Hot Siberian (52 page)

“You know I could order you home.”

“And I could refuse.”

“Is that what it's come to?”

“Yes.”

“Well …” Savich sounded resigned, more disappointed than displeased. “Then I suppose we'll just have to make do with long-distance. As anxious as I am to hear all about your recent affairs you must be careful not to reveal anything you might later regret revealing.”

Nikolai caught the intent behind Savich's tone and choice of words. A warning that possibly their conversation was being monitored. Why, Nikolai wondered, should Savich be concerned with what was said and overheard? If anything, Savich should want him to run off at the mouth and implicate himself all the more. That Savich had even taken this call had been a surprise to Nikolai. He'd expected to get no farther than one of Savich's secretaries. The likelihood of such rejection and the anger it would signify was to some extent the reason why Nikolai had hesitated to phone. He'd dialed direct. Eight times he'd dialed all but the final digit and then hung up. He loathed his indecision. He tried to lose it by going out for a walk in Loundes Close. It was a misting London day but he hadn't bothered with a raincoat or umbrella, and within minutes he was damp clear through. He'd walked with head down, taking notice, for distraction, of how the wet brought out the surfaces of the cobbles. He hadn't ventured beyond the high-arched entrance to the Close. He'd given thought to going over to the hotel on Chesham Place only two short blocks away, where he'd go in and stand at the bar for a drink, casually, like a normal secure individual, but he decided he'd better not. Merely standing at the entrance to the Close he felt exposed. The cars and taxis that passed by every so often couldn't be absently viewed. Nor could that tradesman making a delivery to the townhouse across the way be left unconsidered. Paranoia had claimed him and he now viewed everything and everyone through it. Except Vivian, of course. She, apparently, wasn't so affected. She had the protection of her fatalism. And, even more, her belief that this was just a time around and not so vitally important because there'd surely be another. She'd come out of the tulip field psychologically unscathed, capable of exclaiming how delightful it was to be back in her own bed and of humming contentedly while submerged in a chamomile-oil bath and of ringing up Archer and promising lightly to bring him up to date and of being amused at something Archer said and of bidding a single, nonchalant good night to the whole world, as she usually did, before falling right off deep into a trusting sleep. Nikolai wished he was of such a fortunate nature. Perhaps then he might not feel that she was being injudicious and that he, the wiser, had to keep a raw edge for the sake of their safety. It had done no good for him to tell her that the prospect of peril hadn't been left in that tulip field, and their fending off of that assault would only bring on another more determined. He'd told
her
only once, but not for a moment had he stopped reminding himself. That was why he couldn't, as he wanted, take a stroll down to the Chelsea Embankment and ask the bilious Thames how best to go about making a living in the West. It was also what finally got him to punch in the last digit of Savich's telephone number in Moscow. He had no choice. Savich was his only resort. Only Savich could parry the inevitable, persuade Churcher to have Pulver call off his people. Savich had the clout and bartering ammunition to bring that about. But why should he?

Now there was Savich two thousand miles away asking: “What happened in Antwerp?”

Nikolai, heeding Savich's warning, chose his words carefully. He hoped Savich caught his cryptic emphases. “I tried to conduct a bit of personal business. The System didn't look kindly upon it.”

“So I've gathered.”

“Then you've already spoken with Churcher?”

“Not yet.”

“But you intend to?”

“When I must. Is there any urgency?”

“Yes.” Nikolai asked that single word to communicate a lot.

“Churcher always overreacts,” Savich said.

“That's putting it mildly.”

“Really? How unkind was their attitude?”

“Extremely.”

“They tried to kill the deal?”

“They're set upon killing it. Churcher brought Pulver into it. You know Pulver, his way of handling matters.”

“I understand. And all this came to a head when?”

“Yesterday.”

“Evidently you coped with it.”

“Just barely.”

“How's your Vivian, by the way?”

“She's in good health.”

“I'm glad to hear that. What makes you so sure it's Pulver you're having to deal with?”

“Who else?”

“I suppose you're right. How many of his people were in on the meeting?”

“Three.”

“Did all three walk out?”

“One walked out.”

“I've got the picture. You expect a resumption soon.”

“Any moment. So, I thought perhaps you might be inclined to ring up Churcher and cancel the order. I realize it's asking a bit much of you, but I can't come up with any other way of resolving the situation.”

“You sound very stressed. I'll tell you what I want you to do, Nikolai. Get away, go to the country and stop worrying about this deal.”

“You'll see that they don't kill it?”

“I'll see that they don't kill it.”

“
Spasibo
.”

Spasibo
indeed, Nikolai thought. Thank you, yes, thank you, comrade minister, for showing so much understanding, having so huge a heart. He placed the telephone receiver back on its cradle gently, as though it also deserved gratitude. Deep breaths were now called for to release the tension that had been inhibiting his lungs, cramping his belly. He needed to tell Vivian about this marvelous change in outlook. He opened the bedroom door a crack and saw the shades were still drawn in there. She was still napping. Nikolai drew in another deep breath, but this time to enjoy the air of the bedroom, the distinctive air, a blend of fragrances, lovemakings and sleepings, the combined smell of their belongings. Theirs.

He was definitely back on track.

CHAPTER

28

VALKOV TOOK A GULP OF THE TEA AND SPAT IT BACK INTO
the gray plastic cup. “This is vile!” he exclaimed. “How dare you serve me such shit?”

The Aeroflot attendant took the cup from him. She knew him from having had him as a passenger on many previous Moscow-Leningrad flights. He was as usual arrogant, complaining. No amount of attention was ever enough. “Sir, may I get you another cup of tea?” she asked.

“I haven't yet had a cup of tea, so how could you possibly get me
another?
” he snapped.

The attendant's contrived smile said he was right but her eyes told him to go fuck himself. When she was certain he'd gotten that message she left him to attend to someone sane.

Valkov was of a mind to follow after her and give her a swift shoe in the ass. Everyone in the plane would laugh, he thought, and some would applaud. All these flight attendants believed they were something special. To hell with her. He wouldn't waste the energy. It was a shame, though, that he had to put up with such people. And at the same time he had to endure the odor of this woman in the seat next to him. Apparently instead of bathing like any civilized person she'd splashed her armpits and all with some dreadful Armenian perfume, all roses. She was literally acrid. Wasn't she aware of how she reeked? The blob of her sitting there in a ten-ruble dress reading Aeroflot literature? Didn't she know what cramped quarters there were in these Tupolev-154 jets? Most likely she'd never flown before. She was probably a
dezhurnaya
, a counter of linens, a watchdog who sat in the hall of a floor of some Intourist hotel to see who came and went.

Someday, Valkov assured himself, he wouldn't have to endure such traveling companions. He'd be going only roomy first-class on an airline that served champagne as routinely as this one served canned orange juice. Even better, then he'd have friends with large, private jets who'd be eager to invite him and enjoy his splendid sense of humor and intelligent conversation. The extremely wealthy Russian émigré, that would be he. How their ears would eat up his fabrications and opinions.

Valkov leaned out over the aisle for a breath of less tainted air. The Tu-154 had done its climbing. Valkov knew from the many times he'd made this flight, his genuflections to Savich as he thought of them, that the jet would fly at this altitude for about fifteen minutes before beginning its descent into Leningrad. Another half hour altogether. He reclined his seat as far as it would go, sat back, and closed his eyes. He wasn't at ease with his eyes closed. There was too much seething in him. He needed to have his eyes open, like a couple of flues. Otherwise he was brought to picturing too realistically his skull and being reminded that it was not much unlike all the skulls that no longer had flesh on them. With eyes closed he experienced the proximity of his teeth rooted in his jawbone, and the hole that accommodated his nose and those two that allowed his brain to peek out from its bony cavern. Usually he was easily able to deny that he was ephemeral, but at the moment he was having difficulty with it. When he got home he would manipulate Yelena into reciting all his superior qualities. He'd again prompt exactly the right therapeutic phrases from her. She would cooperate. It was easy for her to cooperate, because she believed in his brilliance. She often said so. For now, however, he was a captive there in a hardly adequate seat. He and his fury. Never in his life had he been so outraged.

Savich had summoned him to Moscow that morning. They'd met at Savich's office at the Ministry of Trade, where they'd spent a good hour discussing business in general and tending to a few specific details. Savich appeared to be in fine spirits, nothing heavy on his mind. He complimented Valkov twice, admired his necktie, even reached across and felt the fine silk of it, and Valkov was delighted to tell him it was merely one of the ties Yelena had picked up for him last week in Paris—at Charvet; most of his ties came from Charvet. Savich also complimented Valkov by asking for his assistance in deciding who should fill an administrative post that had become vacant at the new installation in Yakut. He even went so far as to allow Valkov to see a printout of his
nomenklatura
. In the course of looking over this list of candidates favored for advancement, Valkov had noticed the name Nikolai Petrovich Borodin—first in line for the next opening of deputy minister.

At one o'clock Savich had suggested lunch and lightly promised it would be considerably more than the McDonald's over on Gorky Street. They ate at the Akademi-cheskaya Stolovaya, the dining room of the Academy of Sciences, had a sumptuous six-course meal with double desserts and trivial conversation. It was most enjoyable for Valkov. Afterward, Savich had suggested they walk it off. They strolled, a couple of business associates, down Dovogomilovsk Boulevard in the direction of the Kiev Station. That boulevard was heavy with traffic and rife with exhaust fumes, not at all a pleasant place for a stroll, and Valkov wondered why Savich had chosen it. He soon found out. On the bridge over the Moscow River, a noisy, isolated spot, Savich stopped, leaned nonchalantly on the bridge rail, and turned on Valkov. With a smirking grin he called him an idiot. Valkov thought it was a jest or that he'd misheard. But Savich, in that calm, sly manner, went on to say what an ignorant, irresponsible clod Valkov was, a devious heavy-handed wretch, typical of the peasant stock he'd come from, too dumb to be trusted.

Valkov wasn't used to being insulted. He assumed there was only one reason Savich would be subjecting him to such a personal onslaught. As soon as he'd regained his mental composure he defended his having acted contrary to Savich's instructions regarding the Borodin matter, claiming he'd done so only in their best interests. He pointed out, as he had in Paris, the risk they'd be taking as long as Borodin was alive. The damning information Borodin possessed would come out. Borodin's ambition would push it out, Valkov contended. He ran down the entire scenario of what would inevitably happen, all the way to putting the trapdoor of some government gallows beneath their feet. Savich seemed convinced. Valkov told him: “Possibly you're mistaking Borodin's competence for loyalty. I admit he's very competent, but that is only a camouflage for his self-serving. He'll give us up for no more than a couple of minor privileges.”

That had only fueled Savich's contempt. Valkov was by no means a weakling, but he'd never come up against
this
Savich. It was perplexing the way Savich could remain composed, so calm, actually appear amiable while maligning him. All he could do was stand there and watch the subtle coordinations of Savich's bushy, sharp-peaked brows and try to block out the criticism, his dreaded enemy, criticism, that came from those lips beneath Savich's variegated gray brush mustache.

Valkov was trying so desperately not to hear Savich's words that he nearly missed those about not having any more contraband diamonds come out of Aikhal. They should shut down the chain, just shut it down at once and let its links disperse. Savich said that both he and Valkov had accumulated all the money they would ever need. Never mind that initially they'd agreed to give the thing two years and it had been only about a year and a half, they'd cash in now, defect by the end of the week. He would arrange for business that would require them to be in Paris or London. Other than that they'd make no preparations that might give them away. If Valkov was as concerned as he seemed about the Borodin situation, Savich said, this was a better, cleaner way of resolving it.

Clean
, Valkov thought disdainfully. He got up and went down the aisle of the jet to one of the lavatories at midship. While urinating, he pretended this yellow stream of his waste would fall on the heads of Savich and Borodin. There was obviously something going on between those two, he thought. Otherwise why would Savich go to such an extent to protect Borodin? Twice now. Last week in Paris and again today, Savich had been for saving Borodin's ass. It seemed he valued it. They'd spent time together. They'd probably spent time in bed together. If that hadn't already happened, Savich was maneuvering to bring it about. Homosexuals were known to be dangerous, Valkov thought. And bisexuals were even more so. Bisexuals were by their own actions duplicitous, lacked the strength of self-definition. They only respected sensation.