by Talia Carner
He shook his head. “They’re mandated to work only with small businesses, or ones with under one thousand employees. I deal with giant ones, or whole industries.”
“Well, then.” She gave him a brief description of Olga’s investigation, the results she had glimpsed from the files, and her current predicament. “We started with a bang, wanting to stop the extortion of the women’s cooperatives, and we’re ending with a whimper—if we’re lucky.”
“You are a courageous woman to get involved—or a foolish one.”
“Probably the latter.” She took a deep breath. “But these local women couldn’t have done it without me. All I want now is to save them and get out while I still can.”
“Are you aware of the complex network Sidorov has developed, stretching outside our borders?”
“Outside Russia?”
They stopped in a hall with hammered-gold icons inlaid with diamonds and colorful precious stones.
“The Gorbachevskaya Street Factory, for instance,” Belgorov said. “Forget about their men’s briefs. You’ve said they do well with their leather outerwear. Here’s a hypothetical scenario, but one that takes place here every day in one version or another.” Belgorov gestured with both hands as he spoke. “Someone needs the leather coats to bribe the Iraqi Republican Guard, for instance.”
Iraq? Brooke couldn’t hide her mocking tone. “Leather coats in the desert?”
Belgorov smiled. “Inside their air-conditioned palaces, elite Iraqi women dress in high fashion. Along with vodka, furs, caviar, and bales of wool, the leatherwear may be shipped from Russia to Iran, which then trades these to Iraq for ammunition. In turn, Iraq sends oil to Russia.”
“You’ve lost me on two counts. First, Russia sits on huge reserves of oil; it doesn’t need to import it. Second, Iran and Iraq have been at war for years; they don’t trade with each other—especially not ammunition. Saddam Hussein has bombed Iran with poisonous gas.”
“Nonetheless, commerce of all kinds is alive and well between them.” He paused. “To answer your first point, Russia’s oil production has fallen drastically this past year and a half, and what’s produced is not used domestically. It is shipped to countries outside the Republics. In fact, Russia has cut off most of its former oil allocation to Belarus and Ukraine.”
“How does oil from Iraq get to Russia? They don’t even share a border. You can’t smuggle oil in a suitcase.”
“In tankers through Turkey.”
“Turkey?” She scanned a mental map of the area.
“By land, and then through the Black Sea.”
“Never mind the U.N. sanctions against Iraq?”
“The United States closes its eyes because the Kurds are the link between Iraq and Turkey, and the U.S. supports the Kurds. It hopes they will kill Saddam Hussein.”
Brooke’s head reeled. Whatever specialty she had planned to acquire in Russia for her job security, this lecture was one lesson she must memorize. “I have underestimated Sidorov’s business savvy and his reach,” she said. The scheme involving Vera’s pots and pans now seemed simple compared with these elaborate machinations.
Belgorov went on strolling, his bodyguards trailing at a respectful distance. “Once the oil tankers get to Crimea, the oil is sold right at the port in Sevastopol—that’s in Ukraine, at the southern tip of the Black Sea—or in Odessa, less than two hundred and fifty miles away from there. The smugglers need not bother to transport the oil inland. You should see the scene at the ports. There are so many ships docked that there’s a ten-day wait at sea. The demand here for goods and raw materials is so huge that in addition to oil, dealers buy, sight unseen, full containers of whatever they can lay their hands on. They bribe the local authorities to allow their selected ships to dock at the top of the queue.”
“They have no idea if the container is filled with toaster ovens or canned peaches?”
“Right. There’s a huge market for everything. That’s how your friend Svetlana’s leather coats end up as oil, which is far more valuable.”
“And your firm can circumvent such practices?”
“In the long run, it’s the only way for a healthy economy. We’re pushing for tough legislation and tough enforcement. Right now, without a conspiracy law—like your RICO laws in the States—no mob boss can be prosecuted.” His shrug contained a note of resignation.
The room smelled of lemony wood polish and light mildew. Brooke chewed her lower lip. “Svetlana believes that we are in physical danger, having found Sidorov out.”
“If I were you, I would not return to Moscow. I can drive you right now to friends an hour away from here. They’ll get you to Odessa, where you can board the night train to Vienna.”
She could desert her luggage in the hotel; her passport was in her money belt. She could leave Russia tonight, just as she had hoped. “You make going back to Moscow sound like suicide,” she said.
Then it occurred to her: What if Hoffenbach had been wrong, and Belgorov was actually in Sidorov’s service? What if Belgorov meant to scare her into becoming a willing kidnapping victim?
She stepped to the window. Across the plaza, her group followed the tour guide around a church and snapped photos of its ornamental facade. Then they stepped toward the museum, under the lowering afternoon sun. Bathed in the sun rays, Jenny’s hair ignited in bright red and Amanda’s skin shone like polished ivory. But Svetlana’s flowery dress under an open jacket looked faded.
A new wave of guilt washed over Brooke. Would Sidorov’s minions be waiting for Svetlana when she returned the files? Brooke would have suggested abandoning the files, but their disappearance would cause irrevocable harm to the four businesses, each employing hundreds of workers—the majority of whom were women, mothers of children. They would be the ones to bear the consequences of her cowardice.
Brooke took a deep breath. She must keep herself together, and her mind sharp. She must believe that Belgorov was an honest man; her fear was causing her to become suspicious, to unravel at the seams. Without turning away from the window, she said, “I can’t just run away. I’m involved with two Russian women. I must first ensure their safety.”
“How are you planning to do that?”
She shook her head. “I’m at a loss. And I have less time than I thought.” With Olga’s phone tapped, Brooke couldn’t even warn her. She had never taken Olga’s home address, and had no idea how to get there even if crossing the city were possible.
She kept her gaze on the group. Amanda was attempting to entice a response from Aleksandr, whose shoulders did all his talking in a series of shrugs. Judd was chatting with one of the women, his hands animated. He threw his head back in laughter.
Suddenly, behind the group, Brooke spotted two unfamiliar men in rumpled gray suits. “Am I being followed?” she whispered to Belgorov.
He looked out. “My tail. Right now it serves me well; the more they know of my daily access to foreigners, the less likely they are to meddle with Yuri, if he’s still alive.”
“Will this meeting hurt me in regard to Sidorov?”
Belgorov shook his head. “Stay visible as much as you can.”
Through the window, she could see the group still waiting at the ticket line to the museum. “Then let’s go out and let your tail get a full view of us talking,” she said.
After dropping their felt booties into a trunk at the exit, they sat down on a stone bench under a row of cypresses. A squirrel scampered away, stopped, bobbed its head, and, gripping an acorn, turned to look at them.
“Do you have any suggestion how to save my two friends here?” Brooke asked.
Belgorov stroked his mustache. “Why not go the international media publicity route? That offers protection like no other.”
“I don’t see you using it for Yuri.”
“When hundreds of bank tellers and innocent merchants have been shot this past year alone, one more Russian businessman’s disappearance—well, who cares? But you’re an American.” He glanc
ed around. “Our government and its cronies—the bankers and mafia dons—are becoming sensitive to global public opinion, especially since the International Monetary Fund has been asking some tough questions before handing out billions of dollars to save a fiscal policy that’s out of control.”
“By nightfall, Russia might not have a government, let alone a fiscal policy.” Brooke gestured in what she assumed was the direction of Moscow. “Even if Yeltsin doesn’t cave in, it’s going to be difficult to grab headlines while cannons are firing at your parliament.”
“The revolt is being squelched as we speak.” He shook his head with sadness. “Although what can one expect from a militia whose tank commanders literally stopped at intersections to ask people for directions to the White House?”
“We say in the States that men never ask for directions.” She picked at the scuffed knees of her pants. “Do you support Yeltsin?”
“We need him around until a better leader emerges. He shouldn’t have started this mess, but now that he has, he’d better be careful with the casualties. Six Americans were wounded since yesterday, including four journalists.”
In the soreness of her tongue, Brooke tasted earth and blood. She could have been the seventh.
Belgorov steepled his fingers in thought. “Do you have immediate access to major U.S. media?”
The media? The notion slammed in her head. Norcress owed her a favor. Three of them. “Where can I find a working phone for a domestic call?”
“Not in this town.” He thought for a moment. “If it’s in Moscow, you may write a note and I’ll see that it is hand delivered.”
She rooted in her purse and found Norcress’s card. The phone number was in California and would do her no good. “He’s staying wherever the foreign press can be found.” She checked her itinerary, then wrote a note, asking Norcress to come to Hotel Moscow that night or at least call. It was urgent.
She glanced over at the group. The women still dawdled by the ticket line, where Aleksandr was arguing with someone at the cashier’s window. The pull of his contacts that had shooed him through city checkpoints ended with the cashier of a small, out-of-the way museum. Amanda waved at Brooke, and Brooke waved back. Judd turned to look. Brooke couldn’t imagine what they thought of her sitting and talking to a Russian, with his twin bodyguards hovering about.
“Last question,” she said to Belgorov. “If Sidorov is the Russian Don Corleone you’re describing, why did he sponsor a mission of American women to come teach entrepreneurial skills?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he thought little of the request when it was proposed to him.” He paused, considering. “Or else he needs U.S. contacts and has been watching to see which of you could be recruited into his employ.”
“Recruited? What could he possibly offer any of us?”
“Recruit in Soviet-speak means ‘coerce,’ ‘blackmail.’ Just like the K.G.B. used to recruit spies in the West, Sidorov will search for a weakness and then will exploit it.”
An image of her lost envelope hit Brooke. She had been trying hard to focus on the immediate issues, but the lost letter—if it was indeed the blackmail letter she had always feared—would surely be followed by another soon after her return home, then by threatening phone calls. If her old photos got out, she would surely lose her job and her reputation would be forever destroyed. The notion of a second extortion by a Russian mafia baron was too preposterous to let in.
Brooke decided that she had exhausted Belgorov’s goodwill and insights. “Thank you for everything,” she said, and he kissed her hand again.
Although wiser, she was no closer to solving her plight.
Chapter Thirty-nine
TRACER FIRE WHISTLED as it made a wide arc in the sky. Olga watched Viktor open the window. On the far horizon, helicopter floodlights still circled the city, although the distant barrage of cannon fire had stopped. A gunshot pierced the air, and was answered by two others. After that, silence fell on Moscow. The low, dark skies felt like a down blanket, but the layers of darkness receded where light seeped upward from the city skyline.
Viktor went to the liquor cabinet and took out the brandy he kept for special occasions. “The worst is over. Shall we celebrate?”
“Too soon.” He needed to fortify himself, she knew. Her eyes were riveted to the TV set. “And too many comrades dead.”
“Comrades? You call Rutskoy and his bunch of fascists ‘comrades’?”
“They are still Russians. Each one of them. All three systems tried so far—czarism, communism, democracy—were seriously flawed,” she said. “Each was a failed attempt at social engineering and all ended up as an unfortunate new version of Russian roulette.”
He crouched in front of her and handed her a half-filled glass. “Stop torturing yourself about every political upheaval.”
For a while, the only sounds in the room were those of the neighbors going through their evening routines. Pots clanked, chairs were dragged. No one was arguing tonight.
She tipped her glass and emptied it. She would wait to tell Viktor of her plans to run for the Duma after her symposium tomorrow, where she hoped to secure the support of leaders of women’s organizations from farther regions. Thinking of tomorrow, she wondered what Brooke had in mind when she’d called earlier, asking her to arrive at the office early.
Absentmindedly, her hand ruffled Viktor’s thinning hair. A long time ago, his head had been a tangle of dark, thick curls that she used to cut. Once she had taped a lock onto a piece of paper and kept it in the back of her closet until moths got to it.
“We’re too old for another social system,” he finally said. “Too old for battles.”
An image of Brooke flitted through Olga’s mind. In ten years, Brooke would still look beautiful. “In the West, forty-eight is young,” Olga said. Between her fingers, dark blotches dotted Viktor’s forehead and scalp. She had never noticed those before. Did she, too, have them? Her monthly flow had almost ceased. She doubted she could get pregnant.
Still kneeling in front of her, Viktor laid his head in her lap. She leaned forward and ran her fingers across his back. He breathed in, then raised his mouth until it reached her breasts, burrowing his face as deeply as her tight sweater would allow.
Their breathing grew heavier. With a grunt, Viktor rose to his feet and extended his hand. Holding on to it, Olga pushed herself off the chair, fighting the pain in her knee, fighting the depressing thought that she was no longer the lovely petite blonde she had once been.
If she held firm to that younger image of herself, she could close her eyes and would again be hugging the young Viktor she had once so desired. They would be back at that barn at the edge of the forest, their bodies hot after hours of folk dancing, aroused from a long night of devouring each other with their eyes. Once again, he would lay her gently on the hay, release her small breasts from the embroidered blouse and lift her full cotton skirt. Her legs, slender and strong, would once again wrap around his muscular back, and her fingers would dig into his thick hair.
They weren’t old. It was their country that had aged them. With a little encouragement, Viktor could still sink into her flesh, now more slowly, methodically, like the scientist he had become since those summer nights of their youth. They would move in unison, no longer the frantic groping and stripping, no longer the passion that had once made her scream into the night.
But they would love each other nevertheless. Even Russia could not take that away from them.
DAY SIX
Tuesday, October 5, 1993
Chapter Forty
SHORTLY AFTER CURFEW had been lifted in the morning, Brooke headed to the Institute for Social Research “to have an early cup of coffee with Olga,” she told Amanda, who would arrive with the rest of the group an hour later for the day’s symposium. After Brooke tipped one of the sentries at the hotel entrance, he managed to get her a taxi within minutes.
She found Olga upstairs in her office, wetting a lock of hair wi
th saliva and attempting to curl it. But the hair, too dry and brittle, sprang straight out again.
“I give up.” Olga used a hairpin to keep the curl in place and turned to Brooke. Her blue eyes were bright.
Brooke hugged her. “Excited about the symposium?”
In contrast to her eyes, Olga’s lips curved downward in a sad little smile. “The uprising isn’t over yet.” She pointed at the White House on the distant horizon. With the center charred, the formerly massive rectangular building looked like a two-tower structure. “The radio announced that repairs have already begun. Incredibly efficient, and a good theme for my opening speech: They’ll whitewash the outside to symbolize the restoration of hope, but the scorched core of our parliament signifies the black void of lawlessness and corruption in our midst. It has sucked in everything that’s good here.”
Brooke noticed the unplugged ends of the phone and the computer wires. Being wary of wiretapping had become second nature here. She glanced at her watch. “Sit down. We have a major problem, but a possible solution.” She relayed Svetlana’s discovery at the Economic Authority eavesdropping center: Their phones were being tapped.
Against the burgundy color of Olga’s tweed suit, the blood seemed to drain out of her face. The faint blue veins in her temples made the translucent skin look like marble.
“We were careful to say nothing specific over the phone, right?” Brooke asked.
Her voice wobbling, Olga replied, “This is Russia; suspicion is enough. That’s how it was in the Communist days, that’s how it is now. Who cares about evidence? Certainly not the mafia.” She picked up her cigarette from the ashtray, puffed on it, then stubbed it out. “I feel like a fish in a glass bowl.”
Brooke bit her lip. When Norcress had called last night, she promised him an exclusive scoop on a story with a combination of angst and local celebrity. “I said I may have a solution,” she now said to Olga, and explained her plan. “If we get this journalist to publish Sidorov’s story in the international media, it will not only expose the corruption, but it will also protect you by publicly naming him.”