“A means of authentication,” Hazlett said.
“A physical key? A password? To what are you referring?”
Hazlett looked at Sweet for approval. “I’m afraid we cannot proceed any further, Mr.
Kostov. Our hands are tied. It would be illegal for us to transfer assets without proof of
authorization—authorization that can only be provided by the claimant evidencing
Alexander II’s key. The requirement is an integral part of the trust documents, therefore
governed by the laws of the State of Alabama.”
Kostov’s face was blank.
“I recommend that you secure the key as your next step.”
Hazlett escorted Kostov to the elevators.
Sweet was staring out his window when Hazlett returned. “What do you think?” “Seemed real to me,” Hazlett said.
“Me, too. He looked like something from Central Casting.”
“How old?”
“Your age. Forty.”
“The suit—it had to be real.”
“Didn’t buy it around here.”
Hazlett shook his head. “But no key.”
“Not even knowledge of a key.”
Hazlett nodded. “Long time since Alexander II stuck his copy in a desk drawer at
Tsarskoye Selo. What happens if he doesn’t find the key?”
“We shall have to consider that bridge when and if.”
Hazlett nodded.
“In the meantime, let’s do some preliminary thinking about how we’d divide the
assets—if we had to.”
Chapter 15
Kostov returned to the Birmingham Marriott. It was approaching five o’clock in Moscow.
Dratenko chuckled. “Excellent timing, Ivan Arkadyevich. Another five minutes and—but you have saved me from the evening rush hour. What now?”
Kostov explained his problem.
“That should not be difficult for an intrepid young man such as yourself. Come home, look into all of the files in all of the ministry buildings in both Moscow and St. Petersburg—”
“Not amusing, Fyodor Feliksevich.”
“And search for a key, the description of which you do not have.”
“My level of amusement fades.”
“Then let us set levity aside. Tell me your thoughts.”
“There is no likelihood of finding the key in Russia. Therefore, I must acquire a copy of theirs.”
“Very good.”
“I have already considered bribery, but—”
“But the people who operate a ten billion dollar enterprise in America are paid too well to be bribed. Further, these people will be unemployed when you take the money away and may therefore be unwilling to help end their employment.” Dratenko paused. “Finally, if an attempt at bribery failed, it would indicate that you do not have the key.”
“I have also considered burglary.”
“And?”
“I have not examined the building closely, but, no.” He paused. “And, of course, I do not know for what I am searching.”
“Better you than I on this mission, my friend.”
Kostov was silent.
“Give me your number there,” Dratenko said. “I shall call you tomorrow morning.” He hesitated. “Eight hours difference?”
“Nine, but call whenever you wish. I shall be awake.”
April 27
Next morning, the telephone rang six times before Kostov could reach it. “You were asleep after all, Ivan Arkadyevich.”
“Showering. I have slept little since we last spoke.”
Dratenko laughed. “It is indeed a problem of that size.”
“Thank you for your cheery words.”
“Still, I have an idea for you.”
“One moment to complete my drying and secure paper and pencil.”
Kostov returned to the telephone. “What thick towels they have here.” “So you have two rays of sunshine—thick towels and me.” “Of what is your sunshine constituted?”
“Tell me what do you know?”
“Nothing—other than I wish I were chasing spies again.” “Wrong. You have some information. For example, they were unprepared for your
initial call.”
“Yes, but—”
“The lack of preparedness may be important.”
Kostov was irritated. “Go on!”
“Unprepared, yet they agreed to meet you.”
“Fyodor Feliksevich, I do not have time to—”
“Bear with me. They agreed to meet you, yes?
“Yes.”
“Since we know there is a key of sorts, what did they have to do to prepare for that
meeting?”
“I do not follow—wait! Of course! They had to examine their copy of the key—
whatever it may be—and any related instructions. Until I contacted them, no one there
would have been thinking about it.”
“Exactly. So it has been removed from storage in the recent past?” “Yes.”
“So what do you need to do?”
“To find whomever it was who either extracted it from storage or returned it.” “These are not people who would leave something such as that lying about?” “With ten billion dollars at stake? I think not.”
“Next question. Would the man you met have retrieved it? Or a worker?” “From what little I saw of the facility and the people, I would guess that a servant
would have both retrieved and returned it.”
Dratenko chuckled. “So there you have it, old friend.”
“I do.”
“Good fortune.”
“Fyodor Feliksevich, you will remain in Moscow for the near future?” “I have no travel plans.”
“I may require your services again.”
April 28
Kostov was about to telephone Mashcherov next morning, when he considered
Kudrin’s warning about asking for counsel at each step.
He found his directory of the Russian Federation Foreign Service and the direct
number for Ambassador Ushakov in Washington, D.C.
“Embassy of the Russian Federation.”
“Ambassador Ushakov.”
“A moment, please.”
A new voice answered. “Yes.”
“Ambassador Ushakov.”
“Who is calling?” The male voice had a Petersburg accent and had taken on an
official inflection.
“Ivan Arkadyevich Kostov.”
“Your business with the Ambassador?”
“I am an aide to Finance Minister Kudrin. I shall explain the reasons for my call to
the Ambassador.”
“The Ambassador is not available.”
“Your name?”
“Your attempt to bully me will fail, Mr. Kostov.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. Your name?”
“Timinsky. I am the Ambassador’s valet.”
“Now, the Ambassador?”
“Is in Moscow for consultation.”
“Who is the rezident?”
“Resen.”
“The remainder?”
“Semeon Semeonevich.”
“Connect me.”
“It may not be convenient for him to—”
“Look deep into your heart, Timinsky, and ask yourself if you imagine I am
concerned with his convenience as compared to the official business of the Minister of
Finance.”
There was a click on the line.
“Resen.”
Kostov explained the reason for his call and waited while his identity and rank were
established. The remainder of his conversation with the rezident was brief. Thirtyfive minutes later, Resen called Kostov. “Meet Delta Airlines Flight 267 late
this afternoon. Irene Ilinishna Minatova will be wearing a bright yellow dress. She will
be accompanied.”
The late afternoon sun was warm on
Kostov’s neck as he drove northeast on Interstate 59 toward Birmingham International. He was half way to the airport, when it occurred to him that he was believed to have returned to Moscow. He took the next exit and turned back to the city.
Kostov called Resen again and, an hour later, called the Birmingham Holiday Inn. “Miss Lacey.”
“I’ll ring,” the operator said.
“Hello.”
“Kostov.”
“Why weren’t you at the—”
“The Marriott, Room 212.”
Twenty minutes later a young woman wearing a bright yellow dress walked past Kostov into his room. A male companion followed and closed the door.
The woman pulled the chair from the combination desk and suitcase caddy and sat down. She looked around the room. “As I was saying, why weren’t you at the airport?”
Kostov shook his head and laughed. “It is Ken and Barbie!”
The woman frowned. “Who?”
“My cousin’s younger daughter has a pair of American dolls named Ken and Barbie. You two must have been the models.”
The woman looked at her companion and laughed. “I guess we do. I never thought of that.”
The man smiled, but said nothing.
“You’re Kostov?”
“I am.”
“May I see your credentials?”
“I have no credentials. You may telephone Mashcherov in Minister Kudrin’s office and tell him that I said that not all Chinese are blond.” He handed her a slip of paper with a name and telephone number imprinted.
She glanced the paper, threw it in the wastebasket. “I’ll find Mashcherov myself.”
Kostov nodded. “You, Barbie, are Irene Ilinishna Minatova?”
“Sometimes, but here—as I believe you know—I’m Jennifer Lacey. From Redondo Beach, California. UCLA, Class of 2001. And so forth.”
She looked at her companion. “Andrei Alexandrovich Flanetevsky. Here he is Bruce Roberts, from Seattle, Washington. University of Washington, Class of 2002.”
“He does not say much, does he?”
“I speak for him in this matter. Otherwise, he speaks quite well.”
Kostov nodded.
“How shall we call you?” she said.
“Sir.”
“Sir?”
“Or Colonel, if you prefer.”
“Shall we call you Colonel in the restaurant?”
“I shall not be in the restaurant.”
“Which relates to why you weren’t at the airport?”
“It does. I am believed to have departed for Moscow.”
Minatova frowned
Kostov waited through a lull. “Where did you take your training?”
“Hudson High,” Minatova said.
“Where?”
“A training school just before the Urals.”
“Exact name?”
“Not your concern, Colonel.”
“Surely—”
“Our rapprochement with the Americans notwithstanding, we’re taught that we should not share information needlessly. One cannot be certain about who might elect not to go home.”
“You are illegals?”
“No, embassy staff.”
“What is your interpersonal relationship?”
Minatova nodded at Flanetevsky. “He’s under my supervision. We do not share a bed.”
Kostov nodded. “To work.”
“Before we begin, Colonel, shall I tell you what a commotion you made in the Embassy?”
“If you like.”
“I trust your results here will protect you from any retribution.”
“I am pleased—so far—with the results of my commotion. And I trust my actions will be found to have been justified.” He paused. “Let us await the outcome.”
“Very well.”
“We are here to secure a copy of a key.”
“Key?”
“Klyooch.”
“Door key? Automobile key? Filing cabinet key?”
“I do not know.”
“But—”
Kostov raised his hand, then described his visit to The Mannerling Trust and explained Dratenko’s logic.
“So we must find an insider?”
“Yes.” Kostov looked at the male. “May I give Flanetevsky directions?”
“So long as I approve.”
“As a first step, I require a list of all of the people who work in the Trust’s offices. The Trust occupies the top five floors of a building called the Iron Tower.”
“Do you have an idea as to how to proceed?” Flanetevsky said. The voice was low, well modulated, and without accent.
“No.”
“How many stories does the building have?” Minatova said.
“Forty-six.”
Flanetevsky smiled. “Big enough to require security at the entrance. Is there a uniformed guard?”
“Yes.”
“That means they’ll have a computer.”
“Computer?”
“To list employees and to monitor their comings and goings and those of any visitors.”
“It is only a building for businesses. Why do you think—”
“I think that you may not know what life is like here,” Minatova said. She turned to Flanetevsky. “Bribe the guard for a list of the persons employed.”
Kostov frowned. “If bribery doesn’t work?”
“We’ll try bribery first. If that fails, we’ll consider alternate tactics.”
Kostov nodded. “While that maneuver is in progress, Barbie will reconnoiter—”
“I’ve heard enough about Barbie, Colonel, if you don’t mind.”
Kostov nodded. “Very well. Discover which of the local drinking establishments are frequented by the people employed by The Mannerling Trust.”
Minatova nodded.
“Telephone when you have accomplished your tasks.”
April 29
Flanetevsky called Kostov at ten fortyfive the following morning. “A hundred
dollars bought a floppy diskette with the names, employers, room numbers, and
telephone numbers of all those employed in the building.”
“Any difficulties?”
“No. I spun a tale about getting ready for a surprise insurance company inspection.
The guy couldn’t wait to get his hands on the money.”
“Well done. Eight tomorrow morning.”
Minatova reported an hour later. “Same kind of places as we have in Washington— some sophisticated, some redneck. We’ll have to see what the target’s preference is.”
“Will whatever it is make any difference to you?”
“Our training was complete, Colonel.”
April 30
It was Saturday morning and Kostov was finishing a breakfast of rolls and coffee
when Minatova and Flanetevsky arrived.
“Shall I order breakfast for you?”
“We ate long ago.”
Kostov stared at her for a moment. “How have you occupied yourselves this
morning?”
“Calisthenics, followed by a long run and breakfast.”
“And a telephone call to the rezidentura, as well?”
“Of course.”
“What did you report?”
“That is my concern, Colonel, but I indicated our progress is satisfactory.” Kostov nodded, then lit a cigarette.
Minatova shook her head. “An error, Colonel.”
Kostov frowned. “What is an error?”
“The cigarette. Smoking is very much on the decline here. I did not notice, but it is
likely that this room, perhaps this entire hotel, is a smokefree environment.” Kostov looked around the room. “Hence the lack of ash trays?”
Minatova nodded. “You call attention to yourself when you smoke.” “But I like to smoke.”
Minatova didn’t reply.
Kostov continued to smoke the Sobranie, using his coffee cup’s saucer as an ashtray. “Very well, to wo
rk. What do we do with the diskette?”
“Have it printed.”
“How?”
“UAB must—”
“UAB?”
“The University of Alabama at Birmingham. The campus is not far. There will be
several computerrelated facilities.”
“How will he—”
“Colonel, I assure you that Flanetevsky can have the diskette printed without
direction from either you or me.”
Kostov smiled. “Very well. Let us consider housing. I do not know how long we
shall be here, but my restricting myself to my room will attract attention.” Minatova smiled. “No, Colonel, it won’t. Americans tend to have little interest in the
comings and goings of their fellows.”
Kostov frowned.
“There are Americans who actually reside in hotels, Colonel.”
“Nevertheless, I wish you to rent a furnished apartment in the area. Find one large
enough for the three of us.”
“Very well.”
“Report your results as soon as your tasks are completed. Meet here at eight Monday
morning.”
“Monday? But today is Saturday.”
“Even spies must rest. Rent the apartment, rest, and be here at eight Monday.”
May 2
Kostov was standing on his deck, enjoying the Monday morning sunrise, when Minatova knocked. “A pleasant weekend?”
“Restful,” Minatova said.
“What did you tell the rezident?”
“That we had wasted a day and we were rested.”
“Your reports?”
Flanetevsky handed a multi-page printout to Kostov.
“Occupants, Iron Tower, as of April 1, 2005.”
“The latest?”
“Yes. The list is updated monthly, on the first.”
“There was a new one yesterday?”
Flanetevsky nodded. “We must assume so.”
“This one will doubtless be adequate to our needs.” He began counting names, then
handed the list to Flanetevsky. “How many of these people are employed by The Mannerling Trust?”
He didn’t look at the list. “Fifty-one.”
He handed the list to Minatova. “That should be a large enough population. What
about the apartment?” Minatova hande d a door key to Kostov. “We may move in after one o’clock this afternoon.”
“Is it furnished?”
“Of course.”
“How much does it cost?”
Minatova looked a slip of paper. “One thousand six hundred dollars per month.”
“How much is that in rubles?”
Minatova looked at Flanetevsky, who shrugged. “We don’t know.”
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