The Ice Curtain (5 page)

Petrov placed the bottle back down onto the table. “London has kept hold on the diamond world for nearly a century. It's practically the world's oldest monopoly.” Petrov paused, sipped, looked up. “World wars. Great depressions. Countries come and go, but the cartel survives.”

“What does this have to do with paying my miners?”

“Everything. We're at war with the cartel. A war for independence. They're a powerful enemy. They deserve the greatest respect. We must be careful, and, frankly speaking, so should you. It's no exaggeration to say that there is nowhere on earth they can't reach. Not even the Kremlin is beyond their grasp.”

The fireplace crackled. A shower of golden sparks rose up the sooty flue.

Petrov took a sip of vodka. “For years, Russia
had
to follow the cartel's lead. We had enough diamonds to destroy them. But what did we know about selling them? Less than nothing. The agreements we made with them were not always in our best interest. When you dance with an elephant, crushed toes are to be expected.”

Damn it! Where is Nowek?
“So?”

“Now
we're
the elephant. We're free to sell diamonds anywhere, and we have plenty to sell. The cartel has no choice but to come to our terms. When they do,
everyone
will live a better life.”

“All I know,” said Volsky, “is that they haven't signed anything so far. What will make them do it now?”

“Think,” Petrov said. “How do you get a monopoly's attention?”

It didn't take much thought. “You threaten to break it.”

“Exactly.” Petrov pushed a tumbler to Volsky, then refilled his own. The vodka's oily surface was nearly convex. He raised the glass to Volsky. “A toast to the Siberian Delegate. A man who should not be underestimated. May you be buried in a coffin made from an oak tree that I will plant from an acorn with my own hands tomorrow.” He drained it in a gulp.

Volsky left his drink untouched. “In other words, you're already selling our diamonds, just not to the cartel.”

Petrov gave Volsky a sly, confirming smile. “Now we're moving into areas I'm not permitted to discuss.”

“So where's the money?”

“Money?”

Volsky grabbed Petrov's arm. “You're not giving our stones away.”

Petrov tried to pull his wrist from Volsky's grip. It didn't budge. “I can have you thrown out.”

“Do it. I'll bring your arm with me. It will look good over my fireplace.” Volsky squeezed once, very hard. “So?”

“All right!”
Volsky let go and Petrov rubbed the blood back into his hand. “For the last year, diamonds have been sold under the direct authority of the Kremlin. And
not
to the cartel.”

“Where?”

“Where the money is. America. We started our own company there to market them. If the cartel won't negotiate, we'll keep doing it. But they'll come to heel. They have to.”

“This company. Its name?”

“Golden Autumn. The cartel will have to choose. Pay us more, or we'll break your back. The Kremlin is running the whole show. I'm just a small gear in a big—”

“A minute ago you were a general. Now you're just a small gear. Next you'll tell me you just sweep the floors.”

“Listen. This
must
be kept secret until everything is in place. You think the cartel doesn't have friends in America? Officials they can buy? Diamond brokers they can threaten? You could destroy years of planning. Then it will be your fault if your miners freeze.”

“Unless I keep silent and wait?”

Petrov sat back. “I'm glad we finally understand one another.”

“I understand. I wonder. Does our president also understand? Does he realize his diamonds are being sold out from under him?”

“It would be impossible to move those diamonds without his approval. You must trust me when I say—”

“I wouldn't trust you with a piece of colored glass. Tomorrow, I'll go to Gorky-9.” It was Yeltsin's suburban retreat. “If I'm wrong you'll have my apologies. But if I'm right”—Volsky leaned close and smiled—“we'll go back to Siberia together. Only you'll be in chains.”

Petrov slapped his open hand to the table, exasperated. “What makes you think the President doesn't already know everything?”

“I know Boris Nikolaevich. He's no criminal.”

Petrov laughed. “You've been in Siberia too long. You know the difference between a criminal and a businessman? A businessman has more imagination. Listen. The rain falls down. It doesn't fall up. This matter begins above all our heads.”

“We'll see who still has a head tomorrow.”

Petrov stood. “Good evening, Delegate Volsky. I wish you a night of sober contemplation and a safe trip home.” Petrov opened the door and left.

Volsky scooped up some caviar, put it to his mouth, then stopped. He tossed it to the table, grabbed his raincoat and briefcase, and walked to the door. Outside the private room, the main dining area was slowly filling. Petrov was already gone.

The rain falls from above.
But from how high? If someone at the Kremlin was involved, some termite who had burrowed into a position of power and influence, Volsky would have to be careful.

It reminded him of the Siberian Dilemma.

It's winter. Minus forty degrees. An ice fisherman falls through into frigid water. If he stays in, he'll die in a minute. If he pulls himself out, he'll freeze to a statue in seconds. Which will it be? A minute of life, or a few seconds?

Forget Siberia. Here was the
Russian
Dilemma: official, unofficial, law and crime, businessman, politician, president, thief. They were
all
becoming distinctions without a difference.

The headwaiter noticed him and hurried over.

“Was there something you needed, sir?”

“A phone.”

“Our members usually carry their own.”

Volsky spotted the foreign lawyer. He was no longer sitting alone. Another man was with him. Another foreigner. A blue blazer, an oxford shirt. Khaki pants. A Russian would have to work up a hard sweat to appear so casual.

Volsky joined them. They looked up. The second man was much younger, and there was something odd about his eyes. Then Volsky saw what it was; they were not quite the same color. “It seems that I need your help after all,” he said to the drunk lawyer.

“That's what I'm here for. Meet my friend—”

“Sorry. There's no time. You have a cell phone?”

Willie seemed puzzled, or just too drunk to understand.

“Please.” The second man reached into his rain-dark Burberry and handed his cell phone to Volsky. “Use mine.”

The green light was still blinking, whatever that meant. “And you are?”

“Eban Hock. You're the Siberian Delegate. I'd like to talk with you if you have a moment to spare.”

“I don't.” Volsky walked to a corner away from the tables and punched in a private number that rang in the Kremlin.

The line clicked.

“This is A.V. Volsky. The Siberian Delegate.
Buran.
”

Buran.
Blizzard. The code word that was supposed to prove that Volsky was Volsky. There was a long silence as a list was scanned one finger at a time. Finally, “Listening.”

“I'm requesting an immediate inventory of the state diamond stockpile. Tonight if possible. Tomorrow if it's not.”

“That's the responsibility of . . .”

“I've spoken with Petrov.” That was technically true. “It's a big job, so we'll need some help. We'll need a representative from the Finance Ministry, one from the Presidential Administration, and, naturally, someone from the FSB.” The last was the Federal Security Bureau, the successor to the old KGB. “Have you got it all?”

“Yes. But—”

“I also want a report on an American company licensed to sell Siberian diamonds. It's called Golden Autumn. There's paperwork someplace that authorizes it. I want it found and ready for inspection by tomorrow morning. Have you got all that or do I have to call Gorky-9 and have the President repeat it for you?”

“Everything is noted!” the desk officer said.

“See that it happens.” Volsky folded Hock's cell phone closed and returned back. “Thank you.”

“Now, if you have just a few moments . . .” said Hock.

“I'm staying at the Rossiya. You can call me tomorrow.”

“I won't be in Moscow tomorrow, I'm afraid.”

“Count your blessings.” Volsky turned and walked back through the warm, intimate dining room to the guarded outer hall.

The guards were gone. The telephone at the guard's desk was ringing, a light on it flashing. He ignored it and found the button that unlocked the outer door. He pushed it.

There was a loud buzz, then the click of steel tongues retracting into oiled slots. He grabbed the lever. The heavy door moved and a wave of cold, wet air flowed in.

The temperature was dropping fast. Big flakes were falling through the glow of the outside lights, large and soft as eiderdown. He stepped outside. The door locked behind him. Where was Nowek?
He'd better have a good reason.
For that matter, where was his fucking car and driver?

There.
The Chaika's engine turned, turned, then caught in a roar and a cloud of steam. The headlights switched on. The tires spun in slush, the car approached.

Volsky held out his hand and caught a flake in his palm, really a cluster of flakes welded together. Neither one thing or another. A dishonest snow, perfect for Moscow.

The Chaika pulled up. Volsky got in back and slammed the door. “Forget the hotel,” he said. “We're going to the Kremlin.”

The old limo began to roll.

Volsky looked at the back of the driver's neck. There was no ponytail. “Where's Gavril?”

“this is as far as I can go,” the cabdriver said. They were outside the iron gates to Club
Ekipazh.
The windshield went opaque with snow. The wipers struggled to keep it clear.

Nowek saw two headlights turn in their direction. He paid the driver off, tucked the fragile record under his coat, and got out. The pavement was slick and treacherous. The cab spun its wheels as it backed up. It swung around, disappearing down the narrow lane.

Nowek took one step, then stopped. He heard the engine. BMWs, a row of Mercedes. One Chaika. It had to be Volsky's car.
Don't be late.
He'd let Volsky down for an old recording. He stepped into its headlights and waved for Gavril to stop.

Volsky could feel the springs in the Chaika's seat poking his thigh. He leaned forward. “Where is my driver?”

“He had another passenger to meet.”

You're my only customer tonight. . . .

They were almost to the gate.

Volsky saw a figure standing in the headlights. Finally. Nowek. “Stop here.”

The driver jammed his boot down on the accelerator.

Volsky lunged for the handle and pulled. It didn't budge.

The Chaika's threadbare tires began to lose their grip. The car slid through the gate sideways. Nowek jumped a half second late.

The rear bumper caught him on the knee. A light brush for the old limousine, a caress, but enough to send him tumbling to the street. The Dvo(breve)rák A Minor went flying.

The Chaika was halfway down the narrow lane when the red brake lights flashed. It swerved to one side and stopped.

Nowek saw one of the rear doors fly open.

Volsky landed hard, slid and scraped to a stop on wet concrete. He struggled to his feet. He could see traffic passing by at one end of the street. He could see the luminous wall of
Ekipazh
at the other. And Nowek.

“Arkasha!”

The driver jumped out of the Chaika with a shotgun. Its short double barrel rose. Volsky slipped, fell, then struggled to his knees.

“No!”

Volsky heard Nowek cry out, and then something swept his legs out from under him. He flew back against a brick wall.

The blast reverberated, echoing like thunder.

Volsky gasped for air. He was on his back. Snowflakes fell on his face, melting, running down his cheeks. Something warm was spreading across his chest. One shell. He could survive that so long as the man didn't shoot again. He heard Nowek shout. A barking dog. The warble of a distant siren. The driver was standing over him with the gun. Two barrels.
Don't shoot again and I'll live. I'll live.

“Arkasha!”

It was Nowek, and the sound of running feet was unmistakable.
Fuck.
Volsky saw the shotgun rise, level, point at his friend.
Fuck.
He lunged and grabbed hold of the hot barrel, using all his strength, all his determination, to pull it down.

His world. Endless Siberia, Moscow, his friends, his work. Everything narrowing, narrowing. All he had to do was hold on to those two barrels for another moment. A lifetime.

A blast. The barrel flew out of his grip like a rocket on a tail of fire, and Volsky was moving again, swept up in a wave of pure light. A
buran,
a blizzard, not of snow, but of flame. Nowek's face. White against the black sky. Volsky tried to speak. To whisper. Nowek leaned close. His face was wet.

Volsky summoned up something from inside him, some force, some pressure, and a word, a name, rose up.
“Grisha . . .”

“Don't talk. They're coming. Don't say anything.”

There was a lot to say and no air left in his ruined lungs. He swallowed, tasted blood.
“Idi . . . k'gorizontu . . . Idi . . .”

“Arkasha!”

Had he said it? Spoken the right words? It was all receding now. Fading behind a gentle curtain of falling snow, buried under the soft whisper of a million, million stars burning bright in a sky so infinitely deep he could no longer hear the siren's wail. So vast, it swallowed the voice still calling out his name.