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Parenko left his passengers at the apartment on Frunzenskaya Embankment, then left to find a parking place for the Lada.

  When he arrived at the apartment, Staranov handed him two baggage checks. “Our enterprising and thorough Vera Davidovna found these.”

  “Where?”

  “In a capsule stored in an orifice you were too fastidious to search.”

  Parenko shrugged.

  “Return to Sheremetyevo, claim the bags, and rejoin us here.” Staranov peered into Parenko’s eyes. “Do not consider any other course of action.”

  The two bags were matched Hartmanns.

  Staranov completed a cursory examination. “I find nothing of interest, Tarubinesky. The luggage looks costly. Will you save yourself the expense of replacing the bags by telling me where the diamonds are hidden?”

  “No diamonds.”

  Staranov shook his head. “An unimaginative response, old man.”

  Tarubinesky shrugged.

  “Does the name Palyeznee Ooneeverseetyet mean anything to you?”

  “No.”

  “It is a school for torturers. I am an honors graduate.”

  The old man shrugged again. “As I have already said, I have no diamonds. If you nevertheless choose to torture me—even to death, I am man who has lived well and so can leave this life with a smile.”

  Staranov examined the product of a search of his left ear and frowned. He turned to Naveeva. “Vera Davidovna, I am feeling energetic. I shall commence with the brass knuckles.”

  November 12

  Two days later, Naveeva entered Staranov’s bedroom. “He’s dead.” Staranov sat up. “How?”

  “Exsanguination. I hesitate to criticize, but I think the sum of the many wounds

  inflicted—he began coughing up blood three hours ago.” Staranov stood. “He has been bleeding for three hours and you did not think I would be interested in a final interrogation?” He slapped the woman.

  “I—”

  “Help Evesky carry the body to the river. Chip a hole.”

  Later that afternoon, Staranov drove to the village of Usovo and from there to the dacha that had become headquarters for Galavna-ya Bohl. The modern wood and glass building was set in a grove of bare larches. Once assigned to the Vice-Chairman of the Heavy Machinery Ministry, the dacha was well constructed and well furnished.

  Valentin Igorovich Valubin held ownership through bribes and terror. It satisfied his needs for living away from Moscow’s miasma and for ease of security.

  He sat at the end of a scarred kitchen table. His posture was perfect. His brown suit had been cut to be reminiscent of his uniform. There was no hint of any Asiatic ancestry—his blond hair was close-cropped, his eyes light blue. He never forgot that he had once been a KGB general officer, not did he allow anyone else to forget it. He had distinguished himself within the Second Chief Directorate in the Soviet Far East until, in 1990, he had foreseen the end of communism and the Soviet Union and had retired to form Galavna-ya Bohl—the headache. Due to his vision, organizational skills, and utter ruthlessness, it was the largest and strongest of the Moscow-based mafyas.

  Grashchenko, Valubin’s last aide and the image of his commander at a younger age, sat at the corner.

  “No diamonds, Eugen Yakovich?” Valubin said.

  “There were none.” Staranov described the events of the past eight days.

  “He died of your ministrations?”

  “I may have been a little heavy-handed. I am out of practice and I think—”

  Valubin raised his hand. “I have heard enough. It may be that we had bad intelligence, but I warn you this performance brings your long-term value to me into question.”

  “I shall improve.” Staranov breathed deeply. “I await my next assignment.”

  Washington DC

  The Embassy of the Russian Federation was a huge white cube blazing in the late

  afternoon sunshine. The rezident, a thin man with smoked glasses and a crew cut, turned

  away from his visitor to watch the traffic on Wisconsin Avenue. “Rush hour is upon us.

  I understand that we are undergoing traffic problems at home. Amazing. ” He removed the glasses and looked at the man standing at his desk. “Dreshchensky?

  Nikita Petrovich?”

  Dreshchensky nodded. He was of medium height and build, with red-blond hair,

  freckles, and blue eyes. The cut of his suit was Ivy League; the remainder of his apparel

  was of comparable style. He was an archetype American.

  The rezident smiled. “I am Resen. And unless my powers of observation are failing,

  we have a tailor in common.”

  “J. Press.”

  “As I thought. It is easy to see why you were posted here. You look more like an

  American than most Americans.

  “Thank you, sir. I do well except for the contractions.”

  “Contractions?”

  “Can’t instead of cannot. They’ve been beaten into my head, but I have difficulty

  remembering when to use them.”

  “You will not need them where you are going.”

  “Sir?”

  “There is no help for it. You are lucky to be allowed to go home. The initial

  proposal was to leave you in a hole in the Virginia hunt country.”

  “But Colonel General Trubnikov’s orders were clear. The man was to cooperate or

  die.”

  “Given the resulting problems, the General has determined that you misunderstood

  his orders.”

  Dreshchensky studied his tasseled loafers.

  “You will best be served by accepting whatever Sluzhba Vneshnei Razvedki’s

  judgment is. Go home, behave, and stay alive.”

  November 18

  Six days later Dreshchensky stood at attention in the office of Colonel Kondrati

  Galinevich Vironov, deputy chief of personnel for SVR.

  “And so, Dreshchensky,” Vironov said, “rather than receiving the fate General

  Trubnikov had ordered for you, you are to live.” He pushed a brown mailing envelope

  across his desk. “I must congratulate you on the speed and thoroughness of your friends

  from the old Tenth Chief Directorate. The documentation of a hitherto undetected Jewish

  grandmother allows you to escape—to emigrate, that is—to America under the auspices

  of Senator—Senator—”

  “Senator Fichtberg. A great man.”

  “Indeed. One wonders how long it will be before the Senator and the rest of that

  nation learns the real nature of the downtrodden refugees who are so eagerly awaited.” “Your point may well be appropriate, Colonel, but it does not concern me—so long as

  it is not called into question before my airplane lands in New York.”

  Brighton Beach, New York, November 19

  The house was a gray, non-descript 1930s bungalow suffering from proximity to the

  ocean.

  A television set mumbled somewhere in the house, but there was no response to

  Dreshchensky’s knock. He was about to knock again, when a teenage boy opened the

  door.

  “Da?”

  “I come at the orders of Staranov. I am looking for Pavel Georgivich.” The boy closed the door.

  He was about to knock again, when a small, middleaged woman appeared. “He is

  not here. Return after five.”

  He held the door open with his foot. “I have nothing to do, nowhere to go. Let me

  in.”

  The woman studied his face, glanced at his suitcase, then stepped back. A tall clock just inside the entryway began to chime. Dreshchensky smiled. “It

  should be almost time for The Young and Restless.”

  “Da.” The woman led her visitor to a parlor in the rear of the old house.

  December 23

  Larson completed his morning trading, then telephoned Rubenste
in. “It’s Sam

  Larson, Cynthia. Is Aaron available?”

  “He’s in a meeting out of the office.”

  “When do you expect him?”

  “You’re calling about your quarterly results?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’d like you to fax the data.”

  “Fine.” Larson hesitated. “Is Sheila working today?”

  “No, I’m sorry, Mr. Larson. Doctor Sheila’s at the same meeting. May I—” “Doctor Sheila?”

  “Oh, yes, sir.”

  “I—”

  “Sheila Rubenstein, PhD. In mathematics, of course. A reserved personality, but

  quite a nice person.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “She bears up well under the kidding.”

  “Kidding?”

  “About her dissertation subject.”

  “What was it?”

  “The subject arises so often that I have the title memorized. It’s called The Weakness

  of Divided Forces.” She chuckled. “Doctor Aaron is the only one who understands it.” Larson sighed. “So much for the office overflow.”

  “Sir?”

  “Never mind. Thank you.”

  Chapter 9

  Vail, Colorado, December 31

  The chalet was a conceptual transplant from Bad Gastein in the Austrian Alps—

  except for the American utilities.

  Elizabeth sat in a window seat, staring at the falling snow. “Quite a place. I feel like

  I ought to be wearing a dirndl and serving strudel.”

  Larson, warming his hands at the fire, didn’t respond.

  “Do you realize this is the fourth New Year’s Eve in a row we’ve spent together?” Larson walked to the window and began tying his bow tie in the reflection. “You’re being moody, Sam. Not like you.”

  “I’m concerned with my current operations.”

  “Meaning?”

  “A matter of access versus control.” He smiled. “No reason to spoil our evening

  with my problem. Help me with this tie, then let’s see if we can get through the snow to

  Buster’s.”

  2003

  March 26

  Rubenstein listened to Larson’s quarterly report. “Good, Sam, keep up the good

  work.”

  Larson listened for more, but Rubenstein had left the line.

  April 22

  The evening edition of Moskovskii Komsomolets provided details and a lurid picture:

  MUTILATED BODY FOUND IN MOSCOW RIVER The body of a man identified by Militia as Benjamin Seth Tarubinesky, a Jew, was found floating near the Borodinsky bridge this morning. Because of the cold, Militia was unable to determine when the body entered the river. Tarubinesky, a diamond smuggler, was well known to Militia, hence the swift identification. The Chief Medical Examiner reported death could have been attributed to any of the myriad stab wounds that the body suffered prior to and after death. The medical examiner was quoted as saying that only a beast in human form could have behaved so.

  Valubin crumpled the page, then began pacing. “Ridiculous! Calling Staranov an animal is an insult to the lower orders.”

  Grashchenko shook his head. “The situation is worse than the article describes.”

  Valubin turned. “What could be worse?”

  “The militia’s pathologist found the diamonds in the old man’s large intestine.”

  Valubin shook his head. “We should never have allowed him to join us. I would like to charge you with his recruitment, but it was I who thought having an expert torturer on hand might be of value.”

  “Very merciful of you.”

  “It is, but what to do about him?”

  “Dubyagin would be pleased with the assignment.”

  “He would, but, no. Staranov’s associates would know who did it. I do not want any of the Palyeznee Ooneeverseetyet graduates knocking on my door—nor do you.” He paused.

  “Nevertheless, he must be removed. Hmm. Let us mask his demise in a general liquidation. Prepare a list of those who are no longer valuable.”

  May 5

  Two weeks later Staranov and Naveeva stood on either side of a naked body strapped

  to a dining table.

  Staranov leaned forward to whisper. “I give you a choice of how to die, assassin.” Dubyagin’s mouth was taped closed, but the lines surrounding it wrinkled upwards. “You are smiling?”

  The man nodded.

  “You do not believe me?”

  The man shrugged.

  “The choice is this. If you tell me who sent you and why, I shall give you a swift

  death. If you do not, I shall allow my associate to test some of her new theories in

  information extraction. Which do you choose?”

  Dubyagin twisted his cheeks back and forth.

  “You want the tape off? Of course.”

  Staranov ripped the tape away.

  The man breathed deeply.

  “Now, the name and the reason.”

  “Valubin.”

  Staranov nodded slowly. “Of course. And his reason?”

  “The Tarubinesky failure—and mutilation.”

  Staranov opened a clasp knife, showed the blade to his informant, then slashed his

  throat from ear to ear. Dubyagin remained staring at his murderer as the arterial blood

  began to spurt.

  May 7

  Grashchenko opened his cell phone. “Yes.”

  “It is Eugen Yakovich.”

  “Where are you, Staranov?”

  “Hidden.”

  “Very intelligent of you.”

  “Give your lider a message.”

  “It would be better for you to talk with him in person.”

  “Would it indeed? After the attempt on my life? The naiveté of the suggestion

  astounds me.”

  “The message?”

  “Tell him I forgive him sending Dubyagin. And I apologize for his loss of his

  assassin.” Staranov paused.

  “That is it?”

  “Tell him to leave me in peace until I can redeem myself. I shall make him happy he

  did so. I shall yet stand high in his favor!” June 22

  Cooper was asleep with his head on Angel’s bar when Larson arrived. He looked at

  the fat man and shook his head.

  The tan was deep and the hair thinner. He wore a thin T-shirt under a seersucker

  sport coat that was further than ever from buttoning. And he had forgotten his stockings. Larson left a stool between himself and Cooper.

  “Glad you dressed up, T.C.”

  Cooper raised his head. “Up yours, Larson!”

  “You give the word slob new dimensions.”

  “Who gives a shit?”

  “That kind of dress may be okay in the saloons where you hang out, but not”— Rubenstein arrived and took the empty stool.

  Larson handed a sheet of paper to each of them.

  Rubenstein glanced at the numbers and smiled. “Very well done.”

  Cooper looked at the final lines, crumpled his sheet, and threw it in front of Larson.

  “Not what you ought to have done. Not close!” Larson looked away. “You lost your hearing while I was gone, Larson?”

  “Hold it to a roar, Cooper!”

  “Roar’s ass! You should have made a lot more money.”

  “We accomplished what we had in mind. We proved and documented Augur’s

  capabilities and reliability.” He paused. “And we made good money while we did it.” “Nothing compared to what I could have done.”

  “Assuming you had more than a dollar fifty to invest.”

  “Damn it, I don’t—”

  “Let me break in here, Tom,” Rubenstein said. “I understood Sam’s goals and I’m

  satisfied.”

  “You’re satisfied? Hell, I’m the one who’s been exiled for a year! I don’t give a

  good goddamn what you�
�”

  Rubenstein patted Cooper’s shoulder. “Calm, Tom. We’re all friends here. Let’s

  move forward.”

  Cooper shook his head, then laid it back on the bar.

  “We’re almost ready to go to market,” Larson said, “except there’s one aspect of

  performance calculation I’ve not considered.”

  Rubenstein frowned. “That being?”

  “I’ve neglected the expense of gathering the data.”

  “A factor in considering costs of operation, of course, but not a large expense and for

  the time being, I—meaning NOAA—will continue to provide all aspects of data

  collection gratis.”

  “Then I’m ready to accept investor’s money.”

  Cooper raised his head again. “What kind of deal you got set up?” Larson stared at him. “I’ve formed a limited partnership in which an entity—” “What entity?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, T.C, but it’s called Monarch Georgia Limited

  Partnership.”

  Cooper made a note on a cocktail napkin.

  “Larson Interests will serve as general partner; investors will be limited partners.” “Limited?” Rubenstein said. “I don’t understand that term.”

  “A limited partners’ financial exposure is limited to the amount of his investment.” “Interesting. Neither Tom nor I are involved?”

  “Correct.”

  “How about our deal?” Cooper said.

  “The contract is being drawn. I’ll call.”

  Cooper was about to speak, when Rubenstein put his hand on his arm. “Enough,

  Tom. We’re underway and in good hands.” He stood. “I’ve got to get back to this

  year’s hurricanes.”

  June 24

  Daisy’s was the ground floor of what, according to the faded sign, had been Acme

  Umbrellas, Incorporated. Neon signs from beer manufacturers provided most of the

  light. Chips of mulched bark covered the floor. The racks of old packages of peanut

  butter-and-crackers and beef jerky were dusty. The dining facilities at the redneck bar

  were not popular with the clientele. The dark sawdust lay in greasy clumps. A male and

  female on CD were whining at each other.

  Larson sniffed the air. “Someone die?”

  Cooper extended a middle finger. “You, Larson, are a real horse’s ass! My day with

  you ain’t far off.”

  Larson shook his head, then handed the blue-backed contracts to Rubenstein. He