Hot Siberian (34 page)

“What we could do, though,” Savich said, “is transfer you elsewhere with the intent of eventually bringing you here. I'm sure you wouldn't mind doing a stint in Leningrad, your home ground. That should get you happily back in your motherland's arms. How do you get along with Valkov?”

Nikolai's reply of “All right, I guess” was transparent.

Savich pretended not to see through it. “A year or two with Valkov in Leningrad should do it. Then you can move into a spot here in Moscow if you still want it.”

The idea of being in Leningrad with Valkov instead of in London with Vivian was almost sickening to Nikolai. He wished he hadn't gotten himself into this. It had turned into a bind.

“Is that your stomach growling?” Savich asked.

“I don't think so.”

“Well, it's not mine. I had a snack just before you arrived. Are you sure you won't have a little something? Perhaps some pâté or tapinade?”

“I'd still just as soon wait for dinner.”

“At least let me know if you get light-headed.”

Nikolai's stomach squished and grumbled about his refusal on its behalf. He'd put nothing into it except whiskey since his mushroom-and-onion breakfast. What possible harm could there be in accepting a small slab of
fois gras?
it pleaded. What price politeness?

“Valkov,” Savich said, as though titling his next topic. “Valkov is the epitome of his type. Ruthless, ego-driven, Communistically warped. His aspirations make him most useful. Do you see him like that?”

“I don't have your vantage.”

“The convenient thing about him is that he doesn't require any pushing or pulling. His own exorbitance serves as his carrot, keeps him moving on track. And then, of course, there's Yelena. How well do you know Mrs. Valkova?”

“Vaguely.”

“That's incredible, considering her looks and the aggressive way she presents them. I would have thought that at one time or another, prior to Vivian, Yelena might have gotten to you.”

Nikolai shook his head no, and his facial expression said absolutely not. It was not a total lie. Yelena Valkova had come on to him once. It had been after regular hours at the office of Almazjuvelirexport. She was there on the pretext of meeting Valkov, who'd gone to Moscow for the day, but she must have known all flights in were canceled because of a sleet storm. Her voice on the intercom surprised Nikolai, summoned him to Valkov's office. There on the floor just inside the entrance was her full-length chinchilla coat, in a pile the insolent way she'd just let it drop. Nikolai would have to step over it. It would, he thought, be like stepping over Valkov, and that made Yelena all the more tempting. She was perched on the front edge of Valkov's desk, the heels of her shoes spiking left and right into the arms of a chair. Her skirt was gathered up, her marvelous legs apart. Her panties were bunched in her hand. She said everything by flinging her panties at Nikolai. His altered senses saw them transform from nothing into flimsy, flesh-colored material, much like silk fabric impossibly appearing from a magician's fist. The beautiful Yelena got hold of him with her eyes for a long moment before she lay back across the desk. Nikolai remained at the doorway, enjoyed a good long helping of the circumstances, then glanced down at the chinchilla. He turned on it and went back down the hall to his office. After a short while he heard Yelena leave, which increased his misgivings. That unconsummated opportunity was to this day italicized among his erotic memories.

“When it comes to avidity, I believe Yelena outdoes Valkov,” Savich said, “although I'm not sure he realizes that she's much too complex for him. Frankly, I find her a bit more than merely interesting, don't you?”

Nikolai wanted off the subject. “Valkov mentioned a field trip to Uzbekiskaya in September, to evaluate emerald yield.”

“First I've heard of it.”

“Oh?”

“And such a thing would have to originate with me. I think he must be just pinching your nose.”

“He showed me some emeralds—in fact, quite an impressive lot.”

“Nevertheless, let me assure you we have no intention of getting into the emerald business. Valkov's September field trip is a figment of his dislike of you. Are you certain you haven't done something to cause him to have such ill-feelings?”

Only breathe, Nikolai thought.

Do Kien, the Vietnamese army captain turned servant, appeared to inform them that dinner was ready.

Savich and Nikolai went into the dining room and sat across from one another at midpoint of the long, gleaming mahogany table. Mai Lon did the serving. Nikolai noticed how deft and delicate were her movements. When a plate or glass was placed it seemed to float down in front of him. It was as though the slightest rattle or tinkle would be committing the sin of intrusion. Nikolai guessed that Mai Lon, with her diminutiveness and fine oriental features and complexion, was no older than twenty. Actually she was forty-one and on behalf of Communism in Southeast Asia had killed six enemies in close combat and at least triple that number in various firefights. Savich did not know this much about her, had no idea that just behind Mai Lon's set little smile and marveling eyes was such lethalness.

Along with the several courses of dinner the conversation skipped and drifted from topic to topic. It had no destination or purpose other than geniality. Politics were not brought up, religion was avoided, and Vivian was a subject apparently already settled. Frequently observations of no relevance were put in, splinterlike thoughts that in other company would have gone unexpressed. Such as Savich's isolated statement that he found Venice not only more dank but, as well, more decadent in winter. From the pros and cons of existentialism they went into the pleasure of fear, then on to medieval gallantry, which they agreed had for the most part been unfairly exploited. As an example Nikolai related an account he'd read of how a lady of those times, wishing to confirm her desirability, dropped one of her gloves from the Pont-Neuf. Her knight, without hesitation, leaped into the Seine after it and could only drown under the weight of his armor. Savich was knowingly amused. They touched upon the spiritual abstractions of Kandinsky, the profound directness of Isak Dinesen, the libidinal appeal of reed-thin ballerinas. Savich claimed that serious ballet dancers were exceptionally talented at lovemaking because of certain internal muscles that were incidentally developed during their many years of rigorous training. Thus, they were able to clench so possessively they made one feel attached, causing titillating fears of castration and slavery. Nikolai did not comment. Those Kirov dancers he'd had that much to do with years ago evidently hadn't trained long enough, while conversely, Vivian had never in her life performed even a single
plié
.

Dessert was served with minor ritual. A
gâteau millefeuille
, the flakiest possible pastry, layered four times alternately with
zabaglione
, topped by crème Chantilly dotted with whole glazed cherries. Savich oohed playfully over it when it arrived, and Nikolai had to remind himself that this was the Minister of Foreign Trade, his very important utmost superior. Savich had succeeded in making him feel right at home, like family, and Nikolai didn't hesitate to ask for a second portion of the cake before it was offered. He was emotionally improved, comfortable there, unconcerned that the last flight to Leningrad had already departed. It was understood he would stay the night.

At one o'clock he was shown up to the room that had been readied for him. A bath had been drawn; a dribble of hot from the spout was keeping it at perfect temperature. A swift dip was Nikolai's intent, but when he was in up to his chin he relaxed and thought of how on the way up he'd seen Savich's five graduated pieces of Morabito luggage standing in the entry hall. Black with brass fittings. So elegant and obviously expensive. Wasn't that a bit too blatant a flaunt? or was it part of the new approach, the attempt to impress the West with Russian taste and sophistication? How pleasant it would be, Nikolai thought, to make the trip to Paris with Savich, to be limousined everywhere, to be privy to Savich's high-level dealings, to have dinner with him at Grand Vefour. They would stroll the Place Vendôme and Avenue de l'Opera, stroll and talk women, perhaps enjoy together a choicely located table for the midnight show at Le Crazy Horse. Be satisfied with the personal rapport and contact already allowed, he told himself. If only Irina, his mother, could see him now, he thought. How proud she would be. And surprised. Even she, with all her ambitions for him, had never imagined him in Minister Savich's bathtub. If Irina, like Grandfather Maksim, was hovering around in some immaterial state, Nikolai was sure she was beaming.

He went to bed. The bed linens received him like an immaculate envelope. The pillow covering couldn't possibly have been fresher under the press of his cheek. He turned onto his side, his usual off-to-sleep position, although he didn't think he was anywhere close to going under. On the nightstand was a bronze-and-ivory figure of a woman leaping uninhibitedly, an Art Deco piece. The downcast lamplight sparkled off the tiny various jewels of her cloche headpiece. They were hypnotic.

It seemed as though he'd merely blinked, or at most closed his eyes for a moment. The jeweled cloche was still glittering. The lamp was still on. But his watch told him it was morning, nine o'clock. He hadn't slept so soundly in ages. It was a good sign. He was regenerated enough to deal with anything. He got up, shaved, dressed, and went downstairs, not expecting breakfast but glad when Do Kien directed him to a table by the window of a room flooded with undiffused morning sun. He wasn't really hungry. It was just that he didn't feel ready to leave. The table was set for one. Savich's luggage was gone from the entry hall. The apartment seemed emptier. Asked if he preferred coffee or tea, Nikolai said he'd have both. He sat in the quiet brightness, and while he gazed out and down at the mainly dun-colored shoulders of shorter Moscow buildings, he considered the alternatives.

His circumstances, he realized, were unchanged, although they seemed to have a different shape and shade. Savich hadn't given him any straightforward advice, hadn't said he ought to do this or that, hadn't imposed his greater experience. But it seemed he had. One thing for certain, Nikolai thought: he wasn't voluntarily going to suffer one or two years of Valkov. Nor, for that matter, could he remain in London and keep away from Vivian. The alternative, and what Savich had more or less suggested, was that he leave things as they were, enjoy his arrangement with Vivian for as long as it lasted, not look ahead to the pitfalls, regardless of how obvious, deep, and maiming they might be. Could he return to London and go coasting along like that, taking the moment and telling tomorrow to fuck off? Honestly, he doubted it. In his love for Vivian there was no room for such precariousness. However, he thought, how easily he would be able to make room for security.

The dilemma had been on his mind for so long that by now it had distilled to a simple contradiction: money was essential to Vivian, and as a Soviet citizen he had no money, literally none, would never have. And that was that. Savich was right about his having thought of defecting and taking a job in the West. However, that wouldn't solve everything. On several occasions Nikolai had scanned the employment advertisements in the London
Times
and been grateful that he didn't have to contend with the roil of such competition. Outstanding as his marketing abilities might be in the Soviet Union, they were by no means exceptional in the West, where doing business for profit was the very fuel of existence. Besides, even if he landed one of the better jobs, for example that of marketing director for a leading export-import firm, the salary he could expect, the forty thousand pounds per year, wouldn't be adequate. Forty thousand was about the average value of one of Archer's ugly gifts. There was, of course, the option of going to work for the System, of giving Churcher the advantage of all he knew about the Soviet diamond operation: confidential yield figures, projections, negotiating tactics, and so on. Churcher would go for that, would secretly use him and pay him dearly. For a while, anyway.

Diamonds, Nikolai thought.

The little contraband pile he'd been shown recently by Churcher would be enough. Not even a fistful. He'd thought of diamonds as a commodity for such a long while he'd lost his personal appreciation of their cash value. Now, however, he imagined a replay of the scene in Churcher's office, only this time Churcher and Pulver went into a state of suspended animation, froze in midgesture, while he, Nikolai, casually folded up the briefke containing the eight hundred carats of D-flawless Aikhal goods, pocketed it, and sat back, giving the cue for Churcher and Pulver to reactivate but with a total lapse of memory regarding the diamonds. Churcher offered tea and small-talked that Mrs. Churcher was coming into town that evening for dinner and the theater, and Pulver stiffly but cordially excused himself, saying he had some things to tend to. And there he, Nikolai, sat, just minutes from walking away with more than fourteen million dollars' worth.

Some fantasy.

It was followed immediately by another set at the installation in Aikhal. He, Nikolai, there on a field trip, had unrestricted run of the place, so it wasn't unusual for him to be wandering around the finishing area where the electronically controlled machines were cutting and polishing stones at the rate of a dozen a minute and depositing them into a traylike receptacle. The cutters on duty were blind to him as he took a pinch or two of diamonds every now and then from each machine's output, just dropped them into his shirt pocket and felt them accumulate into a bulge. One thousand D-flawless one-caraters, unmissed, to be easily carried away because he as a ministry representative was never searched or questioned, turned into eighteen million dollars.

It could happen, he told himself as he came back to the reality of the indefectible early June sky over Moscow. It
is
happening, something else inside him contravened. Perhaps it wasn't being pulled off in the slick way he'd just imagined, but someone in Aikhal was helping himself (and, no doubt, others) to finished goods, and the ideal spot for that along the chain of diamond production was the moment they'd been cut. The skimming of a few pinches at a time from the trays on a regular basis, the accumulating of pinches until they amounted to hundreds (thousands?) of carats, and then the transporting of them through the fine sieve of security—that explained the extra lots of finished Aikhal goods that had been showing up on the market. It seemed Churcher had valid reason to complain, although he was undoubtedly off in pointing his accusations at Almazjevelirexport.