The Matarese Circle (52 page)

The conspiratorial asses in Moscow had decreed in their wisdom that Kassel was prime material for patent-design espionage. In their better wisdom, the asses had sent their most persuasive negotiator, one Vasili Taleniekov, to enlist the attorney for a better world.

It had taken Vasili less than an hour over a trumped-up dinner to realize how absurd the assignment was. The realization had come when Heinrich Kassel had leaned back in his chair and exclaimed:

“Are you out of your
mind?
I do what I do to keep you bastards out!”

There had been nothing for it. The persuasive negotiator and the misguided attorney had gotten drunk, ending the evening at dawn, watching the sun come up over the gardens in Gruga Park. They had made a drunken pact: the lawyer would not report Moscow’s attempt to the Bonn government if Taleniekov would guarantee that the KGB dossier was substantially altered. The lawyer had kept silent, and Vasili had returned to Moscow, amending the German’s file with the judgment that the “radical” attorney was probably a provocateur in the pay of the Americans. Kassel might help him, at least tell him where he could start.

If he was able to reach Heinrich Kassel. So many things might have happened to prevent it. Disease, death, relocation,
accidents of living and livelihood; it had been twelve years since the abortive assignment in Essen.

There was something else he had to do in Essen, he mused. He had no gun; he would have to purchase one. The West German airport security was such these days that he could not chance the dismantling of his Graz-Burya and packing it in his carry-on travel bag.

There was so much to do, so little time. But a pattern was coming into focus. It was obscure, elusive, contradictory … but it was there. The Corsican fever was spreading, the infectors using massive sums of money and ingenious financing methods to create pockets of chaos everywhere, recruiting an army of élite soldiers who would give up their lives instantly to protect the cause. But again,
what
cause? To what purpose? What were the violent philosophical descendants of Guillaume de Matarese trying to achieve? Assassination, terrorism, indiscriminate bombings and riots, kidnapping and murder … all the things that men of wealth had to detest, for in the breakdown of order was their undoing. This was the giant contradiction.
Why?

He felt the plane dip, the pilot was starting his descent into Essen.

Essen. Prince Andrei Voroshin. Whom had he become?

“I don’t believe it!” exclaimed Heinrich Kassel over the telephone, his voice conveying the same good-natured incredulity Taleniekov remembered from twelve years ago. “Everytime I pass the gardens in the Gruga, I pause for a moment and laugh. My wife thinks it must be the memory of an old girl friend.”

“I trust you cleared that up.”

“Oh, yes. I tell her it was where I nearly became an international spy and she’s
convinced
it’s an old girl friend.”

“Meet me at the Gruga, please. It’s urgent and has nothing to do with my former business.”

“Are you sure? It wouldn’t do for one of Essen’s more prominent attorneys to have a Russian connection. These are odd times. Rumors abound that the Baader-Meinhof are financed by Moscow, that our neighbors to the far north are up to some nasty old tricks.”

Taleniekov paused for a moment, wincing at the coincidence.
“You have the word of an old conspirator. I’m unemployed.”

“Really? How interesting. Gruga Park then. It’s almost noon. Shall we say one o’clock? Same place in the gardens, although there’ll be no flowers this time of year.”

The ice on the pond glistened in the sunlight, the shrubbery curled for the cold of winter yet briefly alive in the noonday’s warmth from the sky. Vasili sat on the bench; it was fifteen minutes past one and he felt the stirrings of concern. Without thinking, he touched the bulge in his right-hand pocket that was the small automatic he had purchased in Kopstadt Square, then took his hand away when he saw the hatless figure walking rapidly up the garden path.

Kassel had grown portly, and nearly bald. In his large overcoat with the black fur lapels he was the image of a successful burgomaster, his obviously expensive attire at odds with Taleniekov’s memory of the fiery young lawyer who had wanted to
keep you bastards out!
As he drew nearer, Taleniekov saw that the face was cherubic—a great deal of
Schlagsahne
had gone down that throat, but the eyes were alive, still humorous … and sharp.

“I’m so sorry, my dear fellow,” said the German as Taleniekov got up and accepted the outstretched hand. “A last-minute problem with an American contract.”

“That has a certain symmetry to it,” replied Vasili. “When I returned to Moscow twelve years ago, I wrote in your file that I thought you were on Washington’s payroll.”

“How perceptive. Actually, I’m paid out of New York, Detroit, and Los Angeles, but why quibble over cities?”

“You look well, Heinrich. Quite prosperous. What happened to that very vocal champion of the underdog?”

“They made him an overdog.” The lawyer chuckled. “It would never have happened if you people controlled the Bundestag. I’m an unprincipled capitalist who assuages his guilt with sizable contributions to charity. My Reichmarks do far more than my vocal chords ever did.”

“A reasonable statement.”

“I’m a reasonable man. And what appears somewhat unreasonable to me now is why you would look me up. Not that I don’t enjoy your company, for I do. But why now? You say you’re not employed in your former profession;
what could I possibly have that you’d be interested in?”

“Advice.”

“You have legal problems in
Essen?
Don’t tell me a dedicated Communist has private investments in the Ruhr.”

“Only of time, and I have very little of that. I’m trying to trace a man, a family from Leningrad who came to Germany—to Essen, I’m convinced—between sixty and seventy years ago. I’m also convinced they entered illegally, and secretly bought into Ruhr industry.”

Kassel frowned. “My dear fellow, you’re mad. I’m trying to tick off the decades—I was never very good at figures—but if I’m not mistaken, you’re referring to the period between 1910 and 1920. Is that correct?”

“Yes. They were turbulent times.”

“You don’t say? There was merely the great war to the south, the bloodiest revolution in history in the north, mass confusion in the eastern Slavic states, the Atlantic ports in chaos, and the ocean a graveyard. In essence, all Europe was—if I may be permitted—in flames and Essen itself experiencing an industrial expansion unseen before or since, including the Hitler years. Everything, naturally, was secret, fortunes made every day. Into this insanity comes one White Russian selling his jewels—as hundreds did—to buy himself a piece of the pie in any of a dozen companies, and you expect to
find
him?”

“I thought that might be your reaction.”

“What other could I possibly have?” Kassel laughed again. “What is the name of this man?”

“For your own good, I’d rather not tell you.”

“Then how can I help you?”

“By telling me where you would look first if you were me.”

“In Russia.”

“I did. The Revolutionary archives. In Leningrad.”

“You found nothing?”

“On the contrary. I found a detailed description of a mass family suicide so patently at odds with reality that it had to be false.”

“How was this suicide described? Not the particulars, just in general.”

“The family’s estate was stormed by the mobs; they fought all day, but in the end used the remaining explosives and blew themselves up with the main house.”

“One family holding off a rioting mob of Bolsheviks for an entire day? Hardly likely.”

“Precisely. Yet the account was as detailed as a von Clauswitz exercise, even to the climate and the brightness of the sky. Every inch of the vast estate was described, but outside of the name of the family itself, not one other identity was entered. There were no witnesses listed to confirm the event.”

The attorney frowned again. “Why did you just say that ‘every inch of the vast estate was described’?”

“It was.”

“But why?”

“To lend credibility to the false account, I assume. A profusion of detail.”

“Too profuse, perhaps. Tell me, were the actions of this family on that day described in your usual enemies-of-the-people vitriol?”

Taleniekov thought back. “No, they weren’t actually. They could almost be termed individual acts of courage.” Then he remembered specifically. “They released their servants before they took their own lives … they
released
them. That
wasn’t
a normal thing.”

“And the inclusion of such a generous act in a revolutionary’s account would not really be all that acceptable, would it?”

“What are you driving at?”

“That account may have been written by the man himself, or a literate member of the family and then passed on through corrupt channels to the archives.”

“Entirely possible, but I still don’t understand your point.”

“The odds are long, I grant you, but bear with me. Over the years I’ve learned that when a client is asked to outline a deposition, he always shows himself in the best light; that’s understandable. But he also invariably includes trivial particulars about things that mean a great deal to him. They slip out unconsciously: a lovely wife or a beautiful child, a profitable business or a … beautiful home. ‘Every inch of the vast estate.’ That was this family’s passion, wasn’t it? Land. Property.”

“Yes.” Vasili recalled Mikovsky’s descriptions of the Voroshin estates. How the patriarchs were absolute rulers over the land, even to holding their own courts of law.
“You could say they were excessively addicted to property.”

“Might they have brought this addiction to Germany?”

“They might have. Why?”

The attorney’s eyes turned cold. “Before I answer that, I must ask the old conspirator a very serious question. Is this search a Soviet reprisal of some sort? You say you’re unemployed, that you’re not working at your former occupation, but what proof do I have?”

Taleniekov breathed deeply. “I could say the word of a KGB strategist who altered an enemy’s file twelve years ago, but I’ll go farther than that. If you have connections with Bonn intelligence and can inquire discreetly, ask them about me. Moscow has sentenced me to death.”

The coldness thawed in Kassel’s eyes. “You wouldn’t say such a thing if it weren’t true. An attorney who deals every day with international business could check too easily. But you were a dedicated Communist.”

“I still am.”

“Then surely an enormous mistake has been made.”

“A manipulated mistake,” said Vasili.

“So this is not a Moscow operation, not in the Soviet interest?”

“No. It’s in the interests of both sides, all sides, and that is all I’ll say. Now, I’ve answered your serious question very seriously. Answer mine. What was your point regarding this family’s preoccupation with the land?”

The lawyer pursed his thick lips. “Tell me the name. I may be able to help you.”

“How?”

“The Records of Property that are filed in the State House. There were rumors that several of the great estates in Rellinghausen and Stadtwald—those on the northern shores of Lake Baldeney—were bought by Russians decades ago.”

“They would not have bought in their own name, I’m certain of that.”

“Probably not. I said the odds were long, but the covert acquisition of property is not unlike depositions. Things slip out. Possession of land is very close to a man’s view of himself; in some cultures he is the land.”

“Why can’t I look for myself? If the records are available, tell me where to find them.”

“It wouldn’t do you any good. Only certified attorneys are permitted to search the titles. Tell me the name.”

“It could be dangerous for anyone who looks,” said Taleniekov.

“Oh,
come
now.” Kassel laughed, his eyes amused again. “A seventy-year-old purchase of land.”

“I believe there’s a direct connection between that purchase and the extreme acts of violence that are occurring everywhere today.”

“Extreme acts of …” The lawyer trailed off the phrase, his expression solemn. “An hour ago I mentioned Baader-Meinhof on the phone. Your silence was quite loud. Are you suggesting?…”

“I’d rather not suggest anything,” interrupted Vasili. “You’re a prominent man, a resourceful man. Give me a letter of certification and get me into the Records of Property.”

The German shook his head. “No, I won’t do that. You wouldn’t know what to look for. But you may accompany me.”

“You’d do this yourself? Why?”

“I despise extremists who deal in violence. I remember too vividly the screams and diatribes of the Third Reich. I shall, indeed, look for myself, and it we get lucky you can tell me what you wish.” Kassel lightened his voice, but sadness was there. “Besides, anyone sentenced to death by Moscow cannot be all bad. Now, tell me the name.”

Taleniekov stared at the attorney, seeing another sentence of death. “Voroshin,” he said.

The uniformed clerk in the Essen Hall of Records treated the prominent Heinrich Kassel with extreme deference. Herr Kassel’s firm was one of the most important in the city. He made it plain that the coarse-looking receptionist behind the desk would be delighted to make copies of anything Herr Kassel wished to have duplicated. The woman stared up unpleasantly, her expression disapproving.

The steel file cabinets in the enormous room that housed the Records of Property were like gray robots stacked one on top of the other, circling the room, staring down at the open cubicles where the certified lawyers did their research.

“Everything is recorded by date,” said Kassel. “Year, month, day. Be as specific as you can. What was the earliest Voroshin might have reasonably bought property in the Essen districts?”

“Allowing for the slow methods of travel at the time, say late May or early June of 1911. But I told you, he wouldn’t have bought under his own name.”

“We won’t be looking for his name, or even an assumed name. Not to begin with.”