  “No change. Now, you busy?”

  “The usual.”

  “Tell Norm you’re going to look into investments in Southern California for a few days.”

  “If you mean what I think you mean, I cannot take advantage of your hospitality any longer. I think—”

  “Ivan, if you start that nonsense again, I’ll have you deported! There’ll be a ticket for the afternoon Delta flight waiting for you when you get to the airport. Check the time. Bring your new golf clubs. At the baggage carousel in Los Angeles watch for a sign with your name on it. A skinny brunette named Passion will—”

  “Passion? A name?”

  “So I’m told. Anyway, she’ll be holding the sign.”

  “Sam, I—”

  “She’ll drive you to Palm Springs. We’re at Susan Dudley’s guesthouse. You’ll be there by drinks this evening and we have a nine twenty tee time tomorrow at Cimarron.”

  August 11

  Dreshchensky found Cooper at the bar at Daisy’s.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “The predictor is running again.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know. And Eugen Yakovich’s obsession is growing. He is desperate to improve

  his standing with Valubin.”

  “Who’s Valwhoever?”

  “The big boss. We must find who has the predictor. I think that means first finding

  who is employing its readings.”

  “Of course. It could be anybody, but Sam Larson is where to begin.” “Where do we find him?”

  “I don’t know and I don’t want in on this, Dreshchensky. Count me out.” Dreshchensky slapped Cooper’s face. “I do not know why it is I must slap you from

  time to time, T.C. We have pla yed this scene before.”

  Cooper rubbed his face.

  “Now, I have what you people call a carrot and a stick.”

  Cooper nodded.

  “Forget our other arrangement. Ten percent of our profits for one year.” Cooper stared at him.

  “Or death from an apparent mugging the minute you step out the door of this

  reprehensible establishment.” Cooper called Larson, then returned to the bar. “I got a message that—” “I am familiar with that message.”

  “I don’t know what else to do.”

  “You could have left your number.”

  “That would just alert him and there’s no chance he’d call.” “Shall we not visit Mr. Larson?”

  They suffered the usual lack of attention at Number 17 Colonial Point. August 12

  It was quitting time on Friday afternoon at Mountain House when Larson called. “I got the reading. You’re right, the internet’s the way to go.”

  “Yes.”

  “And we had a banner day.”

  “Good.”

  He paused. “I—well, that’s it, I guess. Just wanted you to know I received the

  reading.”

  “I—”

  Larson listened, but there was nothing more. “I’ll look for your reading on Monday.”

  August 14 Dreshchensky was still asleep when Parenko called. “Mid -afternoon here. Time for you to be at work.”

  “It’s Sunday.”

  “Have you become so Westernized that their Sabbath is now of significance to you?”

  “Of course not, but—”

  “Forget the excuses. Where is this man whom you are so certain has the predictor?”

  “We are working very hard here.”

  “I recommend you try much harder. Eugen Yakovich is beside himself.”

  August 15 Larson was reading The London Times when Kostov walked into Susan Dudley’s guesthouse breakfast room.

  Larson smiled. “You’re earlier than I expected.”

  “I would have been even earlier if I had had a way to travel.”

  “Pretty good hike.”

  Kostov slumped into a chair. “The walk added to my other exertions. I may have ruined my health.”

  “Possible. Breakfast?”

  “Please.”

  He piled his plate high.

  “Now that I am mending, I must ask a question.”

  “Go.”

  “No, I must make a comment.”

  “Okay, comment away.”

  “You did not pay much attention to the beautiful Miss Lowell last night.”

  “I was tired. Too much golf, too many drinks.”

  “Of course. I wondered.”

  “You’ve spent too much of your time distrusting people, Ivan. You can rely upon me to be truthful—especially about women.”

  “Can I indeed?”

  “Are you planning to meet the Lady Passion again?”

  “Not if I can avoid it.”

  “Good. We’re holding on an Aero Mexico flight to Mexico City this afternoon. Then a chopper to Cuernavaca.”

  “Cuernavaca?”

  “Resort sort of place, south of town. We’ll be guests of an old friend, Roslyn Lasley.”

  “Another old conquest?”

  “I should be so lucky. Roslyn is richer than anyone ought to be—and, I think, around ninetysix years old.”

  “So!”

  “But you’ll have to be on guard, since Ms. Passion has sapped some of your energy.”

  “Perhaps I shall have time for some sleep.”

  “Maybe.”

  Kostov hesitated. “You must pardon me, Sam, but I have a question—friend to friend.”

  “Okay.”

  “Does this traveling around—golfing and wenching and what have you not have a—a frantic feel to you? As if you are trying to disremember something?”

  “It’s just that we’re not getting any younger, Ivan. I have more money than I can ever spend—so,” Larson raised his coffee cup, “let’s leave no drink undrunk and no lady unattended.”

  He called Sheila from his room at Hacienda Lasley. “How’s the sunset?” “Lovely. How was the market today?”

  “Nothing spectacular.”

  “I see.”

  There was a silence.

  “Sheila, I—”

  “There’s a party at that big house on the next ridge. Lights everywhere.” “Nice.”

  There was silence again.

  “Thanks for calling.”

  Chapter 30

  Co oper threw his hands up. “I don’t care how tough you are, I don’t have any more ideas. No one I knew at the Mathewson, Barber office has heard from him for a long time. If he’s out of town and used a travel agency to get there, I haven’t found the agent. Not registered in any hotels I can find. I’m done.”

  “Eugen Yakovich will not be pleased with this report.” August 16

  Larson called at the same time the next evening. “How’s the revision to The

  Sophisticated Maiden coming along?”

  “Marsha's disposition is almost sunny.”

  “Good. The world can use some more sunny-dispositioned ladies.” “Larson!”

  “Sorry, Sheila. I didn’t intend—I didn’t mean—”

  There was a long silence. “Th
e party at the big house is continuing. I can hear

  them—almost understand them.”

  There was another long silence.

  “Why did you call?”

  “I—I was just checking up on your neighbors.”

  “They’re fine!”

  It was early evening when Dreshchensky called Staranov. “I do not know what next step I can take. Neither Cooper nor I have any new ideas. I had thought of a missing person report, but I am sure you do not want the authorities involved.”

  “No complications.” He hesitated. “I shall come!”

  “Yourself? Again?”

  “I realize that my interest in getting my hands on the predictor is approaching an

  obsession, but I am a man who allows himself the occasional fixation. I shall join you not later than next Monday. Vera Davidovna will call with the details.” “Yes, sir.”

  “Have a pleasant surprise waiting for me when I arrive.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Also, do not tell Mr. Cooper about my visit. Perhaps a surprise visit will improve his powers of concentration.”

  August 17

  Larson decided against his usual call. The morning message on the internet had been

  on time—no concern about her well being. The past few calls had been worse than

  sterile. He was about to go down for drinks when his cell phone rang.

  “Sam Larson.”

  Sheila’s voice was strained. “I—I was concerned when you didn’t call. I—” “I’m sorry. I had just—”

  “It’s no problem. I—” She hesitated. “Did you trade today? I thought the reading

  was marginal.”

  “I stayed out.”

  She hesitated. “How’s your sunset?”

  “It’s been raining.”

  “Raining? I didn’t see any rain on the evening weather report.”

  He hesitated. “I’m not in Atlanta.”

  “No? Where are you?”

  “Cuernavaca.”

  “Mexico? Cuernavaca, Mexico?”

  “Yes.”

  “What—who’s minding the store in Atlanta?”

  “Maggie. The paperwork is simple and doesn’t take much time.”

  “I thought you were—I had the impression—”

  “No.”

  “Damn it, I thought you left here so you could be close to the problem—those calls to

  your Japanese brokerage!”

  “Why are you being angry? You switched to the internet so you didn’t have to talk

  with me!”