Metronome, The (21 page)

“Ivan” refills his plate and pours more vodka for both of us. I do another half a glass. I drank less than half of what he did, but my head is starting to swim.

“There was nothing from your parents in that file until 1968. That’s when there was a record of a letter from your father denouncing Andrei. That’s the system we lived in. Children were denouncing their parents, parents their children. Our national hero, Pavlik Morozov, was celebrated for denouncing his father to the authorities.”

“And where is Andrei now?”

“Ufa, an oil town in the southeast. The second time Andrei served the whole ten years, but this time he did not come back to St. Petersburg. I wrote down his number for you.”  

“Ivan” falls silent, the story must have had an impact.

I need one more thing from him. “Shmulin told me you provided a ‘roof’ for their operations, is that true?”

“Yes, back in the 1990s.”

“So you knew Evgeny Voronezhsky?”

“That I did. I know the story. Why do you ask?”

“Because when I checked the Internet, I couldn’t find his obituary.”

“So what? It’s been eight years.”

“I am curious. I can go check newspapers archives, but perhaps you remember: Did he leave a family behind?”

“He had a wife and a son.”

“Do you remember their names?”

“Wife’s, no. I think the son’s name was Grisha. He was going to university somewhere out of town, perhaps St. Petersburg.”

Grisha is diminutive for Grigoriy. When Americanized, that would be Greg. Now the connection between my failed hedge fund and the Brockton and Streltsova’s murder is suddenly not so tenuous.

“Ivan” finishes his vodka and pelmeni, waves to Svetlana who is circling nearby and stands up unsteadily.

“You’ve got your money’s worth. Pay for the food and drinks, and Misha will see you to the metro station; we don’t want you robbed on the way.”

A younger man tears himself away from the bar. I did not realize he’d been watching us all this time.

Back in the metro, heading to the center. We must be going against traffic, the train is not full. An inebriated soldier tries to strike a conversation with a girl listening to her iPod and demonstratively ignoring him, a gang of five young men going to party downtown, a babushka, an old man wearing a tweed gray flat cap and a dark blue Adidas tracksuit. The young men noisily crowd him, he moves next to me, clears his throat and quietly asks, “Are you visiting Moscow?”

“Yes,” I decide to respond. “But I lived here twenty years ago as a student.”

“Ah,” he whispers, “So you remember how things used to be.”

He nods at the young people that chased him away.

“Young people knew how to behave, to be quiet and respectful. But if you ask me, it all went downhill after Stalin died. They would not do that under Stalin.”

“Did he not kill millions?”

“When you cut trees, chips fly! Stalin made this country great.” The old man is practically spitting saliva in his excitement. “He showed the world what Russia can do; they were all afraid of us. Now too much freedom, no respect inside the country, foreigners don’t respect us, all these Americans, Germans, Chechens, Jews.”

A strange combination, I think. America is the superpower. Germany, well, two brutal wars will leave bad feelings. Blaming Jews seems to be our tradition, the small tribe being almost a mythical superhuman force. But Chechens? I guess Chechens now arose to a similar status. There’s our dirty little secret: for all of our conquests, for all of our space missions, for all of our nukes, Russia has the worst inferiority complex I have ever seen in a country. I think that’s the real reason why we like strongmen to lord over us and to tell us lies about our greatness. And that’s why the small tribes we can’t subdue take on these absurd, unreal qualities.

I was born after his death, but for as long as I remember, Stalin was both a monster and a hero. Hero, because he turned our backward country into an industrial and military power and “won the war.” Monster, because of the Great Terror he unleashed in the 1930s. As if he was a perfectly nice guy before and then suddenly went off the rails. Somehow people like the Adidas tracksuited-man next to me conveniently overlook that Stalin started murdering well before the purges. Back during the Civil War, he directed killings of thousands, burning villages near Tsaritsyn, the city that was later named after him, the famous Stalingrad. Then millions died in collectivization efforts he ordered. The Boss,
Khozyain
, as his gang referred to him. Because that’s what he was: a smart, ruthless, paranoid, immoral, revengeful, psychopathic killer, a mafia boss that surrounded himself with rapists and alcoholics. But he made others afraid of us, and that made him “great.” Will we ever get to the point where greatness is not measured by ability to bomb someone to smithereens?

“Sorry, can’t agree with you here,” I reply to the Adidas man. He glares at me and moves away.

I think my business in Moscow is done for now. I don’t feel safe. I call to make a reservation for a flight to St. Petersburg. The first available seat is in the afternoon tomorrow.

Tuesday, June 20

Since I have time in the morning, I pull out Suzy Yamamoto’s file and research companies on the Eastern Cottonwood private equity list. Who is this Greg Voron and what is he doing?

A couple of successful sales of public enterprises. First, an Internet e-commerce company, then a failing oil company. Both were purchased in 2002 following the market crash and flipped a few years later for a nifty profit. The rest of the Eastern Cottonwood purchases remained private. Already mentioned Hardrock Home Security company, bought in 2002. A home lender, a home builder, and a private building materials company all in 2003, all based in California. A curious combination. The last one is MRA Technologies, a semiconductor “system-on-the-chip” (SoC) company. That’s a fairly recent and expensive acquisition. The company makes chips for secure communications and networking and was struggling against larger competitors. But the recent news indicate some large wins, especially for portable devices and mobile phones.

Something does not feel right. In a booming market, I would expect a private equity firm to flip the companies quickly, take them public and re-invest into another acquisition. But only two companies were sold, the rest remained private. And then in 2002 and 2003, well before they had a chance to sell anything, the fund invested over a billion dollars. Someone staked a lot of money to the Eastern Cottonwood private equity fund, but who? Detailed disclosures are not required from a fund with a small number of investors.

No, things don’t quite add up with Mr. Voron. I am assembling a puzzle of hundreds of pieces without knowing what it looks like.

Before leaving for the airport, I dial the number in Ufa that “Ivan” gave me.

A wheezy voice of someone who must have difficulty breathing answers, “Allo?”

“Allo, I am trying to reach Andrei Rostin?”

There is a pause, then tentative, “Pavel?”

“Yes.”

“I thought I’d hear from you. Where are you?”

“I am in Moscow, about to leave for St. Petersburg.”

“I’ll come see you there.”

“Are you sure? I can come to Ufa.”

“No. Peter is the place. There are direct flights now, and it’s only three hours. I’ll be there tomorrow if I can get on the morning flight.”

He called the city “Peter,” the name used by locals and old-timers.

“Let me give you the address.”

I realize my stupidity even before the words are completely out. Andrei replies gently, “I know the address.”

I feel strange hanging up. I just spoke with someone who is my brother, even if not by blood. Someone whom I’ve never met before, whose existence was unknown to me. Someone who was with my parents during those horrible days of the blockade. I will meet him tomorrow. I don’t know what to expect or to ask.

For the second time in two weeks, I land in the Pulkovo Airport. During the war, that’s where the frontline was. The nearby Pulkovo Heights were occupied by the Nazis. They had their long-range artillery there. The shell that hit my parents’ apartment on Liteyniy Prospekt in that brutal December 1941 was probably fired from here. I half expect to be stopped and arrested right here in Pulkovo, but nobody pays any attention to me.

I get to Malaya Sadovaya in the late afternoon. Despite this being a workday, the street is full of people, locals and tourists. I climb the stairs, open the door. The flat is exactly as I left it. Well, almost exactly. Someone was here. One of the chairs is placed at an angle. I am compulsive about pushing chairs all the way in under the table. It drove Karen nuts.

I spend an hour going through things, to make sure I have not missed anything on my previous visit. I now know why my father was reading all these books on offshore banking and money laundering. I look for notes in the margins, anything that would give me extra clues, but come up empty.

The kitchen window overlooks the courtyard. Five kids, three boys and two girls, are playing hide and seek. Another memory crosses my mind. I am ten now, facing a fresh beat down at the hands of Vasya Proshkin, my nemesis. Vasya is two years older and at least twenty pounds heavier. He is a bully and for the past few months he’s been taking a particular pleasure in beating me up. The usual sequence was: Vasya knocks me down, sits on top and pummels me. But he is careful to not hit me in the face, to avoid drawing blood. This way the adults don’t get involved.

The difference today is that Vasya’s father came out. He is not stopping his son, he is enjoying Vasya being a man. Vasya pushes me especially hard; I fall face down and stay there, expecting to feel Vasya’s weight on top of me and blows to my sides. But nothing happens. I hear steps, look up. It’s my father; he must have come from work earlier. My father stops about ten feet away, stands there saying nothing.

I turn over, get up. Vasya is standing there not sure what to do, his father behind him. I am not sure what to do either, but I have to do something. I step up to Vasya and hit him. He seems stunned for a moment, then hits me back. I fall, but this time I am not waiting to be pummeled, I turn around and meet Vasya with a kick to the groin. He doubles over, I get up, jump on him, and we roll on the ground, kicking and hitting each other until we are pulled apart. Before we leave, my father says a few words to Vasya’s dad. I don’t know what is said, but Vasya stays away from me from then on. I am bleeding from the nose and the mouth, my white shirt is ruined. Mother cusses at my father for not preventing the fight; he is not responding.

If I were in a similar situation, would I have interfered on my son Simon’s behalf? Probably. But then, I don’t recall Simon ever coming home with a bloody nose. Private schools, tennis lessons, summer camps, the latest games and electronics…Why do I feel like we lost Simon along the way?

There is a knock on the door. As can be expected, it’s Zorkin. He welcomes me as if I am his best friend:

“Pavel Vladimirovich, I thought I heard you. Welcome back!”

“Thank you, Evgeny Antonovich.”

“How long are you back in town for?”

“I am not sure yet, a few days. I’d like to thank you for finding Anton Rimsky for me. “

“Oh, I am happy to help. As I mentioned, I am resourceful and well-connected. Pavel Vladimirovich, have you given any thought to my earlier question? You know, the one about the apartment?”

I mull his question over, to make Zorkin uneasy. “Evgeny Antonovich, I had to travel a lot since we spoke and did not have the time to properly think things through. But I will promise you that I won’t look for other buyers if you help me with a small matter.”

Zorkin slumps visibly; he must have been hoping for a more definitive action. “Pavel Vladimirovich, please understand that this is not an easy sale for you. Your father’s death is still under investigation. I am not sure you’ll be able to find many buyers under the circumstances.”

“Evgeny Antonovich, I can wait if needed.”

Zorkin takes a deep breath, the greed wins out. “How do I know you are not negotiating with someone else?”

I raise my voice in indignation. “Mr. Zorkin, I just promised you!”

“OK, OK, what can I help you with?”

“I had a childhood acquaintance, Grisha Voronezhsky. He went to university here in the 1990s, probably St. Petersburg State University, but I am not completely sure. I can’t find anything on the Internet; can you check for me which university and faculty he studied at?”

Zorkin shakes his head. “You understand this won’t be easy. I possibly have to send someone to multiple universities, pay bribes to get access to the records…”

“Evgeny Antonovich, I will gladly reimburse you for any expenses.”

Zorkin leaves with a sour expression, not sure whether he got any tangible value for his promise to help but too afraid to refuse.

I pull out the piece of paper that “Ivan” gave me and dial the second number there. My lucky streak of phones being answered ends with, “You have reached the number of Konstantin Mershov, please leave a message.”

I dictate my name and phone number.

I call Detective Rozen. He answers after two rings. “Hello, hold on a minute.” The microphone is covered, and I hear indistinct voices, then Rozen comes back, “Pavel, I walked out of interrogation, I have maybe ten minutes. Where are you?”

“In St. Petersburg.”

“Figures.”

“Sal, can you recommend a private investigator in California?”

“Why, do you need to follow someone?”

“No, it’s not that, more of a corporate investigation. I am trying to gather information on a few companies.”

“Like that Hardrock Security Company that you asked me about before?”

“Yes, kind of like that.”

“OK, give me the names.”

“Sal, I don’t want you to be involved. I just need someone to hire, has to be in California.”

Sal must be getting frustrated because he carefully spits out each word as if throwing them at me. “Pavel, I checked on you. I know you are practically broke. So don’t act with me like you have money to burn on private investigators.”

“Sal, please, I don’t want to put you in any danger.”

“I appreciate that you are trying to protect me. I will be careful, and there are people that owe me favors. Now, give me the names.”

I hesitate, but Sal is right, I am broke. I give him the names of the California-based companies that Eastern Cottonwood purchased and hear Sal writing.

“And what do they have in common?”

“They are owned by the same investment company.”

“The one that owns Hardrock Security?”

“Yes, the same one.”

“All right, give me a couple of days.”