Iron Dogs and Caesar's Ruby

by Dave R. Mortensen

  Alex and Elanore froze as he opened the bag and poured a few large diamonds into his outstretched hand. He took a napkin and rolled the rest of the stones gently onto it.

  “Oh my God,” Elanore gasped.

  “They’re even more striking on black,” Kirkland said admiringly as he carefully rolled them onto the surface of the flattened black bag and spread them out. Even with just the daylight from the open blinds of the windows and door to the patio, at least a hundred diamonds of varying carat weights glimmered with dazzling intensity before their eyes.

  Without using the loupe he knew they were real and all were well above a carat; many of them were at least four, perhaps four-and-a-half carats. He held up the seller’s page and read aloud: “’One hundred rhinestones ranging in size from six to nine millimeters’.”

  “A hundred and sixteen,” Margaret corrected. “Believe me, I’ve counted them ... and they sure as hell aren’t rhinestones,” she offered seriously.

  “You are quite correct, Mrs. C.,” Kirkland noted quietly as he moved some of them around with his fingertip and selected one of the larger ones to examine with the loupe. As the Calders watched in expectation he picked up and studied several more. “There are a number of old-cut stones ... they don’t have the popular fire we expect in today’s retail market, but they’re actually large enough to be re-cut—”

  “Re-cut?” Alex asked.

  “What did you mean ‘old-cut’?” Elanore asked as she examined the diamonds on her wedding set.

  Kirkland concentrated on the stones as he answered. “Until 1919 diamond cutters didn’t fully understand the geometric principles of optics and reflective surfaces ... then along comes a Belgian engineer, a fellow by the name of Tolkowsky ... and turned the diamond cutting world on its ear.”

  He selected another larger stone and continued. “In the main, these are—I’m going to guess based on the few I’ve looked at—nearly colorless and flawless. And to answer the question on everyone’s mind, on today’s market I would say most of them are worth in excess of twenty-five thousand dollars ... some as much as forty.”

  There was a collective gasp from the others around the table.

  “They have to be individually graded,” he suggested, “but there’s somewhere north of three million dollars in diamonds here.”

  Alex whispered incredulously, “Three million,” then he recalled what Kirkland had told him earlier in his office and asked, “But aren’t they unsellable?”

  Kirkland set down his loupe, rubbed his eyes quickly and cleared his throat. “Actually,” he began then sighed and continued guardedly as he pointed at the pendant, “unlike the famous ruby, these can’t be identified or traced. They are highly liquid.”

  Margaret pointed at the box in front of Elanore. “You’ll especially like that one, Hon.”

  Elanore’s mind raced as she began unwrapping the wad of paper she had pulled from the box. Inside was another wad, this one aluminum foil and inside it was a small linen bag. Her hands began to tremble and instead of opening it she passed it to Kirkland. “I’d drop it and break something ... I don’t want that on my conscience.”

  After taking it from her, Kirkland used the prong of a fork to delicately loosen the knot holding the bag closed.

  “Sorry,” Margaret said. “I may have pulled that a tad tight.”

  After opening the bag Kirkland removed a bundle of cotton and carefully unwrapped it, removing the tangled bits and shreds to reveal a brooch fashioned in silver and gold with diamonds surrounding a staggeringly large and brilliant blue stone. “Oh, yes,” he whispered in awe then blew out a slight ‘whew’ sound. “This might look familiar,” he said as he held it up and looked at Elanore, reminding her of more of their conversation the previous evening.

  Slowly she whispered in awe, “Oh my God ... yes.”

  Kirkland looked at Margaret and Alex as he explained, “It’s a sapphire ... two hundred and sixty carats with fifty-six carats of antique diamonds around it. I actually didn’t examine the item at the museum last evening but knowing what I know now ... under the circumstances,” he said then paused as he examined it again and added, “I’d say this one is real.”

  Elanore raised the page and read the eBay description aloud: “’Too gaudy for words this is the perfect highlight for that turban or bandolier costume!’ ”

  “A sapphire ... you said two hundred and sixty carats ... a sapphire?” Alex asked.

  “It’s among the largest in the world,” Kirkland answered, setting it on the bag on the table and picking off the last clingy wisps of cotton.

  Alex decided not to reach out and pick it up. Instead he sorted through the excelsior in the cardboard box in front of him and found a typical small and inexpensive hinged velvet-covered jewelry box the size a woman’s watch might come in.

  A huge, beaming smile formed on Margaret’s face and she said, “That one’s my favorite.”

  Alex opened the box but his face couldn’t register any additional surprise as he looked at another brooch made up of diamonds. Oh wow, what the hell is this, he thought then gingerly passed it to Kirkland.

  Kirkland took the piece as he noted, “Clever of them to put it in a cheap oriental knock-off box.” After only a few seconds he added, “I can’t say for certain but this is most likely the authentic Duval piece.” He held it up for them to see more closely. “It’s known as The Cornucopia – and it’s over two hundred years old.”

  Alex looked at his printed page and said, “Total price, fifty-one dollars including FedEx shipping.”

  Kirkland sighed as he set the piece on the table and looked around at the Calders. “In addition to three pieces of Romanov jewelry and several million dollars worth of diamonds, you have a very interesting dilemma.” After a few seconds he turned to Margaret and said, “I suppose now you want to find General Kovpak.”

  With her eyes scanning the priceless treasure on the table before them, Elanore seemed lost in thought then a sheepish grin formed as she looked at Margaret and said quietly with a kind of guilty, conspiratorial tone, “Or maybe he’ll just keep sending you stuff.”

  Kirkland shook his head. “We’d better find him before he does.”

  CHAPTER 15

  The Kremlin, Moscow, USSR, 1946

  Igor Olnikov smoked almost continuously as he sat nervously outside the office of Colonel General Viktor Semyonovich Abakumov, Stalin’s recently appointed Minister for State Security and depending on the unpredictable calendar, Olnikov’s apparent ultimate superior.

  A well-regarded, experienced investigator who had served in highly-classified positions before and during the course of the war, Olnikov had never been called directly to the office of the head of any of the varying organizations he had labored so carefully under. Skipping the chain of command was almost never done but with the almost constant changes dictated from the Kremlin, particularly those from Stalin or those maneuvering for power, he wasn’t entirely surprised. One just has to wind up on the right side, he reminded himself.

  When Abakumov’s aide opened the door and motioned him to enter, Olnikov quickly rose and crushed out the cigarette then straightened his tunic. He walked as calmly as he could into the surprisingly well-furnished office and stopped before the desk where the Minister was seated.

  Abakumov ignored him and continued reading something for nearly a minute then set it down, signed it and blotted the ink. After examining his signature closely, the man looked up at Olnikov with no expression at all. The eyes were almost vacant; the voice was unexpectedly weak, almost feminine. “Take this,” he said as he picked up and handed Olnikov a sealed envelope then glanced over at a clock to his right. “You are to report to Comrade Stalin in twenty minutes. Do not open that. You will deliver it to him only.”

  Abakumov looked down again and picked up his pen. “You are dismissed,” he said flatly as he resumed reading another document.

  Olnikov’s mouth was now dry and he swallowed with some dif
ficulty. “Yes, Comrade General,” he said then turned to leave the office, even more concerned about what his future held.

  “One more thing, Comrade,” the Minister said, still without looking at Olnikov.

  “Yes, Comrade General?”

  “This meeting never occurred.”

  Despite the blasé way the man had said it, Olnikov well understood the meaning. “Of course, Comrade General,” he replied knowingly then let himself out the door.

  Fifteen minutes later Olnikov steeled his resolve, walked up to a Captain at a desk in the waiting area outside Stalin’s offices and introduced himself.

  The taciturn officer consulted a page in a scheduling ledger and with a grunt and a hand gesture pointed to a short row of chairs. “You will be called,” he said quickly after writing something on the paper.

  Noting there was an ashtray on the small table next to the wooden chair, Olnikov decided he would have time to have another cigarette, but before he could light it a door opened and another officer stepped out and called his name. He rose and followed the man and as they stepped inside Stalin’s office another aide appeared, carrying a string-tied bundle of files some twenty centimeters thick. The man placed the pile on the corner of the tidy desk then quickly retreated and closed the door quietly behind him.

  Olnikov remained standing then removed the envelope from inside his tunic and held it toward Stalin. “I was told this was to be seen only by you, Comrade.”

  After opening it and reading briefly, the First Secretary said, “Comrade Igor Olnikov,” then finished reading the two pages before looking at him and suggesting he sit with a wave of one meaty hand.

  With the papers placed on the desk, Stalin rose, linked his hands behind his back and began pacing back and forth as he gave very specific instructions as to what he wanted done.

  - # -

  After his brief meeting with Stalin, a confused and only slightly-less apprehensive Olnikov was shown to a compact office that had been prepared for him on the same floor and began considering his future. He had somehow been singled out to conduct an investigation that was so secret no one other than Stalin and he could ever be aware of the nature of it. Even Abakumov had only known who he had chosen for the assignment, not what Olnikov was going to be doing.

  Olnikov would have no clerk, no typist and no administrative assistance or advice from the other arms of the state security bureaucracy. But what he did have was an order signed by Stalin directing whomever it was presented to to provide him with their full cooperation. Thus, he had access to any military service document with the specific exception of those of personnel related to scientific and weapons secrets.

  The stack of files he had been given were dossiers of twenty Red Air Force fighter pilots who had been chosen to undertake a highly-secret mission that Stalin would describe to him only as ‘in support of our victory in the Great Patriotic War’.

  Olnikov’s first and only task was to identify the status and whereabouts of each of the mission’s participants – living or dead. Once that was accomplished he was to report back to Stalin privately without taking any further steps. There was to be no contact with any of the pilots and no revelations to anyone about the purpose of his investigation, particularly within the party or military chain of command.

  Unlike complete personnel files, none of the records reflected events before November of 1941 or beyond September of 1942. Other than their assignment and transportation orders, most of the contents were notations made while they were in the United Kingdom. One of the files recorded the pilot had been killed in a flying incident during July of 1942. Another was permanently disabled at about the same time and he found six others had been returned to the USSR between July and August.

  He was unable to discern what they had been ordered to do after their departure from England and he got the distinct impression he nor anyone else still alive was supposed to know the purpose behind their mission.

  But for Olnikov, that mission was irrelevant; he was going to be spending time at the Kremlin, scouring military personnel files and unit reports. There’s going to be much more to this than a clerical exercise, he told himself grimly.

  - # -

  In addition to Olnikov being experienced and well-positioned in the intelligence directorate, his career made him familiar with the bureaucracy of the Soviet military apparatus and the disparate ways each of the branches functioned and maintained their archives. Within a week he had completed his initial task and sent word to Stalin’s aide that his report was completed – a day later he was summoned again to Stalin’s offices.

  The report was only four pages in length and Stalin went though it quickly while remaining seated at his desk. “Only three still alive,” he remarked without any surprise. “I remember this Kovpak,” he said, pointing at the page. He took up his pipe and was about to light it when he looked up at Olnikov and asked, “Did you know General Krylov?”

  Olnikov didn’t have to think for more than a few seconds. Everyone in the Soviet Union who could read or had functioning ears must have known of Krylov and his legendary heroism by the time of his tragic death in a flying accident off the coast of Latvia. “I know of him, but I never met him, Comrade.”

  “Golikov?”

  The agent glanced down in thought for a few moments then shook his head. “I cannot recall.”

  “And Leonov?”

  “Yes, I have attended party meetings where he was a speaker.”

  Stalin rose from his desk, struck a match and lit his pipe, then stood near the window and proceeded to outline the supposed purpose of the secret mission – to deliver the payment for a very covert bargain to advance the Allies’ invasion of Europe.

  Stunned but carefully avoiding any display of what he was thinking, Olnikov immediately connected the story to a number of rumors that had circulated since the end of the war – careful whispers about Soviet technological secrets somehow falling into the hands of the Western allies. As Olnikov and others had concluded out of sheer ignorance, ‘How else to explain the American’s atomic bomb?’ when the fact was Soviet spies like Klaus Fuchs had started passing secrets about his work while in Britain and later, from his involvement in the Manhattan project.

  “And these pilots,” Olnikov asked, pointing at the report, “they are responsible for espionage? Weapons secrets? Even Comrade Leonov?”

  “Espionage?” Stalin asked dismissively then shook his head and puffed on his pipe. “No, no, Comrade ... that story was nothing more than a ruse. A very clever one crafted by Leonov himself,” Stalin instructed. “It was highly persuasive with Krylov and Golikov. It ensured their understanding of the need for success.” He examined his pipe for several moments as he added, “It has resulted in some ill-advised rumors.”

  Despite Stalin’s more troubled demeanor, Olnikov was relieved that he wasn’t going to be involved in yet another persecution of one or more of the man’s suspected enemies, especially someone of Leonov’s stature. “I have seen nothing in any records that explains the mission,” he began, “and until this moment I could only deduce the purpose was expediting the deployment of the Lend Lease aircraft through Tehran.”

  Stalin lowered his pipe to his side. “That is as it should be. There are no other records of the mission – don’t waste your time trying to find them. What I want Comrade ... I want the missing plane found ... and no one is to know it is being looked for.”

  Olnikov was clearly taken aback. “The plane?”

  Stalin simply looked at the agent without answer or explanation.

  “Comrade Stalin, what ... what am I looking for ... if I find the plane?” Olnikov asked with some trepidation.

  Stalin almost began to speak but instead, paused again and looked out the window. When he turned and looked directly at Olnikov he said firmly, “What is there or is not there is of no concern to you.”

  Olnikov instantly realized that subject was closed. “Of course, Comrade.”

  Knowing
full well what was sent in the planes, Stalin offered a misleading explanation to the unasked question. “I want to know if there was ... if there is anything that my enemies could use to misconstrue the truth.”

  Does he not already know? Olnikov thought then nodded affirmatively. “Yes ... yes, I understand, Comrade Stalin.”

  “There is a chance one of them – one of the pilots may know something that would provide a clue as to the plane’s whereabouts,” Stalin said as he stepped over to his desk and removed an envelope from a drawer and held it out. “Your authority will not be questioned,” he added flatly.

  As Olnikov opened the envelope and read the short letter Stalin spoke again. “After you discover what they know, report only to me ... and be persistent,” he said then apparently became temporarily distracted by his pipe before he added, “That is all.”

  “Yes, Comrade,” Olnikov said then put the letter back in the envelope, turned and walked out through the waiting area and directly to his office, his mind wrestling with what he had learned and what he was expected to accomplish.

  Disturbing thoughts swept through his mind about the ramifications of what was now a matter of significance to the First Secretary. If there truly was something, if not weapons secrets, what could it be that could be used against the most powerful man in the Soviet Union? Could he trust Stalin to be telling him the truth? Of course not ... I am at the mercy of a man well known for his cunning and ruthlessness. Will just knowing there is nothing there be sufficient for him to quiet the speculations? Will he use that knowledge to prosecute those who he thinks are prepared to accuse him?

  Seated at his sparse desk he began having phone calls placed, leaving instructions for the officers to contact him at the Kremlin without revealing the urgency or the fact that he was functioning under Stalin’s personal orders. There was no need to have others know the significance of the matter; the instructions were coming from the offices of the First Secretary and that made them significant enough.