“Swiftly. I am rotting here.”
Mashcherov called Kostov later that day. “Aleksey Leonidevich was distressed at your lack of progress. He said for you to remember your training. The President has asked about your endeavor. You are to increase your effort level, but to avoid murder— if possible.”
April 21
Massey ushered Kostov to his office the following morning.
Kostov handed him the reports.
Massey glanced at them, then dropped them on his desk. “I assure you, Mr. Kostov,
neither I nor anyone else in the Bank has any knowledge of such an account or how these reports were generated. We did no business with the Soviet Union and we do no business with the Federation.”
Kostov handed the Collier’s Bank statements to him again. “Look more closely.” “I must say they do look like our statements, but I know nothing about them.” “Massey looked at his watch. “Are you available for lunch?”
“Lunch—with you?” Kostov hesitated. “Yes.”
Massey examined the Russian’s Soviet-style suit and military shoes. “I would have
suggested my club, but it’s closed for renovation. Perhaps we can eat at one of our neighborhood pubs.”
Kostov shrugged. Massey took the last bite of his chop and pushed his plate away.
“Now, Mr. Kostov, just how important is your mission?”
“Many rubles are at stake.”
“Perhaps we could look at your problem from another angle.”
“What angle?”
“This may appear to you to be off the subject, but one of my duties at the bank relates
to our Christmas fund. I am in charge of —”
“I know nothing of Christmas, Mr. Massey.”
“It’s a time of giving. And this is about this time of year that I begin gathering
pledges for our fund. You see —”
“How much?”
“I don’t—”
“Massey, I have spent as much time with you as I care to. Tell me the size of your
demand.”
“One thousand pounds.”
Kostov nodded.
“In tens and twenties.”
“Very well. I shall return tomorrow with the money.”
They stood. Massey gestured for Kostov to precede him.
They were passing the WC when Massey put his arm around Kostov’s shoulder. I
can think of one other way you might achieve your goal.”
Kostov looked back. “I do not understand.”
Massey pointed to the door and raised his eyebrows.
Kostov opened the door.
The lavatory was empty.
Massey locked the door, then began massaging Kostov’s shoulders. “You’re as much
a man as I thought. I would very much like —”
Kostov turned, grasped Massey’s shoulders, and spun him around.
“What?” Massey yelled.
Kostov kicked the back of the man’s left knee.
Massey pirouetted to the floor.
“What!”
Kostov grasped him under the shoulders and dragged him into a stall. The last user
had neglected to flush. He forced Massey’s head into the bowl.
“What do you think you’re—”
Kostov chuckled. “I think that I haven’t had such an opportunity to exercise my skills
since I left Baghlam.”
Massey sputtered. “I—”
“The location of the Trust?”
Massey got his hands on the edges of the bowl and began pushing up. Kostov forced
his face back into the bowl.
“The location?”
Massey raised his head. “This is extortion!”
“No, Mr. Massey, extortion is what you had in mind with your pitiful Christmas fund.
This is coercion.”
“I won’t—”
Kostov flushed the toilet, then held Massey’s head in the bowl until the head began to
nod.
“Yes?”
Massey raised his head. “Birmingham! Alabama!”
Kostov stepped out of the stall.
He was washing his hands when Massey crawled out of the stall. He stood,
screaming. “I’ll report you to the authorities!”
Kostov dried his hands, then unlocked and opened the door to the hallway. “Please be certain to spell my name correctly. K-o-s-t-ov.”
Chapter 14 Later that day, Rubenstein called. “I’m ready, Sam.”
“Quick work.”
“Just a lot of details. Beginning Monday, Sheila will call with three numbers. The
first number will be the OEX intensity, the second will be the SPX intensity, and the third will be the number you employ to consult The Wall Street Journal. A single number will suffice for direction, since my research indicates that the indices tend to move in the same direction.”
“Thank you.” April 22
Kostov called Mashcherov the following morning. “I have the location.
Birmingham. In Alabama.”
“What will you do next?”
“Whatever I am told. Get on to the Finance Minister. Call me back and be swift
about it. My taste for things British has soured.”
Two hours later Kostov took the call in the Chargé’s office. “He was quite brusque
with me, Ivan Arkadyevich. He says you must show more enterprise.”
“Very well. I shall contact you from Birmingham, Alabama.”
Kostov next attempted to telephone The Mannerling Trust, but the information
operator in Birmingham had no listing.
“I am certain that this organization has its offices in Birmingham.”
The information operator exuded southern charm. “I’ll be happy to check that for
you.”
She returned momentarily. “You’re correct, sir, but at the subscriber’s request, the
number isn’t listed.”
“I know that the number is not listed! You have already told me that. I—” The line
was dead.
Max Rodensky proved to be more useful this time. The SVR computer found the
number immediately.
Margo Wills was relieving Bev Perkins at the reception desk when Kostov called. “I am Ivan Arkadyevich Kostov. I am a special assistant to Aleksey Leonidevich Kudrin, Finance Minister of the Russian Federation.”
“My goodness! Well, what can I do for you this morning, Mr.—” She looked at her
shorthand note. “Mr. Kostov?”
“I would like to meet with your chief trustee as soon as possible.”
“That’s Mr. Sweet, Mr. Kostov.”
“Mr. Sweet, then.”
“On what business, may I ask.”
“I shall explain that to Mr. Sweet.”
“Mr. Kostov, I don’t wish to appear to be either bureaucratic or uncongenial, but I’m
Mr. Sweet’s personal secretary and he prefers that I screen his calls. He’s such a busy
man, you see, and—.”
“I prefer to discuss my business with this man.”
“I understand, Mr. Kostov, but you see—”
“Now, please.”
“If you could send Mr. Sweet a letter, he could telephone you when he has a
moment.”
“Miss Wills, was it?”
“Mrs. Wills.”
“Mrs. Wills, I am an official representative of the government of the Russian
Federation. I have neither the time nor the inclination to send Mr. Sweet a letter—nor,
for that matter, to talk any further with you. I demand that you—”
“Wait, please, Mr. Kostov.” She pressed Sweet’s intercom button.
“Yes?”
“A most officious person is holding on line one. Says he represents the Russian
government and has to talk to you.”
“Russian, you say?”
>
“Not from around here, I can tell you that.”
Sweet pushed the pulsing button. “Richard Sweet.”
“I am Ivan Arkadyevich Kostov. I am a special assistant to Aleksey Leonidevich
Kudrin, Finance Minister of the Russian Federation.”
“Are you, sir? Are you indeed? What can I do for you today?”
“I wish to meet with you as soon as possible.”
“On what business, may I ask?”
“Business of the Russian Federation.”
“Can you be more specific? We’ve not had previous dealings with your government
and I—”
“Does the title Finance Minister of the Russian Federation mean nothing to you?” “Mr. Kudrin, you said?”
“Aleksey Leonidevich Kudrin!”
“A very important person, I’m sure, but I don’t see how—”
Kostov paused. “Forgive me, Mr. Sweet. I fear I was becoming inharmonious.” “I’ll survive, Mr. Kostov. Please continue.”
“President Putin and Finance Minister Kudrin are of the opinion that you have ten
billion dollars that belong to the Federation. I am detailed to arrange the repatriation of
the funds.”
Sweet held the handset against his chest and peered out of his window. Kostov continued. “Are you there, Mr. Sweet?”
Sweet recovered. “I am at your disposal, Mr. Kostov. You may call upon me
whenever you wish.”
“I am in London at this time. I can be in your office Tuesday morning. Would ninethirty, your time, be acceptable?”
“I look forward to seeing you.”
“Where are you located?”
“I’ll put Mrs. Wills on for directions.”
Sweet stood by his window for a while, watching the traffic below, then straightened
his shoulders and walked to Hazlett’s office. He opened the door and leaned against the
frame. Hazlett looked up and frowned. Sweet was not in the habit of visiting his office. “Your coloring, Richard. Are you well?”
“I’m not sure.”
Hazlett stood.
“You cannot imagine the content of the telephone call I just received.”
April 25
It was just shortly after nine the following Monday morning when Sweet called
Collier’s. Lord Preston was unavailable. Would Mr. Sweet care to speak to his assistant?
He would.
“He checked out, Massey?”
“He did, indeed. Special assistant to the Finance Minister, Kudrin. Lord Preston and
Mr. Straw are—”
“Straw?”
“Our Foreign Secretary.”
“Forgive me.”
“Lord Preston and Mr. Straw are yachting chums. Our request for validation was
handled straightaway.”
“Thank you, Massey.”
Sweet broke the connection.
He neglected the intercom and yelled. “Margo, get Norm for me. Right away. In my
office.”
“He’s meeting with the Krasni people in the forty-fifth floor conference room. “Right away, please. Tell Andrew to take them to lunch.”
“It’s just a little after nine, Mr. Sweet.”
“Please handle getting Norm to my office. Immediately!”
Hazlett hurried into Sweet’s office and closed the door.
“Richard, I don’t think we can treat the Krasni people—”
Sweet raised a hand, then explained the situation.
“Tomorrow? Where was he?”
“London.”
“Been to see Collier’s, I assume.”
“Yes. I talked to Massey.”
Hazlett peered out the window. “One hundred and how many years?” “One fortyseven.”
“When I read the history—nine years ago—I assumed the money was long forgotten.
Later tsars—revolution—wars.”
“I, too.”
“And he wants all of the money?”
“That a fourth of the assets are to remain here may not be remembered. Who knows
what’s in the Russian archives?”
Hazlett stood. “I’d better get to work.”
“Doing what?”
“The key.”
Sweet nodded. “Of course.”
“I assume that old Mrs. Spencer will know where it is.”
“Let’s look at it together.”
Ruth Spencer had been archivist at The Mannerling Trust for the past twenty-eight
years.
“Of course, I know where it is, young man.” She led Hazlett to a large filing room
and then to the first filing cabinet on the right. She spun the dial on the heavy
combination lock, then handed an envelope and a yellow form to Hazlett. “Just your
initials. I’ll add the date.”
Hazlett hurried to Sweet’s office.
Sweet slit the envelope and removed a single sheet. “Parchment, I assume. And an
ironderivative ink.” He handed the document to Hazlett. “We need a translation.” “Right away.”
Two hours later Hazlett handed the translation to Sweet.
“Swift work.”
“The University doesn’t have a Russian department, but the dean found a Russian in
the international law department.”
Sweet read the key and smiled. “Now there’s something worthy of Poe or maybe du
Maupassant.” He handed the translation to Hazlett. “I think both the original and the
translation should go back to Mrs. Spencer.”
“Right.”
Hazlett returned the envelope to archives. “Very interesting document, Ruth.” She crooked a finger at a tall, slender man in his early thirties. He wore khakis and a short sleeve shirt. His spotted paisley tie was askew. His hair was thick, none too clean, and over his ears. His eyes were bloodshot.
She handed the envelope to her new assistant. “Number M00001. First file.”
He glanced at the envelope, then wandered off toward the filing room. Hazlett frowned. “That’s a very important document. Why did you give it to him?”
“Orders.” She gestured toward Sweet’s office. “I quote, how can our people learn responsibility if we don’t give them some, end quote.”
“I’m not sure I approve of anyone other than you handling it.”
She patted Hazlett’s arm. “It’ll be all right. He’s never going to have my job, but he’ll get it into the right slot.” She paused. “And I’ll check later myself.”
“Tell me again who he is?”
“Judge Thompson’s grandbaby.”
“Hence the job?”
“Yes.”
“Remember to check later.”
April 26 A spring rain drenched Kostov as he ran from his taxi to the Iron Tower’s entrance. He looked up, but couldn’t see the top of the building. He hurried inside, peered at the ceiling of the four-story atrium, then looked for the elevators.
Beverly Perkins took his raincoat. He was wearing his blue suit and light blue tie. She led him along the long corridor to Sweet’s open door.
Sweet was waiting. He extended his hand.
Kostov bowed, then took the hand.
“I’m Richard Sweet.” He turned to Hazlett. “And this is my associate, Norman
Hazlett.”
Kostov smiled, bowed, and shook hands with Hazlett
“You had no trouble with this hour, I see.”
“Not difficult, Mr. Sweet. I arrived last night. It is four-thirty in the afternoon in
Moscow.”
“But you came via London?”
Kostov grimaced. “Yes.”
“Something wrong in London?”
“Your bank.”
Sweet frowned. “Collier’s is, I suppose, our bank. A problem?”
“An unfortunate employee—a Mr. Massey.”
“A problem?”
“He wanted something in exchange for telling me where you are located. An
unattractive man and situation.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Kostov,” Sweet said. “We’ll reimburse you for the bribe, of course.” “He did not receive the bribe.”
“No?” Hazlett said. “Nevertheless, I’ll look into it.”
“It is of no consequence, Mr. Hazlett. I am accustomed to bribery.”
Sweet extended his hand. “I wonder if we might see some identification, Mr.
Kostov?”
He handed Sweet a Finance Ministry identification card and a letter of introduction
from Finance Minister Kudrin to the Chief Trustee, The Mannerling Trust. Sweet gave the identification card and letter to Hazlett.
“This seems to be in order, Mr. Kostov. How may we be of service?” Kostov frowned. “It is as I said when I telephoned. You have ten billion dollars that
belong to the Federation. I am detailed to arrange the repatriation of those funds.” Sweet smiled. “Forgive me, Mr. Kostov. To ask how one may be of service is an
Americanism. We know why you’re here.”
“Then—”
“Shall we sit?” Hazlett said.
As usual, Sweet and Hazlett drew their chairs side-by-side to face their guest across
the small dining table.
“Coffee?” Hazlett said.
Kostov shook his head. “If we might proceed!”
Hazlett recovered. “Of course.” He paused. “First, the Trust does in fact have assets
of some ten billion dollars. As you doubtless know, only three-fourths of those assets
belong to the Romanovs.”
“Romanovs?”
“Or their successors.”
Kostov nodded. “I know about the Romanov family. I do not know the money
belongs to them and I do not understand about threefourths.”
“The other quarter—”
“Excuse me, Norm,” Sweet said, “but before we get into too much detail, I think we
should concern ourselves with the key.”
Hazlett nodded. “Of course.”
Sweet and Hazlett both stared at Kostov, who stared back.
Sweet broke eye contact. “Mr. Kostov, Tsar Alexander II provided our founder with
a method by which an appropriate claimant to the assets of The Mannerling Trust could
be identified. A key.”
Kostov didn’t respond.
“Do you have this key?”
Kostov didn’t respond.
“Do you understand what we’re saying, Mr. Kostov?” Sweet said. “If you don’t have
the key by which we can authenticate your claim, we’ll be unable to honor it.” “A key?”
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