Into the Lion's Den (34 page)

“I'm far from finished.”

“Konrad, what you're asking is impossible at the moment. I simply can't afford it.”

“Your offer?”

“Morozov's head but with my own methods, my deepest apologies to you, Gasrom entirely handed over you and 1.5 billion for your losses.”

“That's nothing.”

“I'm trying to balance my own companies and associates. I can't control the four hundred groups operating in the former USSR without some cash. I need time to pay you 2.2 billion.”

“It's four billion, Repin.”

“I'll go to war then.”

“As you wish.”

“I hope you can contain my men when they ram into your territory, once I'm gone. It's a Pyrrhic victory what you will achieve,”

“What do you suggest?”

“A stalemate. Six months to clean our territories from traitors. Then, we will meet again and set new rules for us. I'll give you 2.2 billion as compensation, but I want free reign in Central Asia and Latin America.”

“All right, you can have Central Asia. I like Brazil very much to leave it.”

“I understand; we will coexist as we did before.”

“Exactly. Central Asia is all yours. Stay away from Europe, unless you plan to invest your winnings with us. We resent the trust you're placing in the Americans for that matter.”

“I can't force my associates to purchase your services, but rest assured that I will make my displeasure at their ways very well known. We should always remain with our friends.”

“Very well, we have an understanding. We will see each other in St. Petersburg in mid-February.”

Lintorff sealed the pact offering his hand, much to Ferdinand von Kleist and Ivan Oblomov's relief.

“I will be delighted to receive you at my house.”

“One more thing,” Constantin heard Lintorff's clear baritone voice and he suppressed a shudder. “Yes, Konrad?”

“I'm just curious about something. Why are you so furious with your wife? When she came to me she mentioned something about London. I rejected her, of course.”

“She ruined something that was mine. It was the straw that broke the camel.”

“Was it an artwork?”

“You can say so.”

August 24th, 2003

Constantin returned yesterday evening from his meeting with the Hochmeister. He was utterly tired and
defeated. I don't know what Lintorff might have done to him but it must be serious because he was the whole time
engaged in a heated discussion with Oblomov and Boris Malchenko. They were even yelling at each other—and it's
not the way Russians normally talk as Mikhail tells me—He came to bed very late and all the things I wanted to tell
him died on my lips the minute I saw his sad expression. I could only move aside and ask him to come closer. He
caressed my hair for a long time, kissed me tenderly on the lips and mumbled: “you're the best thing that ever
happened to me.”

We drive to the airport in two hours.

January, 2004

St. Petersburg

“Well, Mikhail Petrovich, what do you think?” Oblomov asked the man standing in front of him.

“He's not getting better. In fact, he's worse than before. He does his best to hide it in front of the children and Repin, but it's a time bomb. He's permanently terrified. Boss should let him go. Not even two months ago he tried to take his life. He does not speak at all, barely eats. The only time when he acts normal is when he's with the children.

The smallest one, Vania, loves him very much. The girl, Sofia Constatinovna is learning to paint with him. When the boss is at home, he's nice to him, never shouts or is nasty, but he's very sad. He wants to go back to Argentina and leave everything behind.”

“Repin will never allow it. He cares for the boy. I think he's secretly happy that he's so sick so he can control him much better,” Oblomov considered as he made a gesture to Massaiev to sit in front of him.

“Mr. Repin should understand that this is a broken toy. The boy I brought from Argentina is dead. He will never jump to his neck again. The doctors say that he can do nothing in bed. I have troubles to save all his drawings from destruction. That oil portrait of the children? I had to keep it in my room every night so he wouldn't destroy it. I count his material every morning so he can tear nothing apart. This man, the one in London, Robertson sold several of his latest drawings and paints and sent him a check for
£
11,600. I had to force him to write the letter to that priest he sends the money to. It's almost impossible to take him anywhere outside the house. More than five people in the room and he has a nervous breakdown.”

“And the boss?”

“He takes great care of him. He's with him every time he can, praises his paints. He was very happy when he got the portrait with the children as a Christmas present. On the other hand, he does not let him speak about leaving him. After Guntram cut his wrists open, he threatened with taking revenge on those poor people he likes in Argentina. The boy is very frightened about it, thinking that the boss will waste his time with a priest and some lousy devils.”

“This can't continue any longer. It's not good for either of them. Constantin is very nervous and we need him with a cool head if we want to survive this internal war.”

“Ivan Ivanovich, even if this would be an act of mercy, I can't do it.”

“NO! We have to find the way to send the boy away, somewhere Constantin can't touch him.”

“He's too sick to travel or fend for himself. He can't work and needs constant medical care.”

“Perhaps we should return him to his own people,” Oblomov pondered.

“Argentina? He would be dead in less than two months.”

“No, his real people, you understand me.”

“I see your point, but how?”

“I don't know. I have to find a way to convince Lintorff that this is the best deal of the year, like I did with Aliosha Antonov.”

“He's not Lintorff's type, Mr. Oblomov.”

“Quite the contrary. I'm convinced that Guntram is exactly what he wants,” Ivan said with deep satisfaction. 'Lintorff would do anything to piss off Constantin and who knows? The boy is good looking and he kind of grows on you. Even Massaiev can't lay a hand on him. If he took Aliosha, he can take Guntram too. The irony of life. Lintorff starting a NGO for Constantin's former lovers!'

“Well done Massaiev. Leave it into my hands.” Oblomov dismissed the man. When he was alone in his office, Oblomov let a long sigh escape through his lips. He was sick of this mess and felt responsible for Guntram's

“accident”. He had warned Constantin several times, but the idiot had disregarded each one of his words. He only cared about having Guntram for himself no matter the consequences; and here they were smacking his face. A boy, a little older than his own son, good tempered and docile had been crushed like a cockroach because of an intrigue made by a stupid woman and a greedy man. 'I would have killed Morozov with my own hands!'

'The boy will be a hundred times better in the Order's territory than here. Constantin is one step from exploding if he doesn't improve. Those are brutal and crazy Germans, but they stick to their codes and Guntram is one of them. Lefèbre told us that his own father offered the boy to Lintorff in exchange for his life and he accepted the offer. He thinks that they were looking for the child for two or three years, but finally they thought that he was dead too. Exactly like in the Middle Ages; one hostage to prove your loyalty and good will. Those Germans are truly crazy!'

'A lunatic with codes is a hundred times better than a sane man without codes.'

'I wonder how Lefèbre could know so much about the Order if he was never a member. That Frenchman knows much more than he tells us. He must have inside contacts at top level, much better than Malchenko's. He understands and predicts their moves much better than anyone we know.'

February 17th, 2004

Once again my idiotic friend has done it. I can't believe it. He only needed to see the boy for two minutes
and boom! He falls in love like a horny teenager. No matter what he tells me, I know he's in love, infatuated, obsessed
or whatever you want to call it. I should have hit him with a champagne bottle or something like that to make him
come to his senses!

I'm an idiot too!

It all happened in St. Petersburg. Repin had a party at one of his houses there. Nice place, elegant and
with good looking girls and boys too. I can't deny that he makes fantastic castings for his places. It's an old residence
on the outskirts of the city and we all were invited, Konrad, Goran, Adolf zu Löwenstein, Georg, Cohen and me. The
idea was to take a look around, have a drink or two and go home as no chance in hell any of us would make a free
video for Repin. Perhaps one of the bodyguards, but I'm not sure if they want to.

It was crowded with people from the government and industry. More than a whorehouse the place looked
like the Parliament. Some people would tell me that the Parliament is a whorehouse, but I have some respect for its
workers and I think they should not be insulted with this kind of comparisons. After all, it's a good service what they
provide. Konrad and I were thinking to leave the party and we went up the stairs to tell good-bye to Oblomov, busy
with two girls and several Russians. We spoke briefly with him when it happened. While Oblomov was elaborating on
the situation in Romania, Konrad looked transfixed toward the entrance, from our position we could dominate the
whole foyer. Oblomov knows how to pick his grounds, when Repin entered the room, steering a young boy, no more
than twenty and looking very out of his normal environment. Hell, he looked like just out of school and was dressed in
a conservative, sober way, nothing like you could see there.

His face was what nearly made my heart stop. He looked very similar to Roger de Lisle, Konrad's
former lover and the biggest snake I've ever met. Perhaps I'm being unfair to the boy. He looked similar true, but he
was much younger than Roger, his face was perfectly symmetrical and his features more delicate, not so well defined
as Roger's, the hair a very light brown almost blond and looking at everything in a mix of awe, embarrassment and
barely concealed horror. I noticed that Repin put an arm around his waist and protectively pulled him against him
and whispered something in his ear, making him smile like a child. Obviously, this one was a lover, not a professional.

Perhaps one of the artists he likes so much to adopt.

However, Konrad was looking at the boy as he would have seen a ghost -nothing would have pleased me
more than that, alas the bastard is still alive-and Oblomov noticed it.

“Incredible, isn't it? Boss is with that one for almost two years and totally in love with him,” he said.

“Who is he?” Konrad asked.

“Not for sale, Duke. Belongs only to Repin and I don't know what he's doing here. He was never in a
place like this. In fact, he almost never leaves the house. He's sick and can't run around much.”

“Who is he? I sense a good story behind,” I smirked.

“There is a story, indeed. Boss has been after him since he was seventeen and in school. Comes from the
other side of the world, but lived in London. Let's make a bet, Duke. If you can guess which one of the paintings in
this room belongs to him, I'll tell you the story.”

The bloody place was full with those abstract things or erotic things. All cheap in my opinion. “Ivan
Ivanovich, that is very difficult. We're bankers, not art critics,” I protested.

“That one over there. The one with the bathing woman over the sink, It is a good pastel,” Konrad said
before I could tell him what a fool he was, Oblomov laughed and patted him on the shoulder.

“Remind me never to bet against you again, my Duke. You are right. How did you find it out?”

“It's the only one who has some mastery behind. The one who made it has talent. You said that the boy
has been his lover for two years although he's sick, therefore useless for this business, so he must be an artist and a
good one for having retained Repin's favour for so long. Normally, they don't last so long. The hand that painted that
woman, also painted the portrait of your wife. I'm surprised that he has already a recognisable style. How old is he?”

“Yes, the boy painted my wife's portrait too. He has some talent. I discovered him, so to speak, in 2000,
when he was in school.”

“In school? I didn't know Repin liked that,” I said shocked.

“No, no, boss is not into such things. He likes them young but not to the point of changing diapers. I was
at Christie's Buenos Aires buying some lands with him and I saw a watercolour of a landscape a woman had there. It
was breathtaking and reminded me a lot to my own birthplace. I wanted to buy it, but the woman didn't want to sell
it.”

“That doesn't sound like a happy ending story,” I chortled.

“Nothing happened, relax von Kleist. Boss saw it too and liked it a lot. I offered up to $10,000, but the
little slut was only telling me that it belonged to her husband. Finally, she agreed to speak with him. We went to her
house in the Pampa, a big Estancia, not bad but full with tourists and in need of a total renovation. However, the
couple had many more drawings and I—as Boss had let me play boss for this time—bought several of them, including
a series of ballerinas that my wife adores. I paid around $5,000 for the whole lot. Repin bought the rest for a similar
amount convinced that they were from a well seasoned artist. The Dollenberg man laughed at us and told us that they
were made by a sixteen year old brat; a friend of his younger brother. We thought it was a joke.”