Doing Lunch

by Doing Lunch Free(Lit)

  “Brian, Mikhail here.”

  “It’s about time you called. I must have called you six or seven times in the last week. Tommy Hurzweig is getting married and we’re having a bachelor party next Friday.”

  “Can’t make it. Tell Tommy to put it on ice.”

  “You in Hawaii, Mikey?”

  “Moscow.”

  “Moscow! Was there a death in the family? Tell me, let me know what’s going on here.”

  “It’s a birth, Brian.”

  “Wow! Whose baby? A cousin, an uncle, whose?”

  “Mine.” The singular word that Brian heard threw him for a loop since the answer was so unexpected.

  “I just saw Allison two weeks ago, she wasn’t pregnant unless you two were having a stick baby. You never could draw.”

  “It’s not that kind of baby. Allison and I are over here trying to turn the Russian economy around, trying to bring a free market economy here. It’ll be the birth of a new way of life.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes, that is why I’m calling you, Brian. I need some information.”

  “Like what?”

  “A month or two ago your magazine ran an article on successful businesspersons in Russia. I need a copy of that article.”

  “Hold on.” Having been friends with Mikhail for several years and believing himself to be at least a reasonably good judge of character, he sensed that his friend was being honest with him. Besides, Brian was a tit for tat kind of person and he remembered the number of times that Mikhail had loaned him the condo in Maui. He felt he owed his Russian friend just one for those favors. Quickly, Brian scanned the computer and found what he believed was the article.

  “The one about the twenty-six year old computer man and the forty-eight year old scrap metal king?”

  “That’s it but there were more people in it.”

  “Yeah, this is the one. Probably eight or nine businessmen are in it. I’ll fax it to you right away, what’s your number?” Mikhail rattled off the number that Medansky’s people had set him up with for his personal fax. Mikhail was in the process of setting up an entire office of communications knowing that this situation was going to be similar in many ways to a military operation. An affective communications center was going to be a necessity and to keep the expenses down he ordered cellular plans with free long distance minutes and no roaming charges.

  The two friends said good-bye and Mikhail knew he might never see his friend again. Brian’s instincts knew that he must see his friend, and soon. His journalistic instincts told him there was a story here and he figured that since he was such good friends with Mikhail, maybe an exclusive. The first thought he had was to check to see if his visa was still good, something foreign correspondents could not afford to neglect.

  Putting the receiver down, Mikhail found Allison standing there in front of him as he turned. Short of breath, her face was filled with panic. With her hair disheveled, she read like a pure case of distress.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I was almost skinned alive walking from the Kremlin to here.”

  “What happened?”

  “Two guys loved my tan. They kept trying to pinch me to see if it was real.”

  Having been with Mikhail for several years, Allison knew that his reaction to her problem was not what she had been hoping. Quickly, Mikhail grabbed Allison’s hand and led her toward the window.

  “Those clowns didn’t realize that even if they skinned you, they couldn’t wear your tan. But what if we import a way for them to get a tan?” Allison’s dropped jaw and gleam in her eye told Mikhail that she understood what he meant.

  “Brandon Guinart!”

  Mikhail merely needed to return the smile to Allison to give his answer. They read each other like a book, a comic book, as they would say. They were one of the few couples in America that still had fun being together.

  “Come on, Alexi’s waiting for us.” The two lovebirds that used the heat they generated to keep warm during Moscow’s frigid nights hurried down the corridor to Alexi’s office, which was now quite cramped. Sitting inside were three men, along with Alexi. The Russian head of state quickly introduced the three men who were managers from three of the world’s largest oil companies.

  “So you feel that you have something to barter with?” asked Bertrand Van Brastien, president of Crustacean Oil Company, the worlds largest.

  “As I wrote to you, our oil is at bargain prices.”

  “What are bargain prices, might I ask?”

  “Fifteen dollars a barrel.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Why, the world market price now is twenty-one? You’ll be getting more than twenty five percent off. Forty-two gallons of gasoline to a barrel, you could make out pretty good.”

  “And have you forgotten that it will cost us to transport it?”

  “Of course not. What I’m figuring is that you pay us half, let's say, on fifteen million barrels up front. We construct a pipeline into Western Europe and you catch the flow from there. After we’ve paid you back in oil for what you’ve advanced us, then we’ll charge world market value but you’ll be guaranteed a supply.”

  “That’s ludicrous.”

  “We might be interested,” interjected Hilberto Martusi of Malaysia, president of Far East Oil. Mikhail, having heard the soft voice coming from this head honcho, immediately envisioned the boardroom at Far East Oil as being about four feet by six feet. It just wasn’t possible for Martusi’s voice to carry in dimensions any larger than that, Mikhail thought.

  “Well I’d love to talk business with you. Are you really interested?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well then bring your people to my office tomorrow morning and we’ll try to iron something out. Do you know where my office is?”

  “On the fifth floor.”

  “At what time?” asked Shell Berouneanu, president and CEO of France’s largest oil company, Marseilles Oil. The pipeline was the most important lure to Shell since his company was based in the city for which it was named and because of that the oil barrels that came in from Asia were often subjected to searches for opium. A pipeline into France itself could eliminate that problem.

  “Nine sound fine?” The nod from Shell and the okay from Hilberto elicited some movement from Bertrand.

  “So you’re saying we’ll save six dollars a barrel?”

  “Minimum,” advised Allison, “ because if the price of oil goes up by the time it’s ready to flow, you could be saving even more. And the price has been going up.”

  “How long do you think it will be before the pipeline is finished?” inquired Bertrand.

  “We’re going to shoot for about a year.”

  “A year! Impossible! Something like that is labor intensive.”

  “I know. We’re going to be working around the clock.”

  “That will cost you a fortune in overtime.”

  “What overtime, we’re in Russia?” Mikhail had said just the right thing to stop Bertrand who he suspected was really not interested in the oil, at least not at it’s current price, but who was intent on scaring off the other two potential investors, people who were his competitors.

  “You will have enough people who know how to put it together?” asked Shell, just a little skittish after Bertrand’s comment.

  “We’re bringing in teams from America to team up with our top people. Then we plan to have some of our unskilled people who have potential to work with them so they can learn. We’ll have plenty of people to carry the tools and the pipes. You could call it on the job training for building a country.”

  “Ah there, you’re bringing in Americans. You will have to pay them plenty. You were trying to hide that from us, weren’t you?”

  Mikhail looked at Allison in disbelief. He felt he was dealing with a child who ran around with the attitude “I gotcha’.”

  “I wasn’t trying to hide anything. We’ve already made a deal with two American compa
nies, so they’ll pick up their labor for some cheap oil that they plan to sell on the world market.”

  “You said nine in the morning?” asked Shell, now frightened about not making the deal. He started to believe that there would be others who would jump at the chance so he had better take it while the taking was good.

  “Nine.”

  “I will be there, too,” added Hilberto.

  “Do you have three extra chairs?” asked Bertrand, knowing that the deal was too good. He had really wanted to beat Mikhail down in the price per barrel but what he did not know was that the former spy came in with his bottom price per barrel right off the bat. He never had any intention of wavering.

  “We have plenty of chairs.” Alexi went to the refrigerator and removed the Smirnoff’s.

  “Sorry, Alexi, Allison and I have to go.”

  “Where?”

  “To meet with the architects of the hotel. We were able to get the same ones that designed the Tropicana in Las Vegas with its waterfalls."

  “Well how about stopping at the house tonight? Orlina is celebrating the fact that she lost another ten pounds and is ahead of schedule. She’s making beef stroganoff.”

  “That will kill her dieting. Why are dieting and gambling so much alike? Just when you get ahead, you give it all back?” asked Mikhail, with only his girlfriend understanding what he meant by that.

  “It is just for tonight.”

  “Alexi, does she make a good stroganoff?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Then don’t have us over and don’t let her make it. She makes it and enjoys it the diet’s shot to hell. Whamo! Right out the door. Nothing could kill a diet faster than taste buds.”

  “Oooo!” The sound emitted from Alexi was a signal to Allison that the premier was involved in a paradox with this situation. Her curiosity was biting at her soul just pleading with her to have it satisfied.

  “Alexi, you sound like there is something wrong?”

  “There is. If I let her make the stroganoff, it’ll be the first good meal I will have had since she went on this diet, but Orlina gains weight. She gains weight, then she gets depressed and I must deal with a depressed wife and a depressed economy. If I tell her, it’s back to fast food if I want something warm.”

  “You’re going to tell her, Alexi, you’re too honest.”

  “Yes, Allison, I am honest, but I am also hungry.” With Mikhail’s presence, Alexi found himself making light of serious situations as long as it did not involve life or limb. Allison knew that what she had said would prevail, that Alexi would keep Orlina true to her goal.

  “By the way, Alexi, we couldn’t make it anyway. Allison and I were meeting with Chenault tonight.”

  “The Foreign Minister of France is here in Moscow? How come no one tells me these things?”

  “He’s not. We’re going there,” informed Allison, who was as surprised that the premier had not been informed as Alexi was about first receiving the news. Giving the situation a second thought, however, Allison realized that Mikhail was going to tell his uncle. This was a man that would go to the store for four items and only come back with two, and those two items were not even part of the original four.

  “Why are you going to France?”

  “Francs,” advised Mikhail. No matter where Mikhail placed the accent, Alexi always interpreted it as bucks. The premier knew that Mikhail was proficient in exchange rates and kept up on it every day.

  “When will you be back?”

  “Probably by two in the morning.”

  “You really do work fast.”

  “Have to, Alexi, this country was a hundred years behind the times and in less than six months the new models will be coming out. Tell Orlina three cheers with that diet, we have to go.” Before Alexi could wish his nephew good luck and shake his hand and kiss Allison good-bye, they were gone. Maybe Alexi was trying to do too much at one time.

  Guska and Boltran had no idea why they had been summoned to the state office building. In days gone by they would have thought that they were being sent to the cold tundra of Siberia. That was in days gone by so there must be another reason they were summoned. Entering the office of Alexi’s receptionist, the two well-tanned spies were whisked into the premier’s office. There they found Alexi and Mikhail sitting sipping tea.

  “Mister Premier,” were the only words that Boltran could muster as he looked straight into the eyes of Mikhail Debenov, the man he helped kidnap, stunned to find him there. Maybe they were reopening the Siberian camps. It certainly was not a place that the two wanted to show off their new skin color.

  “Hi guys!” was the greeting offered up by Mikhail, hoping to make them feel at ease.

  “Hello,” came the monotone reply from Boltran while Guska could only work up a nod. When he kidnapped Mikhail he had no idea that the victim had an in with the boss. His apprehension was obvious to everyone because the tan was turning to a whiter shade of pale.

  “It is all right, I am the one that ordered him kidnapped.” The premier’s words brought relief to Guska, who was now able to return to his PF 8 aided skin color.

  “This is my nephew, Mikhail. I asked you to kidnap him because he is going to lead Russia to a greater economic future. The two of you will be working for him from now on.”

  The two exchanged smiles and Mikhail believed he knew the reason why, the condo on Maui. He knew that the condo would pay for itself when he purchased it but he never dreamed that he’d be using it as a bargaining chip with Russian agents.

  “I need the two of you to find out everything that the communist party built and kept private. I need to know where it is located. I need to know who had what. I want to know what Medansky had, what Sergotoff had, Yalantov had. This includes all of them. I want to know what property they have personally and how much money, gold and jewelry they have stashed. Got it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I’d like it A.S.A.P.” The A.S.A.P. threw the two spies for a loop and Mikhail did not want them getting sidetracked trying to find out what the four letters meant when he needed the other information.

  “It just means as soon as possible.”

  “That is a lot of information.”

  “If you get it to me within two weeks, you can have the condo in Maui for two weeks.”

  “It will be done,” confirmed a smiling Boltran while Guska looked at the tan on his hands and smiled.

  “Then just do it.” The two exited quickly, their feet doing a happy shuffle as they passed through the door jam.

  “Love those incentive clauses,” muttered Mikhail.

  “Do you really think they plundered?”

  “Closest to the pot, Alexi, gets the best food.” Now that he was convinced that the former heads of the Soviet Union had plundered for their own good, he was curious as to how much.

  “Chenault was agreeable to the advance for the zinc. I told him that France’s consortium could have it for sixty percent of whatever the market value is when we start getting it up until the amount is paid in full.”

  “That is ludicrous!”

  “Alexi, right now we were using outdated equipment, equipment that just doesn’t make it worth our while. There’s enough zinc down there to mine for a hundred years. We need to start getting it up at a cheaper cost than we’re doing it now. Consider the initial loss like a loss leader in a supermarket.”

  “Supermarket?”

  Mikhail found out quickly how just one word stated with the right inflection could show you that someone was looking at the same thing as you and saw it differently. In this case, Alexi did not see it at all because he had no clue as what a supermarket was.

  “You remember when you were in Los Angeles...come on, Alexi, you have to remember that store that sold the videos and flowers, wines, imported cheeses, all the things the average person needs.”

  The premier knew that his nephew could not be talking about the average Russian citizen since they were waiting in line for hours at a ti
me for eggs, butter and milk. This was a case where Alexi was hoping that the law of averages caught up with Russia. Looking at his watch, Mikhail’s eyes opened wide.

  “I’m late.”

  “For what?”

  “I’m supposed to meet with Allison and some ad execs. Drop on by the penthouse if you get a chance.” Before Alexi could make another comment, Mikhail was gone.

  The hotel penthouse that Mikhail was now occupying was trite compared to what he left back in Maui and Santa Monica. He was not too thrilled with the weather either, but it came with the territory. He was glad that aviation technology had come so far because any time he needed a change of territory, he could get some heat within just a few hours. For the ad execs he was bringing in, there was no difference between Moscow and New York, where a late winter storm had left several inches of snow blanketing the area.

  Entering the suite, Mikhail noticed the platters of sandwiches and appetizers that were laid out. His eyes quickly picked up the urn of coffee that he knew was going to be a must. Allison, he thought, was always so good at these things; she always remembered every detail that would provide comfort. Putting her in charge of developing the hotels in this city on the Caspian Sea was the right thing to do if he wanted it to be successful.

  “Mikhail, this is Tim Smith and Brian Jalom of Albright Worldwide.” The customary handshaking took place as all parties agreed what a pleasure it was to meet the other. It was this kind of etiquette that the world needed if peace was to exist. Fat chance on the L.A. Freeways, Mikhail thought.

  “Allison says that you plan to have two hotels completed in this city within six months.”

  “Definitely!”

  “Isn’t that being overly optimistic?” asked Tim. “I mean, you have to run electricity in, get water lines in, pave streets. You have an awful lot of things to do.”

  “Listen, right now we have plans in motion to put ten thousand people on the water lines, electric wiring, cable lines for television and telephone by the end of the week.” The two ad men were impressed and convinced. While Mikhail had become a hustler, he had a way of making people know he was telling the truth when he really was.