Hotel Moscow (24 page)

Olga’s lips squeezed into a hard line. Remnants of her pink lipstick bled into fine crinkles around them. “Now what? Have we reached a dead end?” She tapped her cigarette pack.

Brooke laid a hand over Olga’s to stop her from pulling out yet another cigarette, and for a moment both stared at their hands, Brooke’s manicured fingernails with their clear nail polish resting on Olga’s ruddy, short fingers stained by nicotine. A wave of affection for the dauntless woman washed over Brooke. For an instant, in spite of her pounding headache and everything she had been through, she was glad she had been detained in Moscow.

“Let’s search for another angle.” Brooke sucked on her throbbing tongue and contemplated the options. She glanced at her watch. There was no choice but to plow on. “The shipping orders. Let’s compare them to the purchasing reports.”

With Olga again sifting through the file, Brooke taped a page next to the one she was writing on and added a column of shipping orders. They matched the production. “No merchandise has left the factory unaccounted for.”

“Meaning what?”

“The workers are not stealing. Someone else is,” Brooke replied. She added another column. “Please find me an invoice for each of these shipments. They should correlate to the sales.”

But the information had ceased to be available by the spring of 1992. Goods had been produced, ordered, and shipped, but no invoices had been recorded.

“Maybe the factory was paid by
veksels,
” Olga said. “What do you call them?”

“IOUs. Svetlana has mentioned those.”

Olga smiled her little sad smile. “One more double-system. Everybody now trades in them instead of currency. If the factory cashes them for half their value, it gets what you call cash flow.”

Brooke shook her head. “In which case there should be invoices, marked as paid.” She sipped her tea. The sugar, which she never took in New York, revived her. “Who at the factory signed these shipping orders?”

“It’s stamped by the Finance Division of the Economic Authority.”

Brooke paused. “You can’t mean someone from the Economic Authority hangs around the loading dock and signs paperwork?
There’s no reason for it. The Economic Authority’s supposed to be long out of the picture.” She could almost hear the gears clicking into place. “It should not be involved in a factory’s internal affairs—shipping or purchasing orders.”

Olga drummed her fingers. “Meaning what?”

Brooke hesitated. “To whom were the ownership shares sold?”

“The Economic Authority.”

“The Economic Authority’s a government agency with only a service function. It doesn’t own anything. Its job is to free the venture from its former dependence on the government; it certainly doesn’t buy a cooperative that it helped to privatize.” Brooke took in a deep breath. “Someone at the Economic Authority’s behind it all.”

“You’re sure?”

Brooke looked at Olga until the Russian woman met her gaze. Olga held her own, the blue of her eyes challenging Brooke’s stare.

Then Olga’s face crumbled. “Of course I must believe it. This is what this country has been for much too long. Corrupt.”

Brooke waited a moment, then picked up the file and leafed through the documents. Her headache lingered; she needed hours of sleep, but she was close to solving this puzzle. “Let’s check the day the Economic Authority purchased the shares of the factory,” she finally said. “Read me the signatures on each of the forms.”

Olga scoured through a dozen forms. “This is an application to the External Market Resources—”

“What’s that?”

“Some new agency with which all ownerships must register.”

“Good. Who’s signed it?”

“Sidorov— No—” Olga squinted. “It’s strange. . . . It’s not Nikolai Sidorov; it’s a different name. See?” Olga flicked through the stapled papers. “It’s someone named . . . Nadia Sidorova.”

Nikolai Sidorov’s wife? Mother? It didn’t matter. Brooke grabbed Olga by the shoulders. “You’ve got it! Sidorov, the head of privatization of small businesses, robs them at gunpoint and then takes over.”

“Sidorov is the new owner? How could he sabotage these ventures? How could he take these peoples’ livelihood?” Shock was embedded in Olga’s voice. “Maybe there’s a mistake?”

“I don’t think so,” Brooke said softly. “You already know that the employees were persuaded to sell by violent means.” She thought of the drunken, pompous man she had met. “I try not to attribute to malice what can be explained by incompetence, but this is too deliberate. No incompetence here. Just pure, cynical evil.”

Olga pushed herself up, brushed the wrinkles out of her skirt, and paced around the room, still limping slightly. “Sidorov operates like a feudal lord.”

“This is not a one-man operation—and I’m not referring to the thugs he hires to do his dirty work. He must have powerful connections. What do you call them?”

“
Po blatu
?”

“Yes,
po blatu.
Someone high up—must be in the Kremlin—assigned the Economic Authority to privatize small businesses in the Moscow region. That person must be enjoying the fruits of this looting, too.”

Olga fell back into her chair. “The Communist legacy of corruption is so pervasive, it has made a mockery of democracy before it has started.” She looked out the window. “They are shelling our parliament. Even if we get through today, we may never make it because of this.” Her hand slammed the file shut, then she looked at Brooke. “Sidorov is the person in charge of your group’s well-being.”

Brooke nodded slowly. She was thinking the same. What had been his intentions in inviting them?

O
LGA HAD STOPPED
a private car for Brooke and given the owner instructions, but he wouldn’t start driving unless Brooke first paid him his five-dollar fee. She had dozed off during the ride through eerily empty streets and now felt better and further relieved when, upon exiting the elevator at the ninth floor of Hotel Moscow, she saw Svetlana jump to her feet.

“You’re here!” The Russian searched Brooke’s face. “Are you all right? I didn’t know what happened to you.”

Brooke hugged her. “And I was worried about you, so we’re even. Someone in uniform began to ask me questions, so I got out.” She smiled and touched the blue vinyl bag, again filled with the files. Olga had photocopied some incriminating documents. “Mission completed. Olga and I have figured it all out—thanks to you.”

A twitch dimpled Svetlana’s chin. Her fingers wrung her sodden handkerchief. “It’s not over.”

Brooke grabbed her arm. “Let’s go to my room.”

Svetlana shook her head. “It’s not safe,” she whispered. “Sidorov—he wiretapped us— you, Dr. Rozanova, maybe me.”

“Are you sure?”

Svetlana’s head bobbed. Her words were barely audible; Brooke had to lower her head to catch them. “That’s what I went to check. As of this morning, his people have been listening in on Dr. Rozanova’s phone conversations. They may have listened to yours all along.”

“Just me? What about the rest of my group?”

“I don’t know.” Svetlana sniffled. “I’m scared. You don’t know him. He’s cruel.”

Brooke looked around. The mustard-colored set of couches making up the floor’s sitting area, one elevator door to her left and two to her right, the men loitering at the end of the corridor, the TV’s chitchat pouring out of the floor matron’s open door a few feet away. They were familiar, yet something had shifted. She had turned from a hunter to being hunted.

She had missed both breakfast and lunch. She needed a meal, a shower, and a nap to clear her head. But there was no time; the ground was burning under her feet. She was an American entangled in industrial espionage.

There was no question of going to the central post office downtown—anyway, those government phones were surely wiretapped. “Please tell the
dezhurnayia
that the phone in my room is out of order and I must use hers,” Brooke said, folding a five-dollar bill into Svetlana’s palm. “Give her this.”

While Svetlana walked into the
dezhurnayia
’s room, Brooke rushed to retrieve a can of tuna and a packet of crackers from Amanda’s sizable stock.

A few moments later, she settled by the table in the
dezhurnayia
’s room and waited for the hotel operator to connect her to the international switchboard. She opened the can of tuna and softened a cracker in cold tea so it wouldn’t hurt her cut tongue.

The wait stretched on. The TV blared some soap opera, and the floor matron eyed her with a furrowed brow. Brooke didn’t want to test the woman’s reluctant hospitality by asking her to find the BBC or another English-speaking station.

She got up and paced the room. In the confusion of the day, she had failed to notice the sunshine, which now flooded through the lace curtains. She gestured to the matron and received her nod to open the window a crack, then listened to the choppers circling the city. The beating of their rotors intensified or waned with every shift in the wind.

She should be in Frankfurt now. Brooke closed her eyes and let the afternoon sun soak into her skin. Frightening old Soviet movie scenarios paraded through her mind. Any minute, Sidorov’s long arms might seize her and her accomplices. She could be thrown in jail. Olga would be marched into the deep snow of Siberia, and Svetlana forced into a mental institution.

“Everything okay? Why are you here?” Brooke turned to see Amanda in the doorway, looking at her with curiosity.

Feigning nonchalance, Brooke put a moist cracker in her mouth. On TV, a couple was kissing. “Any news? I’m about to ask her to switch channels.” Trying to enunciate and pretend it was the cracker that slurred her speech didn’t work.

“What’s with you?” Amanda asked. “Are you hurt?”

“I bit my tongue.”

Amanda stared at Brooke’s neck. “And what about these cuts?”

“I was efficient. Did it all at the same time. I tripped.”

Amanda smoothed her sleek sheet of black hair. She let a moment pass, as if weighing the sum of Brooke’s misfortune along with the oddity of her hanging out in the matron’s room.

Brooke tossed a glance at the phone, wishing it to ring, wishing Amanda would leave. She couldn’t reveal her trip downtown without spilling out the reason.

“We’re getting cabin fever,” Amanda said. “Aleksandr says we can all take a trip to Troista-Sergyeva Lavra. It’s a monastery that’s the ancient seat of the Orthodox Russian Church, about forty miles away in a town called Zagorsk.” As though reading Brooke’s mind, she added, “EuroTours got special permits to pass through roadblocks.”

“How efficient of Aleksandr,” Brooke said. Being on the move was a good idea. But Sidorov employed EuroTours, and this sudden switch in attention to the group’s spirit seemed suspicious.

“Are you all right?” Amanda asked. “You don’t look so hot.”

“Nothing that a shower won’t wash away.” Brooke looked at her watch. It was one forty-five. “I’ll see you in the room in a few minutes.”

“No more than fifteen. Then we’re off.” Amanda flung her satchel over her shoulder and turned to leave. At the door, she almost collided with Svetlana. Next to her was Irina.

Brooke’s glance traveled from one Russian to the other. “Did something happen?”

“Irina—she wants to know about that loan,” Svetlana said. Her voice shook.

Had Russians never heard of appointments? “I’m sorry, but I am very busy now.” Any moment, the matron might chase them all out, and Brooke would miss her phone call. “She was supposed to telephone if she wanted to speak with me, not just show up.”

“Irina wants to know about the loan,” Svetlana repeated.

“I’ve told her that I
do not
give out loans.” Brooke was losing patience. “And I know of no financial institution that will approve a loan for a business that is founded on stealing military equipment.”

“This is so unfair! Everybody steals!” Irina responded when Svetlana translated. “That’s why men succeed. You can’t have a business in Russia without stealing!”

“Smuggling, racketeering, and stealing are not ‘business’ the way we know it in the West,” Brooke said, softening her voice. If every Russian businessman was a wheeler-dealer who hustled, swapped, or hawked stolen goods, why did she expect women to be any better? “I apologize, but I really don’t have time right now.”

She had half anticipated a spurt of tears or an attempt to sell yet another pitiful knickknack. Instead, Irina exchanged more words with Svetlana. Brooke heard the name “Marlboro” repeated three times. She glanced at the phone.
Please ring.

The matron said something, and Svetlana responded, her tone placating. Her scowl deepening, the matron turned back to her TV.

“Irina has another idea,” Svetlana said to Brooke. “I’m not
sure it’s legitimate. Marlboro costs less in Moscow than in the Republics. Irina’s brother can buy them here in large quantities and sell them there.”

“Speculating is not illegal. But what’s Irina’s role in this? It sounds like it’s her brother’s business.”

Irina shrugged. “If you give me the money, I’ll drive with him in the truck. He’s drunk most of the time, as I’ve told you.”

“And I told you that I do not give out money.” Brooke glanced again at her watch.
Would this goddamn phone never ring?
“I’ve come to Russia to teach business thinking, and that’s the best gift I can give you. When you ask for financing, you should have a clear plan how you’ll use it, who will be responsible for handling it, and when and how you intend to repay it.” She paused. “And one word of advice. I suggest you leave your brother out of the picture. At best, pay him a commission.” She handed Irina an unopened sleeve of crackers from her box, brushing off Svetlana’s claim that Irina’s visits had to do less with business than with getting gifts. If Irina traded them for bread, so be it.

The blessed ringing of the phone cut off Irina’s
spasiba.
“Good-bye,” Brooke said and, turning her back on Irina and Svetlana, lunged toward her lifeline.

The crackling sound on the other end was so loud, she had to hold the receiver away from her head. “Good God, Brooke! Where are you?” Hoffenbach’s voice bellowed through the static. “You got stuck in the political putsch?”

“You got that right.”

“Where are you staying?”

“Hotel Moscow.”

“That Soviet flea bag? Union organizers stay there. Move to
Kempinsky, as fine a luxury German hotel as you’ll find anywhere—”

“It’s too close to Red Square. Listen. I’m in kind of a pickle, and the American Embassy is closed.”

Hoffenbach spoke to someone, then returned to her. “My secretary’s calling the president of Lufthansa. When the uprising is suppressed and the airport reopens, you’ll be on the first flight out.”

“Great. Thanks.” She spoke quickly. “Listen. I need a friendly Russian contact. Do you have some names? Who was the one who proposed the Russian deals in your reports?”

“The ones I wouldn’t allow NHB to touch?” He chuckled, and Brooke heard a rustle of papers. “Two names. Have a pen and paper ready?”

“Go on.”

“The first is an influential man. Plugged deeply into the government, and is about to run for the seat of the mayor of Moscow. He’s been trying to get us to invest with him for a long time, and he would definitely extend us favors. Nikolai Sidorov.”

A cold wave washed through her.

Hoffenbach went on. “Do you remember when someone offered to sell us the K.G.B. photo archives? You liked the electronic-media possibilities. That was him.”

“I see.” She tapped her pen. Her drunken host’s fingers were in every pot. The mayor of Moscow? He was far more conniving and astute than she had given him credit for even after glimpsing the scope of his operation.

“Here is Sidorov’s number,” Hoffenbach said.

“Thanks, but he’s part of my problem.”

“Sidorov is?”

“File this info away for another time.” Hoffenbach might be the last Westerner to speak with her. “Any other contact here?”

Hoffenbach must have caught on as, without missing a beat, he replied, “Roman Belgorov. Used to head the Department of Economics at Moscow University. A year ago, with a couple of colleagues, he started his own consulting firm. Some major Western corporations have signed on as clients. He’s a reliable chap. I’ll get you the number.”

“What makes him trustworthy?”

“He believes that the only way to move the Russian economy forward is to think long term and to build ventures with solid business strategies. He’s not looking for a quick turnaround, which is one marker of corruption.”

“Okay. His home number?”

As Brooke wrote it down, Amanda peeked in. “The bus is leaving; we need daylight to see the place.”

“I’ll be down in a minute.”

Amanda ducked away, and the matron motioned to Brooke to leave, too. Brooke spoke fast, giving Hoffenbach her room phone number. “Call me tonight. If you don’t get me, start searching for me.” If Sidorov was listening in—and now it turned out that he knew Hoffenbach—he’d know that Brooke was protected. He would know that if she disappeared, there would be a lead to him.

“Are you in physical danger?” Hoffenbach asked.

“I might be, other than from the uprising.” Brooke took a
deep breath and forced a smile into her voice. “I can’t wait to have a long talk over beer and frankfurters and sauerkraut in that pub of yours. I’ll even join your sing-along.”

“Brooke, what’s going on?”

“I must go. Good-bye, and thanks!” Brooke hit the button in the cradle to disconnect the line. She handed another five-dollar bill to the matron and dialed Belgorov’s number. When he answered on the first ring, she let out a sigh of relief. Introducing herself, she said, “I’m rushing out now, but need urgent advice. Where can we meet?”

“Any public place far away from downtown.”

“I’m on my way to Zagorsk. Is it very far from where you are?”

He laughed. “I didn’t mean
that
far. But yes, for a VP of Norton, Hills, and Bridwell, I will go there.” He paused. “We now call the town Sergiyev Posad. There’s a small museum building at the back of the monastery. I will meet you in front of it at two forty-five.”