“Good heavens above, what kept you, son?” Tiger protests in a mock-serious tone put on for the company. “Out on the town last night, I suppose. Who is she this time? I hope she’s not going to cost me a fortune!”
Oliver shares the joke like the good sport he is. “She’s rather rich, actually, Father—mountainously so, in fact.”
“Is she, by God? Is she? Well, that’s a change, I’ll say! Perhaps this time the old man will get his money back. What?”
And with the what, a slippy glance to Yevgeny Orlov at his side—accompanied by a lifting and resettling of the little fist that rests daringly on Yevgeny’s massive shoulder—telling him, with Oliver’s connivance, that the young shaver here lives the wastrel’s life these days, thanks to the munificence of his indulgent dad. But Oliver is used to this. He is practiced from childhood in such scenes. If Tiger had demanded it of him, he would have done his passable imitation of Margaret Thatcher, or Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca, or told his funny story about the two Russians peeing in the snow. But Tiger does not demand it, or not this morning, so Oliver instead grins and shoves his hair back while Tiger belatedly introduces him to the guests.
“Oliver, allow me to present to you one of the most brilliant, fearless, farsighted pioneers of the new Russia, a gentleman who like myself has fought life with his bare knuckles and won. They don’t make many like us anymore, I’m afraid”—pausing so that Randy Massingham, from his place behind them, can put this into ex–Foreign Office Russian—“Oliver, I want you to meet Mr. Yevgeny Ivanovich Orlov and his distinguished brother, Mikhail. Yevgeny, this is my son, Oliver, in whom I am fairly well pleased, a man of law, a man of stature, as you see, a man of learning and intellect, a man of the future. A lousy athlete, it’s true. A hopeless horseman, dances like an ox”—a lifting of the film-star brows signals the familiar punch line—“but couples, rumor has it, like a warrior!” Gusts of jolly laughter from Massingham and the bag carriers suggest to Oliver that the subject has been aired ahead of his appearance. “A bit short on other forms of experience, perhaps, a bit long on ethical concerns— weren’t we all at his age? But a first-rate academic lawyer, well able to represent our Legal Department during the absence abroad of our revered colleague Dr. Alfred Winser.” Bedfordshire is abroad? Oliver wonders, amused as always by Tiger’s little licenses. Winser a doctor suddenly? “Oliver, I want you to listen extremely carefully to a summation of our morning’s work. Yevgeny has come to us with three very vital, very creative and original proposals which reflect— very accurately and positively, I believe—the turning of the tide in Mr. Gorbachev’s new Russia.”
But first the handshakes with assorted centers. Yevgeny’s cushioned fist wrestles Oliver’s untested palm while the cherubic double eyelashes sparkle an impish smile. Next come brother Mikhail’s four craggy fingers and thumb. Then a spongy dab from the priestly cigar smoker with three fastened jacket buttons. His name, it transpires, is Shalva and he hails from Tbilisi, in Georgia, and like Oliver is a lawyer. It is the first time that the word Georgia is spoken, but Oliver, whose ears and eyes are open to every breeze today, at once records its significance: Georgia, and a perceptible pulling back of shoulders; Georgia, and a quickening of glances as loyal troops rally to the call.
“You have been to Georgia, Mr. Oliver?” Shalva asks in the wistful tones of a true believer.
“I’m afraid not,” Oliver confesses. “I hear it’s very beautiful.” “Georgia is very beautiful,” Shalva confirms with the authority of the pulpit. But it is Yevgeny who echoes this, in English, between long horselike nods. “Georgia very beautiful,” he roars, and the egregious Mikhail nods also, in holy confirmation of his faith.
And finally a prefight touch of gloves with Oliver’s pallid contemporary Mr. Alix Hoban, of whom no description is provided, Georgian or otherwise. And there is something about this Hoban that disturbs Oliver and obliges him to place him in a separate compartment of his mind. Something cold and faithless and impatient and violent in retaliation. Something that says: If you step on my foot just one more time . . . But these thoughts are for later. With Oliver now part of the company, Tiger’s snappy little hands signal everybody to sit—no longer at the conference table, but in the green leather Regency loungers reserved for the consideration of what he has called Yevgeny’s three very creative and original proposals reflecting the turning of the Soviet tide. And since the Orlovs possess no English—or none today—and since Massingham is not a member of their team but Tiger’s, they are presented by the unexplained Mr. Alix Hoban. His voice is not at all what Oliver expects. It is neither Moscow nor Philadelphia, but a botch of both cultures. Its serrated edge is so penetrating that it seems to be wired to an amplifier. He speaks, you would suppose, at the behest of someone powerful—and no doubt he does—in brusque, pared sentences to take or leave. Only occasionally something of himself flashes like a drawn dagger at the feast.
“Mr. Yevgeny and Mr. Mikhail Orlov enjoy many excellent contacts in the Soviet Union. Okay?” he begins, contemptuously addressing Oliver as the newcomer. The okay requires no answer. He sails straight on. “Through his experiences in the military—and in the government service—through his connections with Georgia also— and certain other connections—Mr. Yevgeny has the ear of the highest level in the land. He is therefore uniquely positioned to facilitate implementation of three specific proposals subject to appropriate commissions payable outside Soviet Union. Got it?” he asks sharply. Oliver gets it. “These commissions are the result of prior negotiation at the highest level in the land. They are a given. You get my drift?”
Oliver gets his drift. After three months in the House of Single, he is aware that the highest level in the land does not come cheap. “Commissions in what sort of order, actually?” he asks, parading a sophistication he does not feel.
Hoban has the answer at the fingertips of his left hand, which he grabs one by one. “One half payable in advance of implementation of each proposal. Top-up payments at agreed intervals, contingent on the subsequent success of each proposal. Basis of computation, five percent first billion, three percent all future monies, nonnegotiable.”
“And we’re talking U.S. dollars,” says Oliver, determined not to sound impressed by billions.
“You think we talk lira?”
A gust of rich laughter from the Orlov brothers and Shalva the lawyer as Massingham interposes himself to translate this witticism into Russian for their benefit, and Hoban directs his pseudo-American to what he calls specific proposal number one.
“Soviet state property can only be disposed of by state, got it? Is axiomatic. Question. Who owns today the state property of the Soviet Union?”
“The Soviet state. Obviously,” says Oliver, top of the class.
“Second question. Who disposes today of Soviet state property in accordance with new economic policy?”
“The Soviet state does”—by now seriously disliking Hoban.
“Third question. Who empowers today disposal of state property? Okay, answer, the new Soviet state. Only new state can sell old state’s property. It’s axiomatic,” he repeats, liking the word. “Got it?”
And here, to Oliver’s bemusement, Hoban takes out a platinum cigarette case and lighter, extracts a fat yellow cigarette that looks as though he has been storing it since his recent childhood, closes the case and raps the cigarette on the lid to pacify it before adding billows of noxious fumes to the existing pall.
“The Soviet economy of the last decades was command economy, okay?” Hoban resumes. “All machineries, plants, armaments, power stations, pipelines, railway lines, rolling stock, locomotives, turbines, generators, printing presses, all belong to state. They can be old state materials, they can be very old, no one gives a shit. Soviet Union of past decades was not interested to recycle. Yevgeny Ivanovich is in possession of blue chip estimates of these materials composed at highest level in the land. According to these estimates, he is calculating present availability of one bill
ion tons good-quality scrap ferrous metals for collection and disposal to interested buyers. All over world you got a keen demand for these metals. Follow me?”
“Particularly in Southeast Asia,” Oliver puts in brightly, for he has been reading a recent technical journal on this very subject.
And saying this he catches Yevgeny’s eye, as he has done several times already during Hoban’s peroration, and is struck by the dependence of his stare. It is as if this old man feels ill at ease in his surroundings and is transmitting messages of complicity to Oliver the fellow newcomer.
“In Southeast Asia, demand for high-quality scrap metals is very great,” Hoban concedes. “Maybe we shall sell to Southeast Asia. Maybe this is convenient. Right now, no one gives a fuck.” With an alarming snort Hoban clears his nose and throat simultaneously, before delivering himself of an interminable prefabricated sentence: “Up-front investment for specific proposal regarding scrap metals will be twenty million dollars cash down payment immediately on signature of state contract awarding to Yevgeny Ivanovich’s nominee exclusive license to collect and dispose of all scrap metals in former Soviet Union regardless of location and condition. That’s a given. No messing.”
Oliver’s head is reeling. He has heard of such commissions but only at second hand. “But who is the nominee?” he asks.
“To be determined. Nominee is irrelevant. He will be chosen by Yevgeny Ivanovich. He will be our nominee.”
Tiger from his throne issues a sharp warning: “Oliver. Don’t be obtuse.”
Hoban again: “The twenty million dollars cash will be lodged in an agreed Western bank and released by telephone simultaneous to signature. Nominee must also bear cost of collection and assembly of scrap metals. Also necessary will be rental or purchase of seaport yard, forty hectares minimum. That’s another overhead for the nominee. It will be necessary for him to purchase this yard privately. Yevgeny Ivanovich’s organization has contacts who can assist nominee to purchase yard.” Oliver suspects that this organization is Hoban himself. “Soviet state cannot provide cutting and shearing equipment. That’s also for the nominee. If the state has such equipment, it’s certain to be shit. Throw it on the scrap heap.”
Hoban’s lips part in an ill-humored smile as he puts down one paper and takes up another. The pause spawns another silky interpolation from Tiger.
“If we do have to purchase a yard, we must reckon on a few beads for the local chieftains, obviously. I think Randy made this point earlier, didn’t you, Randy? Never does to get on the wrong side of the boys on the spot.”
“It’s factored in,” Hoban replies indifferently. “It’s immaterial. All such matters will be resolved pragmatically by House of Single, in combination with Yevgeny Ivanovich and his organization.”
“So we’re the nominee!” Oliver cries, shrewdly cottoning on.
“Oliver. How very brilliant of you,” Tiger murmurs.
Hoban’s specific proposal number two is oil. Azerbaijani oil, Caucasus oil, Caspian oil, Kazakhstani oil. More oil, says Hoban carelessly, than is to be found in the whole of Kuwait and Iran put together.
“The new Klondike,” Massingham purrs supportively from the wings.
This oil also is state property, Hoban explains. Okay? Many suitors have approached the highest level in the land for concessions, he says, and interesting proposals have been made regarding refinement, pipelines, dock facilities, transportation, sale to nonsocialist countries and commission. No decision has been reached. “The highest level in the land is keeping its powder dry. Got it?”
“Got it,” Oliver reports, military style.
“In area Baku, old Soviet methods of extraction and refinement are still in place,” Hoban announces from his notes. “These methods are complete crap. It has therefore been decided at the highest level that the interests of new Soviet market economy will be best served if responsibility for extraction is awarded to one international company.” He is holding up the index finger of his left hand in case Oliver can’t count. “One only. Okay?”
“Sure. Fine. Okay. One only.”
“Exclusive. Identity of this international company is delicate, is extremely political. This company must be a good company, sympathetic to needs of all Russia, also of Caucasus. It must be expert company. This company must have”—he speaks the words as if they are one—“proven-pair-of-hands. Not some Mickey Mouse outfit from Yonkers.”
“The big battalions are simply baying to get their hands on it, Oliver,” Massingham explains insinuatingly. “Chinese, Indians, the multis, Americans, Dutch, Brits, name them. Gumshoeing round the corridors, waving their checkbooks, handing out their hundred-dollar bills like confetti. It’s a zoo.”
“It sounds it,” Oliver assures him keenly.
“Important for the selection of international company will be respect for many special interests of all peoples of the Caucasus region. This international company must be enjoying the confidence of such peoples. She must cooperate. She must enrich not just herself but them. She must accomodate the appartchniks of Azerbaijan, Dagestan, Chechnya-Ingushetia, Armenia”—a glance for Yevgeny—“she must make happy the nomenklatura of Georgia. The highest level in the land has very special relationship with Georgia, very special regard. In Moscow, goodwill of Republic of Georgia is maximum priority, ahead of all other republics. This is historical. This is axiomatic.” He consults his notes again before pronouncing the resonant cliché. “Georgia is most precious stone in Soviet Union’s crown. That’s a given.”
To Oliver’s surprise, Tiger hastens to confirm this. “In anybody’s crown, thank you, Alix,” he asserts. “Marvelous little country. Am I not right, Randy? Marvelous food, wine, fruit, language, beautiful women, incredible landscape, literature going back to the flood. Nowhere like it in the world.”
Hoban ignores him. “Yevgeny Ivanovich has lived many years in Georgia. Yevgeny and Mikhail Ivanovich were children in Georgia when their father was Red Army commandant in Senaki. They have from this time many friends in Georgia. Today these friends are very influential. The brothers spend much time in Georgia. They have dacha in Georgia. From Moscow, Yevgeny Ivanovich has diverted many important favors to his beloved Georgia. Therefore he is most eligible to reconcile needs of the new Soviet Union with needs of the local community and traditions. His presence is a guarantee that interests of Caucasus will be respected. Okay?”
The beam is on Oliver again. The entire audience is sloped toward him, attentively observing his reactions.
“Okay,” he confirms dutifully.
“Therefore Moscow has made following informal dispositions. Disposition A. One licensee will be appointed by Moscow for all Caucasus oil. Disposition B. Yevgeny Ivanovich personally will nominate this licensee. It will be his personal decision. Disposition C. Tenders from competing oil companies will be formally and publicly solicited. However”—a huge suck of breath and cigarette smoke catches Oliver by surprise, but he recovers—“however, screw them. Informally and privately, Moscow will select whatever consortium is nominated by Yevgeny Ivanovich and his people. Disposition D. Terms for nominated consortium will be calculated on royalties of existing Azerbaijani oil fields on basis of average annual yield over last five years. With me?”
“With you.”
“Very important to remember is: Soviet extraction methods are horseshit. Lousy technology, lousy infrastructure, lousy transportation, shit-awful managers. Therefore calculated sum will be very modest in comparison with efficient extraction by modern Western methods. It will be based on history, not the future. It will be fraction of the future. This sum will be accepted by highest level in Moscow in full discharge of license fee. Disposition E. All surplus revenue from future oil extraction will be property of Caucasus consortium nominated by Yevgeny Ivanovich and his organization. Private and formal agreement will be granted on receipt of onetime payment of thirty million dollars advance commission. Public and formal agreement will follow automatically. Top-ups of original commissi
on to be related to future actual earnings on informal basis. They will be negotiated.”
“Lucky old highest level in the land,” drawls Massingham, whose voice is permanently husky, as if he too were short of oil. “Fifty mill for writing his name a couple of times, lovely fat top-ups to follow, not bad pickings, says I.”
Oliver’s question pops out of him unbidden. Neither the surly tone nor the aggressive formulation is of his choosing. If he could unask it he would, but it’s too late. Some half-familiar ghost has taken possession of him. It is what remains of his sense of legality after three months before the Single mast.
“Can I interrupt you here a second, Alix? Where does House of Single come into this, exactly? Are we being asked to put up fifty million dollars of bribe money?”
Oliver has the feeling that he has let out a loud involuntary fart in church as the last strains of the organ die away. An incredulous silence fills the big room. The rumble of traffic in Curzon Street, six floors below, has ceased. It is Tiger who, as his father and senior partner, comes to his rescue. His tone is fond, congratulatory.
“A good point, Oliver, and courageously made, if I may say so. Not for the first time, I am moved to admire your integrity. House of Single does not bribe, of course. That’s not what we do at all. If legitimate commissions are to be paid, they will be paid within the discretion of our correspondent in place—in this case our good friend Yevgeny—with due respect to the laws and traditions of the country in which that correspondent is operating. The details will be his concern, not ours. Obviously, if a correspondent is short of funds—not everybody can put their hands on fifty million dollars overnight—Single’s will consider making a loan in order to enable him to exercise his local discretion. I think it’s hugely important to make this point. And very right and proper of you, in your capacity as our legal counselor today, to have made it. I thank you. We all do.” Massingham’s hoarse “Hear, hear” delivers the deathblow as Tiger slides smoothly into a plug for the great House of Single. “Single’s exists to say yes where others say no, Oliver. We bring vision. Know-how. Energy. Resources. To wherever the spirit of true adventure leads. Yevgeny’s not hypnotized by the old Iron Curtain—never were, were you, Yevgeny?” Out of the edge of his misted gaze, Oliver is aware of Yevgeny Orlov’s cropped head shaking itself from side to side. “He’s a proxy Georgian. A lover of Georgia’s beauty and culture. Georgia boasts some of the earliest Christian churches in the world. I don’t expect you knew that, did you?”
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