by Talia Carner
Brooke looked around. The mustard-colored set of couches making up the floor’s sitting area, one elevator door to her left and two to her right, the men loitering at the end of the corridor, the TV’s chitchat pouring out of the floor matron’s open door a few feet away. They were familiar, yet something had shifted. She had turned from a hunter to being hunted.
She had missed both breakfast and lunch. She needed a meal, a shower, and a nap to clear her head. But there was no time; the ground was burning under her feet. She was an American entangled in industrial espionage.
There was no question of going to the central post office downtown—anyway, those government phones were surely wiretapped. “Please tell the dezhurnayia that the phone in my room is out of order and I must use hers,” Brooke said, folding a five-dollar bill into Svetlana’s palm. “Give her this.”
While Svetlana walked into the dezhurnayia’s room, Brooke rushed to retrieve a can of tuna and a packet of crackers from Amanda’s sizable stock.
A few moments later, she settled by the table in the dezhurnayia’s room and waited for the hotel operator to connect her to the international switchboard. She opened the can of tuna and softened a cracker in cold tea so it wouldn’t hurt her cut tongue.
The wait stretched on. The TV blared some soap opera, and the floor matron eyed her with a furrowed brow. Brooke didn’t want to test the woman’s reluctant hospitality by asking her to find the BBC or another English-speaking station.
She got up and paced the room. In the confusion of the day, she had failed to notice the sunshine, which now flooded through the lace curtains. She gestured to the matron and received her nod to open the window a crack, then listened to the choppers circling the city. The beating of their rotors intensified or waned with every shift in the wind.
She should be in Frankfurt now. Brooke closed her eyes and let the afternoon sun soak into her skin. Frightening old Soviet movie scenarios paraded through her mind. Any minute, Sidorov’s long arms might seize her and her accomplices. She could be thrown in jail. Olga would be marched into the deep snow of Siberia, and Svetlana forced into a mental institution.
“Everything okay? Why are you here?” Brooke turned to see Amanda in the doorway, looking at her with curiosity.
Feigning nonchalance, Brooke put a moist cracker in her mouth. On TV, a couple was kissing. “Any news? I’m about to ask her to switch channels.” Trying to enunciate and pretend it was the cracker that slurred her speech didn’t work.
“What’s with you?” Amanda asked. “Are you hurt?”
“I bit my tongue.”
Amanda stared at Brooke’s neck. “And what about these cuts?”
“I was efficient. Did it all at the same time. I tripped.”
Amanda smoothed her sleek sheet of black hair. She let a moment pass, as if weighing the sum of Brooke’s misfortune along with the oddity of her hanging out in the matron’s room.
Brooke tossed a glance at the phone, wishing it to ring, wishing Amanda would leave. She couldn’t reveal her trip downtown without spilling out the reason.
“We’re getting cabin fever,” Amanda said. “Aleksandr says we can all take a trip to Troista-Sergyeva Lavra. It’s a monastery that’s the ancient seat of the Orthodox Russian Church, about forty miles away in a town called Zagorsk.” As though reading Brooke’s mind, she added, “EuroTours got special permits to pass through roadblocks.”
“How efficient of Aleksandr,” Brooke said. Being on the move was a good idea. But Sidorov employed EuroTours, and this sudden switch in attention to the group’s spirit seemed suspicious.
“Are you all right?” Amanda asked. “You don’t look so hot.”
“Nothing that a shower won’t wash away.” Brooke looked at her watch. It was one forty-five. “I’ll see you in the room in a few minutes.”
“No more than fifteen. Then we’re off.” Amanda flung her satchel over her shoulder and turned to leave. At the door, she almost collided with Svetlana. Next to her was Irina.
Brooke’s glance traveled from one Russian to the other. “Did something happen?”
“Irina—she wants to know about that loan,” Svetlana said. Her voice shook.
Had Russians never heard of appointments? “I’m sorry, but I am very busy now.” Any moment, the matron might chase them all out, and Brooke would miss her phone call. “She was supposed to telephone if she wanted to speak with me, not just show up.”
“Irina wants to know about the loan,” Svetlana repeated.
“I’ve told her that I do not give out loans.” Brooke was losing patience. “And I know of no financial institution that will approve a loan for a business that is founded on stealing military equipment.”
“This is so unfair! Everybody steals!” Irina responded when Svetlana translated. “That’s why men succeed. You can’t have a business in Russia without stealing!”
“Smuggling, racketeering, and stealing are not ‘business’ the way we know it in the West,” Brooke said, softening her voice. If every Russian businessman was a wheeler-dealer who hustled, swapped, or hawked stolen goods, why did she expect women to be any better? “I apologize, but I really don’t have time right now.”
She had half anticipated a spurt of tears or an attempt to sell yet another pitiful knickknack. Instead, Irina exchanged more words with Svetlana. Brooke heard the name “Marlboro” repeated three times. She glanced at the phone. Please ring.
The matron said something, and Svetlana responded, her tone placating. Her scowl deepening, the matron turned back to her TV.
“Irina has another idea,” Svetlana said to Brooke. “I’m not sure it’s legitimate. Marlboro costs less in Moscow than in the Republics. Irina’s brother can buy them here in large quantities and sell them there.”
“Speculating is not illegal. But what’s Irina’s role in this? It sounds like it’s her brother’s business.”
Irina shrugged. “If you give me the money, I’ll drive with him in the truck. He’s drunk most of the time, as I’ve told you.”
“And I told you that I do not give out money.” Brooke glanced again at her watch. Would this goddamn phone never ring? “I’ve come to Russia to teach business thinking, and that’s the best gift I can give you. When you ask for financing, you should have a clear plan how you’ll use it, who will be responsible for handling it, and when and how you intend to repay it.” She paused. “And one word of advice. I suggest you leave your brother out of the picture. At best, pay him a commission.” She handed Irina an unopened sleeve of crackers from her box, brushing off Svetlana’s claim that Irina’s visits had to do less with business than with getting gifts. If Irina traded them for bread, so be it.
The blessed ringing of the phone cut off Irina’s spasiba. “Good-bye,” Brooke said and, turning her back on Irina and Svetlana, lunged toward her lifeline.
The crackling sound on the other end was so loud, she had to hold the receiver away from her head. “Good God, Brooke! Where are you?” Hoffenbach’s voice bellowed through the static. “You got stuck in the political putsch?”
“You got that right.”
“Where are you staying?”
“Hotel Moscow.”
“That Soviet flea bag? Union organizers stay there. Move to Kempinsky, as fine a luxury German hotel as you’ll find anywhere—”
“It’s too close to Red Square. Listen. I’m in kind of a pickle, and the American Embassy is closed.”
Hoffenbach spoke to someone, then returned to her. “My secretary’s calling the president of Lufthansa. When the uprising is suppressed and the airport reopens, you’ll be on the first flight out.”
“Great. Thanks.” She spoke quickly. “Listen. I need a friendly Russian contact. Do you have some names? Who was the one who proposed the Russian deals in your reports?”
“The ones I wouldn’t allow NHB to touch?” He chuckled, and Brooke heard a rustle of papers. “Two names. Have a pen and paper ready?”
“Go on.”
“The first is an influential man. Plugged deeply into the government, and is about to run for the seat of the mayor of Moscow. He’s been trying to get us to invest with him for a long time, and he would definitely extend us favors. Nikolai Sidorov.”
A cold wave washed through her.
Hoffenbach went on. “Do you remember when someone offered to sell us the K.G.B. photo archives? You liked the electronic-media possibilities. That was him.”
“I see.” She tapped her pen. Her drunken host’s fingers were in every pot. The mayor of Moscow? He was far more conniving and astute than she had given him credit for even after glimpsing the scope of his operation.
“Here is Sidorov’s number,” Hoffenbach said.
“Thanks, but he’s part of my problem.”
“Sidorov is?”
“File this info away for another time.” Hoffenbach might be the last Westerner to speak with her. “Any other contact here?”
Hoffenbach must have caught on as, without missing a beat, he replied, “Roman Belgorov. Used to head the Department of Economics at Moscow University. A year ago, with a couple of colleagues, he started his own consulting firm. Some major Western corporations have signed on as clients. He’s a reliable chap. I’ll get you the number.”
“What makes him trustworthy?”
“He believes that the only way to move the Russian economy forward is to think long term and to build ventures with solid business strategies. He’s not looking for a quick turnaround, which is one marker of corruption.”
“Okay. His home number?”
As Brooke wrote it down, Amanda peeked in. “The bus is leaving; we need daylight to see the place.”
“I’ll be down in a minute.”
Amanda ducked away, and the matron motioned to Brooke to leave, too. Brooke spoke fast, giving Hoffenbach her room phone number. “Call me tonight. If you don’t get me, start searching for me.” If Sidorov was listening in—and now it turned out that he knew Hoffenbach—he’d know that Brooke was protected. He would know that if she disappeared, there would be a lead to him.
“Are you in physical danger?” Hoffenbach asked.
“I might be, other than from the uprising.” Brooke took a deep breath and forced a smile into her voice. “I can’t wait to have a long talk over beer and frankfurters and sauerkraut in that pub of yours. I’ll even join your sing-along.”
“Brooke, what’s going on?”
“I must go. Good-bye, and thanks!” Brooke hit the button in the cradle to disconnect the line. She handed another five-dollar bill to the matron and dialed Belgorov’s number. When he answered on the first ring, she let out a sigh of relief. Introducing herself, she said, “I’m rushing out now, but need urgent advice. Where can we meet?”
“Any public place far away from downtown.”
“I’m on my way to Zagorsk. Is it very far from where you are?”
He laughed. “I didn’t mean that far. But yes, for a VP of Norton, Hills, and Bridwell, I will go there.” He paused. “We now call the town Sergiyev Posad. There’s a small museum building at the back of the monastery. I will meet you in front of it at two forty-five.”
Chapter Thirty-eight
BROOKE ADJUSTED HER scarf to cover the abrasions on her neck. She had considered removing her Star of David as the chain irritated her skin, but it might have been the shield that had spared her life. Too preoccupied and tired for a social chat, she spread her coat across the seats at the back of the bus. She could see the tips of Judd’s sneakers sticking out from the double seat up front, where he was tightly curled, asleep.
Only twice the bus stopped at checkpoints teeming with armored vehicles and soldiers brandishing automatic weapons. Each time, Brooke saw Aleksandr presenting his documents, and the bus was allowed to go through.
Soon, they pulled to the curb on a wide, unusually clean street. A regal line of cypress trees shadowed benches underneath, and the tree beds were planted with flowers, the first Brooke had seen since her arrival. The street opened to a square bordered by the whitewashed stone wall of a fortress. Above it rose magnificent gold-and-blue domes shaped like tulips.
Strolling into a large plaza, Brooke relaxed as she examined merchants’ tables with displays of matryoshka dolls, ornate Easter eggs, and oversize wooden spoons—all painted with miniature scenes of Russia’s proud past. For a fleeting moment, the present seemed like a bad dream.
The high wall surrounded a cluster of monastery buildings. At the gate, Brooke handed a packet of gum to an old woman who, in spite of the warmth of the day, had wrapped a gray, woolen scarf over her head and around her hunched shoulders. Profuse words of thanks poured out from her toothless mouth as she grabbed Brooke’s sleeve and kissed it.
As the group headed into the monastery grounds, Brooke glanced at her watch. Fifteen minutes until her meeting with Belgorov. She fell back, half listening to the guide’s talk as the group ambled along wide paths past priories and dining halls decorated with magnificent filigree carvings of leaves, birds, flowers, and cherubim. She turned alone into a cathedral. Its cool, high-vaulted ceiling enveloped her with a sense of peace and serenity, so incongruous with the cannonade in Moscow. A smell of burning wax hung about the place, biting and sacred.
Facing an exquisitely decorated gold altar, Brooke’s stomach tightened. She could never visit a church without feeling the weariness of knowing that at such places of worship—as Olga had confirmed—priests, pastors, preachers, and ministers had been teaching their parishes that Jews killed Christ. From such places Soviet children had learned to taunt Jewish children; here Christians’ hearts hardened as they were indoctrinated to view Jews as evil. It was in places like this that wild crowds decided to loot Jewish villages, defile girls and women, and kill babies. And the church forgave them time and again.
I am a Jew, and I am proud of it, she told the faces on the icons that loomed over her, glowing with gold and semiprecious stones. Their eyes seemed deceivingly compassionate. Isn’t it time to rid yourself of your prejudice and hatred of my people? It occurred to Brooke that she had never given so much thought to how being a Jew defined her. Now she was certain she wouldn’t have wanted to be anything else.
She dropped a coin in a box and lit a candle for the teenagers who had died that morning, boys whose only sin was recklessness. “May their souls rest in peace,” she murmured, and considered adding the Jewish prayer for the dead, “Baruch dayan emet,” but held back. The words meant praising God’s fair judgment no matter what. But taking young lives? She did not share that unfailing faith. Suddenly Brooke understood her mother, who couldn’t forgive Him for what He had done to His people.
As she turned to leave, she recognized Judd’s silhouette leaning against a large marble column, melting into it like one of the life-size sculptures scattered about. She walked past him without changing her pace.
He caught up with her outside. “Are you all right?” His voice had that rich-as-cream quality she had grown to like. He was freshly shaven and wore a short-sleeve shirt printed in small geometric designs, and a beige cotton sweater draped casually over his shoulders. No trace was left of the disheveled figure in her room before dawn.
“I feel great. Thanks.”
He pointed at her neck. “What happened?”
She stopped to face him. “Look, Judd. I’m from the what-you-see-is-what-you-get school. And what I see, I don’t like.”
His face clouded. He stared at a point above her head. “There’s a good explanation for everything. A dignified one, even.” The words came out slowly, as though they were coins he held up to the light. “It’s unfortunate that I’m not at liberty to talk about it.”
“Take your time,” she said. “You seem to have more than one situation that you need to process.” She swiveled on her heel and walked away.
THE MUSEUM WAS a low and wide building that crouched at the back of a small flagstone plaza with a water fountain at its center. The whitewashed walls looked unadorned
and timid, so unlike the wedding-cake opulence of the other buildings.
A man waited next to the fountain. He was in his early fifties, dressed in an Italian-cut suit and a pink silk tie, and his hair was slicked back from a graying widow’s peak. In spite of his short stature, his dark mustache brooding over full lips gave him the look of a star from the silent movie era.
At Brooke’s approach, he signaled to two sunglass-wearing men with square faces and TV-size chests, who stood forty feet apart on either side of him, their bulging arms angled away from their sides.
“Roman Belgorov,” he said, and bent to kiss Brooke’s hand. “You should not miss this museum. Small, but one of our best.” The pride in his voice reminded her of Olga’s when she spoke of “her Russia.”
He handed ticket stubs to a uniformed attendant at the door and led Brooke into a vestibule. From an open trunk he pulled out felt booties, which they put on over their shoes to protect the ancient polished parquet floors. As they shuffled along a display of religious artifacts, she was too apprehensive to give them attention. “Explain to me what you do,” she said.
“We represent Western clients in their dealings here and lobby our government to pass the necessary regulatory laws or mandate tax concessions to make the investments worthwhile both for them and for Russia’s long-term future. But we categorically refuse to pay the nomenklatura apparatchiks to allow us access—be it for the rights to natural resources or for the purchasing of heavy industries.”
Brooke’s glance was fixed on the richest collection of tabernacles, censers, Gospel covers, pendants, chalices, and holy water basins she had ever seen. All were inlaid with thousands of semiprecious stones and millions of seed pearls.
“How successful are you brokering deals without bribing?” she asked.
A sad smile quirked his lips. “My partner, Yuri, disappeared six months ago on a trip to Georgia.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “I’m so sorry.”
They walked in silence through a display of jeweled crowns. “Do you have any dealings with the Economic Authority?” she finally asked.