Hotel Moscow (26 page)

Belgorov shook his head. “Stay visible as much as you can.”

Through the window, she could see the group still waiting at the ticket line to the museum. “Then let’s go out and let your tail get a full view of us talking,” she said.

After dropping their felt booties into a trunk at the exit, they sat down on a stone bench under a row of cypresses. A squirrel scampered away, stopped, bobbed its head, and, gripping an acorn, turned to look at them.

“Do you have any suggestion how to save my two friends here?” Brooke asked.

Belgorov stroked his mustache. “Why not go the international media publicity route? That offers protection like no other.”

“I don’t see you using it for Yuri.”

“When hundreds of bank tellers and innocent merchants have been shot this past year alone, one more Russian businessman’s disappearance—well, who cares? But you’re an American.” He glanced around. “Our government and its cronies—the bankers and mafia dons—are becoming sensitive to global public opinion, especially since the International Monetary Fund has been
asking some tough questions before handing out billions of dollars to save a fiscal policy that’s out of control.”

“By nightfall, Russia might not have a government, let alone a fiscal policy.” Brooke gestured in what she assumed was the direction of Moscow. “Even if Yeltsin doesn’t cave in, it’s going to be difficult to grab headlines while cannons are firing at your parliament.”

“The revolt is being squelched as we speak.” He shook his head with sadness. “Although what can one expect from a militia whose tank commanders literally stopped at intersections to ask people for directions to the White House?”

“We say in the States that men never ask for directions.” She picked at the scuffed knees of her pants. “Do you support Yeltsin?”

“We need him around until a better leader emerges. He shouldn’t have started this mess, but now that he has, he’d better be careful with the casualties. Six Americans were wounded since yesterday, including four journalists.”

In the soreness of her tongue, Brooke tasted earth and blood. She could have been the seventh.

Belgorov steepled his fingers in thought. “Do you have immediate access to major U.S. media?”

The media? The notion slammed in her head. Norcress owed her a favor. Three of them. “Where can I find a working phone for a domestic call?”

“Not in this town.” He thought for a moment. “If it’s in Moscow, you may write a note and I’ll see that it is hand delivered.”

She rooted in her purse and found Norcress’s card. The phone
number was in California and would do her no good. “He’s staying wherever the foreign press can be found.” She checked her itinerary, then wrote a note, asking Norcress to come to Hotel Moscow that night or at least call. It was urgent.

She glanced over at the group. The women still dawdled by the ticket line, where Aleksandr was arguing with someone at the cashier’s window. The pull of his contacts that had shooed him through city checkpoints ended with the cashier of a small, out-of-the way museum. Amanda waved at Brooke, and Brooke waved back. Judd turned to look. Brooke couldn’t imagine what they thought of her sitting and talking to a Russian, with his twin bodyguards hovering about.

“Last question,” she said to Belgorov. “If Sidorov is the Russian Don Corleone you’re describing, why did he sponsor a mission of American women to come teach entrepreneurial skills?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he thought little of the request when it was proposed to him.” He paused, considering. “Or else he needs U.S. contacts and has been watching to see which of you could be recruited into his employ.”

“Recruited? What could he possibly offer any of us?”

“
Recruit
in Soviet-speak means ‘coerce,’ ‘blackmail.’ Just like the K.G.B. used to recruit spies in the West, Sidorov will search for a weakness and then will exploit it.”

An image of her lost envelope hit Brooke. She had been trying hard to focus on the immediate issues, but the lost letter—if it was indeed the blackmail letter she had always feared—would surely be followed by another soon after her return home, then by threatening phone calls. If her old photos got out, she would surely lose her job and her reputation would be forever destroyed.
The notion of a second extortion by a Russian mafia baron was too preposterous to let in.

Brooke decided that she had exhausted Belgorov’s goodwill and insights. “Thank you for everything,” she said, and he kissed her hand again.

Although wiser, she was no closer to solving her plight.

T
RACER FIRE WHISTLED
as it made a wide arc in the sky. Olga watched Viktor open the window. On the far horizon, helicopter floodlights still circled the city, although the distant barrage of cannon fire had stopped. A gunshot pierced the air, and was answered by two others. After that, silence fell on Moscow. The low, dark skies felt like a down blanket, but the layers of darkness receded where light seeped upward from the city skyline.

Viktor went to the liquor cabinet and took out the brandy he kept for special occasions. “The worst is over. Shall we celebrate?”

“Too soon.” He needed to fortify himself, she knew. Her eyes were riveted to the TV set. “And too many comrades dead.”

“Comrades? You call Rutskoy and his bunch of fascists ‘comrades’?”

“They are still Russians. Each one of them. All three systems
tried so far—czarism, communism, democracy—were seriously flawed,” she said. “Each was a failed attempt at social engineering and all ended up as an unfortunate new version of Russian roulette.”

He crouched in front of her and handed her a half-filled glass. “Stop torturing yourself about every political upheaval.”

For a while, the only sounds in the room were those of the neighbors going through their evening routines. Pots clanked, chairs were dragged. No one was arguing tonight.

She tipped her glass and emptied it. She would wait to tell Viktor of her plans to run for the Duma after her symposium tomorrow, where she hoped to secure the support of leaders of women’s organizations from farther regions. Thinking of tomorrow, she wondered what Brooke had in mind when she’d called earlier, asking her to arrive at the office early.

Absentmindedly, her hand ruffled Viktor’s thinning hair. A long time ago, his head had been a tangle of dark, thick curls that she used to cut. Once she had taped a lock onto a piece of paper and kept it in the back of her closet until moths got to it.

“We’re too old for another social system,” he finally said. “Too old for battles.”

An image of Brooke flitted through Olga’s mind. In ten years, Brooke would still look beautiful. “In the West, forty-eight is young,” Olga said. Between her fingers, dark blotches dotted Viktor’s forehead and scalp. She had never noticed those before. Did she, too, have them? Her monthly flow had almost ceased. She doubted she could get pregnant.

Still kneeling in front of her, Viktor laid his head in her lap.
She leaned forward and ran her fingers across his back. He breathed in, then raised his mouth until it reached her breasts, burrowing his face as deeply as her tight sweater would allow.

Their breathing grew heavier. With a grunt, Viktor rose to his feet and extended his hand. Holding on to it, Olga pushed herself off the chair, fighting the pain in her knee, fighting the depressing thought that she was no longer the lovely petite blonde she had once been.

If she held firm to that younger image of herself, she could close her eyes and would again be hugging the young Viktor she had once so desired. They would be back at that barn at the edge of the forest, their bodies hot after hours of folk dancing, aroused from a long night of devouring each other with their eyes. Once again, he would lay her gently on the hay, release her small breasts from the embroidered blouse and lift her full cotton skirt. Her legs, slender and strong, would once again wrap around his muscular back, and her fingers would dig into his thick hair.

They weren’t old. It was their country that had aged them. With a little encouragement, Viktor could still sink into her flesh, now more slowly, methodically, like the scientist he had become since those summer nights of their youth. They would move in unison, no longer the frantic groping and stripping, no longer the passion that had once made her scream into the night.

But they would love each other nevertheless. Even Russia could not take that away from them.

S
HORTLY AFTER CURFEW
had been lifted in the morning, Brooke headed to the Institute for Social Research “to have an early cup of coffee with Olga,” she told Amanda, who would arrive with the rest of the group an hour later for the day’s symposium. After Brooke tipped one of the sentries at the hotel entrance, he managed to get her a taxi within minutes.

She found Olga upstairs in her office, wetting a lock of hair with saliva and attempting to curl it. But the hair, too dry and brittle, sprang straight out again.

“I give up.” Olga used a hairpin to keep the curl in place and turned to Brooke. Her blue eyes were bright.

Brooke hugged her. “Excited about the symposium?”

In contrast to her eyes, Olga’s lips curved downward in a sad little smile. “The uprising isn’t over yet.” She pointed at the White House on the distant horizon. With the center charred, the formerly massive rectangular building looked like a two-tower structure. “The radio announced that repairs have already
begun. Incredibly efficient, and a good theme for my opening speech: They’ll whitewash the outside to symbolize the restoration of hope, but the scorched core of our parliament signifies the black void of lawlessness and corruption in our midst. It has sucked in everything that’s good here.”

Brooke noticed the unplugged ends of the phone and the computer wires. Being wary of wiretapping had become second nature here. She glanced at her watch. “Sit down. We have a major problem, but a possible solution.” She relayed Svetlana’s discovery at the Economic Authority eavesdropping center: Their phones were being tapped.

Against the burgundy color of Olga’s tweed suit, the blood seemed to drain out of her face. The faint blue veins in her temples made the translucent skin look like marble.

“We were careful to say nothing specific over the phone, right?” Brooke asked.

Her voice wobbling, Olga replied, “This is Russia; suspicion is enough. That’s how it was in the Communist days, that’s how it is now. Who cares about evidence? Certainly not the mafia.” She picked up her cigarette from the ashtray, puffed on it, then stubbed it out. “I feel like a fish in a glass bowl.”

Brooke bit her lip. When Norcress had called last night, she promised him an exclusive scoop on a story with a combination of angst and local celebrity. “I said I may have a solution,” she now said to Olga, and explained her plan. “If we get this journalist to publish Sidorov’s story in the international media, it will not only expose the corruption, but it will also protect you by publicly naming him.”

“In Russia, attention can only be bad for you.”

“Publicity might be your best—and only—defense.”

Olga looked at her, doubt in her eyes. “The new Russia is still Russia. The only difference is that in the new Russia the mafia is more efficient than the K.G.B. ever was.”

“Do you have a better idea?”

Olga shook her head.

“Use Norcress’s article to announce you are running for parliament,” Brooke said, thinking of Belgorov’s advice. “It will give you credibility, and the drama will draw more international attention to your plight.”

“The more reason the mafia will have to try to eliminate me. Anyway, I’m not ready to make that announcement until I ‘tie my shoelaces.’”

“We call it ‘tie loose ends.’” Brooke smiled. “I would like to give the journalist the copies of the documents. He will need them to authenticate the story.”

Olga unlocked a drawer, pulled out a folder, and laid it on her desk. “I’ve made another copy and hidden it with your ledger.” She swiveled in her chair, turning her back to Brooke.

Even though the room was chilly, perspiration gathered at Brooke’s temples. “I’ll wait outside until Norcress arrives,” she said to Olga’s back.

Olga nodded without turning around. Her fingers drummed on the arm of her chair.

Outside in the corridor, Brooke paced, willing her panic to ease. A clock was ticking somewhere.

She heard the ring of the elevator bell, followed by the mechanical swish of the opening door. When Norcress stepped out, his thin face broadened into a smile as if they were old ac
quaintances. He wore the same multipocketed vest she had seen before, but instead of cameras he carried a canvas briefcase.

“Come,” Brooke said. “I want you to meet Dr. Olga Leonidovna Rozanova. A sociologist. My partner in crime.” She was placing Olga’s and Svetlana’s lives—and, ultimately, her own safety as well—in the hands of a complete stranger.

As they entered the office, Olga offered to make tea. Brooke shook her head. “Let’s begin. We don’t have much time.”

“This trouble may finish me, but no one will be able to deny I was a good hostess,” Olga replied. “Sit down.”

Against the clink of Olga’s china and the hiss of the samovar, Brooke asked Norcress, “Is the uprising truly contained?”

“It is, but not the mess. The thousands of parliament supporters who poured into the center of Moscow have dispersed all over the city, and now Yeltsin’s militia is searching for them.” He accepted the cup of tea from Olga, and said to her, “Your president never faces a confrontation he’d rather avoid.” He turned back to Brooke. “Get this. He’s issued a directive for Muscovites to report any sighting of ‘foreigners’ being sheltered by their neighbors.”

“How Soviet. And how embarrassing,” Olga muttered. “We’re still in charge of each other’s morals, spying on our neighbors and relatives.”

“Is there still a threat of civil war?” Brooke asked.

“Civil-war-like clashes, for sure. Civilians continue to attack the military—and one another.” He looked at her. “Better not get into trouble. The American Embassy is still closed.”

“When is the airport opening?”

“Maybe later today. But you may need to shoot your way out through roadblocks to get out of the city.”

Just yesterday, miraculously, Aleksandr’s documents had let the group through the roadblocks. It suddenly occurred to Brooke that someone—Sidorov perhaps—might have wanted them out of the hotel in order to have access to her still-packed suitcase. Since last night, she had only retrieved whatever she needed without checking to see if anything had been disturbed.

Olga settled in her seat and unbuttoned her suit jacket. Her face, so pale earlier, was flushed. “Go ahead, Brooke. You tell him what’s happening; my English is not so good.”

Norcress’s eyes scanned the office. “Is this place secure?”

Olga nodded. “For years, my work was too academic to warrant the expense of wiring me.”

“What about your hotel?” Brooke asked Norcress. “Foreign correspondents must be watched closely.”

“The Interior Ministry monitors us, for sure. But what do they do with the information? Since yesterday their militia has been too busy breaking up street brawls. Anyway, why shouldn’t we, two Americans, speak?”

“Some Russians might care if they knew what I am about to tell you.”

He placed his tape recorder on the small coffee table. “I’m ready if you are.”

Brooke recounted Olga’s investigation. She described the attack at the Gorbachevskaya Street Factory and explained how she had joined forces with Olga to follow the money trail, and that she’d retrieved four files.

“You went
alone
to the Economic Authority offices?”

Brooke tilted her head. “Let’s assume I did, okay?”

“Sure. You read Russian, too. That’s how you found your way around a local government office.”

Brooke let out a thin smile and went on, skipping her near-death ordeal; Olga had enough to handle without feeling guilty for having put her in jeopardy. “What’s important,” Brooke continued, “is what we’ve learned. Nikolai Sidorov, an economic adviser to Yeltsin, is the man who has spearheaded the intimidation of the very same ventures he was supposed to help get on their feet.”

“I like this story. A lot,” Norcress said.

“There’s more.” Brooke took in a deep breath. “I’ve discovered that this man runs complex business shenanigans that penetrate deep into Iran, Iraq, and maybe other nations. And now he aspires to become the mayor of Moscow.”

“The mayor of Moscow.” Norcress whistled.

“And this same man is the host of our group. He’s found out what we’re up to, and now he’s wiretapped us.”

“Maybe he wiretapped you because of your contacts with foreigners,” Norcress said to Olga.

“We’ve had visiting foreign academicians before, although no Americans.” Olga’s voice was raspier than usual. “There’s a Russian saying, ‘Don’t dig a hole for somebody else lest you fall into it yourself.’ And this is where we are now. In that hole.”

“What tipped him off?” Norcress asked.

“I told no one,” Brooke replied. “Neither Olga nor I, nor the director of the Gorbachevskaya Street Factory discussed any of it over the phone. Only the three of us knew.”

“Nevertheless, there’s been a leak.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Your danger is greater as long as you don’t know how the information is getting out.”

Olga lit another cigarette and blew the smoke away from them. “Will publishing your story help?”

Norcress made some notes. “I’ll write the story. I will even ask my editor to distribute it through an international news service to reach a far wider audience than the
Los Angeles Record
.”

“There’s a ‘but’ hidden somewhere,” Brooke said.

He turned to Olga. “Dr. Rozanova—”

“Olga is better.”

“Olga, it will take me time to write the story, even if I spend the rest of today on it. I need to check many facts for complete accuracy.”

“Here are copies of the most damning documents for you,” Brooke said, and motioned to Olga to hand him the folder. “You read Russian, I assume,” she added, recalling that he had talked to the taxi driver.

“How do I know that these are copies of the original documents from the Economic Authority?” Norcress’s brows raised as he leafed through the papers.

“We’re talking old Soviet Union,” Brooke said. “Let’s not get sources involved.”

“I personally copied the original forms from the Economic Authority files, including the signature of Sidorov’s wife or daughter for the transfer of ownership,” Olga said.

“Okay for now. If there’s a discrepancy when I cross-reference with other sources, I’ll need to speak to whoever had direct access to the files.”

“That’s me,” Brooke said. “I pulled them up from the file cabinets at the Finance Department.”

He addressed Olga. “Dr. Rozanova, I hate to think that your life depends on my article getting published, and it may take more than one story to smoke out these mafia barons. In a paradoxical way, it might strengthen Sidorov; sometimes publicity—even damaging—enhances a head honcho’s clout. Even if he leaves you alone, he might hurt your family.” He paused. “But you know that, I’m sure.”

Olga spoke through a cloud of smoke. “I’ll leave first thing in the morning for my dacha and stay there until I see the results. Maybe my husband can take his vacation days. Either way, I’ll have my granddaughter with me, but our son and his wife, they have jobs. They can’t just disappear.”

“They would if they were dead,” Norcress said.

Olga dropped her face into her hands.

Brooke patted her shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

“We say, ‘If you offer to carry the basket, don’t complain of the weight.’ But it’s unfair that I dragged you into it.” Olga’s words came muffled from between her fingers. “I’ve taken risks before, and lived.”

“You should make your announcement,” Brooke told her.

“I haven’t yet secured the commitment of all key supporters.”

“Am I missing something?” Norcress asked.

Olga nodded her assent to Brooke, who then said, “She’s planning to run for a seat in the Duma on the women’s platform ticket. Olga is well known and highly respected; she used to publish a
samizdat
with wide readership. Her chances are quite good.”

A broad smile spread over Norcress’s face. “Now that’s a story.”

Brooke straightened. “Olga, if, as Belgorov believes, publishing the story in the international media has the power to control Sidorov, what about the reverse?”

“The reverse?” Norcress asked.

“A simple blackmail,” Brooke said. “Olga will negotiate with Sidorov not to run the story if he leaves her and her family alone.”

Olga chortled. “So now I must trust the mafia to make a deal? No, never.”

“Look,” Brooke said. “Sidorov has political aspirations.”

“Yes.” Olga nodded pensively. “And he wouldn’t want to lose his place in Yeltsin’s inner circle.”

Norcress tapped his foot. “What am I doing here, then? You’re killing my story?”

He was right, of course. Brooke rose and went to the far window. It was preposterous of her; she had invited the journalist so he could write a story. “Editors sit on stories all the time. Especially human-interest stories.”

“Of a corrupt, violent man gearing up to run for the mayoralty of Moscow and a woman who is a candidate for the Russian parliament?”

“Look, if the story doesn’t get published, you can use the material for a deeper and broader investigative report into the political corruption here.” Brooke thought of Roman Belgorov’s partner. “I personally guarantee you another excellent lead.”

“What kind?”

“Not yet.”

“I know what you can give me.” Locking his fingers behind
his head, Norcress tipped his chair back, then landed forward with a thud. “Who’s that guy Judd Kornblum?”

Surprise hit Brooke like the snapping of a bent branch. “What?”

“You heard me. That Jewish dude who’s using your group as a cover.”

“What has given you the impression that he’s operating anything, covert or otherwise?” Brooke asked.

Norcress’s raised eyebrow gave her a you-know-I-can’t-tell look.

“I haven’t figured him out either.” Brooke sighed, but she hoped that Judd would help her send Svetlana and her daughter to a safe place. “So, where do we stand on this?”

“You have a deal.” Norcress turned to Olga. “I’ll have the article ready tonight. You can start negotiating with Sidorov.”

“When? My symposium is about to start.”

“It’s your life.” He rose to his feet. “Call me at my hotel no later than tomorrow morning—even during the night—and let me know how to proceed.” He pulled out a small black notebook. “Also, write down for me your full name and address.”