“That’s not the reason at all. I—”
“It occurred to me that cell phone technology meant I didn’t have to be in any fixed
location to do business. Maggie’s handling the paperwork and the close.” “Well, I’ll be damned!”
“It also occurred to me that it was best from a security standpoint if I were far away
from you. Anyone looking for Augur has to go through me.”
“Larson!”
“You had visions of me hanging around Atlanta, pining for the good life up there,
didn’t you?”
“I most certainly did not!”
There was a lull.
“When will you—”
“I don’t have a schedule. A friend of mine, Ivan Kostov, and I are playing some
golf.”
She hesitated. “Where?”
“I’m staying with Roslyn—”
“Roslyn!”
“An old friend. She has her own golf course and—”
He listened. The line was dead.
August 18
The sun was making a dramatic departure the next evening while Sheila circled the
telephone. She reached for it several times, but withdrew her hand.
She walked to the south terrace to look at the house on the next ridge. The big party
was over.
She turned back to the house and stopped to look at her reflection in a tall window.
“What am I doing? What am I, Sheila Miriam Rubenstein, doing? Sheila Miriam
Rubenstein—child prodigy, wizard mathematician, romance author, and the absolute last
word in selfsufficiency. I’m waiting for the telephone to ring and I’m afraid to call
myself. What!”
She slammed the door to the terrace, then opened her smaller refrigerator and
extracted a bottle of Mumm’s.
She was asleep in a window seat when the telephone rang four hours later. She stumbled to her desk. “Yes? What time is it?”
“Eleven, your time.”
“What do you want?”
“Just letting you know what’s going on. I—wait! You sound a little fuzzy. Have you been into the wine, Doctor?” He laughed. “Solitary drinking is not a good sign.”
“Screw you, Larson!”
“Regrettably, not. Anyway, Ivan and I are staying here for a few more days, then we leave for a golf tournament in Birmingham. Warmup begins Tuesday.”
“Who cares?” Sheila Miriam Rubenstein yanked the telephone line out of the wall jack.
Chapter 31
August 21
Staranov telephoned Dreshchensky from the Atkinson Hotel. “We have arrived, but I
must sleep. Meet us in the lobby at seven. We shall awaken Mr. Cooper.”
August 22
Cooper had been in bed only a few minutes the following morning when
Dreshchensky tried his apartment door. The door was locked. Dreshchensky looked at
Staranov, then kicked the door. The lock failed.
Cooper—naked—shuffled into the living room. “What?”
“Mr. Cooper,” Staranov said, “how pleased I am to see you again.”
Cooper stumbled backward into a chair and covered himself with a pillow. Staranov took a chair opposite. “But my pleasure at seeing you does not balance with
my displeasure at your failure to find Mr. Larson. I have come to aid you.” He pointed
to Romanidze and Naveeva. “I have even taken the trouble to bring along my computer
genius and, of course, my personal assistant—in the event any interrogations require
special stimulus.”
Naveeva smiled.
Cooper glanced at the woman, but said nothing.
Dreshchensky stepped toward Cooper.
“Uh, I do have one new idea.”
“Proceed.”
“Give me a minute. I just got to bed.”
Staranov motioned to Dreshchensky.
Cooper raised his hand. “Take it easy! All right, Professor Rubenstein has—had—a
niece. Sheila.”
Dreshchensky stood over Cooper. “Sheila? She is his niece? You told me the
woman by that name was a secretary! You have—”
Cooper breathed deeply. “After Larson began trading, Sheila took my place passing
the day’s readings from the Professor to him.”
Staranov nodded. “So she should know about the predictor?”
“She’s a PhD mathematician.”
Staranov walked to Cooper’s chair and slapped him. “How intelligent of you, Mr.
Cooper! The Professor’s close relative—who is a trained mathematician—took over
your role and you have only now come to the conclusion she might have some useful
information for me?”
“Well, I—”
“I am very disappointed in you, Mr. Cooper. Tell me why you withheld this
information.”
Cooper didn’t respond.
Staranov nodded toward Dreshchensky. “Stand Mr. Cooper against the wall. Vera
Davidovna, place yourself in front of Mr. Cooper and pinch and pluck until he explains
himself.”
Naveeva smiled and clapped her hands. She grasped his eyelids and pinched. “Ow! Stop that you goddamn bitch!”
She clapped her hands again, then grasped Cooper’s testicles and began to squeeze.
He twisted away.
Dreshchensky regained control.
“No escape, Mr. Cooper. She will have her fun until you explain yourself.” Naveeva squeezed again.
“Ow! Goddamn it.” He turned away again. “All right, all right. I was hedging my
bet. I—”
“Hedging? I do not know this word.”
“After I watched you clowns screw up with Aaron, I decided you were losers. When
your man showed up again, I decided my best bet was to hang with Larson and Sheila.” “And?”
“And that’s all.”
Staranov moved forward. His face was inches from Cooper’s. Cooper grimaced and
turned his face away. Staranov exhaled.
“Goddamn, man! You’re dead or dying.”
Staranov punched him in the solar plexus.
Cooper slumped, but Dreshchensky and Romanidze held him in place. Staranov stepped back. “Should you again hinder my activities by either commission
or omission, I shall have Vera Davidovna torture you to death.”
Naveeva clapped her hands.
Staranov smiled. “Do you understand?”
Cooper nodded.
“Find her! Do not allow any more delays to be attributable to you.”
Dreshchensky nodded.
“Call me at my hotel when you have located her.”
When Staranov was out of earshot, Cooper looked at Dreshchensky. “Guy’s a mad
dog, isn’t he?”
“I think neither of us has seen him at his peak.”
“Close enough for me. Check the phone directory while I’m dressing. Sheila
Rubenstein.” He spelled the name.
Dreshchensky shrugged. “Thirty -one Rubenstein’s, but no Sheila.” “Find an S?”
“No.”
“Try directory assistance?”
“Yes. There is an S M Rubenstein, but the number is unpublished.” “Figures.” Cooper stuffed his shirt in his trousers. “All right, let’s head over to
NOAA. They’ve got to have an address.” The NOAA receptionist wouldn’t supply an address, but decided she could provide Doctor Sheila’s telephone number.
There was no answer.
Cooper telephoned Sergeant Edgar Malloy, a man whom Cooper had saved from bankruptcy several years before by undoing an unfortunate stock purchase. The Sergeant’s reverse directory listed the address as one of six apartments in a small building off Ninth Street.
There was no answer at the door to Apartment 3
.
“So?” Dreshchensky said.
“Back to NOAA.”
The receptionist had seen him in Doctor Aaron’s company a few times and succumbed to Cooper’s pleading for Doctor Sheila’s alternate home telephone number.
She answered on the first ring. “Yes?”
“It’s T.C. I’ve got to talk to you. It’s about Aaron’s foundation. I’ve got evidence money has been misappropriated.”
“By whom? How much?”
“I’ll tell you all that when we meet. There’s too much to deal with over the phone.”
“No, Tom, I think not. Write me a letter.”
Cooper’s voice was frantic. “I don’t have your address. I—”
“Goodbye, Tom.”
“Sheila, goddamn it, I’ve got to talk to you!”
“No.”
“Sheila, this is life or death for me. I’m going to find you and when I do you’ll with to God you’d been willing to help me out. I need—”
Kostov answered the cell phone. “Sam Larson’s telephone.”
“Who’s this, please?”
“Ivan Kostov. I shall find Sam.”
“Please. This is Sheila Rubenstein.” Kostov smiled and handed the handset to
Larson.
“Hi.”
“Where are you?”
“Birmingham. I told you we’d be here, warming up for a golf tournament.” She told him about the call from Cooper.
“That’s proof the mob knows Augur’s running again.”
“Sam, I—”
“I’ll be at your place as soon as I can. I’ll find a helicopter—shouldn’t be long.” “I—”
“Quick as I can.”
By the time Larson had cleared the arrival with the course manager at Birmingham Country Club, Rotor Wing, Inc., had a McDonnell Douglas 369E approaching the third fairway.
Cooper telephoned Sheila again, but there was no answer. Larson tried to call Sheila with an arrival time. There was no answer. He cupped Kostov’s ear. “I hope she’s letting it ring, but they may already have her.”
Kostov asked the helicopter pilot for maximum speed.
“706,” Cooper said. He looked at the directory’s area code listing. “Northern Georgia.”
“And?” Dreshchensky said.
“AT&T Information says the number is serviced by CDTelephone in a town I never heard of named Peabody”.
CDTelephone Information apologized. The number was a working number, but unpublished. The Company did not provide addresses. Cooper smashed his handset down, then called Information again. “I need the address. This is an emergency, operator. Maybe a matter of life and death!”
“We recommend you contact the sheriff’s office, sir. They can provide the address and be more help to you in your emergency than we can.”
The operator had left the line before Cooper began his invective.
“Let’s get your wizard to hack into the CDTelephone computer for the bitch’s address.”
Dreshchensky called Romanidze at the Atkinson.
Twenty minutes later Romanidze called back. “Three five nine two mountain house.” “Mountain house?” Cooper said. “Street, road, drive—what?”
“Mountain house. The number and the words mountain and house. That is all that is
displayed.” Kostov strained to be heard over the helicopter’s engine. “How much trouble do you expect?”
Larson tapped the pilot on the shoulder, pointed to his ears, and shook his head.
The pilot pointed to a pair of headsets hanging on a rack, then raised a toggle switch.
“That’s better!” Larson said. “Okay, here’s the situation. It was one of the New York mobs that wanted to buy Aaron out. They went away after his death, but given the call to my Osaka brokerage, they must have learned that Augur is operating again and it appears they know Sheila has it.”
“But the call to Osaka came from Moscow.”
“Yes.” Larson shook his head. “Right. It doesn’t add up.”
“And how would they find out that—”
“It’s a world of computers and communications, Ivan.”
Kostov nodded.
“A guy named Tom Cooper made the threatening call to Sheila. He’s the one who introduced me to Aaron Rubenstein. He’s still earning a fee from that, but he’s working now for whoever’s threatening Sheila.”
Kostov nodded. “The mob means guns, no?”
“We have to assume so.”
“And we have none.”
“Right. And there’s no chance Sheila has one.” He shrugged. “I don’t know anything about them anyway.”
“Is there a way to secure weapons along the way?”
“Several, I suppose, if we knew where to look, but I want to get to Sheila as soon as I can.”
“Then there is something about me you should know.”
“What?”
“My training. At the height of our campaign in Afghanistan, our troops were so dispirited and disillusioned that there was widespread sabotage and attacks on officers. Several of us from the Second Chief Directorate were ordered to try to find and punish offenders.”
Larson nodded.
“After a few of our first contingent came home in body bags, we were sent for Spetsnaz training before going into the field.”
“Spetsnaz?”
“Similar to your Special Forces or the British SAS.”
Larson nodded.
“I had just graduated when the peace accords were signed. I returned to my KGB unit.”
“Meaning—”
“Meaning my training may be useful if we find ourselves in a dispute with these criminals.”
Larson smiled. “I might have guessed.”
“How about you?”
“A little boxing a long time ago.”
The pilot circled the mountaintop, testing the winds, then landed in front of the south terrace.
Kostov deplaned. Larson signed a receipt, then hurried after him.
Sheila met them as they approached the house. She was wearing her standard summer uniform, this time with a Yankees baseball cap. A single braid hung down her back.
Larson reached for her hand.
She took it. She pointed at their clothing and smiled. “I gather you left your golfing in a hurry. Pink goes well with your complexion, Sam.” She turned to Kostov. “Might the trousers be persimmon.”
“Persimmon? Sam said they were plum. I don’t know persimmon.”
She chuckled. “You’re the man who answered my call?”
He extended his hand. “Ivan Kostov.”
She laughed. “Not from around here.”
“No.”
Kostov stared at Sheila for a moment, then laughed. “Sam! The great mystery is solved.”
“Mystery?” Sheila said.
“Sam has been neglecting his friends. I now understand.”
Sheila frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Ivan!”
“Sam has been vlyubit’sya.”
“Meaning?”
“I believe a good translation would be carrying a torch.”
“Ivan!”
“Yes, Sam?” Kostov’s face was innocent.
“I appreciate the humor,” Larson said, “but shouldn’t we be getting ready for visitors?”
Sheila nodded. “I’ll show Ivan around.”
Chapter 32
Staranov and his entourage were gathered in Cooper’s living room. “You drive, Mr. Cooper. The vehicle will accommodate us all.”
“No way. I don’t want any more to do with this. I—”
The retinue stood quietly, embarrassed, while Staranov dug into his left ear with a paper clip. When he had finished, he nodded toward Dreshchensky, who slapped Cooper’s face.
“No! You can keep your goddamned ten percent. I found Sheila Rubenstein for you. I just want—”
Staranov stuck Cooper in the solar plexus. He collapsed into a chair.
“When you h
ave recovered, Mr. Cooper, we shall leave—with you as our driver and navigator.” He hesitated. “No. Wait. I should be more understanding of the wishes of my fellow man. “You may, if you choose, remain here with Vera Davidovna’s and her imagination.”
“I’ll go.”
“One question, Eugen Yakovich?” Dreshchensky said.
“Yes?”
“Weaponry. I have nothing.”
“Nor we.” Staranov turned to Cooper. “Is it possible to buy guns? Handguns?”
Cooper didn’t respond.
Dreshchensky stepped toward him.
Cooper flinched. “Nothing easier.”
“Then we shall stop where we can procure three handguns. Whatever these gentlemen will have and a small revolver for me. Naveeva is not a user.” Staranov cackled. “Nor, I suspect, are you, Mr. Cooper.”
Superpawn, The Pride of the South, was a former convenience store just south of DeKalb-Peachtree Airport on Buford Highway.
Cooper parked the SUV and settled into his seat.
Staranov leaned forward from the second seat. “You will not participate in these acquisitions, Mr. Cooper?”
“You guys can handle it. Just pick what you want and given them a bunch of money.”
Staranov nodded at Dreshchensky sitting beside him, who slapped the back of Cooper’s head. “We are very serious here, T.C, and you are not cooperating. Out!”
The proprietor wore a white gown and felt slippers. His smile was at maximum. “Good afternoon. I am Mr. Basu.”
“Guns,” Cooper said.
The smile increased. “Of course. What type would interest you?”
“Handguns,” Dreshchensky said. “Do you have any Bagira’s?”
The smiled faded. “I am sorry, but I do not. Perhaps a—”
“Then Browning automatics. Thirty-eights or fortyfives.”
The full smile returned. “Of course.” He led his customers to a class-topped case. “These are very nice. Seldom used by their former owners. Well maintained by my wife.”
Dreshchensky pointed at the fortyfives. “Two and a small revolver.” “My goodness.” The smile reached new proportions.
“How much?”
Mr. Basu extracted a small calculator from a cache in his gown and fingered the keys. “Your choice of two of these, plus a very nice lady’s revolver. Four hundred ninety dollars.”
Dreshchensky nodded. “Very well.”
“Wrap them up,” Cooper said.
“Ah, I am so very sorry, but there is the matter of the background check.”
“A what?” Cooper said.
The smile faded. “Via my telephone, I must enter your Social Security number in a State of Georgia computer.” He restored the smile. “To determine your acceptability as a gun owner. Not a problem for a gentleman such as you.”
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