“Hello!”
“Allison, it’s me...”
“Mikhail, where are you? I’m going nuts, just totally insane. Talk to me, tell me. Where are you?” Although thousands of miles away, Mikhail still could not get a word in edgewise.
“Allison...ooo Allison.”
“Yes, Mikhail.”
“I’m in Moscow.”
“Moscow?”
“Yes, I’ve been kidnapped.” While an honest reply, it was the wrong thing to say. Angrily, Allison heaved the receiver against the wall, causing such a loud noise that Mikhail started to wonder if maybe a communications satellite or two had not crashed. Allison was not really worried about breaking the telephone since she knew that Mikhail still had some credit left on at least two cards. Hearing Mikhail’s jumbled words coming from the phone, which now was right next to the refrigerator, she retrieved it.
“Mikhail, are you still there?”
“Yeah, what the hell was that noise?”
“I got pissed and threw the receiver against the wall. I thought I heard you say you were kidnapped.”
“I was.” Allison’s reticence was probably worse for Mikhail’s ego than her throwing the phone against the wall because at least when she did that, he knew she heard every word he said.
“I was kidnapped!” Mikhail couldn’t stand the silence and he was certain that he had read somewhere that the cold war was over.
“Allison! Are you there, Allison?”
“Were you really kidnapped?”
“Yes, I’m in Moscow, really.”
“Who kidnapped you?”
“You’re not going to believe me, Allison.”
“Who kidnapped you?” The sternness of her voice intimidated Mikhail. He knew Allison well and she was a sweetheart but she hated liars, always sought to exact revenge from someone who lied to her. She hated to have her intelligence insulted. For the tone of her voice to become firm made him realize that she was mad.
“Well, it was...it was Alexi.”
“That sweet man?” Before Mikhail could anticipate Allison’s reaction, he realized that she again threw the receiver against a wall. What was her obsession with the walls, he thought? Mikhail figured that Allison had played the receiver perfectly off the wall just like Ted Williams had played the balls off the Green Monster in Fenway Park. There had to be less than two seconds from the time he heard the bang and her voice.
“What did this man do to you, what?”
“Allison, Alexi was the one that ordered that I be kidnapped. What is with you? Do you think I came to Moscow because I found a good deal on a snowmobile?”
“Well why did he kidnap you, what’s the reason?”
“It was for the same reason he was pestering me in America. It’s the same reason that I missed that two-foot putt, he wants me to get the Russian economy on track.”
“Well, are you staying?”
“Yes, and I want to come back and get you. I need you to help me.”
“I can’t, Mikhail, at least not right now. I’m still in school; the quarter doesn’t finish for another two weeks. And what about you, don’t you want to finish school?”
“Of course, but I must help Alexi. We don’t know what will happen to him if a free market economy doesn’t catch on.”
“Let me just finish this quarter, Mike, and I’ll come and help.” Hearing Allison call him Mike did wonders to soothe his soul. He knew now that she believed that he had been kidnapped so he would not have to bring a note from Alexi back to Los Angeles when he returned there.
“You think you’ll be okay with finals, this won’t get on your mind, will it?”
“No, not at all. All the classes were interesting this quarter so I paid attention.”
“What classes?”
“Contract law, constitutional law...”
“Bring them, we’ll need them. Pick you up in two weeks?”
“How should I pack?”
“Warm. Boots, gloves, parka, those kinds of things.”
“Something tells me, Mike, that I just won’t find those things here in Hawaii.”
“Yeah, talk about a snowball's chance in hell.” Before she knew it she was hearing the sound of a kiss.
“Got to go, babe. Love you, call you.” The receiver went dead but her boyfriend’s last words confirmed his good health. He sounded like he was running in his Hollywood producer's mode.
Alexi again had the putter in hand while Mikhail sat at Alexi’s desk with vodka in hand. Striking the ball, Alexi was quickly demonstrating proficiency for the game, or at least his ability to make a putt.
“Touché, Alexi!” cried out Mikhail from his wonderful spectator’s position at Alexi’s desk, his feet crossed and propped up on it. Finding a reason to finish the vodka, the economic savior of Russia downed the drink in one swallow.
“Hell, not quite Shaq but he wasn’t downing eighty proof. What time is this meeting with Russia’s head honchos?”
Alexi looked at his watch. He then began collecting the ball return and the balls, a sure sign that the time had come. Rising to his feet, Mikhail poured himself one more shot and drank it quickly. Putting the cap back on, he returned the vodka to the refrigerator while Alexi returned the golf equipment to the closet.
Walking down the corridor of the state office building, the gray walls created a cold feeling, something that it had been for years. Maybe that’s what the state wanted, Mikhail thought. This color scheme was going to be in direct conflict with his ideas about boosting morale with lively color schemes. Mikhail thought that the Russians might have learned a thing or two about color after all those years dealing with Fidel. Cuba might be poor, but it was lively.
Finally reaching an office where Alexi came to a stop, Mikhail knew that this was the place. Not knowing what to expect when his uncle eased the door open, he found seven men sitting at a long conference table. This was going to have to be changed, Mikhail thought. The American idea of a reception area first was much more practical, kind of like a place where attendance could be taken.
Entering, Alexi stood at the far end, closest to the door where he had just entered. Glancing about, Alexi’s eyes made everyone realize that he was sizing up the situation.
“Gentlemen, this is my nephew, Mikhail Debenov.” Sitting at the other end was Sergotoff, who rose to issue a salutation.
“Greetings, Mikhail. We welcome your return.”
“Yeah, well hopefully it’ll be short.” When Sergotoff looked around at the faces of the other six men, the Russian spy turned American businessperson knew exactly what the meaning was.
“And successful. I like to hit big and move on, if you know what I mean.” The rapid-fire response found Sergotoff off guard and speechless, Mikhail’s confidence surprised him.
“Now we have a lot of work ahead of us. Lots of work. First thing we need to do is spend a little money to try to make more. It’s called expansion.”
“But we have nothing,” commented Denostov Berchev, Minister of Finance.
“Don’t be ridiculous, you must have something.”
“I am Denostov Berchev, Minister of Finance. We have not,” reaffirmed Berchev. Knowing that he was being hustled and the very use to this ploy agitated Mikhail. Mikhail’s response was quick. “Well, I was told that I was being given control to get the job done?”
“Why yes,” answered Sergotoff.
“Good! You’re out of here, little man, I’ll bring my own people in to see what we have.”
“I think maybe we might be able to find a little something to get started.” Berchev’s immediate response did not surprise Mikhail since he was used to American politicians always saying no until they found themselves threatened. They all wanted the pork trimmed unless it was pork that was going to their voting constituents. He had a good teacher, the Congress of the United States.
“Good. We need to start by bringing in foreign investment.” The words of the speaker had the affect of a forthcoming plague. Russia
had been isolated and to now have to allow external influence in their country was something these seven men were not really certain that they wanted. Or could deal with. Looking around the room at the faces, Mikhail thought he was in the middle of one big Hollywood freeze frame. There was no movement in the room; everyone sat stiff waiting for someone else to move first.
“Listen folks, I don’t know which word put the gumballs in your throat, but we needforeign investment !” The sudden rise in Mikhail’s voice could have woken up the dead; the ones with freeze brain were another story.
“Will they not try to influence us?”
“Maybe. It’s business, we’ll have a say in where to draw the lines, but Russia needs money. To have a market economy, you have to circulatemoney ! That’s something we don’t have.”
The ministers looked at one another, each face hiding any indication of how that minister felt, except for Medansky. His smile looked like a year’s worth of happy days. Sergotoff knew immediately why the KGB chief had the smile; with more outsiders in the country it would allow Medansky to ask for more agents. More agents meant a bigger budget at the KGB. A big slice of the government’s financial pie meant more power, something that Medansky thrived.
“We’ll also need to attract more tourists and that means we’ll need to be more open. For starters, we might start cutting down on the funding for the KGB, start doing away with some of the agents.” Mikhail’s words had Medansky closing his eyes in horror, the smile gone in a flash. The Foreign Minister was certain that the intelligence officer wanted to cry and was doing everything he could to hide it.
“Will I be notified of what you are doing?”
“Who are you?”
“That was Yalantov, Mikhail. He is the Minister of Trade,” answered Alexi, in response to his nephew’s question.
“That’s a pretty ridiculous title you have there. If you were good at trading things, I would not be here, I’d be sipping Blue Hawaii’s on Maui thinking about how I sank that twenty footer to save par.”
Looking around, he realized that these people had absolutely no idea what he meant. The twisted faces and the wide eyes brought Mikhail to a stark reality: there was no communication here. These people had been in their own little world so long, so isolated, that he knew if it was something that they had no direct knowledge about, it would need an explanation.
“What don’t you understand?”
“Blue Hawaii,” came the answer from Listisch.
“You are?’
“I am Listisch, the Minister of Transportation.”
“Yeah well, for starters, you should get bigger subs. That was the worst cruise I’ve ever taken.” Mikhail took Listisch back and he was about to find out just how far back he was going to go. “Listen, Mister Listisch, if my information is correct, Russia had plenty to trade, tons of natural resources. The way I get it, you people don’t have any transportation. Somebody should have told you to move it but maybe you didn’t have anything to move it with.”
Listisch, a man of great pride and little ability, had now gone as far back as he could. Rising from his seat, he stared at Mikhail, burdened with this humiliation.
“I have done a good job.”
“Right, head of transportation and the country’s at a standstill. From what I understand, you should be working for the Long Island Railroad. Their schedule comes in LCD.” Not understanding what the young man was saying but sensing by the tone it was not a compliment, he decided that what he had heard was not favorable. His eyes intense, his eyebrows lowered, Listisch stared at Mikhail like a bull, ready to charge.
“Listisch, this country’s already a couple of decades behind the times. We can’t have you and your trains being late anymore. Give it up.” The Minister of Transportation immediately became the former minister when he decided to storm from the room.
“You have just lost a great man as Minister of Transportation. What do you plan to do?’ demanded Sergotoff, the sternness of his deep baritone voice scaring the other ministers, as it always had.
“Dispose of him,” came Mikhail’s “I’m certain that will be no problem.” Mikhail’s casual monotone voice showing that he had retained his composure made the others wonder about him. They all had the same thought at the same time, what did this former Moscovite turned beach bum have going for him that he had no fear of Sergotoff? Yalantov had the feeling that this man was different.
“He is a good man. You can’t dismiss him.”
“Listen you, whoever you are...”
“Sergotoff, I am the Foreign Minister!” The Foreign Minister returned to the stern deep baritone that he had used moments before, hoping to inculcate his authority on the kidnapped victim.
“Listen Sergotoff, I’ll pick the right person for the right job.” The silence that filled the room delighted Alexi, who watched with glee as his nephew kept control of the situation. He couldn’t help feeling that Sergotoff had met his match.
“And where do you expect to find this new minister of transportation?”
“Don’t know just yet. If I have to import one, I will.”
“You will not import people to tell us what to do?”
“Hey, you imported me, didn’t you?” The rapid-fire response of Mikhail reaffirmed his keen ability to think on his feet. It was all too often that Sergotoff ran into people that could not think at all. He always liked this because they were the easiest to intimidate, they fell prey to his game.
“Sit down, Sergotoff, because if you didn’t like what I’ve been telling you, you’re going to hate the coming attractions.” Sitting down and having no idea what Mikhail meant by coming attractions, he almost wanted to grit his teeth, expecting the worst.
“Now Russia has a boat load of natural resources but no transportation to get it to market and no money to get that transportation developed.” The first point of Mikhail’s spiel to the Russian Ministers was understood and accepted. They could not find any harm in that statement.
“What I plan on doing is making some business deals with foreign companies. We give them some of our natural resources for less than market value and we get money from them up front so we can put together a transportation system to get the rest of it to market.”
“That is outrageous!” snapped Sergotoff, his face contorted from the anger he felt.
“What’s outrageous about it?”
Rising to his feet, wanting to be on the same level as Mikhail, he looked across the table into his eyes. “It is outrageous because we will not get the fair market value. It is, how you say, 'we’ll get ripped off.'”
“You’re right about that, Sergie.” The new nickname that Mikhail had just coined for the Foreign Minister caused Sergotoff to grimace as if someone just ran their nails across a blackboard. He began to sense that he was going to have to put his patience and discipline to the test in the hopes that Alexi failed in his plan to save Russia.
“The problem that you have is that we need to get these things to market. We don’t have a way to do that. We need to get some transportation going. The only way to buy what we need is money. We don’t have any. So we start to sell what we hope to produce. It’s called futures.”
“We will be ripped off.”
“Ripped off, Sergie, is when you try to sell your first screenplay. That’s what you call getting ripped off.”
Sergotoff’s blank look said it all to Mikhail and he now truly understood what Allison meant when she said that talking to her ex-boyfriend was like talking to the wall, because Mikhail was now experiencing that phenomenon.
“Listen, Sergie, we’re trying to turn Russia into a free market economy. A free market economy counts on spending and saving, spending and saving. It is called circulation. We need to get goods to market so that we can get some money to the people to buy things so that people stay employed making things, get the picture?”
“I’m not sure.”
There was a knock on the door and Sergotoff invited the unseen guest to
enter. It was Alexi’s aide, Volitov, carrying a small box.
“Thanks Vol,” commented Mikhail as he grabbed the box from him. The best thing that Mikhail could have done was shortening Volitov’s name, because now the Foreign Minister knew he had not been selected arbitrarily. This was just one of Mikhail’s mannerisms.
“Okay, now we need to have a game plan. Since you people aren’t quite familiar with the private sector, the area where people actually work, I brought along a book that I think each of you should read.” Reaching into the box he began removing copies of Donald Trump’s “The Art of the Deal.” As the books were circulated around, the ministers gave the books an evil eye. Mikhail thought that of course they considered free enterprise evil, they already had what they wanted; they certainly did not want to share, what a contradiction in a society where communism was the economical philosophy.
“Now I hope that everyone here has this read by the next time we meet.”
“When is that?” asked Yalantov, who never missed the obvious, but had an awful lot of trouble with crossword puzzles.
“About two weeks. I’m going back to America to get my girlfriend. She will help me put this whole thing together.”
There must have been a mine inside Mikhail’s last statement because now he was staring into a wall of stone cold faces, the kind that made him shiver. He was trying to place the statement in context with the Russian culture, figuring there was something wrong there. He was right as he discovered by Medansky’s words.
“What will this girlfriend of yours do?”
“She’ll help me get things going.”
“How?” came Medansky’s second question, quickly following Mikhail’s unsatisfactory answer.
“I’ll put her in charge of some of the things we want to do.”
“You will give her authority?” was Medansky’s third question.
“Of course, she’ll need it to get things accomplished.” Rising quickly, his unlit cigar remained hanging from between his lips. He then began to jaw at it.
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