The Metronome (The Counterpoint Trilogy Book 1)

by D. R. Bell

  Trying to save face, I mumbled “fine” and sat down to play.

  After a few embarrassing pecks on the lips, I was ready to leave when the black-haired girl spun the bottle at me. As I was pursing my lips for another peck, she said, “I will take my kiss later.”

  “Anya, this is not fair,” protested other girls, but she held firm.

  I smoked at the time. Later that night, I was outside inhaling a bitter smoke of papirossa, a Russian filterless cigarette with rough tobacco and a hollow end. A shadow appeared at my side and a soft voice said, “I’ve come to collect my kiss.”

  It sounded a bit theatrical, and I started laughing. To my relief, she laughed as well. “I gather your name is Anya?”

  “Yes. Pavel, you don’t remember me at all?”

  I desperately searched my memory. Had I met her at one of the wild parties at Lyonechka’s flat? Did we sleep together, and I was too drunk to recall?

  She came to my rescue. “Last spring, I was in a class where you were helping the professor. You taught two classes and graded one of our tests.”

  I remembered, it was one of the introductory quantum physics classes. The regular teaching assistant got pneumonia, and I was asked to help, even though I was not supposed to, these tasks are reserved for graduate students. Trying to buy time, I asked, “What grade did I give you?”

  “You gave me a four, although I deserved a five. I went to complain but lost my nerve at the last moment. You acted so confident in front of a classroom of students.” She laughed. “All right, I see you don’t remember.”

  I admitted my guilt.

  “Sorry. What is your last name? Perhaps I’ll remember then.”

  “After I collect the debt.” Anya lifted on the tiptoes and took my face in her hands. This was not a peck on the lips but a strong, open-mouth kiss. She let go, and we both breathed out.

  As she turned to leave, I called after her, “Your last name?”

  “Weinstein.”

  “Wait, wait…as in…”

  “Yes, I am Yakov’s daughter.”

  Later, when we made love for the first time in the Lyonechka’s apartment, she told me that she had fallen for me in that class. And she gave Semyon a bottle of vodka so he brought her to work on the conveyor.

  “Pavel, are you OK?” Anya’s voice brings me back. “You have that ‘I am a thousand miles away’ look.”

  Back in the present, I don’t know how to begin, so I just say it. “Anya, I saw Jim Morton.”

  Anya jerks her arm out of mine. “Why?”

  “I had a finance question. About someone he knew.”

  “Did you talk about David or me?”

  “No.”

  She walks silently, so I have to continue. “Anya, I am not sure he has plans for David and you.”

  “But you did not talk about us?”

  “No. Just the feeling I got.”

  Anya bites her lower lip. “I am not surprised, I think so myself. I wish David had a real father. But at least he has me. And I have him.”

  “Do you want to come with me to see Lyonechka? You knew him too.”

  “Pavel, he is the last person I want to see.”

  I feel like an idiot.

  Anya turns to me fiercely. “Pavel, what happened in 1986? Did you love her? Or did you want to go to America?”

  “I loved her. I am sorry for what I did to you. I did not want to hurt you, but back then I could not live without her.”

  Anya nods. There is this romantic streak in Russia that people would excuse anything for love.

  “I guess that’s better. It tormented me for years that I did not know why you left me. Do you still love her?”

  I evade the answer. “We’ve grown apart, separated.” A few weeks ago I would have said, “Yes.” Now it’s Sarah in my dreams, and I am not sure what it means.

  “Anya, what about you?”

  She shrugs. “I told you, I have my son and my father to take care of. I would like to meet someone, but I am content.” She touches my face, kisses me softly on the lips. “A lot of gray in your hair now, Pavel. I don’t think life has been easy on you. Please be careful.”

  Lyonechka’s building has not changed much. Some of the memorial plaques are gone, and the façade has been painted to cover the empty space. The cars in front are now Mercedes and Bentley, not Chaika or ZIL. The building was popular with the elite of Stalin’s apparatchiks. During the day, they would be a few blocks away in Kremlin or in Lubyanka signing death orders, then come home for a pleasant dinner with the family. They had invented the Russian method of mass production: Instead of individual names, death sentences were signed for lists of hundreds. Must have made everything more efficient. Not as efficient at killing as the Germans, but still.

  The apartment, on the other hand, has been remodeled and brought into the 21st century. The paintings have been changed from social realism to abstract. Contemporary Italian furniture. Books mostly gone, but jade vases still there. Except for the view, it could be an apartment in New York.

  Lyonechka aged. We don’t notice aging as much in ourselves unless we look at old photos, but meeting someone you have not seen in twenty years puts things into perspective.

  He tries to overcome the awkwardness by showering me with food and drinks.

  “Pavel, I have already called Osipov and left your phone number. He is a big cheese now, but I am useful to him because of my connections, and I think he’ll call back. I won’t torture you with questions of why you need to talk to him, I am just happy to help an old friend.”

  “Thank you, Lyonechka.”

  “The last time you were here, we were with the American girls,” reminisces Lyonechka. “What a crazy affair it was! I got into quite a bit of hot water, my parents had to really fight to keep the flat. For a couple of years, it was touch-and-go, but then all hell broke loose with Gorbachev and then Yeltsin. You missed an exciting time; it was like the Wild West in the movies. The ‘privatization’ that allowed the insiders and the well-connected to grab the choice properties. Connections were so important…. Disputes being settled with dynamite and bullets…. And the parties….”

  Lyonechka leans forward, a good times smile playing across his face.

  “The parties we had. It was like people that had been restricted and controlled for many years had suddenly been released and told ‘Anything goes!’ Clothes and inhibitions all came off. I remember taking some clients from England to a restaurant that was built like an amusement park with a river. You swim and there are entertainment stations along the way: Food and naked girls.” He shook his head to leave the memories behind. “It could not continue, of course. We settled into a more normal life. But it’s still very different from your time.”

  “Lyonechka, have you ever gotten married?”

  “No, too much temptation,” he laughs. But then his look darkens. He pours himself a glass of vodka, drains it. “What the heck, it’s been twenty years…I have to tell the truth, to unburden myself. Do you know what I am talking about?”

  I shake my head, I have no idea.

  “For years, I was in love with Anya. I know, Lyonechka the life of the party, Lyonechka the Casanova, hopelessly in love with one girl. But she only had eyes for you, and eventually she got you. She brought you here to make love. It was killing me. That whole thing with the Americans twenty years ago…I thought I’d try getting you in trouble, it’d go public, then perhaps Anya would break up with you. How could I have possibly known that you would fall in love with that American girl?”

  “And what happened after?” My voice is hoarse.

  “I tried to talk to Anya, but she would not give me the time of day. She blamed me. I know she still does…. I wanted to help her a few years ago, and she would not even acknowledge me. All this time…. I am sorry, I am sorry,” Lyonechka cries drunken tears.

  I get up and walk out without saying a word.

  I did not expect to hear from Osipov, so I am pleasantly surprised w
hen the phone rings.

  “Mr. Pavel Rostin?” he says.

  “Yes.”

  “This is Anatoly Osipov. How can I help you?”

  “Thank you for calling me. I have a few questions about the Russian stock market in 1996-1998. Can we meet?”

  “I understand you worked on Wall Street?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Interesting. Look, my schedule is full for the next few days, but I have a party I have to attend tonight; why don’t you come with me? You can ask your questions there.”

  “Well, it’s awkward, I don’t know anyone…”

  “Not a problem, you are with me. Where are you staying?”

  I explain and am told to be outside in half an hour.

  I wait outside the hotel in my best – and only – Armani suit. It’s a bit wrinkled from being in the carry-on, but I figure the occasion calls for it. I looked up Osipov, and he turned out to be a co-founder and president of the Stroitelny Bank, one of the ten largest in Russia.

  A black G63 Mercedes growls down the street and pulls onto the sidewalk, scattering pedestrians. The driver comes out, looks around appraisingly, zeroes in on me and asks, “Pavel Rostin?” I nod, and he ushers me into the back seat.

  The man already there offers his hand. “Anatoly Osipov.”

  “Pavel Rostin. Thank you for meeting me.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Osipov is in his mid-thirties, immaculately groomed and dressed, full head of dark blond hair, jovial full lips, a nicely shaped nose. A slightly unnatural tightness of the skin suggests help from plastic surgery. There is another passenger in the front seat, but there is no introduction; I assume he is a bodyguard.

  Osipov came to the university in 1989, knows nothing about my famous-at-the-time departure, and finds the story amusing. Osipov himself did not bother with physics after getting his diploma, but started a bank with a well-connected partner. He just wanted to make money and that meant finance, not physics. As he casually explains, they were “small potatoes” until the 1998 Russian financial crisis. Their bank was “well-positioned” in his words, benefited from acquiring assets of some of the less fortunate rivals, and that propelled the Stroitelny Bank into the rarified air of top Russian banks. I can sense that I am just a curiosity for him as he questions me about the financial models we’ve been using.

  As Osipov finishes describing his ascent, the G63 pulls up in front of a red four-story brick building. There is a small crowd gathered by the door. The driver and the bodyguard part the human sea for us, past a vicious-looking bouncer, and we are escorted inside, while Osipov explains that we are in the Moscow’s newest club, the Diaghilev.

  The music is pumping, and so is the dance crowd which mostly consists of girls in their early twenties sheathed into Valentino and Bulgari micro-dresses and high-heels or knee-high boots. In front of us a man in a silk black cravat and a burgundy velvet coat materializes out of thin air. His shaved head shines like a halo.

  “Tolik!” he wraps his arms around Osipov as if it’s his long-lost brother.

  “Misha,” responds Osipov, and introduces me. “Pavel Rostin, from New York.”

  “Welcome to the club, Pavel,” sings Misha and motions us to a private loggia on the side. Two willowy girls in shining dresses are already there with kisses for Tolik and demure “Tanya,” “Olya” introductions for me. A bottle of champagne is chilling on a table. Tolik and I squeeze inside the loggia, the bodyguard and the driver, who probably doubles as another bodyguard, take their seats at the opening. Osipov tells the girls to go dancing, and they reluctantly listen, but don’t go far and start writhing and bumping right in front of us.

  Osipov pours us champagne and hungrily follows the girls with his eyes. With some effort, he tears himself away and turns to me. “So, Pavel, what do you want to know?”

  “Anatoly, do you remember John Brockton?”

  Osipov gives me a blank look.

  I try to refresh his memory. “He was an American fund manager who operated in Moscow from 1995 to 1998.”

  Osipov shrugs. “Sounds vaguely familiar, but there were so many people here. I am afraid I don’t remember him.”

  “How about Avtotorgoviy Securities, do you know about them?”

  Osipov brightens. “Yes, I remember. It was a brokerage firm, I had some dealings with them. It was run by two brothers, Victor and Gennady Crossman. They took a hit in the 1998 crisis, closed the company, started a new one, I don’t recall the name. They were two hustlers.”

  “Where can I find them?”

  “At some cemetery.” Osipov enjoys the effect for a moment, then adds, “It was in the newspapers back in 2001. They were eating in a restaurant at a window table, and a sniper took them both out. After that, window tables became less popular.”

  I swallow icy champagne, and the bubbles hit my sinuses. “Do you know who killed them?”

  “No, like most professional murders it has never been solved. Must have been a real expert, though. Two quick head shots.”

  “Is there anybody left who worked with them?”

  Osipov shrugs. “I would not know.”

  He is distracted now; the girls dancing in front of the loggia must have gotten frustrated from the lack of attention, pulled down their tops, and started tonguing each other. Osipov inhales deeply, enjoying the show.

  Misha’s shaved head appears. He brings two new visitors, interrupting the revelry. One is a man in his sixties, trim, bold, wearing sunglasses and a three-day stubble. He is dressed casually in a black t-shirt, gray jacket with rolled up sleeves, and khakis. An oversized gold Rolex and a gold chain complete the picture. He is followed by a huge man in his late twenties, closely cropped hair, the broken nose of a boxer. The older man pats one of the girls on the bottom, squeezes the other’s tit, and makes his way into the loggia.

  “Hi, Tolik.” He gives me a questioning look.

  “Hi Alexei,” answers Osipov. “This is Pavel Rostin from New York; we were just finishing.”

  “Pavel,” the man acknowledges me.

  “Say, Alexei,” Osipov has an idea, “do you remember the Crossman brothers?”

  “Oh, sure. I did not do them,” laughs Alexei, “but I’d love to know who did. We can use a man like that.”

  “Do you know anybody from their organization who is still around?”

  “Why would you want to know?”

  “It’s not for me, it’s for Pavel here.”

  Alexei lowers his sunglasses, looks at me questioningly, and I feel uneasy. I try to explain: “I am looking into the activities of John Brockton, an American who was here in the 1990s. He used the Crossman’s brokerage firm.”

  Alexei turns to Osipov. “Tolik, why are you helping him?”

  “I don’t know,” stammers Osipov, taken aback. “We had the same professor. He works on Wall Street, he is not involved in our business.”

  Alexei continues to stare at Osipov:

  “The Crossman brothers are dead. Brockton is dead. You bring this guy here. You don’t know who he works for and he is asking questions about the murders?”

  “I can pay,” I offer.

  Alexei’s dirty look tells me it was a mistake.

  “How much would you pay for your life?” says Alexei, his eyes drilling into mine. I feel trapped, jammed behind the table, unable to get out.

  The man with the broken nose leans on the table, Osipov slides away from me. The girls stop their gyrations.

  As if sensing trouble, Misha appears again. This time he is accompanied by a slight man in a dark blue suit and a red tie.

  “Gentlemen, is everyone having a good time? Should I send more girls to your table?” Misha soothes.

  Alexei turns back, glances at Misha, then lingers on Misha’s companion. It feels like some kind of non-verbal exchange is taking place.

  After a few tense seconds, Alexei smiles dismissively and pushes his sunglasses up to cover his eyes. “Sure, why not?” He turns to me. “I gue
ss Americans trying to find dirt on each other. What do I care? My money guy, he’s been around, he might know someone.”

  Misha visibly relaxes and disappears together with the slight man in a suit. Osipov slides back, the girls start moving again.

  Alexei turns away, produces a mobile phone, and punches a speed dial. The girls in front are devouring each other, Osipov’s attention is back on them, his hands digging into the table. Alexei turns back. “Anyone have a pen and a piece of paper?”

  I always carry a pen, an old habit. I produce it, together with my Grand Castle Rock business card. Alexei writes something on the back of the card.

  “My man says this guy ran operations for Crossman,” Alexei says. “He might still be alive.”

  He looks at Osipov, who comes out of the girls-induced trance and turns to me. “Hey, Pavel, Alexei and I have to discuss some business. Kolya will take you back to your hotel.”

  Kolya must be the driver’s name because the man gets up. I follow him out, giving a last look at the dancing crowd. Russia has changed since my time. It’s like the people whose natural instincts had been suppressed for decades had the inhibitions removed, and now they have overreacted to the other extreme.

  The G63 drops me off in front of the hotel. Kolya grunts, “You were lucky tonight; Alexei can be capricious” and does not bother to open the door. When I get to my room, I carefully get the card from my pocket and look at the back. It has a name “Boris Shmulin” with a Moscow phone number. It’s late, but I decide to call anyway. The phone rings for a long time, my hope diminishing with each ring.

  “Allo?”

  “Allo, Mr. Shmulin?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “My name is Pavel Rostin, I am looking for information on Avtotorgoviy Securities.”

  I hear breathing on the other end, then:

  “How did you get my number?”

  “Anatoly Osipov introduced me to a man called Alexei; I don’t know his last name.”

  “Tall, bald, in his sixties, hooded eyes?”