by Gaucher disease at age forty-six. She died in great pain in 1997 at age fifty-two. Of
kidney failure.
Uncle Aaron’s family was wealthy and scientifically oriented. They organized a
research of Aunt Rebecca’s immediate ancestors and found that her parents were distant
cousins.
“After DNA testing became available, Aaron and his brother, Herbert—my father—
were tested. Both were carriers of the gene, but it was unlikely that they would have the
disease themselves, since their Irish mother was an unlikely carrier.
“My father, who wasn’t religious or concerned with Jewish culture, married someone
outside the Ashkenazi. One Bridget O’Malley, a lovely Irish lass.”
“Aaron told me about your parentage.”
“My father is a carrier and so am I. I don’t who—or if—I’ll marry, but it won’t be an
Ashkenazi Jew.”
Larson smiled.
“And that’s why Uncle Aaron established the foundation—to honor Aunt Rebecca
and to learn how to treat the disease.”
“Isn’t someone already worrying about this?”
“Yes, the National Gaucher Foundation. We cooperate with them, but you remember
Aaron—he wanted to have complete control over how his money was spent.” Larson tipped his coffee cup back and began pacing. “All right, I’m in.” He paused.
“If your fellow trustees agree, I think the best way I can help is for us to manage the
foundation’s money.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Rather than just giving the fees to the foundation that Aaron—now you—earn, we
can give the foundation’s assets the kind of performance we’re getting at Mannerling.” “Really? I’m sure my people would agree to that.”
“I’ve promised the people at Mannerling that I won’t manage for any other client, but
the small amount of money Aaron earned wouldn’t appreciatively effect the market. I’m
sure they’ll allow it.”
“Great, but one other thing. What about the money you make?”
“My part of the fees?”
“You said you had more than enough.“
He hesitated. “You’re pushing, lady, but okay, you’ve got me. I do have more
money than I can ever spend. I’ll know I earned the fees, I just won’t hold on to them.” Sheila dabbed her eyes.
“Question. How long is NOAA going to let us use their stuff?”
“Since we have Aaron’s program, there are three considerations. The NOAA
processing program, the inputs, and the hardware. The processor is in the public domain
and I know what the inputs are. It’s just a matter of hooking them up.”
“How about the hardware?”
“We’ll have to buy or lease a computer, but they’re available.”
“How much money?”
She smiled. “A lot, but you’ll earn the money.”
Larson called the Trust at ten. “Hope I didn’t wake you, Norm.” Hazlett covered a yawn. “I’m awake. What’s up? Anything about Ivan?” “No, I haven’t heard a word.”
“So, what’s up?”
“I’d like to come over for a short sit-down.”
“Anything wrong?”
“No, not at all. I’ll explain when see you.”
“Fine—oh, when?”
“Tomorrow? Ten, your time?”
“Let us know if you hear anything from Moscow in the meantime.” Chapter 37
August 25
They were half way to Parrott’s next morning when Larson’s cell phone sounded. “I have arrived in Moscow.”
“What’s next?”
“I have a meeting with my leader at FSB, then Minister Kudrin.” “We’ve got our fingers crossed for you.”
“Fingers crossed?”
“I’ll tell you when you get back.”
“Bev!”
“Sam! What’s with the sling? Go for a ball you couldn’t handle? And who’s this?” “Bev, this is Doctor Rubenstein. Sheila, Beverly Perkins—the brains of this
operation.”
“This is Doctor Rubenstein?” Beverly cocked her head. “I thought for sure she was a
he and she sure isn’t!”
Sheila’s hair hung in waves across her shoulders. The dress was a full-skirted green
silk, figured in summer flowers. In her white high-heels, she was almost as tall as
Larson.
“I’ll explain it all to—”
“And that he was—”
“Aaron Rubenstein was Sheila’s uncle. They share the same last name and academic
honors.”
She nodded her head toward the corridor to Sweet’s office. “They’re waiting for you.
I’ll wait for the details, but I want them all!”
“Done. Oh, hear anything from Ivan?”
“Not yet.”
She pressed the intercom button for Sweet’s office. “Sam’s headed your way,
Richard. You wouldn’t believe what he has with him!”
“What do you—”
Larson knocked on the door before Sweet could complete his question. “Come in, Sam.”
Larson led Sheila inside. “Sheila, this is Richard Sweet, Chief Trustee of The
Mannerling Trust. The tall skinny guy with his mouth hanging open is Norm Hazlett,
number two man here. Gentlemen, Doctor Sheila Rubenstein.”
Hazlett laughed and closed his mouth.
“As I’m sure I’ve told you several times, Sheila’s Aaron Rubenstein’s niece. She’s
the one who broke his code and put us back in business.”
The foursome shook hands.
Sweet gestured at the chairs. “Before we get started, what do you hear from
Moscow?”
Larson described Kostov’s call.
“Good. Please keep us informed,” Sweet said.
Hazlett pointed at Larson’s shoulder. “And why the sling?”
“He’s doubtless trying to hustle somebody out of a tennis match,” Sweet said.
“Won’t work here.”
Hazlett smiled. “I suppose it’s a part of the happening you described in less than
complete detail on Tuesday.”
“Yes.”
“We’d like all of the details this time,” Sweet said.
Larson began.
Kudrin gestured toward a chair.
“Director Patruchev has already called. You are a hero.”
“An overstatement, I am certain, sir.“
“He told me that if they had a medal for the eradication of scum, they would have
given it to you.”
“He was a little less positive with me.”
Kudrin chuckled. “One has to maintain a distance.”
“At least they are not angry. May I ask what your attitude is?”
Kudrin spread his hands. “We, also, do not have a suitable medal, but short of that
you will be pleased with the entry in your file.”
Kostov relaxed. “Am I to go back?”
“Yes. I have not yet described your adventures to the President, but I assure that he
will be happy to learn of yet another successful exploit and will want you back on the job there.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Kostov opened a package of Sobranie cigarettes, then put them away.
Kudrin frowned. “We are not sharing today, Ivan Arkadyevich?”
Kostov retrieved the cigarettes and handed the package to Kudrin.
“Please forgive me, sir. I am attempting to quit.”
“Quit? Why?”
“Smoking is ill regarded in America. It is forbidden in many public places and devotees are ostracized. I am attempting to fit in, thus the attempt to stop.”
“I see.”
“And I must tell you t
hat I feel somewhat better. I did not know that I could feel better, but I do.” He chuckled. “Also, I find fewer burn holes in my clothing, save money, and—it is alleged—smell better in the morning than before.”
“Interesting.” Kudrin leaned forward. “Do you have a light?”
Kostov did.
“A final question for you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What do you think happened to Staranov—dragged into the forest and eaten or something else?”
“Either is possible. My shot took him in the side. Unless it was neglected, it was not critical. If a combination of the fall and the wound did not kill him, I suspect that he escaped.”
“Not the bears you mentioned?”
“I cannot judge that possibility.”
“Would he return here?”
“If he is alive, I would think so. Back with his friends in Galavna-ya Bohl.”
“I shall suggest a stringent watch at the border and airports.” Kudrin stood and extended his hand. “Hurry back to Alabama.” He chuckled. “And perhaps you might consider adopting a lower profile, Ivan Arkadyevich.”
“Amazing!” Hazlett said. Sweet nodded. “Indeed.” He pointed at Larson’s shoulder. “Do you remember w hen we first met you mentioned that we might play some day? Maybe we could—”
Larson frowned.
Sweet laughed. “Well, it was just an idea. Tell us why you’re here.”
Larson described the foundation. Sheila described its goal and its need for money. Larson closed the presentation with his plan.
“How much money are we talking about?” Sweet said.
“Maybe ten million of the foundation’s total of eleven million in assets.”
“How much are you running for us?”
“Two eighty-one at the close on the day of the attack, the twentysecond.”
“How would it work?”
“You go in first, the Rubenstein Foundation goes second.”
“What about you? Aren’t you investing any of your money?”
“Not any more. I’m handing my portion of the earned fees to the Foundation.”
Sweet glanced at Hazlett. “Very generous of you.”
“It’s time for me to give something back.”
Sweet, then Hazlett nodded.
“And what would the effect be on the market?”
“Closer to none than negligible.”
Sweet nodded. “Given the manner in which he would place the orders, it seems acceptable to me.” He looked at Hazlett. “Without objection?”
Hazlett shook his head.
Sweet extended his hand to Sheila. “We’re happy to help.”
Chapter 38
August 26
It was business as usual at Mountain House and cocktail hour. “Merlot or the
cabernet?” Larson said.
“Merlot, please.”
“I’ll be at the window in five minutes.”
“Fifteen for me. I have to put this wretched tale to bed first.”
“What’s the problem?”
“The spelling of the housekeeper’s name. I’ve let another spelling creep in and I
don’t know what it is. I’ll have to search manually.”
Twenty minutes later, she settled onto the window seat with a deep sigh. “Problem?”
“I had spelled it three ways.”
“Not good. Try Sue Ellen or Scarlet next time.”
“In Mesopotamia in 1856?”
“Maybe not.”
“Not that I’m ready to change this miserable subject, but how much money did we
make today.”
“One hundred sixty-nine thousand for the foundation, four and three-quarters million
for the trust.”
They were silent for a while.
“Interesting, the shadows,” she said.
He hesitated. “Sheila, I need a favor.”
“Name it.”
“I’m feeling a little hemmed in. I’d like to got get my car.”
“I didn’t realize. Not very sensitive of me.”
“I don’t have any place to go, I’d just like to have the freedom.” He ran his fingers
through his hair. “And I’m overdue for a trim.”
“All right.”
“Tomorrow’s Saturday. How about dropping me off in Blairsville. I’ll rent a car, get
the Porsche, run some errands, and be back in time for drinks.”
“Think it can make it up the hill?”
“You jest.”
“I thought a little jest was indicated.”
August 27
“Ivan!” Where are you?”
“Birmingham. I returned last evening.” “How’s the leg?”
“Mending well, thank you. How are you?” “Fine.”
“Is Sam there?”
“No, he’s in Atlanta.”
“Please ask him to call.”
“All right, but tell me how it went at home.” Kostov described his interviews. “I’m glad.”
“As am I.”
August 28 Sheila was loading the dishwasher when she saw Larson pass the kitchen window for the second time. She caught him during his third lap. “Sam, you’re pacing. Walking off breakfast?”
“No. Restless.”
“The trip to town didn’t help?”
“I guess not.”
She didn’t respond.
“The market closed. Can’t play tennis. This morning’s run just about did me in.” He
followed her back into the kitchen.
“What can I do?”
“Nothing. I—what about a change of scene?”
“As in?”
“How about a few days of sailing?”
“Where? What boat?”
“I don’t know where. It depends. But maybe Humberto’s boat.”
“Humberto?”
“Vargas. Old client and still friend.”
“Where would we go? Or would we just day sail. I’ve never been on a sailboat
except little ones on Lake Lanier.”
“Let’s see what Humberto has to say before we get excited about boats and
destinations.”
“All right, I’m in, but we don’t want to miss too much of the market, do we?” “You’ve heard about all work and no play?”
She nodded.
Larson found Humberto Vargas in Caracas. “Just a few days. Maybe ten.” “ Of course. I consider the boat to be part yours. You provided most the money to buy it. ”
“I like that thinking, Humberto, but please don’t send me any of the bills.”
“Piddling. You remember what Commodore Vanderbilt said when they—”
“I remember. Where’s the boat.”
“East coast of Mobile Bay. At the Grand Hotel Marriott.”
“They have it back in operation after the storm?”
Hurricane Ivan had devastated the Gulf shore in September, 2004.
“Mostly.”
“Who’s the captain?”
“Still Luis.”
“Good. What about supplies?”
“It damned well better be stocked. If not, Luis is unemployed.”
“On board on, say, the fifth. Have her back by the fifteenth.”
“Or later, if you like. I have no plans for it until after the first of the year.” “Can’t thank you enough, Humberto.”
“Ivan, it’s Sam. I’ve got an idea I want—”
“Just a minute. I must extricate—there! Good evening, Sam.”
“From what, may I ask, are you extricating yourself?”
“A tangle.”
“Of course a tangle, but—”
“Linda. Her name is Linda. And it was not a tangle. It was simply painful to talk on
the telephone in that position. What’s your idea?”
“How’d you like to go sailing for a few days?”
“Sailing? I have little experience in such matters. Where? What size boat?” “Do you
know what a Sunfish is?”
“I believe I have seen such a craft—with a lateen sail, I believe.”
“This one’s a little larger.”
“As I said, where? Local or going to a distant location?”
“I’m thinking of Key West and around to Palm Beach.”
“Southern Florida, yes? In a boat only somewhat larger than a sunfish?” “Quite a bit larger, actually. Trust me.”
“For the time being. From where do we embark?”
“Fairhope, Alabama—Mobile Bay.”
“Just south of here. What schedule?”
Larson gave him the schedule Humberto had approved.
“Yes. Yes, I think so. I have my usual heavy workload at the office, but it will
allow.”
“Be at The Grand Hotel Marriott on Monday afternoon, the fifth.”
“Very well.”
“Now, about a date. I can probably—”
“Let me see if Linda can make it. I shall call if not.”
Chapter 39
September 5
“Nothing to wear. Nothing!”
“Sheila, we planned this trip a week ago. You could have—”
“You haven’t been paying attention! Other than making your computations, I’ve
slaved to have this masterpiece ready to ship to Millie.”
“And?”
“We’ll drop it at the PO on the way.”
“Don’t worry about clothing. They’ll have something for you at the hotel. It’s a
pretty swanky place. ”
“And if not?”
“We can delay a day while you drive to Mobile.”
“I’m to believe you’ll twiddle your fingers for a day while I shop?”
“You don’t need anything other the cutoffs you wear here anyway.”
“Me in Palm Beach in cut-offs?”
“Maybe they sell clothes there. I guarantee to find and buy an entire ten-day
wardrobe for you somewhere along the way.” He paused. “If not, you can go nude.” The woman was thirty-two years of age, five feet ten inches, with straight, dark brown hair cut at her shoulders. Her eyes were light blue. Her nose was small and upturned. Linda Crane was proof that Ivan Kostov had benefited from his exposure to Larson’s life style.
“I don’t think so,” she said. “There is not enough room in this car for me, you, and my bags. Chevrolet did not design the Corvette for cargo carrying”.
“You should take less,” Kostov said.
“For a tenday sailing adventure?”
“Perhaps you should own a more roomy automobile. What solution do you suggest? I, of course, must go.” He hesitated. “No, that is not true. Sam would take you whether I was along or not. He has a great affection for the female of species.”
Rubenstein's Augur Page 34
