Metronome, The (20 page)

“Pretty much,” confirms Shmulin, “except for me.”

“Are you afraid?”

“No. If they wanted to kill me, they would have done it long time ago. They were going after people in charge. I am more afraid of real estate shysters that kill old people for their apartments. It’s a lucrative business in Moscow.”

“Who are ‘they?”

Shmulin cackles again. “Your father asked the same question. Probably someone in the mafia that lost money in the scheme. I don’t know, and I don’t want to know.” He gets up, signaling that the conversation is over.

I remain seated, and the eyes behind thick glasses get anxious. “One more question. Please sit down.”

Shmulin obediently lowers himself back into the chair. “Yes?”

“I need to find a person. I have a name. I know he used to work for the KGB.”

Shmulin rubs his chin. “Well, it’s possible. Like any Russian business, we had to have a ‘roof,’ a strong protector within the government. Otherwise, between the mafia and the government bureaucrats, you’d be out of business within a month. Our ‘roof’ was fairly well placed within the Federal Security Service, the FSB. He is retired but he can still find almost anyone. But there is a price.”

I know what he is going to say before he says it.

“Five hundred dollars.”

“OK.”

“Who are you looking for?”

“I am looking for Konstantin Mershov; he moved from Leningrad to Moscow to work in the KGB in the 1970s.”

“The money upfront.”

“No, not upfront. When you deliver the information, I’ll pay.”

Shmulin whines. “I can’t do it this way. You may disappear and then I am on the hook for the money.”

I stand up.

“Fine, give me a hundred dollars upfront.”

“How do I know you won’t pocket it and do nothing?”

“You know where I live.”

I think about it, then give him another hundred dollar bill and a card with my mobile phone number.

As I walk downstairs, four of the youngsters that were sitting outside are now waiting for me at the door out of the building. They block my way and one of them pulls out a blade. “Give us the money!”

The blade is inches from my throat. Before I can react, I hear a voice behind me. “Let him pass!”

Out of the corner of my eye I see two large people coming from my right; they must have been in the building, hiding in the shadows. One of the youngsters turns to them, is immediately thrown to the floor, and hollers in pain. A melee begins. I rush to the door and run out into the street. My heart slows down only by the time I get to the metro station. Was someone deliberately protecting me, or did I get caught in a turf war?

When I get back to the hotel, I redraw the diagram.

I make the “Grand Castle Rock fund” circle, with Martin Shoffman, the New Treasury Island ELP, plus Greg Voron with his Eastern Cottonwood private equity fund under it. Beneath the last entry, I write Hardrock Home Security.

Under the “Brockton-Streltsova’s murder” circle, I put Brockton and Streltsova. Then I add Crossmans, Khmarko, Voronezhsky – all dead. I write Hardrock Home Security and draw a line to the company’s mention under the other circle.

Below the “Streltsova’s investigation” circle, I put Streltsova’s name and “Nemtsov? Nemschev?” from Streltsova’s notes. Again, I draw a line to the other Streltsova’s mention.

In the last corner, I put Major Vakunin, investigator Pemin, Petr Saratov and Sam Baker.

In the middle, I put my father and draw arrows to the “Brockton-Streltsova’s murder” and “Streltsova’s investigation” circles.

I stare at the diagram and make a dotted line between Voron and Voronezhsky. When people move to another country, they often shorten their name. Voronezhsky was in finance, Voron is in finance. It’s a questionable connection, more of a coincidence.

After finishing the diagram, I search the Internet for Evgeny Voronezhsky. Nothing, zero, zilch. Did Shmulin lie to me? I try Arkady Khmarko and Google returns his obituary following an August 2002 boating accident on Dnieper, some tidbits about the trading company he ran in Kiev, and a little about the investment company he had in Moscow.

My phone rings at three in the afternoon. A gruff smoker’s voice says, “Pavel Rostin?”

“Yes.”

“Shmulin told me you are looking to find someone.”

“That’s right. Who am I speaking with?”

“There is no need for you to know my name. You can call me Ivan if you like. Shmulin gave me a name: Konstantin Mershov. Said he worked for KGB in Moscow back in the 1970s. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“So what do you want to know: Who he does business with, who he fucks, where is he keeping his money?”

“Just his phone number.”

“That’s it?” the voice conveys disappointment. “Oh well, that will still cost you.”

“Shmulin told me five hundred, and he already took a hundred.”

“Ivan” starts guffawing which sounds like a big dog barking. “What an old shyster…just getting the phone number is only two fifty. I bet he asked for the money upfront.”

I admit that Shmulin did so.

“He would have kept half. At least you only gave him a hundred. Where are you staying?”

“The Courtyard on Voznesenskiy.”

“Hmm…It should take you about forty minutes to get here.”

“Where’s ‘here?’”

“I’ll tell you. Expect my call in an hour or so.”

“Wait,” I say, “I was going to pay more anyway, so how about checking one more name?”

“I already like doing business with you. What name?”

“Probably Andrei Rostin, but could be Andrei Leontsev.”

“Probably Rostin? Your relative?”

“My parents adopted a boy whose parents perished in the siege of Leningrad, but I’ve never met him and have not known about him until a few days ago. It’s possible he’s been sent to the Gulag forty years ago.”

“I’ll see what I can find and call you later.” “Ivan” hangs up.

“Ivan” does call close to five and tells me to meet him in the Diamonds gentlemen’s club on Prospekt Vernadskogo. I try to suggest that perhaps the place might be loud, but he cuts me off. “We don’t need to talk much. You bring the money, I’ll enjoy the girls.”

“How would you recognize me?”

“Don’t worry about that. Be there by six.”

I debate whether to take a metro or get a cab, but the club turns out to be just off the Yugo-Zapadnaya metro station, the last stop on the Sokolnicheskaya line, and I go with the metro.

I walk over to Okhotny Ryad station. Sokolnicheskaya was the first metro line in Moscow dating to 1935. Unlike the later Stalinist architecture monstrosities, the early stations have a nice classical feel to them. Last time I was here, it was named after Karl Marx, although no self-respecting Muscovite would call it that. The station was showing its age and the wear and tear of millions of people passing through it every year.

On a weekday rush hour, secretaries, engineers, businessmen, artists, and schoolchildren streamed through the metro. Moving with the flow, I squeeze myself into a tram and settle into a rhythmic movement as the train makes its way along the line. With the connections worn out, the lights flicker and sometimes go out for a few seconds. During one of such moments I felt a searching hand probing my back pocket. When I look behind me, a young girl quickly turns away. Thankfully, my wallet and the envelope with $500 are inside a buttoned jacket.

The tram is still full when we get to Yugo-Zapadnaya, the last stop. I’ve never been at this station before but it is a typical non-descript 1960s construction. Was this blandness of pillars, straight angles, and low ceilings better than the socialist classicism that Stalin treasured? I am not sure. The old escalator makes a clicking noise as it raises the throng of commuters to the surface.

The Diamond club is only a five-minute walk from the station, and I arrive exactly at six. The club turns out to be a curious combination of a strip joint and a sauna. I hesitate which way to go but lacking more precise directions opt for a more conventional strip joint.

The scantily dressed waitress assures me that I can apply the $15 entry fee to the sauna later if I choose to do so. “Many visitors start here, but when they find the girl they like they go to the sauna with her. There are private sauna rooms and massage service. Would you like to sit by the stage for the best view?”

“No, I will be meeting someone so I would prefer a more private spot.”

“Couches are generally reserved for groups of four,” she demurs, but a $20 bill quickly secures for me something resembling a small red sofa away from the stage. The waitress hands me the menu. “We have salads, hot and cold appetizers, shashliks, soups, cocktails. Private dances are only $30. I am available for private dances, too; you just give me a one song notice so I can change.” She lowers her eyes coyly. “My name is Tanya, I am a good dancer, and I’ll let you touch my tits.”

“Thank you, Tanya, I’ll just have a beer for now. Heineken if you have it.”

Tanya sways away on tall platform shoes. She looks like a first-year student that just arrived into Moscow from the provinces. I’ve been gone for too long, and this switch from a false puritanism to wanton sexuality is still jarring to me.

It’s early in the evening and the place is half empty, but layers of smoke already hang in the air. I am not used to smoke anymore, and my eyes start watering. Through the haze I can see a brunette in micro-fatigues and a Soviet Army hat rubbing herself against the pole on the stage. Then I become aware of a large figure moving toward me from the direction of the bar.

“Pavel?”

“Ivan” is in his late sixties, large, red-faced, with short buzz-cut hair and a bulbous nose crisscrossed by a thin net of red lines.

“Ivan?”

He sits next to me, and the couch complains with a groan. The waitress appears with my Heineken, he grabs her ass and says, “Tanyechka, my dear soul, bring me a bottle of vodka and a plate of pelmeni.”

“Oh, Uncle Vanya, don’t pinch.” She giggles. “Will you hire me for a dance later?”

“Of course, little love, of course.”

After she leaves, I laugh. “So your name is really Ivan?”

“No, but that’s how they know me here.”

“How did you recognize me?”

“Ivan” smiles and punches me in the shoulder. “You look like a man from a small village that has never seen such a place before.”

“I lived in Moscow for eight years…” I shrug. “…but it’s a different city now.”

“It sure is. I just wish I was younger.” He sighs. “This is a country for young people. But I am a cheerful man.” He brightens. “I am grateful that I can afford to come here and enjoy the company of pretty girls.”

Another girl shows up with a bottle of Stoly, a plate of pickles and two small glasses.

He pinches her as well. “Svetlana, little darling, how are you?”

“Good, Uncle Vanya.” She kisses him on the cheek. “You’ll have me for a dance later, right?”

“Ivan” pours two glasses. “Drink with me, Pavel, I don’t trust people that drink foreign beer.”

He gulps his vodka, exhales, wipes his lips, and crunches a pickle. I drink half a glass, not willing to risk more.

“Did you bring the money?” “Ivan” suddenly is all business.

I hand him the envelope.

“How much is there?”

“Five hundred. Please count.”

“No need to. Not in your interest to cheat me.” He gets a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “Computers are great. A dozen years ago, I would have had to show my face in the archives, search through the old files, pay people to forget I was there. Now, I just pay people for access and log in with one of their accounts. Konstantin Mershov was a colonel in the FSB. He quit and moved back to his home town of St. Petersburg in 1999. His phone number is current, so he must still be alive.” “Ivan” pours himself another glass, fills mine to the rim. After repeating the procedure and finishing another pickle, he says. “A fascinating story about Andrei Rostin. Thankfully, the KGB kept good records and preserved them. Your parents never told you about him?”

“No.”

“Hmmm. He was supposed to be evacuated from Leningrad in 1942, but I guess they did not want to send him away to an orphanage. At the end of the war, he had to go to school and the authorities would have taken him away, so your parents adopted him. They were ridiculously young themselves, and they take on this kid to take care of. Crazy!”

Tanya shows up with a steaming bowl of pelmeni and two plates.

“Ivan” loads pelmeni on both plates. “Eat, Pavel. You don’t want to go back drunk; people in this area will kill you for ten dollars. Food here is crap, but pelmeni not too bad.”

He swallows a couple and drinks another glass of vodka. His face reddens even more.

“So in 1955 Andrei gets drafted, and a year later he is in Hungary crushing the uprising there. You are too young to remember, but after Stalin’s death, Hungarians thought freedom was within reach. So we sent the tanks to liberate them from themselves. Except that Andrei came back in handcuffs, arrested for insubordination. Normally they would have just shot him, but someone interfered, and he got 10 years instead. He served seven and was allowed to return in 1963. Instead of sitting quietly, he became involved with anti-Soviet writers, was active in
samizdat,
propagating prohibited works by Solzhenitsyn and others. He was arrested for subversive activities in 1966 and sent back to the camps.”