Rubenstein's Augur Read online

  “Nice timing, Sam. I’m already playing.”

  “Without me?”

  “Given your busy and important schedule, you must have forgotten to call.” “You angry?”

  “Why should I be?”

  “Right.”

  “Come on down anyway. You can watch. Maybe someone will break a leg.” “Thanks, but I guess I’ll just mope.”

  Chapter 7

  June 13

  Larson called for Rubenstein the day after his expected return. “If he’s back, tell him

  I have just one quick question.”

  “I’m sorry. Doctor Aaron has returned from vacation, but he’s away at a daylong

  conference. I’m Cynthia Dermott, his secretary. May I help you?”

  “This is Sam Larson. I wonder if—”

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Larson, Doctor Aaron told me to expect your call.”

  “The question can wait. Please tell him we’re ready to proceed. He’ll understand.” “Doctor Aaron expected your call and that message. He said to tell you he’d like to

  begin the next series—whatever that means—next Monday, the seventeenth.”

  June 14

  Larson called Fletcher the following day. “Mike?”

  “It is, Samuel. What new wizardry do you require?”

  “I’m ready to implement the test I described to you.”

  “Good. What day do you expect to commence sending data?” “Monday.”

  “We’ll be ready.” Fletcher paused. “Oh, my regards to the beautiful Patty.” “Patty?”

  “Patty. The gorgeous woman at your side at the Henderson party?” “Patty. Right. Next time I see her.”

  June 17

  Larson greeted his sales assistant with a cup of coffee the following Monday. “To what and so forth?” she said.

  “Trading begins today. Everybody has to be alert.”

  “I’m ready.”

  “Okay, there are two critical tasks, the entry as soon as we have the prediction and the

  close at the end of the day.” She laughed. “That, by actual count, is the fourteenth time you’ve explained that to me.”

  Larson smiled. “Sorry. Money’s at stake now.”

  “Trust me, Sam, I understand.”

  “Okay. There’s a new wrinkle, a change in the message. I’m adding a security measure.”

  She frowned.

  “If we do well, we can expect our phone to be tapped sooner or later. After that, someone will figure out the meaning of the message.”

  “How?”

  “The caller says up, the market goes up. Wouldn’t take many such calls for someone overhearing to find a pattern.”

  “So what will the message be?”

  “First, the caller states a number. Fifty-eight, two forty-seven—like that. That number is what we called pressure during the first test. Now we’re going to refer to it as intensity.”

  “Intensity. I can handle that.”

  “Then there’s a second number. We repeat the two numbers, then the caller confirms and hangs up.

  “We take the second number to The Wall Street Journal. In the body of the rightmost column on the front page, we count that many words. It will contain only a u or only a d.”

  Maggie made a note. “I have it.”

  “After we log the numbers in my notebook, we take our usual steps. They are?”

  “Enter the intensity in the PC to determine the amount of money to be invested, write the ticket, and call it in.”

  “Well done.”

  “And if there’s a problem?”

  “Any day we’re not sure about what we’re doing, we sit on our hands and look for the explanation later.”

  A woman called Larson at nine forty-five that morning. “Mr. Larson?” “Yes.”

  “This is Sheila Rubenstein. One hundred twenty and thirteen.” “One hundred twenty and thirteen.”

  “Confirmed.”

  “I—” Larson said, but she had hung up.

  He counted thirteen words. “Pure.”

  July 8

  Larson shook his head at the display on his screen. “Bad day for the market, but good

  for us.”

  “Amounting to what in U.S. dollars?” Maggie said.

  “Post-brokerage, I make it around twentytwo hundred dollars.”

  “Too bad you can’t start selling Augur now.”

  “Yes, but there’s no way.” He paused. “And given the performance we’re having, I

  see a new problem lurking on the horizon.”

  Maggie frowned.

  “How long do you suppose it will be before someone at Chicago Board Options

  Exchange wonders about my performance?”

  “How could—”

  “They have computer-based sensors looking for anything out of the ordinary—such

  as a customer trading in S&P100 options who seldom loses.”

  “Right.”

  Larson was about to recommence reviewing brokerage statements, when Maggie leaned over his desk. “Accommodate a little feminine curiosity, Sam?”

  “Go.”

  “Who’s the lady doing the calling? You haven’t gotten yourself into anything long- term, have you?”

  “Not a chance. Niece of the fellow whose investment advice we’re following.”

  “Not what I’d call friendly. What does she do?”

  “Parttimer in his office. Overflow work. Filing, I suppose. Extra typing.”

  September 23

  Larson extended his hand. “I hope Wolfgang’s wasn’t too far out of your way.” “The traffic was light.” Rubenstein looked around the room. The Bavarian

  atmospher e was authentic. “Nice place.”

  “It is. Wolf’s a customer. He spent a lot on this place, but it’s been worth it. You

  can’t imagine what this place brings in.”

  Rubenstein smiled.

  “You have time for lunch?”

  “Better not.”

  He signaled the hostess that they were going to the bar. “The usual?” Rubenstein nodded.

  “St. Pauli Girl for me, Erik, and a Diet Coke.”

  Larson handed Rubenstein a fourpage printout. “This details how much we’ve

  earned since the test began.”

  He glanced at the figures. “Lot of money.”

  “Yes. I think that we can expect”

  Rubenstein raised his hand. “Sam, please excuse me, but I have a confession to

  make.”

  “Confession?”

  “No, an admission. As you know, I care very much about Augur’s performance, but

  not the money. I’m a scientist—a man whose goal is expanding knowledge, not

  assembling assets.”

  Larson nodded.

  “I shall doubtless find some good use for my share of your earnings, but it’s not a

  matter of great concern.”

  “So no more predicting?”

  “I’m not ready to say that, but I wanted you to know that it’s on my mind.” Larson stared across the room.

  “Well,” Rubenstein said, “I’ll just—”

  Larson recovered. “What do you hear from T.C.”

  “Two post cards—both from the Caribbean. He hopes all is going well here.” He

  stood. “If we’re done, I’ll just push on.”

  Larson stood. “Thanks for coming. Oh, by the way, how’s Sheila?” “She’s well.”

  “I’d like to meet her sometime.”

  Rubenstein smiled. “I suppose that might be arranged—sometime.” Chapter 8

  November 7

  Staranov and Parenko sat in the apartment on the Frunzenskaya Embankment.

  Parenko shifted his weight from side to side, testing the strength of his chair. “Junk,

  Eugen Yakovich. You must replace it.”

  “Agreed. I am much too important to have inferior furnishings and equipment.” He

  looked over his shoulder and yelled.
“Naveeva!”

  “Yes.”

  “Cease primping. It is a waste of time. Call Grashchenko to arrange new furniture.” “My bedroom is furnished to my taste.”

  “If you are entertaining swine, perhaps. Secure new furnishing for all of the rooms.” The muttering was incomprehensible.

  Parenko arranged the hair over his damaged ear. “Very clever of you to protect your

  rug from Treshchkov’s blood. I would not have thought of it.”

  Staranov smiled. “I am a very clever fellow—a fact you must always remember.” “Then perhaps you can tell me why our lider is offering us this lowhanging fruit?” “I can. We have had too many difficult assignments. We are due for a simple,

  lucrative one.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “He cannot afford to waste our skills.”

  Naveeva entered, smoothing her hair to the sides of her skull. “Tell me the subject of

  your discussion, comrades.”

  Parenko threw his hands in the air. “For the millionth time, Vera Davidovna, cut the

  tovarishch shit. We are many years from those days.”

  “Our misfortune.”

  “Nevertheless.”

  “Again, what are you discussing.”

  “Valubin has given us a plum. Our doubter here is concerned that there might be a

  bad spot in the fruit.”

  Parenko nodded. “I am.”

  Staranov inserted his left little finger into his left ear and shook it. “One Benjamin

  Seth Tarubinesky, a citizen of Kazakhstan, is about to carry a significant number of uncut

  diamonds to the cutters in Antwerp.” He handed an itinerary to Naveeva. “Grashchenko

  believes this to be his itinerary. Confirm it with our friends at Aeroflot.”

  Half an hour later, Naveeva returned the sheet to Staranov. “It is correct. Frunze, Kyrgyzstan, to Moscow, with a night’s stopover at Tashkent. Arriving Tashkent at ten in the morning, local time, two days from now.”

  “ Excellent. Arrange for the four of us—”

  “Four?” she said.

  “Evesky will accompany us.”

  She nodded.

  “Arrange for the four of us to be in Tashkent tomorrow. We must find lodging and a

  place where we can entertain the traveler.” Tashkent, Uzbekistan, November 9

  Two days later, Parenko stood in the center of the Tashkent terminal, a sign held high.

  He was about to lower his sign, when a large, elderly man with a huge hooked nose and

  wearing a black overcoat and black fedora approached.

  you want with me?”

  “The hotel sent me.”

  “Never before. Why—”

  “I do not know, but if you will come with me, please.” “Your luggage?”

  He showed Parenko a small valise. “I have only this.” A cold wind hindered their progress as they approached a khaki colored, 1938 Dodge

  sedan. The taxi had survived World War II, but its final disintegration in the central

  Asian weather was near. Tarubinesky shrugged. He had ridden in worse and would

  doubtless do so again. “Hurry. I must rest.”

  He reviewed his airline tickets as they departed the terminal. When he was satisfied

  that all was in order, he peered at his surroundings. “Where are you going? This is not

  the way to the hotel. It is located on Amir Temur Street. You are going in the wrong

  direction.”

  Parenko stopped the taxi at the side of the road, then pointed a Bagira at his

  passenger’s chest. “If you will relax, Tarubinesky, your day and mine will be simple.

  Otherwise—”

  The old man nodded. Old taxis were not the sole source of anxiety he had faced in

  forty years of diamond smuggling.

  Parenko studied a handdrawn map of the city’s eastern suburbs. He shook his head. “Where are you taking me?”

  “Sulieman Street. Number ten.”

  “I know the street.”

  “So?”

  “So I shall guide you. The sooner our business—whatever it may be—is over, the

  sooner I shall find my bed.”

  Parenko nodded.

  “Ahead, then left after the small brown mosque.”

  Parenko led the old man toward a dilapidated brick house. An earthen brick wall,

  collapsed in several places, surrounded the house. The remains of an unidentifiable

  automobile stood in a corner.

  Staranov rushed from the door, his hands outstretched. “Tarubinesky! Welcome.

  Enter.”

  The old man followed him inside.

  There were no furnishings other than a single, straight-back chair in the center of the

  first room.

  Staranov gestured toward the chair. “Please be seated. I hope you are not

  inconvenienced by our asking you to join us?”

  Tarubinesky yawned. “I only wish to find my bed. What do you want of me?” “The diamonds.”

  “What diamonds?”

  Staranov frowned. “Your reticence will keep you from your bed.”

  “I am Tarubinesky. What do

  The old man nodded. Tarubinesky yawned again.

  Staranov gestured toward the old man. “Search him.”

  Parenko explored the old man’s clothing, then handed Staranov a wallet full of airline

  tickets and a variety of currency. “Nothing else.”

  Staranov nodded at the valise.

  Parenko dumped the contents on the floor. “Tooth brush and paste, shaving tackle, an

  undershirt.”

  “You are not overburdened,” Staranov said.

  “Very observant.”

  “A further examination of the valise, please.”

  Parenko shredded the interior. “Nothing.” Staranov frowned. “Your rest is further delayed, Tarubinesky. Where is your luggage?”

  The old man yawned. “Transferred to the hotel.”

  “I am amazed at your behavior. Does being kidnapped not interest you?”

  The old man yawned again. “If there are diamonds, I shall remain alive until you have them. If you determine there are no diamonds, you may allow me to live. Or you may not. In either case, I am an old man who has lived well.”

  Staranov slapped the old man.

  He smiled. “The situation is unchanged, nevezhda.”

  “Simpleton? Me?”

  “You. I have no diamonds and you are wasting your time and mine.”

  “Gather his effects. Let us make our way to his hotel.”

  Management of the former Intourist Hotel had passed to the Marriott organization several years before. Nothing would ever solve the problems created by Soviet construction, nor would anyone ever point with pride at the Marriott Tashkent, but the hotel was habitable in a Central Asian sort of way and the staff was eager to please.

  The desk clerk was in tears. “All of the luggage from the Frunze flight destined for our hotel has arrived and been distributed. I oversaw it myself. There were no bags for Grazhdanin Tarubinesky.”

  Staranov led the group to the street and into a deserted alley. The old man shuffled along, then fell against Evesky.

  “Our diamond smuggler is sagging,” Staranov said. “Hold him erect.”

  When Parenko and Evesky had the old man pinned between them, Staranov punched him in the abdomen. The old man vomited his Aeroflot breakfast.

  “Your luggage?”

  Tarubinesky spit his remaining vomit on Staranov’s shoes. “Forwarded to Moscow.”

  Staranov punched him in the stomach again, then shrugged. “We must go to Moscow.”

  “How?” Evesky said. “You will share a seat with this one on the next Aeroflot flight?”

  Staranov surveyed his subordinates. “Ideas?”

  “One,” Parenko said. “There are several private jet aircraft at the airport. P
erhaps we could encourage a crew to take us.” He paused. “But where to land? We cannot land a hijacked airplane at Sheremetyevo?”

  “Secure an airplane for us and I shall provide a suitable airport.”

  Parenko drove the old Dodge along the flight line. A Dassault Falcon with LUKoil printed in large letters on the vertical stabilizer was fourth in line. A fuel truck was leaving the aircraft as they approached and an attendant was closing an access door.

  Staranov pointed at the airplane. “That one.” He and Evesky departed the taxi at the rear of the jet. Parenko parked in front of the nose.

  Evesky rolled a luggage cart to the rear of the left wing and climbed on.

  The pilot was gesturing at Parenko when Evesky tapped the pilot’s window with a kalishnakov.

  The pilot raised his hands.

  Evesky mimed a door opening.

  The pilot nodded.

  The door opened and the stairway descended.

  Evesky led Staranov up the stairway and into the cockpit.

  Staranov smiled. “We wish to borrow your airplane.”

  The pilot looked at Evesky’s kalishnakov, then nodded.

  It was full dark when the Falcon arrived in the Moscow area. “Tell me where to land,” the pilot said, “and I must tell you I fly much better without that pistol at my neck.”

  Staranov smiled. “I appreciate your humor, but I do not believe that my removing the chief motivation for your aiding us would improve your piloting.”

  The pilot shrugged. “Again, where do I land?”

  “Look in your directory for Chkalovsky, an airport outside the city.”

  The copilot opened a manual. “Chkalovsky. A military facility. Closed to all traffic.”

  “Radio them.”

  “Saying what?”

  “Tell them Galavna-ya Bohl wishes to land.”

  When he had a view of his associates standing on the tarmac, Staranov removed the Bagira from the pilot’s neck. “We thank you for your thoughtfulness today.”

  The pilot nodded.

  “We shall be far away before you can summon any authorities. Should you attempt any retaliatory measures before your departure, we shall shoot your tires and reenter the aircraft to discuss the matter.”

  The colonel commanding Chkalovsky was displeased at the request to provide transport to Sheremetyevo for Staranov and party, but the telephone call that Staranov arranged between the colonel and Valubin corrected his attitude.