Irina refused to say, for fear that Pyotr would do something crazy. When she asked Savich what she should do he thought it best that she tell Pyotr the truth. She did so reluctantly and found that as much as Pyotr had ranted and threatened he wasn’t about to get out of hand. For one thing, he didn’t believe he was up to confronting someone as formidable in the Party as Savich, and for another, he didn’t want everyone knowing he wasn’t man enough to be a father. For face, he took credit for Nikolai’s birth and then turned his back on the responsibility of raising the boy. He knew that whenever Irina announced that she was “going for a long walk” she was going to be with Savich. Pyotr particularly took silent exception to the emphasis she often placed on the word “long.” She had a need to pique him and many times when she said that she actually did nothing more than walk.
In the next five years Irina and Savich were with each other less and less frequently. It was a mutual diminishing without any inflictions. The heat of their love gave way to a friendship that was warm. Meanwhile, Savich’s career flourished. He was promoted to assistant deputy minister and, after a stint as deputy, was appointed minister. All along he assured Irina that she could rely on his influence, his blat. She held him to his word and got Nikolai admitted to those schools that normally were reserved for the offspring of the very privileged. It was only fair, Irina reasoned, for Nikolai was the son of the Minister of Foreign Trade.
Pyotr Borodin resented every advantage Nikolai was given. The most violent argument he and Irina ever had was when Nikolai was accepted by the Institute of Foreign Languages. The more Nikolai attained, the more bitter and malignant was Pyotr’s attitude. Savich warned Irina about that. She didn’t heed him. Actually, it seemed she enjoyed her clashes with Pyotr, as though they exercised her mettle and gave her the chance to erupt and pay him back in kind for his perpetual rancor.
Savich never accepted it as coincidence that Pyotr had killed Irina and committed suicide less than a month after Nikolai was given the desirable assignment with the trade mission in London. Everyone acquainted with the Borodins knew of their chronic quarreling, but none knew the underlying reason for it. Some said that the Borodins had finally settled their differences in the quintessential Russian way. Without denying to himself the catalytic part he’d played, Savich tended to agree.
That favorite photograph of Irina at age twenty.
Savich, gazing at it now, remembered that he’d come close to leaving it in place when Nikolai had recently come to visit. At the last minute he’d removed it, because the timing wasn’t right for such a highly charged revelation. He surely intended to tell Nikolai, but under more favorable circumstances, when he and Nikolai had more mutual equity, a better, stronger personal foundation. Then it would come out. Then it would be easier for them both. That event was now imminent, Savich felt. He’d be taking a huge step toward it when he put his feet down at Heathrow that night. Sunday he’d drive himself to Devon. Perhaps he’d be invited to spend a few days, maybe even a week. He’d take care not to crowd Nikolai and his Vivian. He’d put on old clothes and share chores. He and Nikolai would sit in the village pub and tolerate one another’s philosophies. He’d become used to a bed in that house of theirs, and soon possessive of it. Vivian would put cut flowers from her garden on his nightstand and he would lie in the dark, breathe their fragrance, and fall gently to sleep with love in his lungs. He would sit with Nikolai and Vivian for meals and anecdotes. He and Nikolai and Vivian between them with arms around would walk the countryside. He’d feel that kind of being wanted.
Savich’s “Russian conversation” was interrupted by the chirping of the telephone, a call on his most private line.
It was Yelena Valkova.
“The most horrible thing has happened,” she said. She was crying. “Feliks …” She broke off, unable to speak.
“What is it? What’s happened?”
“Feliks is dead. He poisoned himself.”
“Accidentally?”
“He left a farewell note. Oh, it’s so tragic. Poor, poor Feliks. I had no idea he was that depressed.”
“I’m so sorry, Yelena. Is there anything I can do?”
“No,” she sobbed. “There’s nothing anyone can do.”
“Perhaps you want me to make the arrangements. I was about to leave for London, but I can change my plans and be in Leningrad within a few hours.”
“I just have to get control of myself,” she sniffled.
“Yes, you must,” Savich told her pointedly.
“It makes me feel better to hear your voice. I know you and Feliks were close, in business and all.”
“Of course.”
“The note Feliks left was so pathetic. His handwriting is so clear and neat. He truly loved me, you know.” She was again choked with emotion.
Savich waited for her to regain composure.
“The police are here,” she said. “They’ve been very understanding, most helpful. Oh … they’re about to take Feliks away. I must go.”
“Please let me know if you need anything.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
Savich placed the receiver down and shook his head incredulously. He hadn’t thought Yelena would do it. She was one of the few women in his life that he’d underestimated. He recalled the embryonic stage of this development. Several months ago when he was alone with Yelena he’d only mentioned that in doing business her husband was often a problem. Apparently that was the sort of remark she’d been hoping to hear, for she latched right on to it, said that as far as she was concerned, Feliks was a stifling, unbearable problem, and that she for one would be far better off if he were to just suddenly evaporate. In fact, she went on, she’d been giving that very possibility a great deal of thought. Did that shock him?
Savich hadn’t commented.
She knew exactly how it could happen, she said. Feliks looked to her to keep his ego inflated. It was getting so she felt like a damn psychological pump. It was a sickness with him, she believed, a narcissistic disorder. Why, whenever she withheld her worship he was like a man starved. Sometimes he’d demand she go on for hours praising and admiring him. If she refused he resorted to melodramatic extremes. He often threatened suicide. Three times, merely to cause panic, he’d left suicide notes for her to find. She’d saved those notes, shown them to no one, had them safely hidden away. Because it had occurred to her that they might be useful. Did Savich understand what she was proposing?
He understood well enough. With Feliks out of the way, all the money Valkov had accumulated in the West would be hers. It was mere talk, he decided. Brash she might be, but she didn’t have that much nerve. Even when Yelena brought it up again the last time they were in Paris he hadn’t believed her.
At that time she’d probably already made up her mind. Valkov always confided in her. No doubt he’d told her of the Borodin situation and all, and she’d seen it as a sign that everything was about to come apart. Yelena wasn’t the sort to let her fortune slip through someone else’s fingers, which was what she feared might very well happen with Valkov.
Valkov dead, Savich thought. It changed nothing, really. And how easy it was to accept. Fortunately he wasn’t going to be called upon to grieve.
He still had three hours until takeoff.
Time seemed to be crawling.
He shouldn’t sit, he told himself. He’d be sitting long enough on the flight. He stood and put all his weight on one leg for a short while. Then all on the other. His legs felt strong. Legs were usually the first thing to go, but his felt reasonably young, springy. Health and wealth, he thought, rhymed for a reason.
He used the intercom to tell Mai Lon that he’d have some tea. And, to nibble on, some of those imported shortbread cookies Raspredelitel, the food distributor to the elite, had delivered the other day. On second thought he’d also have a few slices of sterlet on some Carr water biscuits. Had she and Do Kien repacked his luggage?
“Yes sir,” she said. “You are ready to go.”
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The tea and nibbles were brought promptly by Mai Lon. In her usual graceful and unintrusive manner she placed the tray down on the table that accommodated Savich’s favorite chair. He sat and waited while Mai Lon fussed with the tray, correcting the position of a spoon, moving the teacup a half inch. The shortbread cookies were symmetrically arranged, and the slices of smoked sturgeon were identical. Sometimes Mai Lon’s precision tired Savich’s patience; however, better precise than sloppy. “I’ll do my own pouring,” he told her. “Has it steeped enough?”
“It is steeped.”
Savich was so used to having Mai Lon around that he was hardly conscious that she remained in the room. She went to the window that was allowing stark afternoon light to hit upon the back of his head and shoulders. She adjusted the curtain to defuse the light.
Then from her ample sleeve she drew out a garrote. A simple device, merely a length of fine steel wire attached to wooden grips on both ends. She would do it for the huge amount of money Valkov had promised. There was no reason to doubt that Valkov wouldn’t keep his end of the bargain. He’d been making regular generous payments to her and Do Kien for almost two years. They were in his pay much more than they were in Savich’s. By tomorrow night she and Do Kien would be in Sri Lanka. People in this hemisphere had no idea what luxuries could be enjoyed by someone rich in Sri Lanka.
Mai Lon had used the garrote during the war in Vietnam. She’d learned by practicing on appropriately shaped squash and melons. Her hands and arms, delicate as they appeared, were quite strong. Actually, it didn’t require great strength. Surprise, speed of hand, and sureness were more important. In a swift continuous motion the wire was looped over his head from behind and drawn tight around his throat, the wooden grips were pulled in opposite directions. Mai Lon hung on, maintained her hold, while he grasped vainly at the wire and the rest of him for a short while flopped like a fish.
CHAPTER
32
TWO WEEKS PASSED BEFORE NIKOLAI LEARNED ABOUT SAVICH’S death. He happened to come across a small item deep inside the section of the Times that Vivian usually disregarded. The item said, in effect, that according to an official bulletin from Tass, Minister of Foreign Affairs Grigori Savich had died recently of natural causes. It didn’t say exactly when or where or give any further details, merely said that he’d died.
The news deeply saddened Nikolai. And Vivian as well. She tried her best to be metaphysical about it, but she was unavoidably heavyhearted. Nikolai vowed that someday, if circumstances ever permitted him to return to Russia for a visit, he’d seek out where Savich was buried and pay his respects. He’d remember how much Savich appreciated fine things, take along some delicacies and an excellent wine and set table on Savich’s grave slab. It occurred to Nikolai that now he might also have Savich hovering around giving advice and encouragement. He’d welcome it, of course, he thought, but with Grandfather Maksim and Irina and now Savich, wasn’t it getting a bit crowded?
Nikolai assumed that before Savich died he must have spoken to Churcher and made the concessions needed to deliver him from the System’s bad graces. A few days ago a letter had arrived from Churcher. Not a typical, stodgy piece of Churcher correspondence, rather a brief informal one in Churcher’s own hand, saying how much over the years he’d found it pleasant doing business with Nikolai and that if ever Nikolai was in London with an hour or so to spare by all means to pop by. The postscript, Nikolai believed, was the letter’s real purpose. In it Churcher inquired as to Nikolai’s future professional plans.
Lev remained a puzzle. Nikolai tried various explanations for Lev’s behavior but none were acceptable. That Lev had come there was not in itself remarkable. But that he’d shown up in exactly the nick of time was incredible. And that he’d known enough to kill the woman and then had walked away without a word was absolutely confounding. Nikolai hoped he’d be hearing from Lev soon, so he could get all this straight. Grandfather Maksim had something to say regarding that. He told Nikolai there were things better left unknown.
That year’s summer was now peaking and Devon was at its most beautiful. Nikolai and Vivian awoke one morning, and after they had done rigorous facial exercises and laughed at each other, Nikolai told her he thought it would be a good idea if they became spouses.
Within the week they were married. The ceremony was performed by the vicar of St. James’s Anglican Church in Pennyworth. Outdoors, beneath a sycamore close by the church cemetery, which was what Vivian wanted. She thought it nice to have all those old tombstones and, quite possibly, spirits in attendance. After reciting the traditional vows, including the for-richer-and-for-poorer one, Vivian pledged aloud to make a very earnest effort to live within Nikolai’s means—whatever they might be. Archer gave the bride away. His Tessa was maid of honor. Tessa was not quite as beautiful as Archer had made her out to be, but she was surely a charmer. Vivian threw the bridal nosegay right at her.
Following the ceremony they went to Archer’s to celebrate. Vintage Roderer Cristal and an elaborate cake that the four of them wouldn’t be able to eat in ten years.
“Time for gifts!” Archer announced.
Two of his servants carried in a large carton. Vivian did the opening. She was very excited. The carton contained a bureau de dame, a makeup table.
“It’s Hepplewhite,” Archer said. “Genuine, dated 1753.”
“It looks older,” Vivian said dubiously. She placed her hand on a corner of the table to get more familiar with it. That caused it to shake on its thin, inadequate legs. It had numerous tiny drawers, hardly large enough to contain a single lipstick. Vivian tried a few. Most of them stuck. The knobs came off some.
“Certainly an ugly little piece,” Vivian remarked.
“Isn’t it, though?” Archer said.
“It’s not me at all.”
“I thought it would be better than getting you a lot of little tchotchkes.”
“That was sweet of you, Archie. But hell, I’ll never put this thing to use, and I certainly won’t want it standing around where I have to see it. I suggest you take it back.”
“I can’t. It was a final sale.”
“Where did you purchase it?”
“A place on New Bond. They let me have it for a mere fifty thousand. They won’t take it back … and neither will I.”
“Oh, Archie. I don’t know what we’re ever going to do with you.” A capitulating sigh from Vivian. “I suppose we’ll just have to take the bloody thing home, but don’t expect to see it there when you come to call.”
“Righto!”
Vivian and Archer beamed fondly at one another. Vivian knew Archer would have liked to have given them a fat check. And they could surely use the money. But he didn’t want to cause embarrassment. This was his way of getting around that. It was like old times.
“Now in order, a gift for the groom!” Archer exclaimed.
That was the cue for a servant to bring in another carton, this one smaller.
Nikolai opened it. Wrapped like a mummy in strips of cotton cloth was a carved gray chalcedony kitten with demantoid eyes. And a tiny desk clock of strawberry red guilloché enamel. And a carved stone figure of a soldier of the Imperial Escort. They were all there, all seventeen, Grandfather Maksim’s entire legacy of Fabergé objects. They were the last thing Nikolai expected would ever again be his. He was stunned.
“I obtained them from a friend,” Archer said.
“From that old fellow on Bruton Street? He was such an avid collector I would have thought he’d never part with them.”
“Beckhurst was one of my mother’s retainers, used to be her chauffeur,” Archer explained. “He was quite convincing as a wealthy old fart, don’t you think?”
Nikolai thanked Archer with a good, tight hug. He was tempted to show in a Russian way how fond he was of him by kissing him on the mouth. But he reminded himself that he was now in the West.
That day, Nikolai thought, was the happiest day of his life. Actually, he had another ve
ry happy day soon coming. The London solicitors Atkins & Pomeroy were at that very moment getting ready to notify him. They had to their satisfaction confirmed the death of their client Grigori Savich, and now would execute his wishes. Which were that the funds held in U.S. dollars in account number 13-6389 at the Foreign Commerce Bank, Bellariastrasse 82, Zurich, Switzerland 8038, be made available without condition to his son, Nikolai Petrovich (Grigorievich) Borodin. The solicitors had no idea how much money was being bequeathed. Nikolai would not realize how much it was until two months later, when, needing some capital to get into a business deal along with Archer, he went to make a withdrawal.
Three hundred and seventy-four million dollars.
Acknowledgments
The author wishes to acknowledge those friends and informants who, in one way or another, helped bring this story about. Especially:
Nadya Demisov, Tamara Ustinov, Aleksei
Voynovich, Vadim Federovska, Joy Burkett,
Joan Tompkins, Reta Alley, Sterling Lord,
Alan Williams, Dr. Marvin Belsky, Dr. Richard
Coburn, Dr. Ruth Ochroch, Cowboy and Jill,
Jeff and Viv Wattenberg, Marcie Egan, Chris
Watkins, Harold Blits, Sheldon Rosenfeld,
Inessa in Leningrad and Natalya in Moscow.
About the Author
Gerald A. Browne is the New York Times–bestselling author of ten novels including 11 Harrowhouse, 19 Purchase Street, and Stone 588. His books have been translated into more than twenty languages, and several have been made into films. He attended the University of Mexico, Columbia University, and the Sorbonne, and has worked as a fashion photographer, an advertising executive, and a screenwriter. He lives in Southern California.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
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