Nikolai told him.
“Why the odd number?”
Nikolai didn’t tell him.
“Anyway”—Pulver exposed tea-stained teeth in a smile—“what a nice fat lot.” He wrote in the amount of carats on the memo. Evidently the rest of the memo had been filled out in advance, because he signed it, tore off his copy, and left the original. “Ta,” he said with mock sympathy, and the next moment he and his men and the diamonds were gone.
It hadn’t happened, Nikolai told himself. It was something he’d feared that had manifested itself as an illusion. A blink or two would return him to the reality of Nagel phoning his client.
Vivian placed her hand consolingly on his arm. “The fuckers!” she gritted.
Nikolai picked up the memorandum. It was a printed form bearing the System’s letterhead. He expected to see his name in the RECEIVED FROM: space.
But even worse.
The memo was made out to Almazjuvelirexport.
CHAPTER
23
SAVICH CAME OUT OF THE CRILLON, PAUSED A MOMENT TO survey the sky over Paris, and headed in the opposite direction from his destination.
Instead of going across the Place de la Concorde and into the Jardin des Tuilleries he’d decided to put the pleasures of some of the old lesser streets of the 1st arrondissement into his afternoon. He wasn’t all that familiar with the area, but he’d chosen not to take along a map of Paris. What matter if he got temporarily lost, tricked by dead ends and alleyways? Wasn’t that the amusement of any maze? And this one offered so many delightful distractions. He could hardly take a step without being diverted. A selection of silver-headed antique canes offered for sale, a beachscape as well done as a Boudin that he promised himself he’d return to and purchase, aged bushel baskets of silver-sided fish presented on beds of glistening seaweed, a glance from a very pretty twenty-year-old that was more affecting than a thousand spoken flatteries. Rue Saint-Hyacinthe, rue des Pyramides, rue Molière. Oh, how fond he was of this city that never merely tolerated him. Here he was assuredly accepted, often made to feel as desirable as a prize. A well-off older gentleman conscientious of his appearance, his agility and spirit lubricated by passion, not even the corners of his eyes given to ennui or fatigue. He was both teacher and taker, but never one more than the other. A purveyor of experience. To Savich, such self-value was not conceit. It was honest insight that being in Paris brought to focus.
Before traversing the frantic traffic on the Avenue de l’Opéra he stopped at the counter of a bistro for a citron pressé. He didn’t linger, downed the drink as though eager to get to its pungent, saliva-inducing aftertaste. He smacked his lips, ran his tongue across the fringes of his mustache, decided not to tip the surly barman, and continued on his way. After several more circuitous blocks he came onto the sobering solemnity of the Bank of France, and took that as indication he’d meandered enough. He crossed over the rue de Rivoli and entered the Louvre end of the Tuilleries.
It took a moment for him to become acclimated to the sudden change to openness and green. He spotted Valkov fifty yards away in the parterres, waiting close by one of the Maillol statues. Savich considered the contrast presented by Valkov and that blackened bronze of a nude female, twice life-size, exaggeratedly robust, so powerful she could recline on the merest axis of her hip. Valkov was the perfect masculine foil for her dominant carnality. Valkov could crawl all over such a creature, caress her and lick her and pump at her for a hundred years, and still be baffled by her insatiability. Valkov was such an idiot, a dreadful mechanic, when it came to women, Savich thought.
Last night Valkov had telephoned from Leningrad. He’d tried at six and every hour thereafter until around midnight, when Savich decided he might as well take the call. Valkov said an unanticipated problem had come up. A minor matter. He apologized for bothering Minister Savich with it, but it required a bit of the minister’s attention. Savich understood that Valkov’s tone and choice of words were cryptic, that he was supposed to understand them to mean there was a serious crisis. However, it was not the first time Valkov had cried panic. Each previous time had amounted to nothing, been actually a trifling matter or a false alarm. As well, Valkov was not above inventing a scurry to facilitate his personal wishes. Very likely, Savich thought, there was no more to it than Valkov’s wife, Yelena, wanting to be in Paris at this time.
Valkov didn’t see Savich approaching. He was at the head end of the reclining statue. Savich came around the opposite end and ran his hand along the musculature of the statue’s thighs, noting that the sun-struck bronze was warmer than flesh. With the grass underfoot he was able to get close behind Valkov and purposely startle him with: “So, what’s the urgency?”
Valkov spun around.
At once Savich realized this was a seriously concerned Valkov. The near-white blond brows were ridged with worry, the pale lips tight. Valkov didn’t reply. He took a sweeper from his jacket pocket and held it aimed point-blank at Savich. The electronic device was about the size of a pack of chewing gum. Its tiny red light remained unlit, indicating that Savich was not wired with a recorder and did not have any sort of bug on his person. Savich just stood still and allowed it. Two years ago as part of their arrangement they had agreed not to be offended when either of them took such precautions. Savich had forgotten to bring along his sweeper, so he borrowed and used Valkov’s. Thus assured, they could speak freely.
“Churcher called,” Valkov blurted, as though those words had been so long in his mouth they’d become uncomfortable. “His security people intercepted a carry.”
“Where?”
“Antwerp.”
“Which did they get?”
“The June number one.”
“How the hell did it get to Antwerp? I thought it was understood that we would steer clear of Antwerp.” Savich was livid. Ninety million down the drain, half of it his. “You fucked up, didn’t you? You saw what looked like an easy opportunity and went for it.”
“I had nothing to do with it.”
Savich had to look away. “At least,” he said, controlling himself, “there’s no way we can be connected.”
“No, but Churcher has Almazjuvelirexport involved.”
“Circumstantially, perhaps.”
“Directly.”
“I doubt that.”
“The shipment was seized from Borodin.”
“Who?”
“Our Nikolai Borodin. He was trying to sell it.”
“Impossible. Churcher was fabricating, trying to suck you into admitting something. I trust you didn’t go for it.”
“I only told him I’d take the matter up with you. He said he’d been trying to reach you in Moscow but you were avoiding his calls. He’s certain he has you red-handed this time. That was how he put it.”
A scoffing snort from Savich.
“I don’t think Churcher was making it up.”
“He’s not above that,” Savich said. “In fact, he’s attempted a similar tactic with me several times in the past. In the final analysis he had nothing but apologies.”
“He has Borodin on videotape negotiating the deal.”
“So he claims.”
“Churcher let me hear a section of the audio of it over the phone. It was undoubtedly Borodin’s voice. Anyway, Churcher is anxious for you to come to London and meet face to face with him to work things out. He said he’d be happy to play the entire tape for you.”
Savich imagined being in a hot seat at 11 Harrowhouse, having to suffer Churcher’s condescension. “How would Borodin manage to get hold of that shipment?” he asked, and, assuming Valkov did not have an answer, went on to make his point: “That impossibility bears out Churcher is bluffing, no matter what you heard over long distance.”
“Borodin is a sneak.”
“And you’re an infallible judge of character,” Savich said with sarcasm. For perhaps the thousandth time he regretted that it was Valkov with whom he was involved. As always before he forgave himse
lf for that by thinking if not Valkov it probably would almost certainly have been someone similarly flawed.
“Borodin is also the worst kind of opportunist.”
“He speaks well of you.”
Valkov missed the wryness. “He should. I’ve never given him reason to feel otherwise.”
Savich walked away, as though searching for more breathable air. Valkov followed. They stopped beside a large circular pool on which boats were being sailed. “Have you checked with Zuzana?” Savich asked.
“I phoned this morning from the airport.”
“They should be able to discredit Churcher.”
“All Zuzana could tell me was that the June shipment left Prague on schedule. They gave me the bill of lading number, and I’m having our broker here run it down. By now the shipment should be somewhere in customs. Normally it takes a few days, sometimes a week, to clear, and as you know, we’ve always taken care to be patient about that, not to attract attention by placing too much importance on a carton of crystal. Anyway, assuming the carton arrives, when it’s opened we’ll know.”
“I already know. They’ll break the crystal; the goods will be there.”
“You seem to be defending Borodin.”
Savich challenged him with a glare. “Is that your impression?”
A submissive shrug from Valkov. “I only meant that perhaps you believe Borodin incapable of such a thing.”
“What I believe is that our methods are too sound for it to happen. Where’s the hole? There isn’t a hole anywhere along the line into which Borodin could have stuck his hand. Zuzana did its part; we know the shipment has been made. Churcher has to be bluffing.”
“How do you explain the tape I heard?”
“Faked, probably … put together using bits and pieces of conversations Borodin had at various times during meetings there at 11 Harrowhouse. In this electronic day, something such as that is quite possible.”
“And the videotape?”
“There won’t be one. It will have been unfortunately lost, erased, destroyed, or whatever. Churcher will swear he had it and tell us how fortunate we are that he no longer does.”
“The tape I heard did not sound assembled. It had a candid quality—the words weren’t clipped or in any way unnatural.”
“As well they could have gotten someone, a performer perhaps, to imitate Borodin’s voice.”
“No. I trust my ears. It was Borodin.”
“All right, convince me. Where was the hole?”
“I know Borodin better than you do. I’ve been subjected to his attitude, his arrogance, and his cunning. All you’ve gotten is his good behavior. Borodin is a sly one, believe me. I think in his sneaking around he happened to hit upon something and was able to figure it out. He had all sorts of access.”
“From out of the ground of Aikhal to the hands of our buyers there’s no paper trail, not one written word. Or is there?”
“Not that I’m aware of. But then how the hell could I know if one of our people is keeping a written account? There are those in this world who can’t keep large figures in their head. It’s as though they don’t believe them unless they can see them on paper.”
Valkov had a point, Savich thought, but didn’t let his attention remain on it. He noticed a paunchy French father sharing the amusement of a remote-controlled model speedboat with his boy of seven or so. While the boy operated the control of the boat, making it perform sharp turns and various zigzags, the father gulped from a bottle of beer. They exchanged responsibilities and the boy took swigs.
“We should play it safe,” Valkov said.
“How?”
“Have Borodin canceled.”
Valkov took Savich’s silence to mean he was considering that course of action. Actually, Savich was loathing it. Up until now he’d been only too glad that this ugly area of their arrangement had been left entirely to Valkov. Valkov had always seen to those expediencies, and Savich didn’t even want to hear about them. Now, however, it was imperative that Savich put his foot down in this, Valkov’s territory.
“We’ll do no such thing,” he told Valkov firmly.
“We must go on the assumption that Borodin has somehow learned too much. What he knows he can tell.”
“You’re being paranoid.”
“I’m being prudent,” Valkov contended, “and I don’t understand why you aren’t. Why would you allow the risk, even if it’s only a slight risk? You don’t owe Borodin.”
“That’s true.”
“After I received the phone call from Churcher, the first picture that came to mind was that bastard Borodin in a room with your most ambitious enemies, Kulinich, for example, helping himself to a deputy ministership by spewing what he knows. All they would need is a thread to pull on and everything could come unraveled.”
A grunt from Savich sounded assenting.
“When you fall, I fall,” Valkov said. He lighted a cigarette and took two long consecutive pulls on it. He exhaled the smoke through his nostrils.
For that moment Savich saw him as a creature with tusks saying, “We’ll both rest easier with Borodin gone.”
Savich lowered his eyes and nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll handle Borodin,” he said.
“What will you do?”
“Whatever is necessary.”
“There’s no need for you to—”
“Meanwhile you see that it’s business as usual. Take a trip to Aikhal. Check our conduit all the way up the line. If you find a hole, patch it in any way you believe best.” Savich got Valkov by the eyes to tell him unequivocally: “You’re to leave this Borodin situation to me. Is that understood?” Taking Valkov’s yes for granted, he turned and walked across the parterres.
Watching Savich go, Valkov thought it strange how a man he’d always considered an expert when it came to strategy could suddenly be so shortsighted. He supposed that was how certain people reacted to life-or-death pressure, no matter how level-headed they might otherwise be. What a catastrophe if both he and Savich were that sort. Good thing his natural obligation to survive had his mind honed sharp and decisive. Nothing Savich had said had changed his stand on how best to deal with Borodin. No second thoughts about having sent those three killers last night. They might already be in Antwerp; Borodin might already be dead. If so, Savich already owed him gratitude.
On his walk back to the Crillon, Savich thought he had adequately shortened Valkov’s leash. The man had been only a degree or so from getting beyond control, but now he’d return to Leningrad and be just normally nervous. Churcher remained to be dealt with. Savich decided he would wait and allow Churcher’s temperature to cool a bit. Contrary to what he’d led Valkov to believe, he didn’t doubt that Churcher had the evidence he claimed. Churcher might be one to feint and jab lightly every once in a while just to make it known the fight was still on, but he would never attempt a bluff this aggressive. No, Churcher had Nikolai on tape, all right. Fortunately, in Churcher’s mind Nikolai was Almazjuvelirexport. It would never occur to Churcher that Nikolai was acting on his own. Churcher was blinded by his eagerness to catch Almazjuvelirexport violating its agreement with the System, exceeding its marketing quota of finished diamonds. What a coup for him to finally prove the perfidy of the “bloody Rooskies.” Yes, Churcher would now have his day, Savich thought, and in this instance he’d be only too glad to give it to him. In a month or so he’d go to London and confront Churcher, offer weak excuses, and appear contrite. He would ruefully admit he’d underestimated Churcher’s efficiency and patch up the rest of the affair by making trade concessions. No one would be the wiser.
But what of Nikolai? How much did he know? Did he know that he, Savich, was involved? If so, it was likely he’d had that knowledge the week before last in Moscow when he’d come to the apartment all concerned about the futility of his love for Vivian and about to give up on it. Was Nikolai so cunning that he could conceal such a thing so well, such an accomplished actor that he could sit there and seem to be h
umble while looking down his throat? Impossible, Savich decided quickly. He’d stake his life on it. Nevertheless, he told himself, Nikolai had managed somehow to get hold of the June number one shipment. How? The way he and Valkov had the thing set up, only the essential few along the conduit knew what sort of contraband they were handling. There was the collaborator in Aikhal, the two in Prague, and the recipients here in Paris. All were trustworthy, and by now, too deeply involved not to be. Savich wished Nikolai were there walking beside him so he could put it to him. Whatever Nikolai had done, it must have required ingenuity and risks. He’d enjoy hearing about it, and someday he would, straight from Nikolai’s mouth. When that time came he wouldn’t allow Nikolai to understate his resourcefulness. He believed he already knew Nikolai’s motives: In one ninety-million dollar swoop a counter to his feelings of professional inadequacy in the West, and a solution to his Vivian dilemma. Savich smiled. It had been naive of Nikolai, though, to try to sell those diamonds in Antwerp. Evidently he wasn’t aware that the city was rife with informants in the pay of the System. Except for that oversight, Nikolai probably would have pulled it off, Savich thought. Too bad he hadn’t.
Savich entered the Crillon and went to the front desk for his key. As he turned to go to the elevator he spotted Yelena Valkova. She was seated in one of the lobby’s gilded bergères. By far the most beautiful woman in sight, in some designer’s afternoon dress of bold pink, which was good for her olive complexion. Savich believed Yelena must have noticed him when he came in, because now, even though she was looking in his direction, there wasn’t a flicker of recognition in her eyes. On his way to the elevator he passed so close by her she could have reached out and touched him. At once she uncrossed her long, ideal legs and rose from the chair. Savich entered the elevator. The elevator operator started to slide the doors closed but then held them open—for Yelena to step in and face front, still aloof. The elevator doors were closed.
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