Napoleon Great-Great-Grandson Speaks
Page 27
Five-star hotels were absent from the list of twenty-five names. I didn't aspire to them. I lowered the bar down to four-star ones. Las Vegas' main street was represented by the Paris, the New York-New York, and the Aladdin. I ordered three plane tickets, and reserved one room for us and a two-room suite for the kids at the New York.
The obliging computer issued up the most important information: at any hotel in Las Vegas from four stars up, there exists a «wedding chapel»-a service that allows people, quickly and tastefully (the taste is determined by the price of the package selected), to get married, taking into account the religious traditions of the bride and groom. I called the New York and reserved a ceremony for Sunday, November second. No problems arose with the prepayment-they accept credit cards over the phone.
The first part-the organizing-was done. The time had come to go on to the wedding present. A diamond ring? According to my observations, Gulya was not in the habit of flashing jewelry around. Although, under the circumstances, habits would have no significance. Flowers, champagne, and a wedding ring are the three indispensables that comprise a wedding celebration. Anything else? – I fell to thinking.
It was getting close to midday when Sviridov's voice resounded from my cell phone. Cheerful congratulations rang out, concluding with a proposal to celebrate the joyous occasion with a glass of wine at any location convenient for me.
«Will Friday do?» I answered, surmising that the birthday was only a pretext.
«I am your guest. You say where,» Viktor reacted at lightning speed and delivered the hackneyed phrase, «The game is on, rain or shine.»
I made a face-I don't like banalities, spoken, moreover, out of place. But-business is business. Calming myself, I proposed: «One o'clock in the afternoon, in Washington Square, on a bench next to the Garibaldi monument. I recently picked out a cozy little cellar restaurant in Greenwich Village with original cuisine. We'll celebrate there.»
«Excellent.»
From the conversation we'd just had, one thing was clear: Viktor had found an excuse to meet again. What for? He would tell me himself.
On Friday I arrived at the square five minutes before the scheduled time. The fountain-a summer attraction-was idle, but that didn't deprive the square of allure. Singers, musicians, street preachers-they hang out here in search of money and fame. It's a fun place, if the visitor is not conservative and is prepared for surprises. I secured an empty bench. Looked around.
A score of Afro-Americans, almost in the open, were selling marijuana-if I weren't used to it, the persistent smell would have stupefied me. Gulya had warned me: you get used to it fast. Washington Square exerts a pull, and, if you happen to be nearby, your feet will turn all by themselves in the right direction.
Washington Square is the geographic center of the university. Around it are the classroom buildings. Opposite each other sit the offices of the young Democrats and Republicans-political demarcation begins in the student auditoria. Disturbances, luckily, aren't anticipated-revolutions happen where there is mass discontent. They have kept their distance and passed America by. The University's Catholic and Protestant churches, mosque, and synagogue happily rub elbows and take turns peacefully celebrating religious holidays. Sometimes with a procession into the square. That's America! Pluralism of opinions, concessions, meetings and gatherings. It is police-protected freedom of expression, which no one in Greenwich Village will encroach upon. «If you want to, drink vodka; if you want to, sing songs.»
Lunchtime. The square is full of university students who prefer a snack in the fresh air to the meals in the old buildings' stuffy interiors. By the central entrance are shelves with ultra-leftist newspapers. The student communists, as is prescribed for the «proletariat,» are clothed casually and provocatively. As I was walking past them, I stopped to have a look at the American marvel. I didn't want to argue with them-with age, the desire to stand out in some way (a kind of hippie-dom) would grow into a more reputable hobby.
Surveying the square, I lost myself in contemplation of the creative torments of some student cameramen. It looked like they were filming an Italian bread commercial. Take after re-take, a feeble youth sat down on a bench, hungrily took a bite out of a baguette, and diligently masticated. Not far off, a big cardboard box of props lay on the ground-the students had prepared thoroughly to do their homework. It's an interesting question-how soon will that actor have any desire to touch Italian bread again?
«Having a good time?» – Viktor's voice sounded from behind my back.
«What a KGB-ish habit-to come up from behind»-I growled, displeased with the fact that I had overlooked the «diplomat.»
Viktor came around the bench and held out his hand to be shaken. «Excuse me, I came from the direction of the Triumphal Arch.»
I got up. Exchanging routine phrases, we got as far as the north-side exit from the square and came out onto MacDougal Street. On the corner, we found a little restaurant. After a brief wait in a short line, we were seated. The waiter brought us two menus and politely asked, «What would you like to order?»
I had a hard time choosing, and I shifted the responsibility onto Viktor. «I'll trust your judgment.»
«What'll we drink?» – Viktor zeroed in on the beverages.
«Whatever you want. I'll have a dry wine. Californian or Australian.»
Viktor compressed his lips in a dissatisfied way, running his eyes over the menu. «Well, then. We'll keep company. Australian.»
«We don't have to have the same thing. You can choose something stronger.»
Viktor folded the menu. «Today is your day. If it's wine, then it's wine.»
The waiter stood patiently by, listening to the unfamiliar speech. I was not mistaken in Viktor. He discussed the menu with the waiter with savoir faire, and ordered two kinds of salad and hot dishes. The waiter moved away, and Viktor explained: «We'll share the salads. The portions here are big.»
In the absence of alcohol-the conversational catalyst-a heavy pause hung over us. In order to lighten the atmosphere, Viktor began to examine the pictures hanging on the walls; then he tossed out a remark on the designers of the restaurant, who had managed to create a situation that facilitated confidential meetings. The waiter brought a pitcher of cold water and filled our glasses. Viktor took a sip and, as though by chance, asked, «Is there any news from your ex-wife?»
My heart skipped a beat: Sophia had disappeared from the FSB's field of view. Without betraying my joyous feelings, I wrinkled my brow and gave a careless wave of my hand. «Don't spoil the festivities. I couldn't care less about her fate.»
The waiter brought two glasses of Australian wine and the salads. Viktor remembered about the birthday-somewhat floridly, he wished me a long life; we drank half a glass each, and he moved on to the main business, on account of which he had begun the whole charade of celebrating my birthday. «Have you heard of the Bank of New York case that was being tried recently in the New York State Federal Court?»
«Yes, of course. A lot has been written and said about it.»
«It echoed in Russia as well. Investigating heinous financial crimes, the Prosecutor's Office came across Russian business sharks. You remember, one of the participants in that illegal currency operations case that was tried in New York was Natalya Gurfinkel-Kagalovsky?»
I was silent, and Viktor added, «Her husband, Konstantin Kagalovsky, is the second-in-command at Menatep.»
«Granted,» I nodded, trying to understand what he was driving at.
«On the second of July, the Prosecutor's Office arrested the co-owner of the controlling batch of shares in Yukos, Platon Lebedev, who is, at the same time, the chairman of the council of directors for Menatep. Have you heard?»
«There was something written about that…»
«There is evidence for a connection between the two criminal cases. Only a blind person could fail to see the connecting link-Menatep.»
«Granted,» I repeated, inviting Viktor to become more talkative.
«What do you think: how did Platon Lebedev, who in eighty-nine was the modest head of the Department of Economic Planning in the Ministry of Geology, manage to acquire one billion dollars by 2003? This isn't my own data, it's from the journal Forbes. And how did the Commercial Bank, Menatep Saint Petersburg, registered in November of 1995, manage in a short time to acquire multibillion-dollar assets, enabling them to buy up state companies worth billions of dollars? Where did the money come from? The shareholders didn't just pitch in a ruble each. In a civilized country, in a case like this, the appropriate institutions take an interest in the origin of the money. Try in United States to pull out more than ten thousand dollars in cash. You immediately fall under the scrutiny of the IRS. Show where the money came from, prove that it's not drug money.»
«It's not just a question of drug money, but of funds that might go to the support of terrorist organizations.»
«Exactly!» Viktor exclaimed joyfully. «That's what I'm talking about! In Russia, primary capital is accumulated by predatory methods. The democrats announced the privatization of state enterprises. They handed out vouchers to the populace, worthless little pieces of paper that were supposed to permit an average guy to become the owner of who knows what. Then there were formed joint stock companies of the Menatep sort, which bought up those pieces of paper at prices that they themselves set. Where did the joint stock companies get the money? From financial pyramids, rackets, drug-dealing and prostitution. That's how the legalization of the stolen goods begins. Get it? Part of the money gets taken abroad, to offshore businesses-the Bank of New York just happened to slip up. Hundreds of other fake banks are flourishing.»
While Viktor held forth, I had been gobbling up the salad. «Eat, or there won't be any left.»
Viktor fell silent, ate up the salad, and went on with the interrupted conversation.
«The Russian oligarchs' capital has been obtained illegally. Some oligarchs have just been indicted for embezzlement on a particularly large scale, for causing financial damage to the government and for nonpayment of taxes. Al Capone received a life sentence for a similar crime. The laws of Russia are more humane than yours-the swindlers will do their time and be set free. Yukos is just the beginning. The prosecutor will indict many more enterprises.»
His voice sounded threatening. Luckily, a hot dish arrived. Viktor cheered up. «We have fish and wine. Shall we continue?»
«What shall we drink to?»
«To what brings us together.»
«Agreed.»
We clinked glasses and got to work with our knives and forks. Five minutes later, Viktor had eaten his fill and, waving his fork, intoned: «As I was saying…»
I stopped him.
«As always, there is one 'but.' Not a single pile of capital in the West was created from honestly earned funds. Someone made a fortune in the slave trade; or by stealing the national wealth of overseas colonies; or on military contracts. Should we begin re-partitioning the world again? Start the Third World War? Economic crimes have been committed, sometimes because of imperfect laws, and sometimes, I agree, by intent. It's time to declare an amnesty. The main thing is for the oligarchs to work honestly now, and pay their taxes. And for the government to have the means to pay for pensions and medical insurance. And for the salaries of government employees.»
«Stop-stop-stop! And the recent financial scandals on Wall Street, and the arrests of the top managers of Enron and WorldCom? Note, they also arrested them and locked them up. Even before the trial. And nobody's outraged. Nobody's shouting about violating civil rights and freedoms.»
«Are you talking about Scott Sullivan?»
«Yes, Yes, Sullivan, the former Chief Financial Officer of WorldCom, and David Myers, the Controller. Last year, they were arrested by the FBI. They're both cooling their heels in prison cells without a murmur-they realize that they're guilty. And here somebody has gone ballistic on account of Khodorkovsky's arrest! Let the civil rights activists worry about the managers of WorldCom! They, like the managers of Yukos, are accused of securities fraud.»
Viktor let himself go-he stopped holding down the decibels. We got disapproving glances from the next table, but out of politeness, they didn't say anything. I put my finger to my lips and nodded my head towards our neighbors.
Viktor smirked, but lowered his voice just the same.
«You must know that for James Olis, the former Chief Financial Officer of Enron, the prosecutor is demanding a life sentence. And, in answer to the lawyers' arguments that the courts' sentences are becoming groundlessly harsh, the federal judge announced that white-collar crimes present a danger to the financial security of the USA.»
«Shall we each have another glass?» – I interrupted the endless monolog.
«High time,» Viktor agreed, and out of inertia, continued: «But in Russia, the maximum term these crooks have to worry about is ten years.»
I called the waiter over and, pointing to the empty glasses, asked him for a refill. A minute later, he arrived with the replenishments.
The lunch had dragged on, it was time to head back. I raised my glass: «Firstly, thanks for the congratulations. Secondly, it's my turn to say a toast.»
«No problem.»
«Guys, let's live as friends!» – I sang, imitating the voice of Leopold the cat from the popular animated film.
Viktor burst out laughing: «A marvelous toast! To friendship!»
We downed our glasses. I put the edge of my palm on the table. «Let's sum things up. You didn't call me to give me a lecture on how today's Russian oligarchs acquired their wealth…»
Viktor started laughing. «You're right. Let's continue the cooperation so successfully begun.»
«Can't you be a little more specific?»
«I touched on that topic with you for a reason. The FSB is working on the same stuff as the FBI. The most complicated part of the battle against economic crimes is gathering the substantiating evidence, the incontrovertible documents. You know from your own experience: criminals don't skimp on lawyers. They're defended by the best of the best. Let's join forces. We need information on Yukos' American assets, on Lebedev's, Khodorkovsky's, Nevzlin's and Shakhnovsky's bank accounts. And, naturally, the dirt on illegal financial operations. We're prepared to pay for confidentiality. Name a price.»
I was taken aback-what I was hearing was an unceremonious proposition. Viktor had treated me like a streetwalker: «Name your price.» Had the FSB really gone lame? In my youth, I had encountered more sophisticated methods of recruitment. There was a Novosibirsk acquaintance, the journalist for a youth newspaper, who admitted that the KGB was proposing that he become an informer. I had held my tongue then, suspecting that my acquaintance was feeling me out. Having gotten no feedback from me, he announced that he had answered by refusing. My acquaintance became wary: from then on, he never touched on the subject of cooperation.
It was a strange situation. By the nature of my work, I frequently have to use the services of informers. No matter what technical novelties the intelligence services use, nobody could get by without their help. In practice, the FBI posts a reward for the capture of particularly dangerous criminals. The amounts vary: from fifty million for the head of Saddam Hussein and twenty-five million for each of his sons, to ten thousand dollars for information on the killer of a policeman. Let's be honest: like any secret service, the FBI relies on traitors-relatives or close friends of the criminal, who are prepared, for a monetary reward, to hand him over with his giblets.
What's my attitude toward them? It's dual. I understand the informer who tells the police about a relative who's been planning the murder of innocent people. On the other hand, the main duty of KGB snitches was to keep an eye on dissidents. The only feeling they provoke is disgust.
Viktor, in no hurry, ate up the garnish and kept an eye on me, waiting for an answer. I wiped my lips with my napkin and answered stiffly, «Thanks for the offer. I'll report to my management. If they think it's necessary, we'll
work together. But right now-pardon me, I'm in a hurry.» I turned and called the waiter.
Viktor was disconcerted. «I'll pay. Lunch was my idea.»
I refused: «Pardon me, we'll go Dutch. Each pays for himself.»
Viktor made one more attempt to mend the situation: «Did the financial offer embarrass you? But, if we've already agreed to cooperate once, and successfully carried out a mutually beneficial exchange of information, why not do it again? Name your conditions. I think we'll be able to find common ground. And achieve mutual understanding without hurting each other's interests.»
The pivotal moment had arrived. «Who killed Doroshenko?»
«In exchange for my request?»
«Yes.» I bluffed a little-I didn't have the particular information he was interested in.
Viktor fell to thinking. «Is everything strictly confidential?»
«Yes.» To sound convincing, I lied: «The unsolved crime is hanging over me. My bosses ask about it every day.»
«Someone from our system. He's been recalled to Russia. Do you need his data?»
«Yes.»
«That exceeds the limits of the preceding arrangements.»
«I'm taking a risk too. The material that interests you isn't lying on my desk.»
He fell into thought again. I didn't rush him. Forcing out the words, Viktor began thinking out loud, readying himself for the next transaction: «You and I both need results.»
I waited patiently. The process of maturation went very quickly. Viktor made up his mind. «Okay. In a week, at one in the afternoon, at the same restaurant.»
«Done!»
Someday in the history of Greenwich Village a new inscription will appear: «At the beginning of the twenty-first century, meetings took place here between a Russian and an American spy, who laid the foundations for cooperation between the eminent secret services.»
The table will be closed off from all the others and, by agreement with the restaurant's proprietor, tour guides will take a substantial amount of money from tourists for the right to sit nearby and drink a cup of coffee. Special technology will produce the illusion of virtual spies chatting in Russian. Visitors to the restaurant will be furnished with headphones with a synchronized translation, and, depending on the price, they will be able to choose to a) silently listen to the conversation, b) take part in it, c) shoot the virtual spies with a virtual pistol, or d) call the FBI and leave a message on the answering machine. (There's a telephone booth nearby).