The firebird affair

Voronov’s daughter Vera, in a lilac-colored blouse with a bow, led me to the garden.

“He’s been suffering from acute depressions,” she whispered. “He’s better now—taking lithium.”

I felt as if we were in a separate far-off world; birds clucked and rustled around us. The air was humid and sweet. Everything was hushed.

Vera spoke softly. “He had to be hospitalized. Even tried to kill himself. All this was kept very private, of course, but please avoid any mention of my daughter. Also, play along when he talks about the shifting borders of the mind. He’s changed. Imagine, my father accepts the disciplines of astrology and magic as worthy of study.” She shook her head resignedly. The notion of things foreordained can disturb the balance of the most rational of men, and Voronov was certain among them.

The professor embraced me. His hair was grayer, thinner at the top, and the skin around his eyes was creased like crumpled tissue paper. The sounds of Bizet’s Symphony in C major were floating out from somewhere inside the house.

I complimented him for a very clear recollection of the time when our paths briefly crossed all those years ago. He replied with a rueful smile, “Alas, my short-term memory is not nearly as good. I was sorry to hear about your wife,” he said. “Joseph Davidovich told me. You’ve seen him, of course.”

“Yes, “ I said. “Joseph’s a banker now. ”

I saw a flicker of irritation in his face. “He was one of my most gifted grad students. I never thought he’d end up doing banking!” He liked his dry lips.

I said, “Lives like a grand duke. Fantastic?”

“Vera, where’s that bottle of Courvoisier? And do make us Turkish coffee,” he cried after his daughter, ignoring my remark. “She told me you are doing something about non-proliferation,” he said, turning to me.

“Yes.”

“Surely things are better now than twenty years ago,” I said.

He closed his eyes as if praying, then started shaking his head. “While we’re enemies, the nuclear danger was minimal.”

“You think it’s greater today?”

“I’m talking about the sense of inevitability. War’s been a test for all technological developments since the dawn of time. Think about it. Besides, wars are unavoidable—in terms of national pride, or in the competition for scarce energy or resources or markets, to name a few.”

I remembered his pet theory—he had told me years ago that he had worked out a mathematical proof that a technological civilization lasts about 100 plus years before it self-destructs—and I let him talk. He had also offered a mathematical proof to refute Stephen Hawking’s claim that things can disappear inside a black hole without leaving any traces. But I had no mental equipment for such discussions and much of what he said was way above my head. To be honest, my mind was a complete blank. I looked around the garden, which overlooked the woods and a stream. I watched Vera bring Turkish coffee in small cups. I thought: last time we talked, the professor had been full of optimism; now he sounded like he’s too much of a downer.

Voronov picked up the Courvoisier Napoleon bottle to pour me another drink. His hands started shaking so violently that I jumped up and took the bottle from his hands.

We talked about the economy and world affairs, and he remembered jokes from the past. When we finished coffee, he turned both cups upside down. “I’m learning to read the future,” he said with a shy smile. “Sort of like reading the tea leaves.” But when he looked at his cup, his face became contorted. He opened his mouth to say something, but no sound came. Then he suddenly clamped his hands on top of his bowed head and sighed for a long time.

I was silent for a long time. The plaintive sounds of Mozart’s clarinet concerto floated out from the house.

“Just ignore an old man. I haven’t talked to anyone since Tara’s death.” Tears welled up in Voronov ‘s eyes.

I waved to Vera.

“Papa tires easily,” Vera cast a disapproving glance at me. She had warned me, her glance seemed to say, that Parkinson’s and dementia affected his mind.

I thought she was also signaling that I should be leaving soon.

Then the old man began to ramble. He shook his head, as though to fight his own dark thoughts.

I didn’t know what further to talk to him about, so I thanked him for his hospitality, said it was time for me to leave, sighed, and got to my feet.

He lifted his gaze. “Give my best to your lovely wife,” he said.

I said, “I certainly will.” I avoided Vera’s eyes.

39
I returned to Moscow in the afternoon. It suddenly seemed vitally important for me to look through the old arms control files if I was to do a big piece, as per Kevin Page’s instructions.

I went to the bureau and worked for a few hours. First I hurriedly glanced at the headline news, scrolled through the day’s news—skirmishes in Afghanistan; Saddam’s WMDs and the need for regime change, talk of diplomacy and UN inspectors—before spending more time on the NBA standings, the won-lost column, the percentages, and the games behind. Then I moved to Dow Jones and the stocks that were in my Roth IRA account. That done, I began rummaging through the old files inside gunmetal cabinets, inhaling the smell of old paper, of faded time, trying to find my way back across the chasm.

In a way, it was a perverse thing to do—leaf through the yellowish clippings recounting human efforts over the years to avoid a nuclear war. The problem is that this type of activity does not occupy your complete attention—it allows a portion of your mind to wander. Did politicians believe in their public pronouncements? Or were they merely manipulating the public? All the while mega tonnage soared, missile throw-weight quadrupled, and ever deadlier weapons were introduced: Titan, Poseidon, Minuteman, Scud, SS-9, MX, SS-18 MIRVs.

I found a strange kind of innocence about my own stories. And yet, and yet, sweeping my eyes over all those jazzed-up, half-true accounts left me with a feeling that man is capable of finding rational solutions to intractable problems, as Kennedy and Khrushchev did by agreeing on some basic rules to avoid an Armageddon. Yes, sirree, the MAD concept was an appropriate metaphor. You’d have to be mad to start a war that would result in a Mutually Assured Destruction. But then again, as the old professor had insisted, it’s in our DNA to repeat the same mistakes even after we know better.

When I returned to the hotel, there was a message from Joseph waiting. He asked me to lunch at his house the next day.

Just after nine the next morning, while I was getting ready to go down to breakfast, Joseph’s secretary called. Regrettably, she said, the lunch had to be cancelled.

Twenty minutes later, as I was sipping coffee in the restaurant, a waitress brought a phone to my table. Could I meet Joseph at two in the afternoon, the secretary asked. At his in-town place. She gave me the address; it was right off Old Arbat, in the center of the city.

“Certainly.”

Finishing my coffee, stopping by shops that catered without inhibition to an affluent clientele—diamond jewelry, expensive old wines, cashmere sweaters-- I had a vague premonition. Everything was not well; I was no longer playing my own game.

40
Old Arbat was crowded on a humid overcast day in late August. Fashionable crowds and foreign tourists were strolling up and down. It was hard to find a parking space in that neighborhood. I finally swerved into a narrow side street and left the Lada in a no parking zone outside an antique shop some fifty feet away from Old Arbat. I lingered for a while, looking at Russian icons in the shop window before I was assaulted by a powerful smell of fried onions and rancid oil from a small restaurant next door.

Joseph’s pied-a-terre was easy to find. Near the entrance to the building, I caught a glimpse of a shaved head at the periphery of my vision. I spun around to take a better look. The man was no longer on the opposite side of the street.

I entered the building. Without waiting for my eyes to adjust to the gloom, I climbed the stairs to the second floor.

Another of Joseph’s bald, young bodyguards opened the door. “The chief will be with you in a minute,” he said and led me into the living room.

A perfect pied-a-terre, I thought. Swedish light oak furniture. Tall windows with net curtains and buff velour drapes. The carpet that felt springy underfoot. Antique vases, icons, and other knick-knacks. Painting covering every square inch of space on two walls. After I quick inspection I realized these were worked of Soviet underground artists from the sixties and seventies: Zverev, Rabin, Sitnikov, Yakovlyev, Sidur, Neizvestny, Krasnopyevtsev.

Joseph was all business when he walked in. He suit was gray summer-weight wool with a silky weave and a slight sheen. A pink-red Hermes tie. He looked tired, older than his fifty years. The words “bad mood” might as well have been stamped on his lined, round face.

“You like my flowers?” Joseph asked, pointing at two colorful pastels on the wall. ”Done by Yakovlyev.”

“Very nice,” I said.

“You know, he was nearly blind when I met him…in the loony bin,” he said. ”Lost more than eighty per cent of his vision. But he loved to paint: flowers and sailboats and portraits. They said he was crazy.”

“How could he do it when he was nearly blind?”

“Don’t know. But I love his work.” He paused. “Now, how about a drink,” he said.

I said, “I’ll have a vodka martini. Heavy on the vermouth, please.”

Joseph turned a brass catch of a neatly fitted cabinet and a bar opened up with various niches for bottles and implements. With his back to me, he fixed a vodka martini. But something in the way he moved forewarned me that my friend had something important on his mind.

“We have to talk,” Joseph said, after taking his first sip, his tone reserved. “Rashidov was murdered yesterday.”

“Murdered?!”

He took his time, letting the silence make me squirm a bit. “A single bullet. Mensoor’s upset. Lots of other people, too.”

I sighed. “I’m sorry to hear that. How did it happen?”

“Nobody knows. They’re speculating the shot came from a passing car. It all happened very quickly, outside his house. The servant heard nothing. They said a sound suppressor was used. ”

“A professional job?”

“Looks like it.”

I hesitated.

“What do the papers say?”

“There’s nothing in the papers.”

I said, “Who would want to kill Rashidov?”

“That’s what I’d like to know.” He waited for a moment before continuing. “Local police are speculating he was killed by IMU militants, which is ridiculous, of course. Rashidov was IMU’s major fund-raiser.”

“What does Mensoor say?”

Joseph leaned forward, opened his mouth to speak and then apparently decided against it.

We were silent for a while. Then he went on as if he hadn’t heard my question.

“One obvious possibility is Karimov’s secret police,” Joseph said, staring at the carpet. “They eliminate someone and blame IMU ‘terrorists.’ Real simple. But some people are wondering whether it’s a coincidence that the hit came a day after he met with you.”

I laughed uncomfortably. What on earth was he getting at? “I don’t see what that’s got to do with me!” I heard the sound of my voice and I knew I didn’t sound as confident as I wanted to.

His gaze lifted to me inhospitably, as if we were playing a game of truth and dare, and said slowly, “You tell me?”

Suddenly I had a feeling I was being watched closely. I felt quickening of my pulse. “For fuck’s sake, Joseph, that’s preposterous!” Stupid motherfucker, I fumed inwardly.

I could see him hesitating. “Mensoor was with you all the time, I know. He met you at the airport and put you on the plane back. But we have had several strange incidents, starik, and one’s got to wonder if these are all coincidences. The Patriarch’s Pond woman. The hoods tailing you. Rashidov. Isn’t it odd that people you’re looking for end up dead?”

The phone rang. He picked it up and then put his hand over the mouthpiece. “It’ll be only a minute,” he said turning to me.

When he resumed, he acted as if he hadn’t asked me a question. “One more thing, starik.” He pulled a face. “Your girlfriend is not who she claims to be. Volkov tells me she is a NOCK, a CIA agent living under non-official cover.”

I forced a smile to my lips. “I don’t know. I don’t know who she is. I only know what she told me and she didn’t tell me the truth.”

Joseph scratched the bridge of his nose with his little finger. He got to his feet and walked to the window. “Strange,” he murmured, looking out to the street. “Know what I’m saying? Some very powerful people are now checking all possible angles. Volkov and his friends are quite agitated. They say you’re some kind of a decoy.”

“For God’s sake, Joseph! That’s crap!”

He turned, staring sharply at me. “I’m in a very awkward position, starik. I vouched for you. You know what I’m saying. Now I’m looking for explanations.”

To this I had no answer ready, and we shared a somewhat awkward silence.

I said, “It could have been an act of vengeance? A jealous husband? Unpaid debts. Who knows. Some local asshole settling accounts…”

“This looks like a professional job, starik. The cops have found a man’s wig and a halat. In the ladies’ room at the Samarkand airport. They believe the assassin came from the outside. Officially they blame the IMU, which is more convenient for them.”

Joseph paused. He said after a while, his voice going from friendly to officious, I thought: “Is there is anything else I should know about your trip?”

It was a moment before I could take this in. If Joseph suspected me, what was I being suspected of?

I had to rein in my instinct to lash out. “I’ve been with Mensoor every minute of the day. We were never within a hundred miles of the Samarkand airport.”

Joseph didn’t react.

“We almost got killed, for Christ’s sakes.” “Yes… Mensoor told me.”

“It could have been an old feud, or—” I hesitated, searching for a more delicate phrase for mafia battles over the drug trade. “Perhaps, business rivals? I understand Rashidov was helping in the trans-shipment of Afghan opium to Europe.”

Joseph shook his head—no. “The motive is missing.”

“Money, for one.”

“Not likely!” Joseph gave a small derisive laugh, and then he frowned. “Is there anything else?”

“I don’t know,” I said. I could not ignore the sudden hard edge our conversation had acquired. Suspicion oozed through the subtext. Succumbing to an impulse to point out the darker side of Joseph’s business, I said, “But violence isn’t something unusual among people like Rashidov and Mensoor. You know that.”

“Don’t follow.” Joseph stiffened and raised an eyebrow.

“They operate outside the law. You yourself said so.”

Joseph’s expression went blank. “They were fine when you needed their help,” he said, and I knew him well enough to recognize that studied blandness as a sign of anger. His words filled me with deep fatigue. Of course your customers are criminals, I wanted to say. But a voice inside my head said, don’t go there! You went into it knowing full well who you had dealings with.

“Yes, they are customers,” he said as though guessing my thoughts. “Because they trust me. The only thing that matters in my business, starik, is trust. We handle millions of dollars and euros and pounds, sometimes without any receipts. ”

“Isn’t that called money laundering?”

I instantly regretted saying this, but the arrow had left the bow and there was no way of retrieving it.

I could see my question got Joseph’s back up. The features of his face suddenly took on an uncompromising cast.

“I don’t have to justify myself to you,” he said with a frosty smile.

We sat in silence for about thirty seconds. I hoped for the balance to return between us.

“Let me tell you a story,” Joseph suddenly said. “Ten years ago, we had no way of transferring money out of Russia. So I had to take a suitcase of dollars and deutschemarks to Zurich. Bribe people along the way, of course, but that’s another story. So I’m in Zurich. In this bank—all marble and modern art and clerks dressed better than members of the Russian cabinet. Now let me ask you: do you think these fine people ever once asked me about the source of the money? No! They happily took it. They took the money the Nazis stole from the Jews. They took the money from Mobutu, Mubarak and other thieves. The Mafias too: Italian, American, Russian, Albanian, Romanian.”

I raised my hand to suggest that I was prepared to backpedal.

“Hang on for a sec,” he said. “The Swiss are the gold standard in banking. And you want me to ask my clients where their money comes from?”

“Sorry,” I said, sensing that the survival of our mutual affection was being seriously imperiled. We were no longer who we’d been when we’d known each other long time ago. Our friendship has gone through numerous vicissitudes over the years, our conversations now and before have changed the shape our minds. What never changed, I had to admit, were my reasons for seeking his company: which was to advance my own agenda. Does that, I wondered, raise the unpleasant issue of the falsity of our friendship?

“Then there’s that mysterious client in America who had you followed,” Joseph said. “Volkov had his hackers check it out, without success. Whoever was at the other end of that email address knows how to maneuver through the entrails of the Internet without leaving fingerprints.”

In the silence that ensued, Joseph lifted his gaze toward the ceiling as though he wanted to allow the anger of the exchange to dissipate. A lock clicked from somewhere nearby, loud enough to wake the dead. It was Volkov, letting himself in.

He walked over to the bar and poured himself a glass of Perrier, than eased himself into an armchair opposite me, observing me with his steady, pale blue eyes.

“Let’s get to the point,” Joseph said.

Volkov grabbed the attaché case, pulled a photograph from it, and put it on the coffee table in front of me. It showed people drinking and chatting beneath a striped umbrella in a sidewalk café. On closer inspection, I recognized Amanda sitting opposite a man who looked like the blond athletic man I saw her talking to at Barbara’s party.

“You know this man?” Volkov’s smile intended no warmth.

“I saw him at a party here a few weeks ago.”

Volkov said, “ His name is Eric Rhein. He’s CIA. So is the lady you call Amanda. Both specialize in hi-tech espionage. He works under a diplomatic cover; she’s illegal, as we say. Your lady has a master’s degree in biochemistry—not journalism.”

“What makes you think she’s CIA?” Her name made my features tighten as I recalled her unexpected departure.

Volkov laughed out loud. “Our people had them under surveillance in Brussels last year. Just for your information, the two were lovers at the time.”

Learning intimate details second-hand about someone I cared for made me uncomfortable—it felt like discovering compromising photos of your lover in an old chest in the attic. But the question I couldn’t get out of my head – “Was she working for Holz?” – now took the form of “Was she feigning all those orgasms?” People are known to be able to do it—feign affection, even feign orgasm. Perhaps our affair had developed—with me being an unwitting partner—as part of a crazy plan concocted by Holz.

I said, “Quite frankly, I don’t care.”

“Pfft,” Volkov said with contempt, his index finger swinging between himself and Joseph. “We care.”

“Why?”

Joseph said, “Important business customers of ours want to know who’s behind Rashidov’s murder. You don’t mess around with these people. When it comes to things like this, my friend, Moscow’s not a big city. It’s an amazingly small town. No place to hide. I think it must be the same in Washington.”

I stared at Joseph in disbelief, pointing my finger at Volkov. “Is he trying to say that I’ve hired a hit man?”

Volkov glowered at me. He evidently found my gesture very offensive.

“Hey, nobody’s blaming you, starik,” Joseph said a little awkwardly, I thought, as if trying to change the subject. “It’s just that we’re looking for a rational explanation.” He turned to face Volkov. “Wait! I told you this guy fucking saved my fucking life.” He turned to me: “You know, I bet Radomir Pavlovich the other day that you don’t even know what I’m talking about!”

I turned to Volkov who nodded noncommittally.

I had no recollection of ever saving Joseph’s life. I always thought this was one of Joseph’s hyperboles, an artful reference to the thousand dollars I once gave him to bribe a housing inspector. “You mean that thousand dollars?”

“Fuck one thousand dollars.” Joseph knitted his brow.

“Then what?”

Silence hung in the room like a weight.

Joseph sighed, then gave Volkov a long look, nodding. A painful smile flickered. “So I win, Radomir Pavlovich. Fuck your mother, I told you he doesn’t remember!”

“Remember what?” I said.

“Amazing really when you think of it!” Joseph got up and began pacing. He halted by the window and stared out to the street for a while.

“Remember I was limping when we first met, I had a small cut on my left foot,” he said when he returned to his seat.

I nodded—yes.

“The doctor put medication on it,” he continued patiently. “Said I must keep the wound clean and not move around. I moved, as you know. Remember the day when the mounted police charged the crowd in Pushkin Square and we ran to my place? Well, the cut was quite deep, but it didn’t hurt. How it got infected I don’t know. You don’t feel much when gangrene sets in. Suddenly, I had to have streptomycin—urgently, the doctor said—or the left foot would have to be amputated. Remember?”

He crossed his legs, his right hand miming a sawing motion at the ankle of his left leg.

I had to rack my brains to remember vaguely that there was a shortage of streptomycin in Moscow. There was a shortage of everything in Russia anyway.

“That was the fucking Soviet Union for you! No streptomycin! But therefore we have rockets,” Joseph began to sing in a shrill sardonic voice the refrain from an old Bolshevik song and was joined by Volkov.

“I asked Professor Ginsburg, my former academic advisor. As a member of the Academy of Sciences he had ways of getting foreign medicine, but that took time. That’s when I phoned you. Remember? It was fucking cold…”

“Vaguely,” I said, blood rushing to my ears.

“The Moscow River was frozen solid, remember?”