The Ice Curtain (32 page)

“We make exceptions when a friend needs help,” said Yuri.

“How did you know I needed help?”

“A businessman develops a sixth sense about these things. You don't seem so pleased.”

“Who was flying the jet they shot down?”

“The autopilot. I hooked it up to the satellite navigator, pressed execute, ran up the engines with the brakes on, and jumped. When the brakes couldn't hold, it took off by itself.”

“So coming up here had nothing to do with diamonds?”

“How can you put diamonds and friendship on an equal basis?” Then “Naturally, there were costs.” A pause, then Yuri said, “How many diamonds are back there anyway?”

“It's difficult to say,” said Nowek carefully. He didn't want Yuri to have a heart attack at the controls. “They're all going to Moscow, you know.”

Yuri blinked. “All of them?” Nowek might have suggested feeding caviar to chickens.

“Every carat.”
And it still won't be enough.
One million carats wasn't four million. “I need to call Moscow. Will your radio reach?”

“Not even to Irkutsk. But there's a satellite phone you can try.” He reached back to a surprisingly ordinary-looking handset mounted to the cabin wall, lifted it off its hook. “You have to know the number, though.”

“I know the number.” Nowek's birthday, Galena's age, the year his wife, Nina, had died. He punched in the proper sequence, pressed send, waited while the whistles, squawks, and sizzles resolved into a ring, another, and, finally, a sleepy voice.

“Kremlin Duty Desk.”

Nowek took a deep breath, then said, “This is Gregori Nowek. The Siberian Delegate.” Another breath, then
“Buran.”

M
OSCOW

Chapter 31

The Dacha

“I don't understand.” General Goloshev checked his watch. It was half past eight. “Yesterday it was rush rush rush. Today he's thirty minutes late,” he told the doctor.

An early-morning departure roared overhead from nearby Shermetyevo airport, making the glasses in the bathroom jingle.

The doctor cracked open his briefcase and let it rest on the bed next to Levin's thigh. “I can administer the first injection right now if you're willing to approve it.”

The Toad watched Levin's chest rise, fall, as he slept. The hotel room reeked with the sour smell of sweat-drenched sheets and urine. “I suppose that would be best.”

The first syringe came out. The doctor threaded a long needle onto it, then uncapped a vial of scopolamine. He plunged the needle through the rubber seal and began to draw the straw-colored fluid into the cylinder. He pulled enough for one, two, three times the usual dose. Colonel Chernukhin of the Presidential Security Service wished to crack Levin's head open like a chestnut. He would get his wish. “I hope you understand what's going to happen.”

“How soon will he be ready?”

“Give him ten minutes.” The doctor squirted a bit of the sedative out to eliminate any air, though why he should bother was a good question. “He'll be able to answer questions for an hour, maybe two. No more.”

“And then?”

“Drowsiness, dizziness. His breathing will become irregular. People panic when something so normal as taking a breath is no longer so normal. He'll become agitated, fearful, which only makes things worse. In the end, seizures, then full-body convulsions.”

“You can stop them?”

“Here?”

Goloshev pursed his heavy lips. “Levin is my subordinate, and also my friend and comrade. But we must set aside personal views. We must proceed. The highest authorities have requested it. No. Not
requested
. Demanded it.”

“As you say.” The doctor rubbed Levin's arm to find a vein. He found the telltale bulge, saw its soft, regular beat. He was about to kill this man, he knew. And whether the highest authorities had requested it or demanded it or whispered it into Goloshev's ear, would shortly make no difference at all.

Goloshev heard a car door slamming outside, then a shout. He walked over to the window and pulled the shades. Three floors down on the street, a man was sprawled on the sidewalk facedown. A thug was standing over him with a gun.

Both victim and robber wore military fatigues, so which was which? Was the hotel security team stopping a crime, or committing one? Was the
mafiya
that ran Shermetyevo enforcing its law, or breaking someone else's? These days, the line between legal and illegal was impossibly blurred.

All of that would soon come to an end. Poor, befuddled Yeltsin would be out, the new president in. Naturally, he'd face a difficult time. But the last Russian collapse had been a crisis managed by democrats, who were, frankly speaking, amateurs. This time would be different. Starve in chaos or eat in the shadow of the iron fist? Russians were familiar with that kind of a choice. Goloshev was confident Russians would slip martial law back on like a pair of comfortable old slippers.

The doctor slipped the needle through Levin's pale skin as another jet thundered low overhead. Its roar faded. As the doctor pressed the plunger down, a loud knocking came from the door.

Goloshev unhooked the security chain, threw the dead bolt, and opened the door.

The Cleaner's eyes were even more baggy, even more red, this morning than yesterday. He hadn't come alone.

He was flanked by two men in fatigues and black balaclavas. The insignia on their arms said
ALFA
. The elite unit of the Presidential Security Service. They carried assault rifles, and both rifles were pointed at Goloshev.

“Good morning, General,” said the Cleaner. “I'm sorry to be late. There have been developments that required our attention.”

“What do you mean coming here with—”

“Your colleague Petrov found out about them even before we did. He was on his way to Switzerland, but we stopped him.”

Goloshev's cheeks puffed as though he couldn't get enough air. His face was splotched red. “Colleague? Petrov?”

The Cleaner pushed by the sputtering Toad and walked to Levin's side.

The doctor had frozen at the sight of the ALFA soldiers, the syringe still in Levin's arm, the cylinder still three-quarters full.

Chernukhin pushed him aside, then pulled out the needle. He threw it to the floor, then said to the doctor, “You brought some more, I hope?”

“Yes, but—”

“Good,” said the Cleaner. He smiled at the Toad. “General Goloshev and I have a lot to talk about.”

It was Thursday night, the seventh of October, and a black Volvo glided over the smoothly paved streets of Moscow's Krylatskoye district, winding through hilly terrain. They were barely beyond the Ring Road, fifteen kilometers from the Kremlin, but you'd think you were out in the middle of the
glubinka,
the deep countryside where the Devil threw pancake parties. Big houses glowed brightly through the forest like illuminated cruise ships.

Nowek sat in back with Chuchin. Their driver was an Interior Ministry officer. The Volvo was a big step up from the Chaika he'd last ridden through Moscow. But then, so was their destination.

“Some neighborhood,” said Chuchin. “I always wondered where my taxes went.”

“What taxes?” asked Nowek.

“These thieves don't need my kopecks. They've stolen enough on their own. Just look at these houses.”

“They're not houses,” said their driver. “They're all
dachas
.”

“Each one with its
sotka,
” said Chuchin acidly.
Sotka
meant “strip,” a garden plot used to raise potatoes, cabbages, turnips. Survival vegetables. At least, that's what it meant in Siberia.

The road passed through long stretches of dark forest broken by rustic stone walls, high gates, and lanes overarched with trees. A place where the clean, white birches of the honest north met guarded compounds more typical of Medellin than Moscow.

At an unmarked drive, they turned right.

The lane curved in a series of winding, graceful esses for no obvious reason other than it could. The Volvo slowed and came to a white steel barrier guarded by officers of the Naval Infantry. They wore gleaming white belts over long, dark blue winter coats. Two of them had Kalashnikov rifles, and both muzzles came down as the Volvo drew near.

The third guard rapped on Nowek's window. The driver pushed a button, letting in icy air and a glove holding a flashlight. The beam stopped at Nowek's arm. Nowek allowed his arm to be scanned for weapons.

They were waved through. Soon, a three-story beige house appeared from behind a dense stand of birches. Other than a roof studded with satellite dishes and antennae, Boris Yeltsin's
dacha,
his country home in Moscow, was surprisingly ordinary.

The Volvo pulled in front, then stopped. Chuchin got out, came around, and opened Nowek's door. There was snow on the ground, but this was clearly not Siberia. The air was still rich with the lingering smell of wet, decaying leaves, spicy with wood smoke.

Chuchin slammed the car door. “Now what?”

Nowek had expected more of a reception. “Go knock.”

Chuchin seemed dubious, but he obeyed.

It opened. A golden light spilled out, bright and cheerful, silhouetting the very identifiable shape of the President of the largest country on earth, dismantler of empires, sheller of recalcitrant Parliaments, heartsick, weary Boris Yeltsin. He wore a dark blue cardigan sweater, buttoned almost to his neck, dark pants, and his trademark scowl.

Nowek could see the gray pallor when the light fell across his face. His hair was full and silvery, but Nowek could hear the wheeze and rattle of labored breathing. Boris Yeltsin was alive. Just.

“You're going to stand or come in?” Yeltsin's voice still rumbled like tanks tearing up bricks. He waved a hand slowly, deliberately. “Delegate Nowek? I have someone anxious to see you.”

Inside the front door were muddy boots, a scarf, a stern young man seated at a desk with an earphone. A man sat on a simple wooden bench. Yeltsin retreated down the hall. “Take your time,” he said with the wave of an arm. “You're keeping only the President of the Russian Federation waiting.” With that, Yeltsin doddered down the corridor like a pensioner hunting for his glasses.

“Major Levin?” said Nowek. At least, Nowek
thought
that's who it was. His face was an atlas of bruises and swollen enough to pucker the stitches that ran in a jagged line from his ear to the corner of his lip. His hair was cut very short, and he wore a large black patch over one eye. His mustache used to be full, almost dashing. Now it looked like a poorly applied disguise.

“
Zdrastvootsye,
Delegate Nowek,” said Levin. He stood and clasped Nowek's shoulder and whispered, “And it's Colonel Levin, now.”

“What some people won't do for a promotion.”

“The half blind, the half lame, in the service of the half dead,” said Levin. “You had the President's private number all along. Why didn't you use it?”

“I didn't have anything to tell him.”

“I hope you do now.”

So do I,
thought Nowek. “Let's not keep him waiting.”

They walked down the hall and into a large, bare room that shouted
state function
. It was sparsely furnished, though what was there was deeply Baroque: a black velvet sofa edged with gold, a small, oval table with ornately carved legs, four matching chairs. A television on a stand of Finnish birch. A fireplace blazed. Embossed white paper covered the walls. A window hid behind thick gold curtains.

Yeltsin sprawled on the sofa and indicated that the others were to sit. “Delegate Nowek,” he said, “before you begin, first let me say that I knew Delegate Volsky. I am here today, Russia is here today, because of what
he
did then. There's nothing you can add to my sorrow over what happened. Moscow loves rumors. There have been some unpleasant ones about Arkady Vasilievich. They will stop.”

“Thank you, Mister President. I know that—”

Yeltsin continued as though he hadn't heard. “Second, the International Monetary Fund will arrive in three days to inspect the state diamond stockpile.” He looked at Levin. “My aides have informed me that Petrov's plan to sell Siberian gems to the world has not worked out in accordance with our hopes. Is that so?”

Levin nodded. “Yes, Mister President. That's so.”

“Then the diamonds are gone, the money is gone, and the Closet is truly empty?”

Once more Levin spoke. “Yes.”

“And there's no possibility of recovering them in time?”

“Not in time, Mister President. We know how the stones have been getting out. We have nearly a million carats in hand. They were stopped on their way out of the country. They were—” Levin searched for the right word. “. . .
impounded
by Delegate Nowek. They've arrived from Siberia and are under close guard. But the vast majority is missing.”

Nearly a million?
thought Nowek.
What happened to the rest?
Then a name:
Yuri!

Yeltsin took a deep breath and said, “Then there's nothing to be done.”

“There might be, Mister President,” said Nowek.

Yeltsin gave him a baleful look. “There's no time for word games. If you have something to say, say it.”

“I've been thinking about this all the way from Irkutsk. As Levin said, we stopped a million carats on their way to—”

“
Almost
one million. And it's not the same as four million. If I know the difference, the IMF will also know it.”

“But we can borrow the rest.”

Levin leaned over. “Nowek.”

“
Borrow
them?” asked Yeltsin.

“The South African, Eban Hock, said that when it came to refilling the Closet, we'd have to look to the cartel. Well, he could be right. They maintain the biggest stockpile of gem rough in the world in London. It can be here in a matter of hours. They have a
hundred
times what we kept in the Closet. They've soaked up every loose diamond on the planet for the last hundred years. Every diamond that went to Golden Autumn, every stone that was never paid for, is sitting there, Mister President. All we have to do is ask for them back.”

“Why would they agree?”

“Because we still control Mirny Deep.”

“I'm told it will be years before the mine can be repaired.”

“But it
will
be,” said Nowek. “And what will happen then? The cartel knows what's down there. It's a sword hanging over their heads. They can't afford to lose control of it. Not and remain a cartel.”

“But they
have
lost control of it.”

“Not if we sell it back to them.”

“What?”
Levin exclaimed. “But you told me . . .”

“Listen,” Nowek explained. “In three days, the IMF will be here. If the Closet stays empty, it will be 1998 again, only worse. We could
give
the cartel Mirny Deep and it would be a bargain next to that.”

“What kind of a deal are you thinking of?” asked Yeltsin.

“We give them exclusive rights to Mirny Deep once the mine is back in operation and they send us a few million carats to parade in front of the IMF.”

“We sell them the future in exchange for the next few days?”

“We have to
survive
the next few days to
get
to the future. We just have to find a way to contact the cartel quickly. Tonight, if possible. Perhaps our ambassador in London can call—”

“Excuse me,” said Chuchin. “But don't we have one of them in a cell?
He
would know how to make the arrangements.”