Metronome, The (13 page)

After months of uncertainty, I was called back to
voenkomat
. Portraits of Lenin and the murderous “Iron Felix” Dzerzhinsky stared accusingly from the wall behind the colonel, as he moved his lips and eyebrows in disgust and told me that I don’t deserve the honor of serving in the Soviet Army.

If that was only a couple of years earlier, my application would have been denied and I would have turned into another
refusenik
, likely sweeping the streets for a living. But warmer winds were blowing, and I was allowed to leave. Very few people showed up to say good bye. I still remember seeing Anya’s teary face in the back.

Gas pedal, brake pedal, gas pedal, brake pedal…A chain of random events twenty years ago – falling snow, Lyonechka and his apartment nearby, too much vodka available, authorities fumbling of finding us – and I am now stuck in traffic crawling past the Los Angeles Airport that everyone calls LAX.

I believe Karen did love me. But in the end, she was her father’s daughter, and she wanted her place in the society. I could not provide it. I am surprised I have not gotten the divorce papers served to me yet, it’s been over two months since she left.

I steer the rental car into a small parking space left in front of Sam Baker’s apartment on Ocean Way, blocking two Mercedes’s in the process. As I make my way into the house, Jennifer flies out and hangs herself around my neck. She does not say anything, just nuzzles her face in my neck and softly cries. I am silent as well, unsuccessfully trying to hold back tears.

After a couple of minutes, she untangles herself and says, “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too,” I choke out. I don’t care how cliché it is; sometimes kids make all the pain worth bearing. She looks just like Karen twenty years ago: tall, long blonde hair, a cute little nose, almond-shaped brown eyes, and a smile that lights up the room.

Jennifer takes me into the house and we make our way to the familiar huge patio overlooking Woods Cove. Karen gives me a polite hug and an air kiss. Her father shakes my hand. “Good to see you, Pavel,” he says and introduces me to another congressman and his wife. Karen’s mom singsongs, “Hello, Pavel,” Karen’s brother is there with a firm handshake, his wife Toni greets me with a mischievous smile and a peck on the cheek. Toni and I get along because she does not take the whole “upper crust society” thing seriously.

I am pleasantly surprised by the greeting I received, but I would like to see Simon. After wondering through the humongous house, I finally find him engrossed in a video game of strange characters making their way through fantasy land. He stops the game, hugs me. I try to ask about his college, but his eyes wander back to the TV screen and I let him go. I return to the patio, get myself a drink, and sit with Jennifer in the corner discussing her studies.

As the sun sets, we all have dinner on the patio, under the heat lamps. I sit next to Karen; she is polite, not a word about our separation. The visiting congressman makes fun of Sam’s prospective opponent in the upcoming November elections and raises a toast to Sam becoming a chairman of the House Means and Resources Committee, “a well-deserved post.” After dinner, everyone piles into the living room to watch a recorded show of
Desperate Housewives
on the latest and greatest large-screen TV. Simon and I sneak out, he probably to play his game, I go back to the patio to watch the waves. The ocean sparkles in the moonlight. I think of the sparkling snow in the darkness of 1941 Leningrad.

Someone slips into the chair next to mine. It’s Toni. She says, “I am sorry about you and Karen.”

“Thanks. How are you?”

“OK. Roger has political ambitions otherwise we would have been in the same boat.” She pats my hand. “Sam has an important election coming up. The ambition is their weak point.”

By ‘their’ she must mean the whole class of Sam-like people.

When I get to my assigned room, I open the computer but discover that the Wi-Fi password has changed since the last time I was here. I am not sure I’ll be trusted with the new one, so I pull out the envelope that Rozen gave me. Inside there is a printout titled:

“Statement of Richard Palmer on the Infiltration of the Western Financial System by Elements of Russian Organized Crime before the House Committee on Banking and Financial Services on September 21, 1999.”

From the introduction, Palmer was a CIA station chief in Russia. Some sections of his statement have been highlighted by a light-color marker, probably by Streltsova:

Plans for the looting of then Soviet State were first discussed in 1984 by specific sectors of the Soviet Politburo, the top officials of the Communist government. However, one must keep in mind that this massive effort included many of the highest officials of the Soviet government, several elements of the KGB (now FSB), and others. Their primary goal was to ensure their financial and political status in the future, by taking control of the vast funds and resources of the Party and converting them into personal assets.

By late 1986, the informal planning committee had been given the services of two KGB officers who were experienced in moving funds overseas. The Chairman of this planning group was Central Committee Treasurer Nikolai Kruchina.

The following plan was carried out to gradually build the enormous support structure that would eventually be needed and then secure their wealth.

1. Initially, smuggled “suitcases” of cash and the diplomatic pouch would be used to move limited amounts of funds to help sustain the initial firms that were to be founded and foreign accounts to be opened (This occurred between 1986 - 1989.).

2. In the second phase, Russian organizations were used to simply transfer large amounts of funds for national reasons to their related offices and firms in the Soviet republics and, where possible, to the West. These funds were to be used to found firms and banks with no obvious ties to the party. (This occurred between 1986-1989.)

3. Simultaneously, trading firms were founded to act as “intermediary” firms to sell Russian resources, such as oil, natural gas, non-ferrous metals, diamonds, chemicals and cotton. These firms received these materials at state subsidized “internal prices” and sold them at world market prices. Profits from these operations were deposited in tax havens such as Switzerland, Cyprus, the Caribbean, Panama, Hong Kong, Ireland and the British Channel Islands. (This was typical for the period between 1989-1991.).

4. In the fourth phase, from 1989-1992, larger firms and banks could be founded in Russia and the former republics, as well as in the West. When possible, the off-shore accounts that had been previously established were to be used to discreetly purchase controlling interests in existing banks and firms with good reputations.

5. In the fifth stage, from 1989 -1991, “shell” corporations were founded in Western countries such as Germany and Britain, as well as Ireland and Switzerland, and the United States (especially in Delaware and California).

6. In the sixth stage, from 1994 to the present, the criminal structure became highly developed and was capable of creating new income by using its contacts in Russia and selected republics for “profitable investments,” such as purchasing materials and natural resources at rock bottom discount prices (or receiving more material than was shown on the shipping documents and contracts), as well as from legitimate investments in the West.

In October 1990, several KGB Foreign Intelligence workers were shifted to work in the Party Central Committee Property Directorate, so that a structure that was capable of coordinating the Party’s economic activities could be established. The basis for this new group was an agreement between deputy General Secretary of the Central Committee, Vladimir Ivashko; the Central Committee Treasurer Nikolai Kruchina; KGB chairman Vladimir Kryuchkov; and, KGB Deputy Director Filipp Bobkov.
 
Bobkov later became the chief of Security for MOST Bank. Also in October 1990, Bobkov sent a directive to selected overseas KGB residencies stating that they should immediately begin to submit proposals for the creation of covert KGB commercial firms and financial establishments.

Colonel L. Veselovsky was called in November 1990 from abroad. He was a specialist in international economics and was transferred to the work on management of the Central Committee…The firing of Veselovsky two weeks before the August putsch is especially noteworthy. Veselovsky immediately left for Switzerland.

In the margins are Streltsova’s notes in Cyrillic:

Kruchina killed in August of 91, right after the Putsch – covering up the tracks?

$300+ billion moved?

Stage 7: from 2001?

Nemtsov? Nemschev?

The Putsch she is referring to must be the failed attempt by the Communists and the KGB to retake power in August 1991. The KGB largely dispersed after that and then was officially disbanded.

Wednesday, June 14

In the morning, the guests are gone and so is Sam’s good disposition. He corners me after breakfast. “You have some nerve showing up here uninvited!”

“I wanted to see my kids. Don’t worry, I am not planning to stay.”

Sam changes tack. He is one of few people I know that doesn’t skip a beat when switching between good and bad cop roles. “Look, I am sorry things did not work out. You understand, I have to protect my daughter. Let’s not rush into anything, you two take some time off from each other, then we’ll see. You are still a family, we take care of our own.”

I understand. The divorce papers must have been drawn, but won’t be served until after the elections.

I find Karen alone on the patio. She is still beautiful, now mature and stately, with some hard lines around her mouth. She is polite but cold, until I tell her about my father’s death. Karen starts crying. I can see she is genuinely upset; she only saw him twice but liked the “old curmudgeon,” as she referred to him. I don’t go into any details, suggesting he may have been depressed.

“What are you doing now?” asks Karen. “Why are you in California?”

“My father went to California last year; I was trying to understand why.”

“Millions of tourists come to California every year. If you wanted to come see the kids, you should have just said so.”

I guess it’ll be one of those conversations where I better expect an accusation to be thrown at me at every opportunity. “Yes, I wanted to see the kids,” I allow. “Karen, how are you?”

“I am fine. My father told me you’ve been seen with Sarah Shoffman, is that true?”

“Is your father following me?”

“True or not?”

“It’s true. But your father has no right to spy on me! Is this what we came to? And you’ve been ‘seen’ with Martin Shoffman, have you not?”

“You ask me after half the town knew that you were screwing that coffee girl?” hisses Karen, then starts crying again.

The ocean is still today, no waves to cheer up the surfers. Karen’s words disconnect me from myself; I feel like it was some stranger rather than I that did these stupid, reckless things. Seagulls are having a dispute on the beach, filling the air with angry screeches.

Karen gets up, stands in front of me. She cautiously caresses my hair.

“I am sorry if my father spied on you; I did not ask him to do this, and I’ll tell him to stop this crap immediately. And I am sorry about Martin; I was just so mad at you for not only having the affair but also being foolishly indiscreet about it. I felt people snickering behind my back over that fling of yours. It was like you wanted to get caught, not even bothering to drive to the next county or something. But don’t you understand what’s most important? All these years I wanted to be independent from my father. And I wanted our children to be independent from him. Instead, we are back in his house because we have nowhere else to go. You are so self-absorbed you can’t even see what’s right in front of your nose. If you wonder why Simon is the way he is, just look in the mirror!”

I take her hand into mine, kiss it. There is still this deep connection between us, my heart is full of sorrow. Akhmatova’s words come to me:

In closeness there’s a special place

Where love and passion cannot reach,

Even when lips come together in silence

And love breaks the heart into pieces.

I look at Karen as I say the words. Her face convulses in anguish. “I am sorry, Pavel, we are beyond poetry now.” She frees her hand and walks away, wiping tears.

I clamp a hand over my mouth to not cry out from a sudden stomach pain. Guilt and anger boil in my insides. Years ago, on a backpacking trip, I had to cross a raging creek on a narrow log. That’s what being married and having kids sometimes felt like: walking on a wet log with a heavy backpack, pretending that you know what you are doing, trying not to look down. At some point I slipped.

Just then my phone rings. Polite, but somewhat less friendly Mr. Zorkin is on the line with an elderly gentleman.

“Allo, this is Anton Rimsky,” strains the weak and hoarse voice of a long-time smoker.

“Mr. Rimsky, this is Pavel Rostin. I think you wanted to talk to me last week.”

I hear Rimsky telling Zorkin that he needs privacy, shuffling of feet, door closing. “Yes, Pavel, I wanted to talk to you. I am so sorry about your father.”

“Mr. Rimsky, how did you know my father?”

“I worked with him for over thirty years. He was my mentor in the
militzia
, he was already an experienced investigator when I joined. I’ve met you, I’ve been to your place a few times, although Volodya did not mix work and family much.”

That’s why he looked familiar.

Rimsky takes a breath. “I retired five years ago, but for a while I was offering private investigation services, sometimes working with your father. The pension is not enough with the current prices.”

“Are you still a private investigator?”

“No, I stopped about a year ago. My health is bad, and there was practically no income, I can’t compete with young people. I just try to manage my expenses now.”

“But my father continued working as a private investigator? He was older than you!”

I hear Rimsky taking a drink of water. “Yes, but physically and mentally he was in a better shape. He exercised daily. And he still liked a good challenge. He did not want to sit around.”

“And people would hire an 80-year old man?”

“Your dad had a reputation as capable investigator and someone who can be relied on for confidentiality. He learned computers, spoke a bit of English. People trusted him.”

“Do you know what he was working on last?”

“He kept his clients’ information secret. I just know he did a lot of traveling lately.”

“He didn’t tell you where he went?”

“No, as I said, he kept things confidential.”

I am about to hang up as I think of another question. “Do you know about a little boy Andrei that survived the blockade with my parents?”

“Yes, of course. Your parents adopted Andrei, even though they were just a few years older than he.”

Adopted?
I hear the word, but I can’t quite comprehend its meaning.

“What happened to him?”

“So they never told you…He was drafted into the army and in 1956 his unit was sent to crush the Hungarian anti-communist uprising. He was arrested after an incident there, sent to the Gulag.”

“Why didn’t they tell me?”

“Perhaps your parents tried to protect you. Or bury the memories. Frankly, your dad was never much for the Party. He was careful not to talk about this, but I could sense it from small comments. He never got promoted because he did not join the Party.”

I thought of my father’s diary.

“Do you remember Ivan Mershov, his
militzia
boss during the blockade? I think I recall him coming over.”

“You can’t remember Ivan; he died soon after you were born. You are probably thinking of his son Kostya. Kostya was friends with your dad. He started in the
militzia
but then transferred to the KGB and moved to Moscow in the 1970s; I lost track of him since.”

I usually try to be calm and analytical, but my understanding of the world is breaking down. There is a 500 year-old globe in the New York Public Library that carries a “Here are dragons” inscription on the unknown land. I managed to live with Karen for twenty years and not fully understand what makes her tick. And now I find out my parents adopted someone. Which makes him my brother? A brother I’ve never met? I am in the land of dragons now.

I want to take Jennifer and Simon to lunch before I leave, but Simon is glued to his video game. When I suggest that he might be spending too much time gaming, he protests, “But Dad, this is The Kingdom of Soma, the coolest game ever!”

I let him be.

Jennifer and I drive to the tiny downtown, walk along the beach, eat her favorite deep dish pizza, talk about the first year in college, her life in California, plans for the summer. However badly Karen and I screwed up, we did create this wonderful human being.

Jennifer wants to change her major, “Dad, I want to be a scientist, like you. I love research.”

“That’s great! I am sure you’ll do well. What kind of science are you interested in?”

“Physics or computer science, I have not decided yet. The only thing is, Grandpa won’t let me. He says I should study business administration or policy. He won’t pay for me to go to school and study science. But mom and I will talk to him again.”

I cringe inside, understanding Karen’s words that much better. Her father uses his money to control everything.

I tell Jennifer about my father as I drop her off. She starts crying, then asks, “Are you trying to find out what happened?”

“I am looking into it.”

“Please, be careful.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I always land on my feet.”

As Jennifer walks back into the house, I see Karen in the second-story window, looking at us. I wave to her to come down, but she shakes her head. It feels like her way of saying “farewell.”

Back on the freeway, stuck in the famous Orange County traffic. Alone with my memories.

No matter how strong we are,

We are still prisoners of our memory.

It was my mother who taught me Akhmatova’s poems. My father never quoted her. It’s only from his diary that I found out how much he loved her poetry.

When I boarded that flight to New York twenty years ago, I was scared out of my wits: I have burned all the bridges to unite with someone I knew for just one day. A magical day, but only one. But when Karen met me in the JFK airport, already visibly pregnant, it was like we have not parted. The magic was still there.

How do you grow apart? One day at a time. In movies, couples discuss their differences, the man says something profound about his devotion that he couldn’t express before, the woman falls into his arms. In real life, wounds go deep.

I think we were happy in the beginning. After Simon came Jennifer. I was teaching physics in college. We lived in a small two-bedroom apartment, but I did not know any better. Then the in-laws started talking how much better private schools are and how we really should live in a big house with a yard. All for the kids, of course. I left physics and went to work on Wall Street, in the 1990s when hiring physics professors as “quants” was all the rage. Wall Street tried to gain respectability by portraying finance as a science. In fairness to Karen, she did not push me. But she liked that I almost tripled my salary in the move; we sent the kids to a private school, we bought a small house, then a bigger one. Karen kept an orderly home. As an influential congressman’s daughter, she started getting traction in the society. I became another mid-level Wall Street functionary. Actually, a lower mid-level one – in our Connecticut town the upper middle social strata was reserved for people with seven figure incomes.

And as I was marching on, I limited my field of vision to what others told me was needed. Nobody forced me to, I put the blinders on voluntarily, even willingly. At some point, my careful life stopped feeling real to me. I was acting in a movie where a character named Pavel Rostin worked, tried to climb to the top, collected objects, people and stomach problems along the way. In trying to become a “player,” I took one chance too many. Suddenly the performance has ended and I stood exposed, real, mortified, angry at Karen for what I was about to do to her.

That evening when I came home and, drunk with terror, told her that we are broke and the house, the one she’s been building and decorating for the past four years, is no longer ours, she did not raise her voice.

She sat there quietly staring into space and asked, “When do we have to move?”

“We can live here until they kick us out.”

“I don’t want to be kicked out. Pavel, I love you but I am leaving.”

If you love me, why are you leaving?
I wanted to say. In my world, if you love someone you stay with them. Perhaps we needed a new dictionary: “Love according to Karen” vs. “Love according to Pavel.”

But I just asked: “Where will you go?”

“I will go to California to stay with my kids.” It’s
my kids
now.

That night, she took off her nightgown and made love to me for the first time in a year. When I woke up, she was gone. As the traffic crawls past a giant billboard of one of Sam Baker’s dealerships, I think how Karen craved to be free from her father but at the same time wanted me to be like him.

By the time I get to LAX and turn in my rental car, it’s past 4 p.m. and my only choice is an overnight flight leaving in five hours. I hate red eyes, can never sleep on the plane, but don’t see other options. I make myself comfortable in a bar by the gate, and call Jack Mikulski,