Larson shook his head again.
“And so I recognized that what I am is a mechanic, not a theoretician. My committee decided that anyone who could do what I can do must be doctoral material. They suggested a topic that had been neglected. I wrote a dissertation that extended Lanchester’s work on concentration in warfare and, voila! Sheila Miriam Rubenstein, Doctor of Philosophy.
“I was recruited to work on the same staff as Uncle Aaron at NOAA. They call me in when no one else can solve one of their equations.”
“Disheartening.”
“You’ll never know. But the work is interesting. Uncle and his people are making some new inroads in CHAOS and I’m part of that. And the University lends me to others occasionally, so I have some outside stimulation. For example, I’m max cleared at NSA—or so I understand.” She paused. “So, it’s all right.” She paused again and smiled. “And, after Mother’s death, I found myself well-to-do and so had some new avenues open to me.”
“Such as?”
“I’m a published author. Two novellas—one that has become a screen play and has a faint chance at becoming a motion picture.”
“What names?”
“A Wish That Might and Another Wish.”
Larson frowned.
“Not your kind of literature, I’m sure.”
Larson shrugged. “What else?”
“I garden a lot, employing complex raised beds on top of my stone.”
“And?”
“That’s it.”
Larson stood and began pacing. “Well, let me close with some of the standard questions you put to me.”
“All right.”
“Married?”
“Never.”
“Religion?”
“Mathematics—although I’m one-quarter Jewish.”
Larson nodded. “Tell me about this place.”
“I wanted to be away.”
He smiled. “You succeeded.”
“I inherited part of the land. I bought the remainder and built this house with inherited money.”
“The architecture?”
“Mine, with engineering by Aaron.”
Larson nodded.
“And I earn enough to keep it going and pay the taxes.” She stood. “And so to summarize, I can’t imagine two people more opposite in their backgrounds and outlooks.”
Larson smiled. “Well, you know what they say about opposites attracting.”
“I trust you’re not thinking of a snug little nest, dinner on the table when you come in from a long day plowing the back forty, and the wee ones already asleep.”
“Perish the thought.”
“Good.” She stood. “Thanks for staying. We may see more of each other as we sort out Aaron’s new problem. If so, this interlude won’t have been a waste.”
She parked beside the Porsche. “I appreciate your attempting to reason with Aaron and I hope you understand my thoughts about us.”
“I do.”
“Back to our usual trading information tomorrow morning?”
Larson nodded, then smiled. “But, like it or not, you’re still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
Sheila stared at him for a long moment, then drove off.
Chapter 22
Cooper tore the ivy away from the tarnished brass numbers. “This is it.” Dreshchensky peered at the singlestory brick house. “This is where an American millionaire lives?”
“Doesn’t seem to be into vulgar displays.”
There was no answer to the doorbell.
“We shall wait.”
“Hot out here.”
“Then let us wait inside.”
Dreshchensky led Cooper to the rear of the house. The screen door was locked. Dreshchensky kicked a hole in the screening. The back door was not locked.
They were sitting in the living room when Rubenstein entered. “Tom! What—” “Relax, Aaron.”
“What—”
“Waiting for you, Professor. Please sit.”
Rubenstein sat on the arm of an overstuffed chair. “Tom, what’s the meaning—” Dreshchensky slapped Rubenstein’s face.
He raised his hand to his face, then slid onto the seat.
Dreshchensky stood over him. “We are here because you failed to respond to my last
offer.”
Rubenstein didn’t reply.
Dreshchensky slapped him again. “I do not like being ignored, Doctor. When I ask,
you answer.” He leaned forward. “Clear?” Rubenstein shrunk into the seat. “I don’t have to pay the slight est attention to you or your offers or your threats.” He looked at Cooper. “Tom?”
“Better pay attention.”
“The answer is no. I won’t sell Augur to you for fifteen million—or any other number you can think of.”
“But you will—or we shall take it.”
“Mr. Miller, my father’s people have had all of the experience they need regarding what happens to people who don’t fight back.”
“T.C, let us make our learned friend comfortable.”
Dreshchensky grabbed Rubenstein’s shoulders and dragged him to a bedroom. They forced him onto a mattress and tied his hands and feet tied to the bedstead’s frame. His clothing lay heaped in a corner.
Dreshchensky had had little experience in torture. An hour later Rubenstein had said nothing.
June 30
Parenko transferred the call.
“I was just about to leave for the weekend,” Staranov said. “Why have you called?” “The Professor did not meet the deadline I set. I have detained him, but he has
refused the offer.” Dreshchensky hesitated. “I have begun a regimen of pain, but I have been unsuccessful and—”
“Stop!” He paused. “Consider your reply to my next question very carefully.” “Yes.”
“What is your estimate of the capability of this market prediction program?” “I believe that it works.”
“Do you believe it is worth my increasing my investment in its retrieval?” Dreshchensky breathed deeply. “I believe that securing this program is worth your
full attention.”
“Very well. Cease the torture. I shall call you in an hour.”
Dreshchensky read the number off the old telephone to him.
Staranov called an hour later. “Any further thoughts?”
“About?”
“You are avoiding my question. Positive or negative?”
Dreshchensky swallowed. “Positive.”
“I am looking forward to the trip.”
“Trip?”
“Vera Davidovna and my computer expert will arrive in Atlanta tomorrow afternoon.
I shall arrive the following day. Vera Davidovna will call with the arrangements.” Staranov’s call to Dreshchensky had been in progress when Sheila called. “Aaron, this is Sheila—for about the tenth time. I assume you’re linked to NOAA. Do get another line put in, Aaron. Working with limited communications is ridiculous.”
When Dreshchensky lifted the handset again, there was an indication of a recorded message. He listened, pushed the number for a replay, and handed the instrument to Cooper. “Listen.”
Cooper replaced the handset.
“Who was that?”
Cooper hesitated.
“Who was that? Who is Sheila?”
“Secretary.”
Dreshchensky stared at him. “A secretary? Does a secretary call a boss by his first
name in America.”
Cooper loosened his collar. “They’re pretty informal at NOAA.”
Dreshchensky frowned and cocked his head. “You are certain?”
“Yes, goddamn it, I’m sure!”
“Very well. Now, we must move, T.C.”
“Why?”
“Will Larson not be expecting the day’s prediction soon?”
“Yes.”
“He will not receive one.”
“Right.”
“Therefore he will search for the Prof
essor.”
“Right.”
“Therefore we must move the Professor to another place.”
“Right.”
“And it must be a place with an operating theater.”
Cooper frowned. “A what?”
“A place where Staranov can work.”
“What work?”
“You observed that I failed in my attempt to extract information?” Cooper nodded.
“Staranov will not fail.”
“Torture?”
“If he must. Where can we take him?”
“No idea.”
“Improve your thought processes immediately.”
Five minutes passed. Cooper snapped his fingers. “Twelve Oaks”. “Twelve Oaks?”
“A busted subdivision in southeast Atlanta.”
“What does busted mean?”
“Didn’t sell. Too expensive and a name that wasn’t too well thought out.” “Why there?”
“I have the keys to the model house.”
Dreshchensky called Parenko from the model house at Twelve Oaks. “I just tried your number,” Parenko said. “No answer.”
“I am at a different telephone number.”
“Naveeva and Yevgeny Danilovich Romanidze will depart Sheremetyevo on Aeroflot
at one thirty tomorrow afternoon, arrive at Kennedy at three fifty, and arrive at Atlanta on Delta Airlines at eight fifteen. Eugen Yakovich arrives the following day on the same schedule.”
“We shall meet them in the terminal.”
“Staranov orders you to tie the patient to a bed. No mattress, no padding.” “Already done.”
“No food, no water, not allowed to eliminate—other than where he lies.” “Very well.”
“And inhibit sleeping.”
“Understood.”
Sheila called Larson at five after ten. “No call and no answer.” “I’m leaving right now. I’ll call you as soon as I get there.” He called Sheila twentyfive minutes later. “No answer at the door. The back screen door’s been kicked in.”
“Don’t you think we ought to call the police?”
“I can, but I’m afraid that a man who’s been missing—what, sixteen hours?—and a ruined screen door are not going to get much attention from the Atlanta police.”
“Not these days.”
“Do you want me to break in?”
She hesitated. “He’d be upset.”
“Okay, then I’m leaving. I’ll be home again in half an hour. Whoever hears first calls the other.”
“Yes.”
July 1
The Ford Explorer turned through a stacked-stone gate. Battered signs advertising
Twelve Oaks were on either side of the driveway.
There were no lights in either of the two buildings lying just beyond the gate, a small
office building and a model home. The synthetic stucco siding was peeling from the
house and the landscaping was showing neglect.
“What is this place?” Staranov said.
“A subdivision that didn’t make it.”
“Why are we here?”
“It is where we have Professor Rubenstein,” Dreshchensky said.
Staranov frowned. “Of course, but why here?”
“T.C.’s idea.”
“Explain.”
Cooper didn’t respond.
“Now!” Dreshchensky said.
“Pretty boy here explained that we needed peace and quiet away from the Professor’s
house. I’m one of the owners here. The place is a bust, but I still have the keys to the
model, the furniture’s still there, and the phone and power are still on.”
“T.C. says the police have no reason to look in the neighborhood,” Dreshchensky
said,” and the lights in the basement of the model home cannot be seen from the street.” Cooper stopped at the model home garage and pressed the automatic door opener. Staranov alighted. He wore a gray, single-breasted suit, white shirt, and dark gray,
patterned tie. The fuzz on his head was shorter, but the mustache was fuller, providing
better balance for the balding head and better cover for the tiny teeth.
“Come, let me see my patient.”
He entered the living room. Naveeva and a slender, pimpled young man stood.
Naveeva’s clothing was unchanged. The man had short blond hair and wore what
Moscow imagined was the latest fashion from Hollywood. He fondled the badge of his
profession, a row of pens in a plastic shirt pocket protector.
Staranov smiled at his associates. “You arrived without difficulty?”
“Yes!” Romanidze said. “Excellent flight! Aeroflot has much to learn from Delta
Airlines.”
“Ever the sybarite,” Staranov said, “and you, Vera Davidovna?”
“The incredible waste distracted me.”
“Still a good Soviet citizen, I see.”
“And ever shall be!”
Staranov nodded. “Now, before we begin, do you speak Russian, Mr. Cooper?” “Shit, no!”
Staranov shook his head. “I need not have asked. Since Mr. Cooper does not speak
our tongue, we shall speak his when he is present—a reduction in needless translations
and lost detail. Understood?”
Everyone nodded.
“Now, may I see the patient?”
Naveeva opened the laundry room door. “I chose this room because of its cleaning
facilities.”
Rubenstein was naked, lying on his back on the springs of a single bed, his hands and
feet tied to the legs of the bed. There was a mass of brown waste on the floor beneath his
buttocks. His mouth was covered with duct tape.
The odor assailed him. “Excellent! How long has he been here?”
“Forty-nine hours in this room,” Dreshchensky said.
Staranov breathed deeply. “I think I shall have the menthol, Vera Davidovna.” The woman rummaged through a large suitcase, then handed a tube to Staranov. He
covered his upper lip with the paste, then offered the tube to the woman. She shook her head.
“Ever the stoic?
“It helps me to concentrate, Eugen Yakovich,” she said.
Staranov pointed at the three men standing outside the laundry room. “Distance the
bed from the wall so that I may circle my patient, then you may retire. Remain in the
house. No lights. Set a guard.”
Staranov removed his suit coat. “A gown and gloves, Vera Davidovna.” The woman extracted a khaki surgeon’s operating gown and a package of latex
gloves from the open suitcase.
Staranov walked around the bed, examining the body from all angles. He nodded.
“Your body is in fair condition for a man of your years. Are you healthy?” There was no response.
“Ah, please forgive me. I failed to notice that could not speak. How careless of me.
I am excited, you see.” He ripped the tape from Rubenstein’s mouth. “That is better, is it
not?”
Rubenstein exercised his facial muscles. “Yes. Healthy.”
“Good. I shall commence with the bamboo, Vera Davidovna.”
Thin linear sections of bamboo had been gathered at one end and wrapped in leather.
Staranov touched both of the bare feet. “If you are not conversant with this tool,
Professor, it is a Bastinado. This one is of my own design. Dreadful device. I shall try
to use it sparingly.”
Rubenstein made no sound.
“Naveeva, a probe, please.”
The woman handed him a sliver of wood.
Staranov scraped the sides of his outer ear canal. He examined the product, then
frowned and handed the probe to the woman.
He circled the bed. “Now, about the odor. I’m suffering, Vera Davidovna is
suffering, and
you are suffering—and have been since, I suppose after the first few hours
of your imprisonment.” He paused. “When were you captured?”
Rubenstein didn’t respond.
Staranov showed him the bamboo. “I do not wish to employ this.”
Rubenstein breathed deeply. “Evening.”
“I suppose you would have had your first bowel movement not later than eight the
next day—assuming your anxiety did not produce any earlier discharge. Yes?” Rubenstein nodded.
“And that amounts to a total of some thirty-seven hours of enjoying your own
excretion.”
Rubenstein closed his eyes.
“Do not be repelled by the fragrance. It is for your benefit.”
Rubenstein frowned.
“You do not understand? Let me amplify.” Staranov paused. “No, no. Forgive me.
I become so overwrought in these circumstances that I sometimes forget the correct order
of things. First, allow me to explain our relationship. You are my patient. I am your
caregiver—to use an American term. Except in our case, the tool of the caregiver is the
provision of discomfort. The more quickly and more thoroughly the discomfort is
provided, the sooner the patient responds and the treatment ends.”
Staranov bent over Rubenstein’s body. “Simple, no?”
Rubenstein nodded.
Staranov stood. “Good. I shall describe myself, my knowledge of you, and my
interest in you.”
Rubenstein stared at the ceiling.
“You have never been in the clutches of any of the American mafia gangsters. Mr.
Jeff Miller, the handsome young man who captured you, is in fact one Nikita Petrovich
Dreshchensky. We are all Russians and all former employees of the Komitet
Gosudarstvennoi Bezopasnosti—the KGB. You are in the clutches of one of a number of
criminal organizations referred to in the popular press as the Russian mafya. We call
ourselves the Galavna-ya Bohl. Do you recognize the term?”
Rubenstein shook his head.
“You are yevrej—a Jew—are you not?”
Rubenstein nodded.
“From Eastern Europe?”
“Family. Long time ago.”
“So you must remember something of the language of your Russian-speaking
ancestors?”
Rubenstein shook his head.
“Galavna-ya Bohl?”
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