Enemy In the Room (17 page)

“Well, the President and the Sullivans are
back in the news.”

“So we are, too?”

“Apparently.”

“Maybe you could record a special greeting,
giving your latest views and news.”

Kristen actually laughed. “I don’t think
so.”

She turned and went into her office. As she
sat in her chair, the phone rang. After two rings, she
answered.

“Kristen?” The voice sounded familiar.

“Yes.”

“Hello, Kristen. This is Claudia Coleman
from the
Journal
. How are you?”

“Fine. Just fine. How are you?”

“Good, thanks. Listen, I was wondering if
you had any comment on the news today about passage of the
President’s media bill in the House.”

“Well, no, I don’t.”

“But didn’t you support it?”

“Yes, of course, as I told you.”

“Well, I watched Janet Sullivan a little
while ago, and she mentioned the attempted blackmail again, and
you. Do you have any comment that we can use in our article?”

Kristen paused. “No, I don’t. I’m not a
politician or policy person. I’m in real estate. I certainly have
my personal views, but I don’t think they’re relevant to a story on
the President’s legislation.”

“Can’t you give me some additional insights
into your relationship with the Sullivans, now that you helped the
President’s victory in the House?”

“Let me ask you a question. Did you follow
up on Mrs. Sullivan’s assertion that she and others were
blackmailed with threats to change their vote?”

“No, not really.”

“Why not?”

“Well, you know, time is always a problem,
and there are so many stories. We probably should have. But it
seemed far-fetched.”

“OK, well, I just don’t have anything more
to say. But if you ever do track down what Mrs. Sullivan was
talking about, I bet you’d have a pretty interesting story.”

“Perhaps. But right now can’t you help us
with your thoughts on this bill’s chances, from inside USNet?”

“I told you, I don’t speak for USNet—unless
you want to talk about office lease terms. So, please, call folks
in Washington or in the entertainment business, but not me.
OK?”

“Yes, certainly. Well, good-bye, Ms.
Holloway.”

“Good-bye.”
I hope that’s the end of
it.

Simon North received an email from his
anonymous employers including a packet of what appeared to be
intercepted telephone calls with several young Russian men in the
city of Arzamus-23. And on several calls what appeared to be a
potential buyer for their unique product. But the sender indicated
that the buyer was actually a member of the Russian police.

Also included were the outlines of a plan
for intercepting the purchase.

Which was why North was on the afternoon
British Air flight to Moscow.

That evening the Sawyers were seated at
their mahogany dining room table, a thick Persian rug underfoot.
David would be leaving for Moscow on Friday, and Elizabeth had been
organizing extra clothes for him.

“What will the weather be like?” she asked,
as she passed the salad bowl to Rob, who was attacking his plate as
if he hadn’t eaten in a week.

“I got an email today from our broker,
saying that it will actually be pretty warm, now that it’s almost
May. Though there could still be a stray snow storm.”

“Hard to imagine,” Elizabeth said, shaking
her head.

“Yes, so please just include a few sweaters
with my regular stuff.”

“Don’t you need to take drinking water and
toilet paper?” Rob asked, in one of his rare voluntary
utterances.

Sawyer smiled. “Maybe years ago. But not
today. Certainly not to Moscow. I haven’t been there since our
first exploratory mission in ‘93, but I’m told that there are all
the comforts of home. How was the tenth grade today?”

Without looking up, their son replied,
“OK.”

“Anything good or bad happen?”

“Nope.”

“How did you do on the chemistry test?”

Still not taking his eyes off the food in
front of him, Rob responded, “I think it was a seventy-eight.”

“Rob, you did much better in physics last
year.”

“Mm.”

David looked at Elizabeth and then said,
“Rob, your mother and I have been talking about moving the computer
down here, to the family room.”

Now he looked up, first at his mother, then
his father. “No way! Why?”

“Because you’ve become attached to it—from
games to chat rooms to email. Think about how little time you have
left for anything else, including homework. So if you use it down
here, it won’t take up as much of your life.”

“But what about those awesome internet
games?”

“You’ll have to stop, or play them
less.”

“No way.”

“Rob…”

“No. I like the games and I’m not flunking
any courses. And I like the chat rooms with my friends, too. We
talk every day about strategy. I can’t move it down here!”

He got up, his plate virtually licked clean.
He walked into the kitchen, rinsed his plate and put it in the
sink. As he was about to leave for his room, he said to his
parents, who were still eating, “The computer is a big part of my
life. I have real friends because of it. Please don’t take it
away.” And he bounded up the stairs.

“I guess we showed him,” Elizabeth said.

David picked up a forkful of lentils and
raisins, but kept it near his plate. “I didn’t want to start a war
one day before I leave.”

“Well, we’ve got to do it sometime! And
soon. David, he’s a different person than a year ago.”

“He’s fifteen. It happens to everyone.”

“Not like this. We’re losing him.”

“OK. OK. Just let me get back from this trip
and I’ll tackle it.”

“I called Callie today.”

“What?” He put down his fork.

“I wanted to talk with her.” She met his
look.

He glanced down and said nothing, his anger
obvious.

Elizabeth pushed on. “I told you that I
wouldn’t cut off our daughter for long. She probably needs us now
more than ever.”

He filled the fork again and chewed slowly.
After swallowing, he said, “She cut us off.”

“No. She made a bad choice, and you—we—cut
her off because of it.”

“It’s the same thing. Choices have
consequences, and I gave her the choice.”

“What about love? What about our
relationship with her?”

He was silent again, digesting her words. “I
think they call it ‘tough love’.”

It was her turn to be silent, staring at
him. After a few moments, she took a deep breath and said, “David,
I’ve been to this Bible study group twice.” He started to speak,
but she raised her hand. “I’m not going to give you a sermon—I
couldn’t possibly. I’m just saying that we read the Bible and talk.
Some of these ladies are amazing. They have such wisdom. Anyway,
we’ve been talking about relationships, not religion, at least not
as I’ve ever heard anyone talk about religion. They talk about a
relationship with God—as if that’s His desire for us. And our
earthly relationships being more important than things, or schools,
or anything.”

She leaned forward. “They actually mentioned
tough love the other day, and they said that you have to hate the
sin, but love the sinner. Now I’ve heard that before and always
just nodded my head. But here is Callie, and that’s just what this
is. We’ve got to love her—keep the relationship—while telling her
how much we disagree with what she’s doing, and why.”

He shook his head. “I never heard about all
that God and relationship stuff. In my family there was nothing
about that. Only making Allah happy by doing what is right. Making
the right choices. It’s simple. In our family, God is not our
friend. He is Allah, and his will is for us to do right.”

“Not our friend? But he made us. What
happens when we don’t do right?”

“Then he punishes us.”

“How can we always do right?”

“We can’t. Like Callie.”

“And you and me. These women would say that
Callie needs her parents, and that all of us need a savior.”

“The savior. Jesus. Always back to him.
Islam says that God has no son.”

“David, I don’t want to argue about
religion. I’m just pointing out that I think God thinks
relationships are important, and that none of us is perfect.”

“But as parents, we’re to set the right
example.”

“Exactly! Look at the father in the Prodigal
Son story. He loved his wayward son and celebrated his return.”

“And I’ll celebrate when Callie
returns.”

“What if Callie thinks she can’t return?
What if she thinks we’ve closed her out?”

David thought for several moments. Finally
he shrugged. “OK. Talk with her now and then. Keep the door open.
But let her know how much we disagree with what she’s doing.”

Elizabeth smiled. “I will. Who knows what
may happen.”

SATURDAY, APRIL 30TH

David arrived in Moscow on Saturday morning
at 10:30. He felt unexpectedly refreshed because he was able to
sleep for five hours on the long flight.

Sheremetevo Airport’s gleaming new terminals
were nothing like what he remembered from 1993—a chrome and glass
Soviet-style structure that seemed far too small to be the portal
to Europe’s largest city. Unlike his previous visit, there were now
bright lights, advertisements, and a high speed train to
downtown.

Andrei Selivanov had volunteered to meet
David at the airport and emailed a picture of himself—tall with
dark hair. And today he also held a small sign with Sawyer’s name
on it. They shook hands, and Andrei took one of his bags. “Welcome
to Moscow.”.

“Thank you. I’m glad to be back after so
many years.”

“I think you will see many changes since
your last visit,” Andrei expressed in nearly perfect English, as
they turned and began walking toward the glass doors leading to the
parking lot.

“I’m sure I will.” Motioning toward all the
panel displays and advertisements, he said, “Back then there
weren’t many choices in anything.”

Andrei nodded. “But now there are as many
choices as you have in the States. Even in office buildings.”

The sun was shining brightly in the cool
air. “Yes, you’ve lined up quite a number of possibilities for our
software group. But will we have time to see them all?”

“You’ve come on a holiday weekend—May Day is
Monday. We’ll drive past the list tomorrow afternoon, when the
traffic won’t be bad, and review them on my laptop as we go. You
can decide which ones you want to see in person. Peter Goncharov,
your local manager, is in Helsinki on business today, but he’ll
join us tomorrow.”

David smiled. “That’ll be great. And I can
go to a museum or something—I can always use more culture.”

Andrei placed David’s bags in the trunk of
his ten-year-old Audi, and the two men began the thirty-five km
journey into Moscow along the ribbon of six-lane thoroughfare that
was more than a boulevard but less than a highway. The route led
southeast from Sheremetevo Airport; once they passed inside the
Ring Road, the traffic increased dramatically, even on Saturday,
and their pace slowed. More than ten million people lived inside
the Ring Road. As in many continental cities, the driving seemed to
be a frenzied free-for-all, and David was glad that Andrei was
behind the wheel.

They talked about their businesses, the
world markets for real estate, and their families. Andrei was
nearly forty with a wife and three children, an almost unheard of
family size by Russian norms.

“How did you get into the business?”

“Out of university I was an engineer. Back
in ‘92 when people could start to buy and sell apartments, I made a
little money helping friends find what they wanted. I liked it.
Then in ‘95, just as real estate was starting to be a real
business, and office buildings and new apartments were going up
everywhere, a friend from school introduced me to an American and a
Brit with a small commercial firm here. They taught me the basics,
from market analysis to ethics. They were great teachers, and now
we’re partners. Every year we add more Russian staff, and I do most
of the training.”

“Sounds pretty normal, actually.”

Andrei looked over from the driver’s seat.
“Yes. Just normal, really. But it’s amazing that it has happened in
this country after seventy years of the communists trying to deny
everything from free markets to God. I guess they found out that
God and markets are much more permanent than they were!”

David nodded and smiled. They continued
along Tverskaya Street, a combination of Fifth Avenue and Madison
Avenue, lined by diverse five-to eight-story buildings, all with
bright shops on their ground floors. Sawyer’s hotel, a modern
remake within a handsome nineteenth-century façade, was near Red
Square, right in the heart of the city. They pulled up to the door,
and a smartly dressed bellman helped with the bags.

“I’ll park the car and make some calls in
the hotel lobby,” Andrei suggested. “You unpack, then we’ll have
lunch and head over to the History Museum on Red Square.”

“So far so good,” David acknowledged.
“Thanks for the ride in, and I’ll see you in the lobby in thirty
minutes.”

In his room, David splashed water on his
face and took two aspirin for the dull ache in the front of his
head. With a fresh shirt he felt ready to tackle the rest of the
day, and he joined Andrei in the lobby restaurant for lunch.

After they ordered, Andrei took a sip of
water and asked his guest, “What brought you here back in ‘93?”

“Back then I came here with a team of five
division heads from USNet, hoping to pick up an operating company,
or a cheap building, or new technology, or something that we could
use—and help the new Russian economy as well.”

“How long did you spend here?”