The Ice Curtain (4 page)

It was the Dvo(breve)rák A Minor, Tadeus Nowek with the Czech Philharmonia. The picture on the back, taken in the early sixties, was of a young, intense man. It could be Nowek's own face looking up at him from the old, fragile cardboard.

“The Wild Siberian. He came out of the snows with a strong arm and a fast bow. He
glided
. He
flew
. He was remarkable.”

“He still is.”

The old eyes gazed up. “Tadeus Nowek is alive?”

“Absolutely.” Though he meant, barely. Nowek's father was nearly blind, nearly immobile. He could hardly stumble, much less glide. Though he still made life miserable for the young students Nowek hired to look after him. “He practices an hour a day.”

The old face wrinkled into a grin. His teeth were stained yellow with tea and time. “Put on the Dvo(breve)rák,” he commanded his granddaughter. “We'll listen to some
real
music.”

Nowek looked out the window. Daylight was fading fast. He should be going back to the hotel to meet Volsky. “I'm afraid I can't stay. I'd like to buy the record as a gift for him.”

“You can't. I'm
giving
it to you. Now listen.”

The old turntable began to spin. There was a scratch, and then, from large speakers Nowek hadn't noticed, his father's music, his father himself, poured forth and filled the dim room with light.

The black chaika pulled away from the Hotel Rossiya. It left behind a few determined prostitutes huddled beneath the hotel's concrete canopy, shivering but still hopeful.

Volsky thought,
Where is Nowek?

“The Rossiya has had three managers this year,” said Gavril.

“Why did they leave?”

“They weren't given a choice. They left in body bags. Contract killings.” Gavril paused. “Where is your assistant?”

“Why?”

“Just making conversation.”

“Don't.”

The car turned right onto a wide boulevard scaled for parading tanks. Still known as Marx Prospect, the road was swarming with rush-hour traffic: charcoal-gray Mercedes, ministry Volvos with rooftop flashers blinking pinball blue,
mafiya
Lincolns. And at the edges, Russian Ladas cowered and darted, shouldered aside by sleek tons of victorious foreign steel. The red stars atop the Kremlin walls disappeared behind a curtain of freezing rain.

“How about a magazine?” asked Gavril. “Cigarettes?”

“What I'd like,” said Volsky, “is not to be late for my meeting.”

Gavril stepped on the accelerator and the Chaika bounced more enthusiastically.

They turned onto Tverskaya Street, outbound.

“Winter's coming early. They say it's going to be a cold one.”

“Really?” said Volsky. “How cold?”

Gavril was encouraged. “I'm not complaining. Moscow looks cleaner in snow. But in a month it will be minus twenty,” he said with civic pride. “Maybe lower.”

“In Siberia,
sixty
degrees of frost is typical. Your breath freezes to crystals, and when the crystals fall to the snow there's a sound. We call it the ‘whisper of stars.' ” He breathed in, then let it out. “
Ssssshhhh.
Like that. So how long have you worked for Petrov?”

“Three years,” Gavril answered. “I'm leaving to start my own livery service soon. I have a used limousine lined up.”

“Your job must pay well.”

Nobody in Russia admitted to that. “Not well, but reliably.”

“In Siberia, a lot of people aren't getting paid at all.”

“I'm not familiar with the situation outside Moscow.”

“Neither is your boss.” Volsky sat back against the faded red upholstery. “That will change.”

The driver braked hard, then swerved for a side street.

“You know where you're going?”

“
Ekipazh.
This way is faster.”

“Ekipazh.”
Volsky snorted. A fancy word for a saddle and reins, it carried a whiff of elaborate country manors staffed by armies of diligent serfs in red felt boots. “Is it a restaurant or a horse farm?”

“A private club. No horses. No bulls, either.” Gavril used the word
byki,
slang for
mafiya
. “They have strict rules. It costs plenty to join. Businessmen of the first rank only. The
bandity
can't get in.”

“Even if a bandit can pay the membership fee?”

“In that case,” said Gavril, “he's a businessman.”

They lumbered by the Pushkinskaya Metro station, dodging potholes and nimble BMWs. Streetlights burned inside halos of cold rain. A fast-food restaurant blazed triumphant yellow.

They turned off onto a narrow street lined with five-story flats. The lane ended at a sturdy iron fence. The Chaika rolled to a stop at a gate. The rain was solidifying into hard beads. Beyond, a luminous wall of white marble was bathed by incandescent lamps. There were no guards. In a few seconds, the gate began to open.

“How do they know who we are?” asked Volsky.

“Chairman Petrov made the necessary arrangements.”

The Chaika passed a row of parked Mercedes, their engines idling, exhaust puffing steam into the chill, wet night. The red glow of cigarettes illuminated the drivers' faces.

They stopped beside the white marble wall. There was a single wooden door with fancy brass coach lights to each side. A television camera peered down from above it, its red eye steady and unblinking.

Volsky grabbed his briefcase and put his shoulder to the door. The door squealed open. “You'll take us back?”

“You're my only customer tonight.”

Volsky stopped. “Your what?”

“
Customer.
Listen. You gave me an idea.
Whisper of Stars
is a perfect name for a livery service. A whisper is very discreet, and we'll cater to stars. It's a hot idea. What do you think?”

“I think it's like pissing down your leg.”

Gavril blinked, then again. “Excuse me?”

“You think it's hot, but no one else does.” Volsky slammed the door.

Chapter 4

The Prince of Diamonds

Sleet bounced off Volsky's broad SHOULders as he glared up at the security camera above the club's front door. He knocked and his knuckles struck steel. The door only looked like wood; it was artfully painted armor plate. He knocked again.

Still no answer.

Volsky took a deep breath and shot a jet of steamy air up at the camera. The night was too warm for the whisper of stars, but it was plenty cold enough for a little people fog. Another breath, a second cloud, and the lens went opaque.

The response was immediate: a loud buzz and a click from the electric locks. Volsky pushed and the door moved. Heavy as a bank vault, it was balanced well enough to swing easily.

The door closed behind him with a solid, jailer's
clank
.

“What did you do to the camera?” demanded a guard with a submachine gun slung over a shoulder.

Some say the bottle is the basis for all relationships in Russia. It's not. What's most important is this: Who beats whom? Who has more power? Who has less to fear? Volsky would no more bend before a guard than he would show fear to a yapping dog. “Congratulations. You're one stupid question away from guarding the Irkutsk sewer plant. What were you asking about?”

It worked. “Nothing. Please step through the detector.”

Volsky walked through the arch. “Are you worried about someone bringing in a gun, or leaving with the silver?”

A nasty tone warbled. A guard passed a wand down Volsky's jacket, his pants. It began to squeal as it came to his briefcase.

“Would you please open the case, sir?”

Volsky placed it on the table and cracked it open.

The metal detector stopped at a plastic vial. Inside it was Volsky's emergency collection of tiny fifteen-kopeck coins.

“What are these for?” the one with the weapon asked as he shook them. They jingled. “Nobody uses them anymore.”

“They do where I come from.” Kopecks weren't worth much even when a ruble was a ruble. In Moscow, in the Carriage Club, their value was microscopic. But not in Siberia, where most public phones still used them. Anyone wanting to use an “automatic phone”—a misnomer to be sure—had to buy them from street vendors for three American dollars each.

The guard handed them back. “You can go in now.”

At the far end of the corridor, the Siberian Delegate came to a door made from real wood. Volsky reached for the handle, but it was pulled open from the other side before he could touch it. There, waiting, was a doorman with enough gold braid swinging from his shoulder to pass for an admiral on Fleet Day.

“I'm here to see . . .”

“Yes. Please follow me.”

The admiral led Volsky into a warm, low-ceilinged dining room that swarmed with waiters dressed as . . . what else? Medieval serfs in red tunics and red felt boots. The dark paneled walls were hung with paintings of leaping horses, dogs in baying packs. Stuffed partridges strutted along glass shelves. Trophy heads peered down from their mounts; the greedy snouts of boar, the placid gaze of reindeer, the frozen snarl of wolf, though his wide glass eyes made him look more startled than fierce.

Saturday was a big night at
Ekipazh,
but it was still early, and the room was barely half full. The customers were young. The men wore business suits. The women were feathery, perfumed creatures dressed in shimmering, close-fitting fabrics.

“This way, please.”

As he followed, someone grabbed his elbow.

“Hullo.” A short, wiry man with iron-gray hair, dark suit, blue shirt, and a brilliant yellow bowtie was now attached to Volsky's arm with a crab's pinch. His skin was tanned the color of expensive leather. There was enough alcohol on his breath to melt ice. “You're a new face. You speak English? My name's Wilson. Willie's good enough.” He spoke with a British accent. He pulled a card from his pocket.
“Vot maya visitka.”

Volsky read the business card. Willie was a lawyer from the Cayman Islands, one of the
mafiya
's favorite parking places for illicit hard-currency earnings, a string of palmy islands overgrown with holding companies, offshore banks, shadow incorporations, all diaphanous covers for Russians interested in exporting funds abroad with a verisimilitude of legality. “I don't need your services.”

“Maybe not today. But what about tomorrow?”

“In Russia, you never know what you'll wake up to.”

“That's my point
exactly
.”

“Excuse me.” Volsky slipped the business card into his breast pocket as the headwaiter swept open yet another oak door.

The private dining room beyond contained a long banquet table heaped to overflowing: platters of white sturgeon with fresh lemon slices; sausage and pungent charcuterie; gilt-rimmed bowls brimming with fresh cherries, shrimp, crab; red and black caviar mounded into pyramids worth four hundred dollars apiece. And to drink there were glittering bottles of Rowanberry Vodka, Golden Ring Vodka, Amber Vodka, Martini Bianco, Sovietskaya Champagne, three kinds of cognac, two brands of wine, and a supply of mineral waters, chilled and unchilled, carbonated and plain. A feast put on for two dozen very important men.

Who else is coming?
Volsky wondered. For there was just one man present. Near a blazing fireplace, at a table set for four, beneath the spreading antlers of a prize elk, the Prince of Diamonds sat alone.

Outside, the rain had turned into heavy, wet snow. Gavril could hear the flakes strike his windshield. He had a copy of the
Moscow Times
open on his lap. It was an English-language paper read by almost all the Americans in town. The kind of people any entrepreneur wanted as clients. He was circling their addresses when lights flashed across his face. He looked up.

A dark gray Land Rover had parked directly in front of his Chaika, blocking the view of the main door. He flashed his lights and then, for an exclamation mark, gave his horn two quick jabs.

The Rover didn't budge.

Gavril leaned on the horn again.

Nothing. He was about to roll his window down when the Rover's dome light came on. Someone was getting out.

Gavril reached under his seat and felt the reassuring weight of a heavy steel crowbar. It was fine to think in new ways, so long as you didn't forget the old ones.

A man approached. He was short and powerfully built, dressed in a dark raincoat and no hat, which was odd on a night like this. His hair was either close-cut, or else he was bald. He flicked a cigarette away as he walked, the red ember arcing to the wet street like a dying meteor. He came up to Gavril's window and rapped it with a heavy gold ring adorning his right hand.

Gavril rolled down his window. He hefted the crowbar into view. “Who the fuck do you think you are parking there?” Gavril snapped.

He reached into his coat and pulled out a wallet and let it flop open to show an identity card that bore the white, red, and blue stripes of the PSB. Boris Yeltsin's Presidential Security Service.

Who beats whom?
“Okay. What do you want?”

The man put the wallet away and walked around to the other side. He opened the door and got in beside Gavril. “I'll show you.”

“Welcome to
Ekipazh
,” said Petrov. The Prince of Diamonds was younger than Volsky but looked older. His brown hair was wispy thin, his long, oval face was sallow. His eyes were red. A poor impression of health, but calculate the worth of his accessories, and a different view emerged.

His pin-striped suit was cut in London from the best wools. His glossy leather attaché carried the logo of a famous designer. His gold Swiss watch was the biggest, his Nokia cell phone the smallest. Petrov was a blend: Russian, European, East and West, a sum that tried very hard to equal its expensive imported parts.

He nodded to a bottle of vodka sweating on the white linen tablecloth. “Drink? I know how you Siberians like to celebrate.”

“I'll wait for a reason.” Volsky took off the raincoat and draped it over the back of a chair and sat.

“Perhaps I can tempt you with something from the kitchen.”

Volsky hadn't eaten a real meal all day. He eyed a hillock of black caviar set in a bowl surrounded by ice. The roe was fat and glossy, as big as ball bearings. “You can tempt me with some answers,” he said as he dredged a piece of bread through the caviar and popped it into his mouth. “I have a friend who says that in Russia they're rarer than diamonds.”

“It's an odd thing to say.”

“I find he's usually right.”

Petrov filled his own glass, took a sip. “I've heard you have some thoughts about the state diamond stockpile.”

That was fast. How?
Volsky wondered. He'd only arrived this afternoon. “I have no thoughts.” He loaded his toast with a thousand rubles' worth of roe, ate it, then said to Petrov, “I only have demands.”

“Demands?” Petrov took a sip of vodka. “What sort?”

“You've blocked an agreement with the diamond cartel for almost a year now.”

“If two parties disagree, which one is guilty of blocking?”

“I don't care. What matters is that the cartel isn't buying our diamonds. That means no money is going to my miners.”

“
Our
diamonds?
Your
miners? You're the Siberian Delegate. Not the delegate from Mirny. You don't speak for them.”

“I'll fight for them. Winter's coming in case you forgot.”

“You traveled all the way here to beg?”

“To inform. It's time for you to do your job before any more miners die.”

“Someone died?”

Volsky stared at the Prince of Diamonds, then said, “Ask your friends in Kristall what happened in August. See if they'll tell you the truth. Fifty dead, and it's just the start.”

“I heard nothing about an accident.”

“Who said it was an accident?”

Petrov looked disappointed, as though a puppy he'd petted had turned around and nipped. “I'm sorry, but mine safety is not my responsibility. My job is to obtain the most value for the stones so that your miners, as you would say, can live.”

“What have you obtained for them lately?”

“Listen. I understand your concerns,” said Petrov. “I share them. But I'm like a general. I have compassion for my troops, but I must never hesitate to use them to win the war.”

“Let another week go by without sending the miners their pay and you'll have a
real
war.”

Petrov's expression hardened. “Forgive my bluntness, but the sale of Mirny diamonds is not your affair, Delegate Volsky.”

“The survival of the people who dig them
is
. They're already rationing electricity. Do you have any idea what it's like when the lights go off in the middle of a Mirny winter?”

“I'm sure that life will become more normal when . . .”

“When there's
no fucking heat and no fucking electricity
because some fat-faced prick in Moscow is keeping four million carats under his warm ass?”

Petrov looked surprised. “Who gave you that number?”

“Tbye ne nuzhna znat.”
It wasn't necessary for Petrov to know. “Now
you
listen. I'm going to Mirny in a few days to bring them their money. Every ruble they're owed. I'll do it with your help or over your head. It's up to you which it will be.”

“You don't need to make threats. The miners will be paid.”

“All right.” Volsky crossed his arms over his barrel chest. “When?”

“Eventually.”

“Eventually we'll be dead.”

Petrov wagged his finger at Volsky. “I have more faith in Siberians. You know how to survive. Fishing, trapping, the
dacha
garden. You're good at making do. Making do is what you're best at.”

“Actually,” said Volsky, leaning close, “telling Moscow to go fuck itself is what we're best at.”

Petrov stared. “What did you just say?”

“If Moscow ignores Siberia, how long will it be before we return the favor? They won't send us money? We'll sell our own stones.”

“They'll
never
get paid unless they keep mining diamonds.”

“And they won't keep mining them unless they get paid. It's a circle. Do I need to speak with Boris Nikolaevich to break it?”

“President Yeltsin is aware of the situation,” said Petrov. “Believe me. I wish the problem were more simple.”

“Here's something that's simple enough: if you refuse to send an emergency payment to Mirny, I will ask Yeltsin to release a portion of the state diamond stockpile by decree. Stones will be sold. The miners will be paid. You won't even get a chance to pocket a commission.”

“He'll throw you out if you suggest it.”

“You think so? I don't. Let's find out who's right.”

Petrov looked up at Volsky as though he were seeing him for the first time. “If the stockpile is raided you'll flood the market and drive down prices. The stones won't be worth as much. Maybe only half what you think.”

“Half a sausage is better than starving.”

“Not when you take the larger view.” Petrov smiled indulgently. “You don't understand the world of diamonds.” He picked up the bottle of Baikalsk vodka again, its raw alcohol only slightly diluted with the pure waters of Lake Baikal, the Sacred Sea. He poured his glass full. “People think it's about mining rare gems and selling them. Well, it's not.”

Volsky thought,
Where is Nowek?
Petrov was about to throw sand in his eyes. “What are you saying?”

“For two thousand years diamonds were actually rare. There was just one mine in India for the entire world. But then came Brazil, then Africa, and suddenly diamonds were no longer rare and everyone knew it. That's when the cartel was formed. They
control
the supply to
transform
a diamond
into
something rare. That's why a diamond is worth only what people
think
it's worth. It's all image. And when it comes to image, you come to the cartel.”