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  In a life that has not always been full of reasons for congratulations, I congratulate myself on how well I evaluated you those many years ago.

  Peace and happiness, Rudolph von Mannerling,

  Alexander There were tears at the corners of my eyes. “May I see the letter?” “It is written in French, Herr von Mannerling. Do you read French?” I admitted I did not. He made no move. “It is my letter, is it not?” The Ambassador handed me the document. The paper was thick, cracking at the folds. The hand-painted seal was brilliantly colored. The ink had begun to turn brown. There was no ‘Tsar’, no ‘majesties’ or ‘highnesses’. Simply ‘Alexander’. It was enough to justify to me how I had spent a great portion of my life and to guide my future.

  I was about to leave the building when a servant touched my arm and motioned for me to return to the Ambassador’s office. “Forgive me, Herr Mannerling. I forgot there was a second missive.” He handed me another long, white envelope, this one sealed in heavy wax and marked ‘TO BE OPENED ONLY BY RUDOLF VON MANNERLING’.

  At the desk in my hotel room I opened the envelope, carefully, I must admit, to preserve the seal. There was a note and two smaller envelopes. I read the note, written this time in English:

  After my concerns and commentaries regarding succession, Rudolf, I find I have neglected to tell you how my staff or my successor or his staff might be identified to you. Accompanying this brief letter are two envelopes, both sealed and marked to be opened only by you.

  The first, marked ‘banking’, describes an entity to which, in addition to me, you should commence reporting your investment progress. Please open this envelope prior to your next report.

  The second envelope contains the key by which you, or your successors, may know that a person claiming my portion of The Mannerling Trust has my authority, or the authority of my successor, to do so.

  Alexander

  The tears returned.

  Wednesday, December 1, 1887, New York. I swore one of the partners of our law firm to secrecy and then explained the original source of the Trust’s funds. We established The Hans-Eugen Maria von Mannerling Trust to receive my onequarter share at the time when the Romanov family would recover its portion of the assets of the Trust. We fixed the manner of continuing administration of the Trust and the manner in which future administrators would be selected. I feared that a jealous Congress or Administration might someday determine the nation would best be served if the assets of the Trust became public property and so established that a portion of the Trust’s funds would be expended for the public good.

  I then made two final decisions. The first was to move the Trust’s offices and myself back to Alabama. The offices would be established in cosmopolitan Birmingham, while I returned to Cedar Brake Plantation. My second decision was more momentous. I recruited my long-time confidant, Thomas Newcome Nettleton, to replace me as chief trustee of The Mannerling Trust and established an eleven-man Board of Trustees to aid him in his decisions.

  Wednesday, October 16, 1899, Montgomery.

  It has been a tiring day for me. The meeting in Birmingham with

  Nettleton was most satisfactory, but I was happy to be in my

  carriage and headed home.

  The last leg of the drive to Cedar Brake left me exhausted.

  What there should be about sitting in a carriage to tire a man, I

  can’t fathom, but I was happy to make my way to my room. I’m

  sitting quietly, now, my battered old diary perched on my knee and

  a glass of sherry on the table beside me. I suppose I shall never

  know, but I cannot help wondering what—.

  _______ Rudolf Mannerling was found in dead in his study at Cedar Brake Plantation in the early evening of October 16, 1899. He was buried in the family cemetery near Montgomery, Alabama.

  Margo took the folder and led Larson back to Sweet’s office.

  “Quite a story.” Sweet said.

  “It is, but tell me, has anyone ever tried to—”

  “Can we hold your questions for the moment? Let me conclude the history to date for

  you, then Norm and I will entertain your questions.”

  Larson nodded.

  “The story is an almost unbroken series of successful chief trustees and successful

  investments. Some losses, of course —business cycles, including serious losses during the great depression—but all went well until October 17, 1984.” He paused. “We entered a dark period.”

  Larson frowned. “Dark period?”

  Hazlett chuckled. “He’s kidding, Sam. That’s the date he took over.” Sweet smiled. “I’ve tried to be innovative without putting any serious amount of

  assets in jeopardy —witness our interest in you.”

  “Assets through the past December 31 were—”

  “$10,605,027,467,” Hazlett supplied.

  “Wow! If you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “I can stand it. We’ve done well. Now, you had some questions?”

  “Several. Has anyone ever tried to take it back to Russia?”

  “There have been several attempts.”

  “I’d like to hear.”

  Sweet described the contents of the files.

  “Do you assume that the assets will remain here?”

  “We operate that way, but we can never be certain.”

  “How about the key? What is it? What’s in the envelope?”

  Sweet laughed. “We don’t know.”

  Larson frowned. “Don’t know?”

  “To the best of my knowledge, the envelope has never been opened.” “No one—”

  Sweet opened his hands. “One would think so, but, no. Legend has it that my earliest

  predecessor felt that as long as he never learned the contents of the envelope, it would never be required. The idea became a institution.”

  Larson shook his head. “I can see you think that idea is childish—if one doesn’t look under the bed, there’ll be no bogeyman—but that’s my theory.” Sweet smiled. “And that’s how we view it.”

  “Interesting. A final question? The letter from the Tsar than mentions the key also enclosed a letter regarding reporting. It isn’t any of my business, but—”

  “Not a problem. Our reporting procedures are not public information, but they’re also not secret.”

  Larson cocked his head.

  “Rudy was required to report annually to Alexander II; if Alexander II were deceased, Rudy was to send reports to succeeding tsars. After the Tsar’s letter of January, 1884, Rudy was also required to send a copy of each report to a London bank, Collier’s, for the account of Monsieur Aleksandr Romanov, or to any successor bank. It seems that Alexander didn’t conceive of there being no more tsars, but he had no difficulty conceiving of a bank’s extinction. If there was no successor bank, copies were to be sent to the Bank of England. Collier’s Bank still exists and via that bank we send a copy of our annual report to the Russian Finance Ministry. Only two other copies are distributed, one to the IRS and a second to the Treasurer of the State of Alabama.”

  “Dickens could have written it,” Larson said.

  Sweet smiled. “Any more questions?”

  “It’ll take me a while to absorb what I’ve just learned.”

  Sweet looked at his wristwatch. “Time for some lunch.”

  The furnishings of the forty-sixth floor dining room were in keeping with those of the remainder of the penthouse. The cuisine was Southern.

  “So, you see,” Sweet said, “dealing with us might be dangerous. One day we’re managing ten billion dollars and the next day we might reduced to liquidating our furniture to pay the Russians.”

  “But, what about—”

  Hazlett laughed. “He’s too quick for you, Richard. He’s remembered the—”

  “The Hans-Eugen Maria von Mannerling Trust!”

  Sweet smiled. “Right. If the Russians ever come for their money, we’ll retain a quarter.”


  “Which means I’d have a chance to manage a portion of that?”

  Sweet laughed again. “Which brings us to the final item on our agenda for today.”

  Hazlett took over. “We’d like you to take another ten million.”

  Chapter 12

  Moscow, July 17

  Grashchenko handed a fax to Valubin. “From a friend of yours, Mirobin.” “Vladivostok?”

  Grashchenko nodded.

  Valubin reached for his glasses, then dropped them. “Read it, then summarize.” “It is about Staranov. He—”

  “Vladivostok. He is indeed avoiding me.”

  “But he has managed to run afoul of Mirobin and, unless Mirobin takes action, the

  FSB.”

  “Quite an accomplishment for our madman. And?”

  “Mirobin wants to know what to do about him?”

  Valubin shook his head. “Ask for particulars.”

  Grashchenko returned an hour later.

  “Staranov and his group have botched a kidnapping, the son of the Japanese consul. The Japanese Public Security Investigation Agency would not allow the consul to pay the ransom. Staranov tortured the boy to death and left the body in the middle of a children’s summer camp on Amursky Bay.”

  Valubin shook his head. “It is, of course, impossible to look into the mind of a madman.” He paused. “A test of your management skills, young man?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What do you recommend?”

  “Ask Mirobin to kill them all.”

  “So simple?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But what of our name in the Far East after that? So far, Staranov has only been charged. When his body is found, we will have two losses. Our involvement in the kidnapping will be known and FSB will charge Mirobin with the deaths. Bad publicity.”

  “I had not thought about good press for Galavna-ya Bohl.”

  “We must think of the future. Our organization will be a beloved institution some day. It has happened in America and it will happen here.”

  Grashchenko nodded.

  Valubin scribbled a note. “I want Staranov and whichever of his merry band are accompanying him to be released. Telephone—not fax—this message to Mirobin. Use the special routing. It would not do for any ferrets to hear this message”

  “Tell him it is Grashchenko.”

  “And who are you?”

  “Aide to Valentin Igorovich Valubin.”

  Mirobin came on the line.

  “I hope I am not calling too late.”

  “Get on with it. I detest time spent on the telephone when a fax is quicker.” Grashchenko explained Valubin’s reasoning. “He adds that granting the request will

  balance your debt to him relative to man of yours named Provosky.”

  “Agreed. The scales are now balanced with your master, but tell him that if this beast ever returns to Vladivostok, I shall kill him without consultation.” August 4

  Larson pulled the strip on the edge of the FedEx envelope and extracted a letter

  authorizing him to pay fees of five hundred six thousand, two hundred twenty-two dollars

  to Larson Interests, LLC.

  He arranged a meeting with Rubenstein for the following evening.

  August 5

  “You start your celebrating a little earlier, T.C?”

  Cooper raised his head from the bar at The Dragon-in-theMoat. “Stick it, Sam.” He

  nestled his head in his arms again. Rubenstein appeared. “Good evening, Sam. Tom.” He looked around the restaurant. “My introduction to the finer restaurants in Atlanta continues. Thank you.”

  Larson shook his hand. “T.C.’s a little ahead of us.”

  “I see.”

  After they had managed to move Cooper to a quiet table, Larson handed a check to Rubenstein. “The check’ll be good by the time you can get to your bank tomorrow morning.”

  Rubenstein nodded.

  “I could have had it couriered to you, but I wanted to talk to you about a related matter.”

  “Yes?”

  “You and I are earning a lot of money. I’m investing, taking advantage of your predictions and—”

  “How does that affect your performance?”

  “It’s a later entry into the market—which enhances the Monarch investment.”

  “I see.”

  “And I’m diversifying, of course.” Larson paused. “Well, it’s none of my business, but I wonder what you’re doing with your money.”

  Rubenstein smiled. “I’m sure you have my best interests at heart, Sam. My money’s in my checking account.”

  “I think—”

  Cooper opened an eye. “I think you ought to mind your own goddamned business, Larson.”

  “Any ideas for its use?”

  “Frankly—as I mentioned a couple of years ago, I’m wondering whether we should continue or not. I’ve proved my point about our approach to this particular system and, to be truthful, I’ve had some enjoyment watching you work, but I wonder if I—”

  “Aaron, let me break in. I understand you have little interest in the money for money’s sake, but have you considered what you could be doing with it?”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Aiding others.”

  “Others? Sam, I’m not following you.”

  “Providing funds for causes in which you have an interest? Cancer research? Inner city education? Fund a chair in mathematics at Tech? That sort of thing.”

  Rubenstein stared off into space. “What a wonderful idea!” He paused. “What a wonderful idea. Perhaps a foundation. Yes. Would you know how to establish something like that?”

  “My attorneys would.”

  “A foundation! Suppose you engage your people on my behalf. Just some general explorations while I think of what interest I might pursue?”

  “In the meantime, don’t forget the tax implications. Your dividends constitute very ordinary income.”

  “You don’t have any withholding responsibilities relative to me?”

  “No.”

  “A foundation would handle that problem, would it not?”

  “Yes, tax attorneys could handle it all.”

  “Good. Let’s continue apace with Augur.”

  Larson breathed deeply.

  November 8

  The Trust’s letter ended, “—and therefore you may debit the account at Forney’s

  Bank for fees of seven hundred three thousand, and sixtyeight dollars.” Chapter 13

  2005

  Kitzbühel, Austria, January 1

  Larson laid The International Herald Tribune on the cocktail table. “Argentina’s

  peso is falling again.”

  “Mmmm.”

  “Elizabeth, you’ve got to improve your early morning interest in world events.” “I’m trying. What time does the gondola start running?”

  “Ten.”

  “I’ve got to get some new gloves before we go.”

  February 7

  Larson was still in his robe when Maggie arrived.

  He waved a sheet of paper. “Skip the coffee, Maggie. Champagne time.” “At this hour?”

  “I printed the e-mail that was waiting for me this morning. Read this.” Maggie took the sheet. “You are authorized to pay fees to Larson Interests,

  LLC, for the period November 1, 2004 –January 31, 2005, eight hundred eightythree thousand, four hundred dollars”.

  Rubenstein took the call with his usual equanimity.

  “Any special instructions?”

  “Yes. I’ve formed my foundation. Please make out a check to Tom for his share— you know the division—and a check for the remainder to—ready?”

  “Okay.”

  “The Rebecca Mathilda Hagedorn Stern Rubenstein Memorial Foundation for the Eradication of Gaucher Disease.”

  Larson repeated the name. “Quite a mouthful. Who was she?”

  Rubenstein hesitated. “My wife.” He hesitated again. “It’s
such a horrible disease. I can’t tell you how happy I am to be able to help combat it.”

  “Sounds wonderful, Aaron. I’ll courier the checks this morning.”

  Presidential residence at Novo-Ogaryovo, northwest of Moscow, April 7 President Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin, muffled against the spring cold, was

  inspecting the staff’s efforts in the sleeping garden when the Mercedes limousine arrived.

  He was not looking forward to the briefing, but at least he could continue to enjoy his

  long weekend in the country when it was over. The residence was his favorite, a house

  reminiscent of the antebellum mansions of the American South. He motioned to his

  escort that he was returning to the house.

  A man of fifty-two, Putin had trained as a lawyer, then served in the First Chief

  Directorate of the KGB. Since then, he had risen meteorically in government service,

  culminating in his election as President of the Russian Federation in March, 2000. Five

  years later he retained his youthful looks and his wrestler’s body.

  He entered the rear of the house, where an aide took the heavy overcoat. “Let our Minister of Finance know I am ready for the remainder of his briefing.” Aleksey Leonidevich Kudrin, Finance Minister of the Russian Federation, stood in

  the doorway of the lesser dining room that had become Putin’s office. Scion of a military

  family, he was born in Latvia in 1960 and graduated from Leningrad University. After a

  training period in the city management of St. Petersburg, Kudrin was named First Deputy

  Minister of Finance of the Russian Federation in 1996 and, in 2000, Vice-Premier and

  Minister of Finance. His appearance was youthful and his dress modern. Putin beckoned for him to enter. Kudrin motioned for four Great Russian males,

  ledgers and computer printouts in hand, to follow.

  “How long do you require, Aleksey Leonidevich?”

  “Two hours—no more.”

  Putin gestured at the overstuffed chairs that lined a refectory table. “Be seated and

  proceed.”

  The briefing by Kudrin and his aides was well executed, but at the close of the second hour the President began pacing the room. “My attention is waning, Aleksey Leonidevich. Is there anything that cannot wait for another day?”