Rubenstein's Augur Page 7
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