Hot Siberian (22 page)

Yelena was more than happy to trade Aikhal and Siberia for Almazjuvelirexport and Leningrad. She dreaded the thought of ever being considered
nyekulturnyi
, and there was no longer any chance of that. She had many things others didn't. She was able to travel with Valkov to Paris and even New York, where she could be as fashionable as she wanted. She even had diamonds, a secret little horde of thirty choice stones ranging in size from half a carat to two carats and one treasured stone of ten carats. Valkov, exercising the prerogative of his position, merely picked one up now and then as a sample of production and surprised her with it. For the time being she could only play with her diamonds. They weren't even set. But perhaps someday …

By the end of Valkov's fourth year in Leningrad he and his Yelena were taking their privileges for granted. Their satisfaction with what they had and could have went flat. Advantages that had been of utmost importance now seemed petty. So what if they could have calves' liver whenever they wanted, when they had dined at Maxim's and Taillevent? Where was the joy, really, in impressing people who were always so easily impressed? Yelena had been devastated by comparison during a September-afternoon stroll in Paris along Faubourg Saint-Honoré. She'd been there before, but that time, for some reason, the force of fashionable possessions struck her differently and she came away feeling diminished. Valkov had a somewhat similar experience in Paris on the same trip, when, just for the sake of curiosity, he'd gone into a real estate agent's office and inquired about the price of a villa on the Costa del Sol. Neither Yelena nor Valkov discussed having these feelings, but they made them known with irritated moods, episodes of ennui, frequent dissatisfaction with each other. Separately they began thinking upward, looking upward, and at about the same time both came to the realization that in the Soviet system this would be their eternal plateau, as high as Valkov would ever go. His foreground had reached the limit of his background. If only he had been one of the so-called
zolotaya molodyozh
, the golden youth, with a father on the Central Committee or of high rank in the military. If only his education had been at the Institute of Foreign Languages or the Moscow Institute for International Relations. If only he had come up to where he was the softer way.

Almazjuvelirexport.

Feliks Valkov.

Nikolai dialed Valkov's interoffice number and asked the secretary when Valkov might be available to see him. He was told Valkov had just gotten in and had a very full day; however, in about ten minutes he could give Nikolai the next ten.

That suited Nikolai. There was nothing specific that he wanted to get into with Valkov. This touching base with him was merely a courtesy, and overdue inasmuch as their only contact in three months had been by telephone.

Nikolai sat back in his desk chair. Its swiveling mechanism complained with a creak. He noticed how dusty the fake-leather-covered arm of it was. It occurred to him that he'd sat down on a layer of dust. In fact, his mere presence in the office had stirred up a lot of it. The shaft of morning sun coming through the only window had millions of frantic motes in it. That, he thought, was what he was breathing. He wondered if when he inhaled those motes stayed in him. Every surface of his office was coated with dust. The desk, the small table overburdened with several years of unimportant memorandums and copies of the
Bulletin of Foreign Commercial Information
, the metal four-drawer file cabinet, everything. He hadn't been here. No one had been here. Even the three ball-point pens that he took from the trough in his desk drawer had gone dry. It was depressing. However, this wasn't really his office but just a space in which to sit for the few days a year he was in Leningrad, a place to keep things that he didn't take the time to sort and throw out. That was why it was so small, had terrible light, was located way back here within hearing range of the flush of the employees' toilet and farther than everything else from Valkov's office. Nikolai thought about complaining that his office wasn't being vacuumed and dusted but then he decided he didn't really mind having it the way it was, actually would prefer to think of it that way rather than well tended and waiting for him when he was in London. He caused another minor dust storm when he got up and went out.

The door to Valkov's office was shut. The secretary's indifferent glance was Nikolai's permission to enter. Valkov was standing before the bank of tall french windows at the far end of the room, faced away, gazing out as though he were mulling over a difficult decision. Nikolai believed it was a pose, because Valkov took his cue too abruptly, turned, and came at him with the assumed small smile that he had ready and his right hand extended like a weapon. Their handshake matched firm for firm. They greeted each other in Russian but then spoke only in English. Unlike Nikolai, Valkov had a tinge of Russian accent. It was like a bit too much salt in soup; the flavor could never be removed. It pointed out the disparity between his and Nikolai's educational background, and therefore other differences as well.

“When did you get in?” Valkov asked for small talk.

“This morning,” Nikolai fibbed for the hell of it.

“I have to be in Moscow tonight,” Valkov said as though that wasn't ordinary. He spent considerable time in Moscow, prided himself in being an absolute Muscovite. Once, in this regard, when having a drink with Nikolai he had toasted, “
Pervyi srednii ravnykh!
”—First among equals! Valkov's physical appearance made Nikolai wonder how much truth there was in the man's claim to the many pure Russian generations his family went back to before the keeping of family records. Valkov's coloring wasn't just fair, he was so fair he seemed to come only a fraction of a gene from being albino. His hair was blond but the sort of white blond that tow-headed youngsters begin with. His brows were that same shade and so were his lashes, which were, unfortunately in his case, thick and unusually long. He had angular features that would have been strong if he'd been dark, but they lost much to his pasty complexion. His lips were pale, his eyes light green and heavy-lidded into slits. The impression he gave was physical weakness, perhaps susceptibility to disease. The opposite was true. He was in excellent condition and quite athletic. He belonged to what Leningraders called the Walrus Club, a group who chopped swimming holes in the ice of the Neva.

“I understand you had a very successful go with Churcher,” he said, referring to the 5 percent price increase.

“So it appears.”

“Congratulations. Minister Savich phoned this morning and told me how it went. I wish I could have been there.”

“That would have made it absolutely merciless.” Nikolai flattered the man because the opportunity was so obvious.

Valkov gestured for Nikolai to be seated. As Valkov's chair received his weight, Nikolai noticed it didn't complain, rather the real-leather-covered seat cushion let out a sort of grateful sigh. The surface of Valkov's spacious desk had nothing on it other than a telephone. His phone didn't ring. It lighted up, as it did now. Without apology he took the call.

Valkov spoke low. Nikolai didn't try to hear. He looked about the room and remembered how it was said that this had once been the ballerina's boudoir, where she had done her horizontal
pas de deux
. Now prominent and well lighted on the wall was the predictable portrait of Lenin, the one of him seated at a table preoccupied with writing with a pencil. Nikolai had all his life tried to care for Lenin. Several years ago in the main reading room of the British Museum he'd seen a reproduction of the actual official bulletin which was drawn up to announce to the world what had taken place in Ekaterinburg in 1918. On it all references to having executed the Empress and the children were crossed out and the words “Publication prohibited” written over them. What could be more graphic evidence of shame? Even the signature on the bulletin was, probably out of shame, illegible. The Bolshevik leaders were in favor of executing the Czar, but only him. They wanted to exile the others. It was Lenin who was adamant, insisted that Empress Alexandra, Grand Duchesses Olga, Tatiana, Maria and Anastasia and little Grand Duke Alexis also be shot and bayoneted to death in that cellar of the Ipatiev house. Nikolai thought Lenin's motive had been as much personal as political, and he was often reminded of that when he saw a picture of the man.

“Would you care for a glass of tea?” Valkov asked, a formality.

“No, thank you.”

“You return to London when?”

“In a few days.”

“The next field trip to Aikhal is scheduled for sometime in September, you know.”

“I know.” Did they now think that he had to be reminded of times? Had Savich said anything to Valkov about his being late for the meeting yesterday? Whether Savich had or not wasn't crucial. Nikolai's professional stance was split, with one foot in Almazjuvelirexport and the other in the Ministry of Foreign Trade; however, his weight was in the Ministry. Valkov realized that and was chafed by it. He would have liked nothing better than to do away with all this artificial civility and put his knee hard and heavy on Nikolai's neck.

“The reason I mention Aikhal,” Valkov said, “is that the trip will more than likely be postponed.”

“Oh?” That was good news. To Nikolai the required annual field trips to Aikhal were a waste of time. They were supposed to give Almazjuvelirexport executives a thorough understanding of the methods of recovering, processing, and finishing diamonds, but they were little more than superficial tours.

“Instead,” Valkov went on, “you and I and a couple of others may go elsewhere.” He unlocked his center desk drawer and from it brought out a heavy manila envelope that was bulging with whatever it contained. He undid the envelope's flap and, with care, slid something wrapped in black tissue onto his desk. Slowly, relishing the moment, anticipating Nikolai's reaction, he unfolded the tissue.

Revealed were emeralds. Uncut emerald crystals of various sizes. Altogether about a thousand carats of them. Some were no larger than kernels of corn. A few were as long as a pencil and twice a pencil's thickness. All were perfectly formed, six-sided, and not just bright green but a pure, deep, lively green that shot out to the eyes. Nikolai's thought was they looked like solidified crème de menthe.

“Emeralds,” Valkov enunciated.

Nikolai came close to saying aloud, “No shit.” Even if he'd tried to be blase those emeralds would have made it impossible. He thought he'd like to have one for Vivian, one of the large ones.

Valkov pushed the emerald-bearing black tissue paper eight inches closer to Nikolai. “I'd like your opinion of them.”

Nikolai, aware of Valkov's gemological expertise, knew the man was taking advantage. He cooperated, humbled himself. “I know zero about emeralds.”

“Being in the gem business, you should never admit that,” Valkov advised him somewhat censoriously. “An experienced gem man such as myself can ascertain the quality of any colored stone in a matter of seconds. In fact, with my bare eye I can even tell what part of the world an emerald came from. Take these, for example. Where would
you
say these were dug up?”

“That's not fair.” Nikolai grinned. “You got a look at the postmark.”

Valkov had a stunted sense of humor. “At least you could take a guess,” he said snidely.

“Okay.” Nikolai shrugged and after some thought said, “Maybe they're from Uzbekiskaya.”

Valkov looked like someone who had just smacked full-speed into an invisible wall. “Savich told you,” he said.

Uzbekiskaya had been a wild guess, but Nikolai knew he'd never convince Valkov of that. So he said nothing, just looked well informed. He'd been honest about his knowledge of emeralds. They were green, rare, and expensive, he knew, but he'd never had reason to learn about them. Actually he wasn't all that fascinated with gems of any sort, not even diamonds, despite the technical information he'd assimilated over the years. He could tell a really good diamond from a bad one, but to him they were not a passion, only a commodity.

“How much did Savich tell you?” Valkov asked.

“Just a mention.”

That put Valkov back on track. “Several months ago these emeralds were found on a captured Uzbek guerrilla who was bound for Afghanistan to trade them for weapons. Our military people there have since learned the location of the principal mines and more or less gained control of them. Moscow wants us to have a look, evaluate the yield, and say whether or not it would be worth the bother of pushing our way into the emerald market. So, come September, we'll be flying to Dusanbe rather than Aikhal.”

You go, Nikolai thought. The last thing he wanted was to be in an interdicted zone and get blown away while picking up little green stones. Coward he wasn't, but well … why was it that the idea of dying in the desolate mountains of Uzbekiskaya was so much worse than the idea of dying elsewhere—worse, for instance, than being run down by a ten-ton truck while dodging across Piccadilly? Besides, if he went to Uzbekiskaya it wouldn't be mere misfortune that he was killed. His impression of the guerrilla fighters of that area, gathered from BBC newscasts and documentaries and various articles, was that they were practically born with rifles in their hands and were all vying to prove who was the sharpest shooter. Fuck that.

“I suggest between now and then you learn as much as you can about emeralds,” Valkov said and put a period on the conversation by standing abruptly and glancing at the way out.

Now
that
to worry about, Nikolai thought as he left Valkov's office and walked down the hall. He had two months, but already excuses to get him out of the emerald field trip were being presented by what he believed was his will to survive.

He arrived back in his dustbin of an office and closed the door. Sat and contemplated the telephone call that had been imminently there between his consciousness and his actions for the past eight hours. What should his opening words be? Certainly he shouldn't begin with “Where the hell were you all night?”—even if that was his emotional inclination. Did he have enough control to be casual? Telling himself the best way to sound relaxed was to be relaxed, he leaned back, put his legs up on the desk, and crossed them. Took a half-dozen slow breaths so deeply filling they made his stomach hump. With the phone balanced on his crotch he placed the call, and within a minute her number was ringing.