by Gayle Lynds
Without waiting for a response, Malko stepped under the awning and headed for the double front doors to his nightclub. He heard the whispers: Georgi Malko is here. That's Georgi Malko. He owns this joint. Richer than the Romanovs, or at least he used to be. They say what he's got left is stashed in New York. Switzerland. The Bahamas. Anywhere he hopes Putin can't find it. Georgi Malko! Their gazes were hot with curiosity and envy, and he repressed a snort of disgust.
He was a bulky, small ox of a man, bundled in a mink-lined cashmere overcoat. He glanced into the glass beside the club's door and saw his unruly dark eyebrows and dark eyes, black pits in a pasty face notable for its long jowls. He was ordinary-looking, with a thin voice and awkward movements. He was also largely without charm, which he knew, so he had been forced to reach the pinnacle of Russian commerce using only his brains and his willingness to be unscrupulous. But then, the world was not a nice place. Anyone who missed that was an idiot and deserved to live the rough life under a bridge. He scowled as he marched into the narrow foyer, where the odors of alcohol, cigarette smoke, and steaming bodies instantly assaulted him.
His chief of security, Valentin Wurtchev, followed, his head swiveling as he checked the busy street for danger. There had been two serious attempts on his boss's life in the past six years, and in each case one of the body men had been killed. Valentin did not intend to join them. As for "victory" in some revolution being something Professor Malko could smell "in the air," he was unsure what his devious chief was talking about, although he had a few ideas. But that was business as usual, too.
"Good evening, Professor Malko." It was the girl behind the iron-grated counter who checked coats. Behind her, a sentry with a Kalashnikov rifle stood, its weight balanced professionally in his arms. Malko noted a pegboard on which pistols hung, weapons checked by the guests. It was a rule that amused him: In the Russian Roulette nightclub, no one could carry.
Malko nodded to her. He did not remember her name. "Good crowd tonight?"
"Yes, sir. They're jumping, sir. It's terrific to see you. It's been a long time since you last visited us." The music was loud and pulsing. She knew not to ask for his coat.
Malko nodded again and, stripping off his gloves, marched into the ballroom. Champagne was flowing at $100 a glass. Buffet tables groaned with every Russian delicacy imaginable, buckets of black and red caviar, and platters of hot meats, fresh lobsters, and pâtés. Under Winter Palace-style chandeliers, youthful bodies gyrated to live music while old friends greeted each other with both-hands-on-the-face kisses. Malko unbuttoned his overcoat and walked on through, stopping occasionally to speak with admirers and ambitious lackeys.
He found all the noise and senseless confusion annoying. Still, he smiled, for he was really, at last, back at the center of things, where these bad-boy men in their tinted glasses and slutty women with their rouged cheekbones thought he would never again be. His life had begun to fall apart last year when Putin had taken away his position as minister of the interior, since government officers and members of the parliament were immune from criminal prosecution.
No sooner was the ink dry on the dismissal letter than Putin ordered him arrested for bribery and extortion. It had taken Malko a week to make the charges go away, and he sat in prison the whole time. To buy himself out, he'd had to sign over Nova Nickel, among the world's biggest nickel producers and the largest producer of palladium; and it had been only the first of Putin's assaults. Since Putin was still successfully stealing his assets, Malko had no illusions he would stop.
Ahead of him now, Valentin plowed through the throngs, opened a brocade-covered door, and stood in the doorway, his body protecting Malko, as he inspected the interior of the next room. At last he stepped back, propped open the door with one large hand, and announced, "Mr. Dudash is waiting, sir. He has two men with him."
Professor Malko recalled briefly with sardonic pleasure the cracked-plaster classrooms in Moscow University where he had taught algebra, calculus, and statistics for nearly fifteen years. Then he increased the size of the smile on his lips and strode into the richly appointed party room he had reserved for this meeting. As the door closed, quiet descended, a relief. The room was decorated with the usual silk-brocaded walls, beveled mirrors, grand chandelier, and complete bar in the corner. To Malko, it all seemed to smell of money.
At the richly appointed table, Oleg Dudash sat glowering, arms crossed over his chest. Two guards stood behind him, one on either side, their arms also crossed. Dudash had a flat nose, a suspicious look in his eyes, and thick hair that he brushed straight back. Just weeks after the 1991 revolution, he had started True or False with a rickety mimeograph machine and one fellow reporter—his wife. Their racy, pumped-up coverage of events, mixed with down-and-dirty columns about society, gangland hits, and the new sex trade, had quickly found a vast audience hungering for long-forbidden topics. Within a year, the weekly had become a daily, had increased its pages tenfold, and was the most read paper in the country.
"This is a hell of a place to meet," Oleg Dudash complained. "How can you stand the pandemonium? I'm not twenty years old anymore, and neither are you."
"Aren't you?" Malko sounded disappointed. "I thought you'd enjoy a night of play after we conclude our business. It might bring back good memories of the old days, when we were all broke and just starting out. The club is yours for the night, Oleg. I give it to you. Drink all you like. Enjoy the girls until you're wrung dry. Everything's on me."
"We're not doing any business. I told you that. I'm not selling the paper."
"I remember the old days well," Malko went on, his thin voice somehow gaining depth, as if he were struck by nostalgia. "Don't you? We had some fine times then, eh?"
The publisher started to say something but changed his mind. His suspicious eyes narrowed.
"We both recall a lot, I'm sure," Malko continued as he pushed his overcoat back over his shoulders, and Valentin slid it down and off. Dudash's security team started to reach for their arms, wary so much movement meant guns were about to be pulled. "Call them off, Oleg," the professor told him. "There'll be no bloodshed here tonight unless you start it. In fact, with all the pretty young girls in the club, I'm sure your boys could find something far more entertaining to do than hang around listening to two middle-aged men reminisce. Valentin will leave, too. Then it will be just we two. Cigars, Valentin."
Professor Malko angled a chair away from the table, sat, and leaned back. He did not miss the flicker of discomfort in the newspaperman's eyes with his mention of the past.
Oleg Dudash and his two sentries watched Valentin drape his master's overcoat over his left arm and slide his right hand carefully into his suit jacket pocket so as not to excite distrust. Just as carefully he removed two cigars and handed them to his boss.
Professor Malko aimed a genuine smile at Dudash. "These cigars are a rare find, old friend. Packed and rolled a century ago in a plantation somewhere in Tennessee. I understand the tobacco is so mellow and rich a man could live a week off the fragrance. I paid ten thousand dollars for a box of twelve. In honor of the occasion, I've decided to share the first of the lot with you."
"I'm not your 'old friend,' Georgi. We knew each other, that's all." He stared at the cigars. "You must've bought them when you had that kind of money to waste."
Malko blinked, refused to frown. He knew Dudash was needling him. "As a matter of fact, they arrived just last week." He smiled apologetically. "I still have a few rubles. Did you worry that I meant not to pay for your newspaper?"
Dudash did not send his men away, but he took the cigar and allowed Malko to light it for him. Both men smoked. Finally Dudash asked, "Just where is all this money you're offering coming from?"
"Another country. You needn't know which. I'll have the funds deposited in any bank, anywhere you like. Of course, we will need a token amount to pass between us here in Moscow, for the sake of appearances and to satisfy the government. Really, Oleg, this is an excellent deal for
you. You can walk away extraordinarily rich."
Dudash smoked. "I'm rich enough already."
"Perhaps. Still, we should speak privately. There's an issue here, a delicate issue . . . Ellie." It had taken Malko's people three weeks to ferret out the information he had needed to find her.
Oleg Dudash's face tightened, and the hand holding the cigar stopped, motionless in the air on its way to his mouth. "Perhaps you're right."
He dismissed his men, and Malko sent Valentin out to the nightclub, too. As the door closed, sealing them in, Oleg Dudash leaned forward. His face was earnest, and it seemed as if he were suddenly a dozen years younger than his forty-five.
"You're the one who's cornered, you son of a bitch," Dudash said quietly. "You can't run for the presidency against Putin because your reputation's made you unelectable. And you can't assemble a power base any other way as long as Putin's president. So someone else has got to be backing you. It's time to give it up for the good of the country, Georgi. You and the other cutthroat financiers. One of you has got to be selfless, admit what you've done in raping our nation. Inspire others to turn over their assets and help save Russia. You can show the way. Be a hero. Take this advice from someone who knew you back when you were just stealing Party funds—"
"Ah, Oleg. Always the idealist. First it was communism. Now I suppose you consider yourself a democrat. Don't be an idiot. The system changes, not the people."
"Up to a point, you're right. Yes, our land and resources have always been in the hands of a greedy aristocracy, even after the revolution. After communism, of course, everything belonged to no one, and so everything was up for grabs. But this epidemic of corruption we're seeing isn't some passing phase, and it's certainly not democracy. At least not yet. It's our long-standing framework for doing business. This shameful bedrock of a criminal society we call Russia." He glared. "But that doesn't make it right. In fact, it makes it even more wrong. We should've learned something along the way. So the answer's no. Absolutely not. You can't use my paper. I won't sell it to you."
"You should think about it more," Malko advised. "Consider what so much money will mean to you and Marina. I have a little time. An hour, perhaps."
The publisher shook his head angrily. "I won't help you back up to the top, Georgi. I won't help any of you bloodsuckers. True or False has some dross in it, but it also reports the truth. That's what makes it popular with the people. The truth. I don't want to sell, and I don't have to sell. It's time someone said no and changed the framework so we can build a decent nation. If my paper keeps telling the truth, then I'm contributing in that direction, and I won't let you or anyone else take it away or stop me."
Georgi Malko had let his gaze drop as Dudash ranted. No point in antagonizing him any farther. Now he looked up. "And Ellie? What about Ellie? I've found her, you know. She and her mother are living in a shack outside the city." He set his cigar in a crystal ashtray, got up, and walked to the bar with its glistening rows of glasses and bottles. "I think we need a drink. As I recall, you used to prefer cognac when we could get it."
Dudash hesitated. Pain filled his face. "Ellie. I'd wondered. After all these years. . . . If Marina finds out, it'll destroy our marriage."
"Cognac it is," the professor said cheerfully as he poured into a gold-rimmed snifter. Then he poured vodka for himself and carried both glasses back to the table. "Incidently, Ellie has no idea about any of this. A very attractive young lady of fifteen. Looks a lot like you. Her mother recognized me instantly, which I took as a compliment. Not a very handsome woman, even in those days. Just why did you fuck her, Oleg? Not beautiful. Dumb as a samovar. That was rotten judgment."
Dudash's flat nose seemed to thicken with anger. "You bastard." He lifted the snifter and drank. He glared. He smoked. "What I don't understand is you. You surround yourself with people of talent and ambition, then you use and betray them. Over and over you do that. You fall out with everyone you deal with, and now it looks to me as if Putin himself is well on his way to pulling your eyeteeth. So why are you trying to stay in the game? Take my advice: Consolidate your assets while you're still rich and no one's murdered you. Go retire to some high-security estate in Majorca or a villa in the south of France."
Malko shook his head. "Ah, Oleg, you really don't understand. An entrepreneur has no real friends or enemies. We have only interests. The point is to win. One must always win and be seen to win. It's not a question of how rich I am, or have been, or will be. No, I must destroy or be destroyed. That's what winning is all about." Malko held up his vodka glass, which was empty. "Drink up your cognac, old friend. Drink deeply and believe that the only reason to live is to win. Without winning, no one likes you. Not the president of your country. Not the lowliest whore. Not even your neighbor's dog. Your heart feels cold. Your bed is cold. The blue sky is gray, and the very air you breathe is poisoned. I am an entrepreneur. Therefore I must win."
Dudash studied him. He seemed to make a decision. He said wearily, "Tell anyone you like about Ellie. I love my wife, and she loves me. I'm going to take the chance that she'll forgive me. Ellie happened because of a mistake a long time ago when I was wild and stupid. I think people are made of better stuff—my wife included—than you do. When I see a gray sky, I can imagine it blue. Winning is a game, a sport, that's all. It's not a person. Not life itself." He finished his drink and set the snifter firmly on the table. He leaned forward, and his chin jutted. Words exploded out of his mouth: "Damn you, Georgi! You can't have my paper. I won't sell it to you, you understand? And you can't blackmail it out of me! I want Ellie's address. I'll take care of her. I'll tell my wife everything. And you can go straight to hell!"
Professor Malko shrugged. "You're making a mistake." He felt a moment of empathy with the idealistic Dudash. Then he brushed it away. Besides, so much had occurred since his youth when he, too, might have been a dreamer that he was no longer sure what he had thought or felt back then.
"A mistake?" Dudash growled. "Why? What will you do, kill me? It won't do you a damn bit of good if you do. My wife won't sell you the paper either. She and I are alike. We believe the same." The publisher stood up and shouldered into his coat. He swayed.
Malko was instantly on his feet. "That was a large cognac, Oleg. Here, let me help you." He took the man's arm. There was still a chance he could change Dudash's mind.
Dudash pushed him away. "Pig. Capitalist pig. What's Ellie's address?"
Malko stepped back, palms raised in front of him. "If that's the way you want it." He described where the teenager and mother lived.
Dudash moved away, grabbing the back of a chair to steady himself. "Bastard," he muttered again as he dragged open the door.
The noise rolled in, and Malko remained standing where he was and smoked as he watched Dudash wait for the busy nightclub to disgorge his pair of security men. Malko was enjoying his cigar. Within three minutes, Dudash's two bodyguards had arrived, and the three of them left. Malko gave a long, slow smile.
Valentin's voice brought him from his reverie. "They're gone, sir. Did you close the deal?"
"He wants to hold on to the property."
"We had expected as much, hadn't we, sir?"
"Indeed, Valentin." He shrugged and laid the cigar butt in the ashtray. When he got home, he would light another. The dozen cigars had been worth every ruble. "I'll go into the club now and shake hands, buy drinks. I expect I'll be there several hours. Certainly past midnight. After all, I have something to celebrate." He patted his jacket pocket, which contained a bill of sale for True or False, Oleg Dudash's signature a perfect forgery. "I'll have to tell a lot of people how proud and excited I am about the purchase from my old friend. Which means, of course, that now you must put your arrangements in motion. All of them must die in the crash—his men as well as Oleg Dudash."
"I understand, sir. He might have told them that he wouldn't sell to you."
"Exactly. Poor SOBs. What a heartless boss he is, eh, Valentin?"
But Valentin was already leaving, eager to make his phone calls.
32
The traffic was thick, and the Ferrari was snared in it, traveling at an excruciatingly slow pace. Jeff moved his gaze away from studying the ebb and flow to check on Beth, who had fallen asleep, her cheek against the headrest. Her legs were curled up under her in the bucket seat. In her jeans and black turtleneck, her corn-silk hair brushing her cheek, she seemed all coiled femaleness.
He was fascinated by the smooth, porcelain skin. Each dark hair in her eyebrows seemed individual and distinct. Her eyelashes cast shadows onto her cheeks. Her pink lips were slightly parted. Occasionally she sighed. He liked the sound, as if it came from a far-away place of promises. He forced his attention back to the traffic. She was too damn distracting. He did not want these thoughts. He was uncomfortable that he liked her.
When she awoke, she stretched like a cat who had been dozing in the sun. Her back arched, her shoulders pushed up to her ears, and she rotated on her hips to extend her legs. Those legs seemed long enough to reach to China.
"China?" she murmured. "What about China?"
"I was talking to myself. Do that sometimes. A bad habit from living alone."
She collapsed back against the seat and pivoted her head to look at him. "Any trouble?"
"Two cop cars looking for speeders. Quiet so far."
She nodded.
He decided that she looked vulnerable and strong at the same time. He remembered something Nietzsche had said: "Two things are wanted by a true man, danger and play. Therefore, he seeks woman as the most dangerous toy." He had thought that might be true of him, the way he met, loved, and discarded women after his divorce. But before then, he had wanted a committed relationship. He was the marrying kind, or so he had believed. But after he had gone undercover, everything had changed. Divorce. Isolation. A wilderness of falsehoods. And finally questioning whether that choice had ever been what he really wanted. Whether he had been a blithering fool to shed his once-fine world for a belief that almost no one else shared.