The Matarese Circle (49 page)

“Don’t upset yourself,” said Vasili as reassuringly as he could. “Everything’s fine.”

“But
why?
Why this secrecy? This running from place to place? Can it be called for? Of all men in the Soviet … 
you.
The years you were in Riga you never came to see me, but I heard from others how respected you were, how you were in charge of so many things.”

“It was better that we did not meet during those days. I told you that over the telephone.”

“I never understood.”

“They were merely precautions that seemed reasonable at the time.” They had been more than reasonable, thought Taleniekov. He had learned that the scholar was drinking heavily, depressed over the death of his wife. If the head of KGB-Riga had been seen with the old man, people might have looked for other things. And found them.

“No matter now,” said Mikovsky. “It was a difficult period for me, as I’m sure you were told. There are times when some men should be left to themselves, even by old friends. But this is now! What’s
happened
to you?”

“It’s a long story; I’ll tell you everything I can. I must, for I need your help.” Taleniekov glanced beyond the scholar; there was a kettle of water on the coils of an electric plate on the right side of the desk. Vasili could not be sure but he thought it was the same kettle, the
same electric burner he remembered from so many years ago. “Your tea was always the best in Leningrad. Will you make some for us?”

The better part of a half-hour passed as Taleniekov spoke, the old scholar sitting in his chair, listening in silence. When Vasili first mentioned the name, Prince Andrei Voroshin, he made no comment. But he did when his student was finished.

“The Voroshin estates were confiscated by the new revolutionary government. The family’s wealth had been vastly reduced by the Romanovs and their industrial partners. Nicholas and his brother, Michael, loathed the Voroshins, claiming they were the thieves of all northern Russia and the sea routes. And, of course, the prince was marked by the Bolsheviks for execution. His only hope was Kerenski, who was too indecisive or corrupt to cut off the illustrious families so completely. That hope vanished with the collapse of the Winter Palace.”

“What happened to Voroshin?”

“He was sentenced to death. I’m not positive, but I think his name was announced on the execution lists. Those who escaped were generally heard from during the succeeding years; I would have remembered had Voroshin been among them.”

“Why would you? There were hundreds here in Leningrad alone. Why the Voroshins?”

“They were not easily forgotten for many reasons. It was not often that the tzars of Russia called their own kind thieves and pirates and sought to destroy them. The Voroshin family was notorious. The prince’s father and grandfather dealt in the Chinese and African slave trades, from the Indian Ocean to the American South; they manipulated the Imperial banks, forcing merchant fleets and companies into bankruptcies, and absorbing them. It is said that when Nicholas secretly ordered Prince Andrei Voroshin from the palace court, he proclaimed: ‘Should our Russia fall prey to maniacs, it will be because of men like you. You drive them to our throats.’ That was a number of years before the revolution.”

“You say ‘secretly ordered’ him. Why secretly?”

“It was not a time to expose dissent among the aristocrats. Their enemies would have used it to justify the cries of national crisis. The revolution was in foment decades
before the event. Nicholas understood, he knew it was happening.”

“Did Voroshin have sons?”

“I don’t know, but I would presume so—one way or the other. He had many mistresses.”

“What about the family itself?”

“Again I have no specific knowledge, but I assume they perished. As you’re aware, the tribunals were usually lenient where women and children were concerned. Thousands were allowed to flee; only the most fanatic wanted that blood on their hands. But I don’t believe the Voroshins were allowed to. Actually, I’m quite sure of it, but I don’t know specifically.”

“I need specific knowledge.”

“I understand that, and in my judgment you have it. At least enough to refute any theory involving Voroshin and this incredible Matarese society.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because had the prince escaped, it would not have been to his advantage to keep silent. The Whites in exile were organizing everywhere. Those with legitimate titles were welcomed with open arms and excessive remuneration by the great companies and the international banks; it was good business. It was not in Voroshin’s nature to reject such largess and notoriety. No, Vasili. He was killed.”

Taleniekov listened to the scholar’s words, looking for an inconsistency. He got up from the chair and went to the pot of tea; he filled his cup and stared absently at the brown liquid. “Unless he was offered something of greater value to keep silent, to remain anonymous.”

“This Matarese?” asked Mikovsky.

“Yes. Money had been made available. In Rome and in Genoa. It was their initial funding.”

“But it was earmarked for just that, wasn’t it?” Mikovsky leaned forward. “From what you’ve told me, it was to be used for the hiring of assassins, spreading the gospel of vengeance according to this Guillaume de Matarese, is that not so?”

“That’s what the old woman implied,” agreed Taleniekov.

“Then it was not to be spent recouping individual fortunes or financing new ones. You see, that’s what I can’t
accept where Voroshin is concerned. If he had escaped he would not have turned his back on the opportunities offered him. Not to join an organization bent on political vengeance: he was far too pragmatic a man.”

Vasili had started back to his chair; he stopped and turned, the cup suspended, motionless in his hand. “What did you just say?”

“That Voroshin was too pragmatic to reject—”

“No,” interrupted Taleniekov. “Before that. The money was not to be used recouping fortunes or?…”

“Financing new ones. You see. Vasili, large sums of capital
were
made available to the exiles.”

Taleniekov held up his hand. “ ‘Financing new ones,’ ” he repeated. “There are many ways to spread a gospel. Beggars and lunatics do it in the streets, priests from pulpits, politicians from rostrums. But how can you spread a gospel that cannot stand scrutiny? How do you
pay
for it?” Vasili put the cup down on the small table next to his chair. “You do both anonymously, using the complicated methods and procedures of an existing structure. One in which whole areas operate as separate entities, distinct from one another yet held together by a common identity. Where enormous sums of capital are transferred daily.” Taleniekov walked back to the desk and leaned over, his hands on the edge. “You make the necessary
purchase!
You buy the seat of decision! The structure is yours for the using!”

“If I follow you,” the scholar said, “the money left by Matarese was to be divided, and used to buy participation in giant, established enterprises.”

“Exactly. I’m looking in the wrong
place
—sorry, the
right
place, but the wrong
country.
Voroshin
did
escape. He got out of Russia probably a long time before he had to because the Romanovs crippled him, stripped him, watched his every financial move. He was hamstrung here … and later the sort of investments Guillaume de Matarese envisioned were prohibited in the Soviet. Don’t you see, he had no reason to stay in Russia. His decision was made long
before
the revolution: it’s why you never heard of him in exile. He became someone
else.
”

“You’re wrong, Vasili. His name was among those sentenced to death. I remember seeing it myself.”

“But you’re not sure you saw it later, in the announcements
of those actually executed.”

“There were so many.”

“That’s my point.”

“There were his communications with the Kerenski provisional government, they’re a matter of record.”

“Easily dispatched and recorded.” Taleniekov pushed himself away from the desk, his every instinct telling him he was near the truth. “What better way for a man like Voroshin to lose his identity but in the chaos of a revolution? The mobs out of control; the discipline did not come for weeks, and it was a miracle it came then. Absolute chaos. How easily it could be done.”

“You’re oversimplifying,” said Mikovsky. “Although there was a period of rampage, teams of observers traveled throughout the cities and countryside writing down everything they saw and heard. Not only facts but impressions, opinions, interpretations of what they witnessed. The academicians insisted upon it, for it was a moment in history that would never be repeated and they wanted no instant lost, none unaccounted for. Everything was written down, no matter how harsh the observation.
That
was a form of discipline, Vasili.”

Taleniekov nodded. “Why do you think I’m here?”

The old man sat forward. “The archives of the revolution?”

“I must see them.”

“An easy request to make but most difficult to grant. The authority must come from Moscow.”

“How is it relayed?”

“Through the Ministry of Cultural Affairs. A man is sent over from the Leningrad office with the key to the rooms below. There is no key here.”

Vasili’s eyes strayed to the mounds of papers on Mikovsky’s desk. “Is that man an archivist? A scholar such as yourself?”

“No. He is merely a man with a key.”

“How often are the authorizations granted?”

Mikovsky frowned. “Not very frequently. Perhaps twice a month.”

“When was the last time?”

“About three weeks ago. An historian from the Zhdanov doing research.”

“Where did he do his reading?”

“In the archive rooms. Nothing is permitted to be taken from them.”

Taleniekov held up his hand. “Something was. It was sent to you and for everyone’s sake it should be returned to the archives immediately. Your telephone call to the Leningrad office should be rather excited.”

The man arrived in twenty-one minutes, his face burnt from the cold.

“The night duty officer said it was urgent, sir,” said the young man breathlessly, opening his briefcase and removing a key so intricately ridged it would take a precision-tooled instrument to duplicate it.

“Also highly irregular and without question a criminal offense,” replied Mikovsky, getting up from his chair. “But no harm done now that you’re here.” The scholar walked around the desk, a large envelope in his hand. “Shall we go below?”

“Is that the material?” asked the man with the key.

“Yes.” The scholar lowered the envelope.

“
What
material?” Taleniekov’s voice was sharp, the question an accusation.

The man was caught. He dropped the key and reached for his belt. Vasili lunged, grabbing the young man’s hand, pulling it downward, throwing his shoulder into the man’s chest, hurling him to the floor. “You said the wrong thing!” shouted Vasili. “No duty officer tells a messenger the particulars of an emergency.
Per nostro circolo!
There’ll be no pills this time! No guns. I’ve got you,
soldier!
And by your Corsican christ, you’ll tell me what I want to know!”

“
Ich sterbe für unser Verein. Für unser Heiligtum,
” whispered the young man, his mouth stretched, his lips bulging, his tongue … his
tongue.
His
teeth.
The bite came, the jaw clamped, the results irreversible.

Taleniekov watched in furious astonishment as the capsule’s liquid entered the throat, paralyzing the muscles. In seconds it happened; an expulsion of air, a final breath.

“Call the ministry!” he said to the shocked Mikovsky. “Tell the night duty officer that it will take several hours to re-insert the material.”

“I don’t
understand. Anything!
”

“They tapped the ministry’s phone. This one intercepted
the man with the key. He would have left it and fled after he had killed us both.” Vasili ripped the dead man’s overcoat apart and then the shirt beneath.

It was there. The blemish that was no blemish, the jagged blue circle of the Matarese.

The old scholar reached for the two ledgers on the top shelf of the metal racks and handed them to Taleniekov. They were the seventeenth and eighteenth volumes they had each gone through, searching for the name Voroshin.

“It would be far easier if we were in Moscow,” said Mikovsky, descending the ladder cautiously, heading for the table. “All this material has been transcribed and indexed. One volume would tell us exactly where to look.”

“There’ll be something; there
has
to be.” Taleniekov handed one book to the scholar and opened the second for himself. He began to scan the handwritten entries of ink, cautiously turning the brittle pages.

Twelve minutes later Yanov Mikovsky spoke. “It’s here.”

“What?”

“The crimes of Prince Andrei Voroshin.”

“His execution?”

“Not yet. His life, and the lives and criminal acts of his father and grandfather.”

“Let me see.”

It was all there, meticulously if superficially recorded by a steady, precise hand. The fathers Voroshin were described as enemies-of-the-masses, replete with the crimes of wanton murder of serfs and tenants, and the more rarefied manipulations of the Imperial banks, causing thousands to be unemployed, casting thousands more into the ranks of the starving. The prince had been sent to Southern Europe for his higher education, a grand tour that lasted five years, solidifying his pursuance of imperialistic dominance and the suppression of the people.

“
Where?
” Taleniekov spoke out loud.

“Referring to what?” asked the scholar, reading the same page.

“Where was he
sent?
”

Mikovsky turned the page. “Krefeld. The University of Krefeld. Here it is.”

“That bastard spoke
German. Ich sterbe für unser Verein! Für unser Heiligtum!
It’s in Germany!”

“
What
is?”

“Voroshin’s new identity. It’s
here.
Read further.”