Hot Siberian

by Gerald A. Browne

  It took Nikolai close to an hour to find one of the diamonds. At that rate it would be an all-day task. Nikolai encouraged himself with the fact that each diamond was a flawless Aikhal worth eighteen thousand dollars. Finding all nine would bring him one hundred and sixty-two thousand. He’d need the money for a bridge to a new life. He planned to be careful with it, not let it get within a mile of a roulette wheel. In addition to the nine there were the two diamonds he’d taken out on memorandum when he’d last met with Churcher. They’d been forgotten in a vest pocket of the business suit he’d had on that day and not worn since. Churcher would want those two back, or else payment of thirty-six thousand. Stickler that Churcher was, he’d probably send a bill for them. Why not beat Churcher to it and get those two off to him right away by registered post? Nikolai thought. No sooner had that thought entered his mind than, it seemed, Irina was there to veto it by pointing out that one hundred sixty-two plus thirty-six would be one hundred ninety-eight, a fairer figure. On second thought, Irina continued, as long as he had in mind becoming a British sort of gentleman, shouldn’t he start immediately to get into the ways of one by not even thinking of doing anything about those two diamonds until the System had dunned him at least a dozen times? Her third thought was that, seeing all he’d been through he should consider those diamonds his and to hell with it. He deserved. Irina hovered around awhile and then went wherever it was she went.

  Nikolai recovered only three diamonds from the next four vacuum-cleaner bags. Then the task took pity on him and allowed him to find all the remaining five in the sixth bag. He tidied up everything and deposited his small fortune in an envelope, which he sealed well and put in his business case. He’d go up to London in a week or so and sell the diamonds one at a time to dealers in Hatton Gardens, transform them into a balance in a bank account.

  Why didn’t Savich phone? Perhaps, Nikolai thought, Churcher was giving him a bad time, being overly demanding. One thing about the British: usually when they had a pound of flesh coming they wanted a whole arm. No matter. He had total confidence in Savich. Savich, in Russian fashion, would make it appear to be an arm he was giving but it would really be no more than a finger. He truly liked Savich, admired him. Evidently Savich had always been a roué, but it seemed he’d always been honest in that conduct, never hypocritical or vacillating. He hadn’t cheated on anyone or on himself, so there were no chunks out of him where blame fit. It was difficult to imagine anyone being able to blame Savich for anything. As powerful as he was and with his self-declared personal immunity, blame would roll right off him. Nikolai wondered if Savich had ever in his life permitted blame to get to him deep enough to ripen into guilt. Was it possible to be that consistently invulnerable and remain enthusiastic? Perhaps that was one reason women were so attracted to Savich. They, with their embraces, saw him as a supreme challenge, not only someone they might erotically claim but also someone superbly resistant to the blames and guilts they were usually easily able to implant. All those women.

  Nikolai stayed around the house all day awaiting Savich’s call. In late afternoon, Vivian returned from the auction. Nikolai carried in the cardboard cartons containing her purchases. Vivian unwrapped them and placed them on the table. Three glazed procelain figures, each about a foot tall: a cockatoo, a squirrel, and a nude female riding a blue rampant bull. Also a pair of lamps that no new silk shade of any shape could help look less clumsy. Rather than comment, Nikolai cleared his throat and considered his shoes. Vivian put some distance between herself and the objects, studied them from across the room. Her facial expression went from hopeful to dubious to as though she’d tasted something bad. “How god-awful,” she muttered. Nikolai thought then she might look his way for condolences, but she forgave herself with a shrug and went to freshen up and change.

  Her mood was unimproved that night and no better the following day. Wednesday morning, after a mute instant-porridge breakfast, Nikolai’s patience decided it was time for initiative. Her antenna must have picked that up, because as he was considering what to say that would be most forceful and yet sympatico, she looked at him dolefully and flashed a contrite pout that she turned into a hint of smile. Nikolai held her and gave her the kind of kiss on the temple that was called for. In the small of her back he felt through her robe the elasticized band of her sanitary belt. See, he told himself, just as he’d thought, she’d come around lovable as soon as she’d come around. He knew her so well.

  Actually, Vivian’s low was only about 30 percent caused by PMS. If that. She’d been mainly wallowing in disappointment because her “friend,” as she usually referred to her period, had shown up. Brought on, no doubt, by all that vigorous crawling around in the tulips, not to mention the trauma of sending another person to the other side. She’d definitely been pregnant, she thought, not merely a little late, and it had taken her a while to be placated by the delightful fact that she and Nikolai would, at the rate they went at it, have thousands of chances to make offspring. That realization and giving in to the hugging had reverted her. She separated the racing section from the less important rest of the London paper and went out to be dappled in the hammock. She’d voluntarily promised to make only “mind bets.” Looking out at her from the kitchen window Nikolai thought she was handicapping much too intently to let it go at that.

  That evening Archer dropped by and was easily persuaded to stay for supper. Vivian cooked Veal Pojarski, which wasn’t as much of an accomplishment as it sounded, merely a Russian version of breaded veal cutlet with mushroom sauce. Nikolai commented that he’d never tasted better, and that set her beaming.

  Archer was talkative throughout dinner. He seemed to Nikolai to be considerably changed, more outgoing, as though for some reason he’d been moved to inspect many of his old habitual defenses and decided they were unnecessary. Nikolai hoped for Archer’s sake these shuckings were permanent, because Archer’s defenses hadn’t served so much to keep people out as they had to keep Archer in. Archer was far more personable without them. His smile was quicker, his posture not so perpetually diligent, his voice more relaxed and a half octave lower for that. It occurred to Nikolai that the next step in Archer’s evolution might be a change of tailors for unstructured clothes, softer shirts, and not wearing a tie most of the time.

  It was during dessert, fresh strawberries and Crème de Chantilly, that Archer revealed the reason for his metamorphosis in progress. Offhandedly he threw in the name Tessa, using that person’s opinion to substantiate his own low regard for a recent motion-picture version of a well-received novel.

  Vivian caught it. “Tessa who?”

  “Donaldson, Tessa Donaldson,” Archer replied as though there were no other.

  “Do I know her?” Vivian asked. “The name seems familiar.”

  “She makes the magazines quite a bit. Tatler, Vogue, and those. In their little black-and-white occasion photographs. You know.”

  “Is that where you discovered her?”

  “Hell no. I met her at Nabantei, that new Jap restaurant on Heath Street. We were both there alone for yakitori and just happened to be seated at adjacent tables, so naturally we hit it off.”

  “In stocking feet, I suppose.”

  “Matter of fact, yes, in our tootsies.”

  Vivian diverted her eyes for added indifference. “And I gather you’ve been seeing her since.”

  “Every night.”

  “That explains, of course, why we haven’t been seeing much of you. How old is she?”

  “Nineteen.”

  A little oh of relief from Vivian.

  “But going on thirty.” Archer grinned.

  All through this Nikolai had observed Vivian closely. No woman enjoys such revelations, and Vivian was certainly not the best of losers. He could see her summon her interior forces to enable a soft smile for Archer. “Tell us all about your Tessa.”

  The Archer of before would have said there wasn’t really all that much to tell, but this Archer went right into a descripti
on of Tessa that would have glowed in the dark. He spent five minutes applauding her physical attributes and twice that praising her intelligence and individualities. Only as an afterthought did he mention that she was ridiculously wealthy in her own right, having been provided for by her grandmother on her father’s side, who, incidentally, had been titled. It was evident that Archer wasn’t merely smitten with Tessa, he was captured by her. “She’ll be down next weekend,” he said. “You’ll have a chance to meet her.”

  Nikolai raised his glass of port and proposed: “To Tessa!”

  “Yes,” Archer responded, “Tessa.”

  Vivian’s sip was tiny.

  Archer left soon after dinner. At once, despite the odd hour, Vivian got the largest-size green plastic trash bag and emptied all her baskets of dead flowers into it. Nikolai tried to understand the significance. It was something to do with Archer, but what? Vivian had always treasured her flowers as though she would have them live on, or at least remain useful, after their deaths. She dragged the trash bag around the house, upstairs and down, and got every dead petal. Nikolai heard her mumbling to herself. He couldn’t quite make it out but it sounded as though what she said was: “I can’t wait to get a look at that Tessa’s irises.”

  At eleven Savich called.

  “Enjoying your sabbatical?” he asked.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “And Vivian?”

  “She’s fine.” Nikolai almost said “better.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t get back to you until now. I trust you haven’t been on edge.”

  “Not at all,” Nikolai fibbed.

  “I don’t care to go into it now, but I want you to know I’m seeing to that matter we spoke of.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  “Rest assured. I’ll phone you again Saturday, the latest. I may very well be phoning from London. Don’t be surprised if I show up there for a visit.”

  “We’d like that.”

  “Take care.”

  “Do svidaniya.”

  CHAPTER

  30

  THURSDAY MORNING THE KILLER, GEORGINE KRUGER, ARRIVED from Paris on Air France Flight 93. She came through Heathrow with a French passport that gave her the name Annette Detange. Her other credentials, including an international driving license, corroborated that identity.

  Georgine spent what remained of the morning at Daniel Galvin having her hair done. She had a serious, leisurely lunch at the Savoy and then went shopping along Bond Street. She found most of what she wanted at Saint Laurent. At five-thirty she went to the car rental agency. There she was confronted with a bit of a problem. The arrangement she’d made in advance by telephone was for a Rolls-Royce Corniche. She’d been assured one would be awaiting her, but now the agency claimed she must have been mistaken, as they never hired out Corniches. Georgine made a haughty fuss but eventually compromised, accepted a Mercedes-Benz 560SL, a suitable dark blue one with only four hundred miles on it.

  She enjoyed the drive to Bristol, the smell of new car and leather and the anonymous youthful engine responding to the press of her foot. Although along one stretch some misgivings reached her. With the surface of the M4 laid out so predictably ahead and being consumed so easily by the Mercedes it seemed that she was on a course that did not permit turning back. Even if more of her than not believed it wiser not to proceed, that was impossible. This was all destined.

  What lay ahead, she told herself, was merely a phase, soon over and really not all that unpleasant. She’d already given it enough thought. If she was going to dwell on anything, let it be what she would have after this. An entirely new self. The large amount saved from previous assignments would allow it. She had it well planned. She’d return to her apartment in Leipzig only long enough to gather up a few personal things. Among what she’d leave behind would be anything that might connect her to her childhood in Sassnitz. No mementos that might give her away. Fortunately the years she’d spent in that town on the Baltic had lost most of their clarity and nearly all of their value. She would also leave Krista behind in Leipzig. A shame, but there was no getting around it. Rapturous, clinging Krista, so dependent on passion and so effortless to arouse. Deserted, Krista would have a justifiable reason to cry. Rivulets of tears would stream down her well-boned cheeks and drip from her lovely jaws. She’d cry for a week or perhaps three days and then, libido stoked, give her arousal to another. That was how it went with l’amour beige, so why waste regrets on Krista?

  There’d be no looking back. When she was situated in Paris, when she was no longer Georgine Kruger or anyone other than Baroness Carolina von Scherrer, her life would be finally under way. “Lina” to the coterie of new friends she’d make, socially powerful people. A few sophisticated understanding men would be her copains, her buddies. There’d be prominent wives to seduce in the afternoons and when their husbands were away doing business or with their mistresses. There’d be gifts from those women, not earned gifts, but rather hopeful inducements. Jewelry mainly. She would, for example, purposely wear a ruby-and-diamond ring she’d received from one when she was with another. Thus, the gifts of jewelry would become increasingly more expensive, more impressive, while she, like innocence spoiled, declared that it was impossible for her to control what people chose to do. What games she would play! Hurting everyone now and then, injuring no one. She’d be loved for it, sought. In Cap d’Antibes, Marbella, Gstaad, the Splendide in Lugano. It was wonderfully unfair what iniquities a baroness could get away with. She knew exactly how it would be. At the start she’d have an apartment in the Marais close to the Place des Vosges. Eventually she’d own a hôtel particulier on Avenue Kléber.

  It was dark by the time she got to Bristol. The Hotel Unicorn was aware that she’d be a late arrival and had held a room for her. A clean if not charming one on the eighth floor overlooking the harbor. As she was registering she inquired whether or not a Mr. Mitchell had checked in. She was informed that he wasn’t expected until sometime tomorrow.

  When she was in her room she ordered up a bottle of Glenlivet, telling service that if it came with its seal broken she’d refuse it. She thought perhaps it was the prostitute hardness in her that made her so skeptical of everyone. She’d have to watch that when she was a baroness, but then even a baroness would loathe being taken. The scotch came as ordered. She poured a good portion of it into a tumbler and drank it down. While the bathtub was filling she tried on her London purchases for a preview of the impression she’d be making tomorrow. She put off looking at herself in the full-length mirror until she was completely dressed. She turned abruptly to it. For a moment the image in the mirror was like another person in the room. She was that much changed. Her hair, blond and long as it had been, was now deep brunette, cut short for a woman and somewhat long for a man. The stylist at Galvin had used gel to control it and combed it straight back. Georgine had always avoided anything that made her appear “butchy,” but she thought this effect most attractive. She’d varied her makeup to go along with it, increased the arch of her brows a degree, darkened them and her lashes, painted a brighter-red, fuller mouth.

  She struck attitudes for the mirror. Shoved her hands in the pockets of her dark blue trousers, undid the single mother-of-pearl button of her long-cut white flannel blazer. Her white silk crepe tailored blouse was best closed at the neck, she thought. She jerked down its cuffs to have them show. As she moved about, the unworn soles of her dark-blue-and-white lace-up, wing-tipped oxfords slipped on the rug. She nonchalantly crossed a foot over, exposed her white lisle cotton socks, poked at the puff of dark blue square in her breast pocket, adjusted her plain gold earclips, so large and dramatic, and put on her dark-framed, oversized sunglasses. She studied herself and approved and realized that unintentionally she’d already begun the transformation. Aloud she said: “Ça va, Baroness Scherrer?” and replied haughtily: “Ça va.”

  Nikolai Borodin would never recognize her.

  When the dispatcher had wanted to know wh
ether or not Borodin would know her if he saw her again, she’d lied, said he hadn’t gotten a close look at her. Of course, on the ferry Borodin had really looked her over, would recognize her immediately. It would have been impossible for her to get close enough to Borodin to make the definite kill the dispatcher wanted. Now, however, she was no longer that woman on the ferry. She was a dark-haired French affluent, with that sort of superior bearing. How clever of her, she thought.

  She hung the outfit carefully in the closet and went to her bath. She’d been so caught up with herself that she’d forgotten the water was running. It was barely an inch from overflowing, and she had to let some of the water out before she could get in. She lay back to soak. This was her first bath of the day. Normally she took three, sometimes four, depending. Once a lover on the way out of her life had spitefully remarked that the reason she took so many baths was that she’d been a whore. Perhaps that was true. It didn’t matter. She preferred feeling clean. Men had soiled and sullied her early. Men. It wasn’t as a rule in her best interests to let them know she disliked them.

  What sort of man, she wondered, would this one be who was going by the name George Mitchell? She hoped to God he was brighter than those last two she’d been teamed with. What idiots they’d been! How badly they’d botched it! She’d had to clean things up. She’d driven back to the tulip field, dragged out what remained of them, and dropped them into the mouth of a canal miles away, so the tide would take them out to sea. This Mitchell, she thought, would probably also fuck it up somehow. If he did it would cost her dearly. There’d be no compensation, only expenses, no million Swiss francs for her and therefore no Baroness Carolina von Scherrer. She’d tried to convince the dispatcher to let her handle Borodin alone, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He’d only have it as a recourse, if for some reason Mitchell didn’t show up. Her instructions were to meet Mitchell at this hotel. He was to arrive Friday. She was to wait until noon Saturday before proceeding on her own.