Rubenstein's Augur

by Henry Hollensbe

  The wind howled around a wooden guard post. Only its red stripes made it visible in

  the snow traveling with the wind across the Russian plain.

  A sergeant in the winter uniform of the NKVD stood at attention outside the small

  building. Beyond the guard post the side of a small hill had been cleaved, leaving a

  vertical wall ten meters high. Inset in the wall was a steel door, three meters high and

  three meters wide. A spoked wheel was centered in the door.

  A brigadier general wearing the tabs of armor showed the guard his identification

  papers. “Open.”

  The guard hurried to twist the wheel.

  The general reached for the arm of the man accompanying him, a civilian in a quilted

  overcoat and sable hat, but the visitor retreated.

  “Come!”

  “I do not care for closed spaces. I cannot go down there.“

  The general smiled. “In that case I shall be happy to descend and report your frailty.

  He will doubtless be sympathetic and hurry to the surface.” He turned to the door. “No, no,” Stepan Fyodorovich Barsilenko said, “I can manage. I must.” “Indeed you must.”

  Barsilenko brushed the snow from his shoulders, then stepped forward. “It would have been better, tovarishch, if you had left your city garments at home.

  And today’s weather is nothing to what is predicted for tomorrow.”

  “I had no idea where I was going. I was just ordered to enter the limousine.” “Good security. Come.”

  The general led Barsilenko down the one hundred ninety-two steps to the bunker

  below, then opened a steel door. He guided the visitor across the raised threshold. A short, burly man in the uniform of a marshal of the Union of Soviet Socialist

  Republics was standing inside the door. He smiled. “Good evening, Finance Minister.” The general closed the door and began the climb to the surface.

  The face had sagged since Barsilenko had last seen the man. There was a rumor of dye, but there was gray in the hair and in the great mustache. The uniform bulged at the waist.

  Stalin gestured about the room. “How do you like it?” “ Excellent. Beautiful—in its own way—and I am certain that the workmanship is perfect.”

  “We are thirty-seven meters underground and the walls are one and one-half meters thick. Steel and concrete.”

  “Would that our people could know how well you are protected here.”

  “It would doubtless be a great comfort to them.” Stalin seated himself at a desk and gestured toward a side chair. “To business.”

  The bi-weekly review of Soviet finances consumed an hour. Barsilenko closed his briefcase and stood, but Stalin grasped his sleeve. “One more item. You are familiar with what the Americans call The Mannerling Trust?”

  Barsilenko nodded.

  “The current value?”

  The minister reopened his briefcase. “One hundred forty-two million dollars.”

  “So! Given our new partnership with the Americans, is it not worth asking Mr. Roosevelt to hand it over? It is ours, is it not?”

  “Yes, General Secretary.”

  “Would it not be to the Americans’ advantage for us to have the money? We could pay for some of the food and munitions they are sending. Perhaps delivery schedules would be improved.”

  “An excellent idea, General Secretary. I shall inquire.”

  Kuybyshev, December 16

  Fourteen days later Stalin was waiting for Barsilenko in the war conference room.

  Barsilenko gasped. “I had not seen this during my earlier visit. Magnificent! It

  appears as if a section of the Moscow underground railway had been moved a thousand

  kilometers east.”

  “As well it should. Our Moscow underground engineers built it. They required a

  mere six months.” Stalin walked to the far end of a long table, then turned. “Great

  decisions have been and will be made here, Finance Minister. Worldshaking decisions.”

  He sat. “But, come, tell me of our financial picture.”

  Barsilenko opened a thick notebook and began.

  An hour later, he stood. “One further item, General Secretary, The Mannerling Trust.”

  “Yes! They will give us the money?”

  “No, General Secretary.”

  “The reason?”

  “The Jew, Morgenthau, was pleasant in his correspondence, but he explained that while we and they are now allies against the Nazis, our pact with Grazhdanin Hitler in 1939 has not been forgotten in Washington. He is watching our new relationship. Quite closely, he put it.”

  “I see.”

  “The letter closed with the statement that you could contact President Roosevelt himself if you wish.”

  Washington, December 27 Franklin Roosevelt and Cordell Hull were closeted in the Oval Office. There were a few remnants of Christmas on the windowsills. Rain beat against the windows. A guard outside sheltered himself as best he could.

  The President’s big face was gray. The hair was sparse and almost all white. He removed his pince-nez and rubbed the deep indentations in his nose.

  “What do you think?”

  The Secretary of State shook his head. “Congress will never agree.”

  “What if I didn’t ask Congress?”

  “Such a move would attest to the courage you’ve shown and continue to show, Franklin, but I imagine our isolationist friends and Red-baiters are already aware of this matter. In my opinion and those of my associates at State, there is no way your agreement to transfer The Mannerling Trust funds could be kept secret.” He paused. “And if your agreement were made known to the public, I suspect it would cause the Soviet Union more problems in our Congress than the money would warrant.”

  “But, damn it, it’s their money!”

  “Not according to Henry. He says the money belongs to the Romanov family, not to Russia.” Hull hesitated. “And most especially not to our new Bolshevik allies. They are, after all, the ones who assassinated the last of the Romanovs.”

  Roosevelt sighed. His cigarette holder drooped. “If only Barsilenko had communicated with me first.”

  The telephone rang. Roosevelt answered, listened, then covered the handset and smiled. “War Department. Good news from Oran.”

  The cigarette holder’s angle increased markedly. The assets of The Mannerling Trust were forgotten.

  1991

  Moscow, June 18

  Heat rose in distorting waves from the Kremlin courtyard. The air conditioning in the

  classic Senate Palace—not long ago the USSR Council of Ministers building—was

  underachieving.

  President Boris Nikolayevich Yeltsin was undergoing yet another briefing concerning

  the unfortunate financial condition of the Russian Federation.

  He had eschewed the formal malachite desk for a second, less formal desk across the

  room and so was able to concentrate on a pair of doves in a mating dance outside the

  window.

  “One final item, Mr. President?”

  Yeltsin shook his head. “Be quick, Finance Minister. It is nearly time for afternoon

  refreshments.”

  “I will not be long, Mr. President. Also, there is a pleasant aura to it.” Yeltsin’s cheeks ascended, crowding his slanted eyes to a narrow line. “Pleasant!

  Then I shall of course wish to sharpen my hearing.” He snapped his fingers at a waiting

  aide, who had a full glass ready.

  Yeltsin threw back the Starka, then waved at his minister.

  “A bit of history first?”

  “Be brief.”

  “In 1857 Alexander II provided a sum of one hundred thousand American dollars to

  an American businessman who had attracted his attention. The American—” “Name?”

  “Rudolf von Mannerling.”

  “A German?”
/>
  “Of German extraction.”

  Yeltsin waved him on.

  “The American was to invest the money—”

  “Whose money, empire or Romanov.”

  “Romanov.”

  Yeltsin threw back another vodka, then waved again.

  “The American invested the money well and—”

  “A ripe time for investment in America, as I remember my history.” “The assets were placed in a trust, termed The Mannerling Trust, to be held for

  Alexander or his heirs until called for.”

  “What became of the money?”

  The minister didn’t reply.

  “The money is still there?”

  The minister didn’t reply.

  “Your smile betrays you.”

  The smiled broadened.

  “Now!”

  “Never touched.”

  “Growing since 1857?”

  “More than a century and a quarter.”

  “The amount of the asset? And how do we know?”

  “The Mannerling Trust reports its condition to a bank in London.” He looked at his

  notes. “Collier’s Bank. The bank transmits the reports to us.”

  “The amount?” Yeltsin’s eyes shone.

  “Through December 31, 1990—” The man paused and smiled.

  Yeltsin frowned. “If you do not answer me in one second, I shall be pleased to re-

  open a portion of the Gulag especially for you!”

  “In excess of six billion dollars.”

  The President’s glass fell to the parquet floor and disintegrated.

  Chapter 3

  2001

  Dinner Key Marina, Miami, 11:35 PM, December 31

  Elizabeth Evelyn Douglas and Samuel Bates Larson sat in the cockpit of the ninety

  eight foot Yachting Development sloop, El Cisne Blanco. They huddled under a sail

  cover as they watched the small boat traffic on the Intercoastal Waterway. The evening

  mist was thickening, muffling the Latin rhythms emanating from the motor yacht in the

  adjoining slip.

  Elizabeth snuggled close. “Sam, tell me why your client keeps this giant sailboat

  when he has that yacht next door.”

  “He likes being thought of as a sailor.”

  “But doesn’t use it?”

  “Not much.”

  “Odd. How big’s the money?”

  “Venezuelan oil.”

  “Probably big enough. Have you ever sailed on her?”

  “I have the best of all possible worlds—I have a friend who has a sailboat who lets

  me use it once in a while.”

  “Very nice.” She shivered. “Sam, why are we sitting here when we could be next

  door, warm and getting ready?”

  “You looked to me as if a breath of fresh air was in order.”

  “Point there. The South American champagne and that toad Manuelito’s cigar were

  about to do me in.”

  They were silent. He drew her close.

  After a moment, she stirred. “You’re being very quiet, Samuel. You’ve been known

  to wax philosophic on New Year’s Eve.”

  He kissed her forehead. “Sorry. I’m thinking about what I’m about to do.” “Other than surviving this alleged party?”

  “I’m leaving the firm. Going into money management.”

  “Sam Larson! The brokerage business has been your life.”

  “Got to go. The industry’s changing.”

  “I assume you know what you’re doing. You know me and finance. “Yes.”

  “Another question—related and somewhat personal?”

  “Personal? If anyone can ask a personal question, it’s you. Ask.”

  “The money. Why the big need?”

  “Pretty easy thing for Ross Douglas’s only child to say.”

  “Skip that. My family’s money is very old news. Now, how much did you earn this

  year?”

  “I won’t know for a week or so, but maybe four hundred thousand. Maybe a little

  more.”

  “What do you do with the money?”

  “Bank some. Invest some. Play.”

  “You have more than you need?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why do you want more?”

  He pulled the sail cover tighter. “Do you know Marylou Harris?”

  “One of the Harris Designs daughters?”

  “We hung around together for a while a couple of years ago. She decided she’d like

  to marry me.”

  “I hadn’t heard that. Tell me more.”

  “I hung back. She tried to close the sale by telling me she was sure her father would

  give her the same ten million he’d given her two sisters when they got married. I’d never

  have to work again.”

  “Wow!”

  “I told her that I preferred to make my own money, but she stayed on me and asked

  me if I’d talk with her psychiatrist.”

  “In order to?”

  “To find out what made me tick. I’d had about enough of her by then, but we’d had a

  good thing and I was a little curious, too, so I agreed. The guy dug into my childhood—

  bit of poverty after my dad was killed, but he couldn’t find anything that explained my

  attitude. He concluded that I was just making money to keep score.“

  “An old, old cliché.”

  Larson pulled her closer. “He went on to say that it might be immoral to make money

  when I didn’t need to. It was pretty clear who had hired him to say that, so I left before

  he could finish his sermon.”

  “What happened then?”

  “It was summer, the market was slow. I took Kay Mitchell to Chile for some skiing.

  When I got back, Marylou had gone to Europe. A couple of months later she was

  engaged to some Polish count.”

  “So what did you make of the psychiatrist’s findings?”

  “I like making money.” He chuckled. “And I don’t feel guilty about it.” “You’re what—thirtyseven?”

  “Eight in May.”

  “Did your time with the shrink cause you to conduct any additional self-examination?

  For example, what you’re going to do with the rest of your life?”

  “It did. I’m going to play tennis, ski, support the Porsche mechanics of Atlanta, chase

  girls, and make as much money as I can.”

  They were silent again, then Elizabeth pointed across the water. “Sam, there were

  Zodiacs and skiffs everywhere ten minutes ago. Now they’re all gone.”

  “Just about midnight. Everyone who’s going somewhere has arrived.” He pulled the

  canvas from around Elizabeth’s shoulders, then stood and adjusted his bow tie and

  waistcoat “Let’s get back on board La Soltera. The year two thousand and two

  approaches.”

  The grand saloon of MS La Soltera was forty feet wide and sixty-five feet long. The tropical decorations needed no augmentation for the holiday. A South American quintet in tuxedos was playing Latin tunes from the Eighties. Small tables surrounded the temporary parquet dance floor.

  Humberto Vargas-Calderon, tall and heavy, with dark Spanish features, lumbered across the deck. The black ribbon holding his long ponytail was gone, his tuxedo jacket and waistcoat had long since been discarded, and there was lipstick on his wing collar. “Sam! I was afraid you’d left.”

  “ Me? Miss the big moment with you on La Soltera? No chance.”

  Vargas looked at Elizabeth and narrowed his eyes. “Tell me again.”

  “Elizabeth,” she said. “Elizabeth Douglas.”

  “Ah, yes! Sam’s tennis partner.”

  She smiled.

  Vargas grasped her wrist and dragged her to a makeshift dais. She held on to

  Larso n’
s hand.

  “¡Atención! ¡Atención, cada uno!

  The music stopped.

  “I wish to right a terrible, terrible wrong. I have neglected my guests this evening

  while I was otherwise engaged.” He leered at a blond woman across the room. “Now, I want to introduce these two to you.” He took Elizabeth’s hand. “This flower of the great State of Georgia is Elizabeth Douglas. She is much too young to be in the company of her elderly companion—surely an attestation of his sales skills. You’ll note the silver cocktail dress—no doubt one of a kind. Note the tan face and arms, the black hair down to her shoulders. Doubtless some Spanish ancestry there. And the bluest eyes I have ever seen.” He smiled at her. “Thank you for sharing this moment with us.” He turned to Larson. “And here we have Sam Larson. A displaced Viking for sure. Six feet. Muscled and made graceful by a career on the Georgia tennis courts. Pale blue eyes. Yellow hair. Ruddy—”

  Larson laughed. “Who you talking about, Humberto?” “As I was saying, ruddy complexion. And almost emaciated.” Vargas patted his paunch. “Unlike me.”

  The expected laughter ensued.

  “Sam is a stockbroker extraordinaire who earned most of the money I used to buy this vessel.” He looked around the room. “I give you Sam and Elizabeth.”

  There was brief applause.

  Vargas stepped off the dais. “A moment, Sam?”

  Elizabeth watched them go, then turned to a bartender. “He skipped almost everything.”

  “Sorry,” the bartender said. “No English. You wish drink?”

  Elizabeth turned back to watch the pair again, then yelled. “Humberto, you forgot the stylish haircut. And you didn’t mention the scar across his right eyebrow where Taffy Dorset lost control of her racquet. And you may not even know about the tiny pink birthmark on his shoulder. And the nose that’s almost straight.” She turned to look at the darkness outside the row of portholes. “And you missed the way the muscles ripple across his shoulders when he hits a backhand. And how you can see the slight cleft in his chin when the light’s just right. And how the blue in his eyes changes when he moves from light to shadow. And—”

  “You wish drink, please?”

  She smiled. “You have any idea how easy it is to become sentimental about Sam Larson?”

  The waiter shook his head.

  “But you’re right. More champagne’s the answer. Got any good stuff?” The waiter smiled and reached under the bar.

  Vargas guided Larson into a small stateroom.