Tatiana and the Russian Wolves. Stephen Evans JordanЧитать онлайн книгу.
years ago when we were youngsters.”
“Kind of graceless?” Fred laughed. “Graceless, you say? Drew said you could be funny, but your comedic efforts aren’t working today, certainly not with me.”
“Look, I understand your feelings.”
“I don’t think you do,” Fred said. “Drew has a thing for tall blonds. I mean, look at us; you’re a larger-framed version of me. But, no, that’s not it.”
“I’ve got to get going.”
Fred stood to face me. “Well, this tête-à-tête was your idea, wasn’t it?”
“I’m not going to apologize to you for what went on between Drew and me years ago. Frankly, that’s none of your business.”
“Really? None of my business? But you see, it’s definitely my business because I love Drew. And you, you tease him.”
“No, I don’t, not at all.”
“At Drew’s receptions, you were so vivacious, so charming. Underneath that stuffy exterior, you’re most alluring, as far as Drew’s concerned. Drew tries hiding it. But he can’t, not from me.”
“Fred, you’ve got it all wrong. I’ve never teased Drew.”
“Go ahead, deny it, you shameless flirt.” Fred sat down. “Well, that’s off my chest.” He clasped his hands behind his head. “I’m going to catch a few more rays. Please show yourself out.”
I was at the garden gate when Fred called out, “Oh, one last thing: your forbearance, please.” I went back. “I made this interlude unpleasant,” he said. “Nevertheless, your coming around is more than some of my real friends can muster. My feelings about you notwithstanding, I’ll edit out the acrimony when I tell Drew that you dropped by. He’ll be pleased.” Fred faced the sun.
CHAPTER 4
JUNE 1986
MOSCOW
Before I arrived, all of the Russian staff, except for one secretary, had resigned, so I contacted Boris Izmailov at the Soviet Foreign Trade Bank. Boris headed the North American desk and introduced me to his people, all of whom spoke excellent English. Boris and his senior management hosted a lunch; I explained my staffing problems and asked for their assistance. We sealed their assurances with vodka toasts.
After lunch Boris walked me to the elevators, and I asked, “Can we talk?” He nodded yes. “What happened to Ivan?”
“About six months after our encounter, he died: lung cancer. I went to the burial to make sure they nailed his coffin shut, with him in it.” Stepping closer, Boris continued, “I didn’t say a word to anyone about Ivan. Universal Bank will be the lead American bank for the pipeline project. So no problems from your end?”
“In my memorandum, I emphasized that you were forced into the situation, which had nothing to do with your bank. I also explained that Ivan was an alcoholic but had the power to force people to do his bidding. I sent the memo to Human Resources, where it was filed.”
“Would anyone at Universal tell my bank what happened?”
“There’s no reason to, and it might get in the way of the Sov-Gas financing. When I was applying for a Soviet visa and work permit, HR suggested that I attach an addendum explaining my grandfather. I did, and the work permit came back with a letter assuring me that my grandfather was not an issue.”
“Children and grandchildren of the émigrés are coming back as businessmen; many speak old-fashioned Russian like yours.” We laughed. “My bank will help. We’ll keep in touch. I must repay you for helping me.”
“Getting my office staffed will be more than enough.”
Boris looked over his shoulder. “I would sell my soul to get out of here; it’s collapsing.”
Boris’s colleagues sent over two retired women who spoke good English and a young man, Anatole Semenov, a recent university graduate. The Soviet bank would lend Anatole to us for as long as we needed him; the tradeoff was that Anatole would learn some American banking and improve his English while reporting our activities to his superiors, not that there was much to report. We were in a holding pattern, waiting for a permanent representative to be hired, and I spent most of my time working with Sov-Gas coordinating a proposed US Export-Import Bank component of the pipeline financing.
Early in September, I flew to San Francisco to interview a prospective Russian-speaking candidate, but my boss and I found the fellow unacceptable. The HR lady who had arranged the interview reminded me that I would stay in Moscow until a representative was found. A month later, HR, working through a headhunter, found a Russian speaker at a Canadian bank’s London branch. I flew to London for an interview that went well and continued through dinner. Two weeks later, the candidate flew to San Francisco for more interviews. He accepted the position and returned to London to wind up his affairs and start moving his family while I prepared to leave.
Anatole invited me to my going-away supper on a Saturday evening. He suggested a hard-currency restaurant with good food and service and hinted that I might expense the meal.
My expense reports from Moscow were on the gray side of bank policy, such as the shopping list Boris Izmailov gave me before I went to London: Scotch whiskey, French perfume, American cigarettes, and pantyhose for his wife. The bank had rejected many of my claims, and there was a good chance I’d end up paying for my going-away party.
The party was inexpensive for seven of us: US$500 for Georgian champagne with Caspian caviar and blini, wild mushroom soup, shashlik, plum sambouk (a thick mousse), Armenian brandy, and good coffee. Throughout the meal, we fortified ourselves with toasts of potato vodka. Pacing the alcohol during Russian celebrations is tricky, but getting fairly drunk is almost expected. When the meal ended, all of us were singing, and the older secretary and her husband were sobbing—hallmarks of a successful Russian party. After brushing cheeks, I walked back to my hotel, hoping the frigid night would clear my head.
At that hour, most people on the streets were hurrying to get out of the cold; those who were too drunk to care might pass out and die from exposure. Militsiya, uniformed police, were busy picking them up and shooing home the drunks who could still walk. A tipsy Westerner was noticed but not bothered.
I had a two-room suite at a hotel catering to foreigners. When I entered my suite, the phone was ringing, a surprise since it hadn’t worked for the past week. I answered, “Zdrazdviytye, Alexander Andreivich.”
“Roman?” a faint, crackling voice asked over a bad line.
“Da?”
There was a burst of static followed by a pulsing buzz. I could barely hear an English-speaking male voice: “Alexander Romanovsky?”
“Who is this?”
“Drew, Drew Faircloth. I’ve been trying to get you for hours. What time is it there?” The buzzing stopped.
“Around midnight. Where are you?”
“Fiona’s. She gave me this number. How are you?”
“Okay, and you?”
“You sound funny,” Drew said, “or is it the phone line?”
“Just back from a party. I’ve been drinking.” I found a pack of cigarettes in my coat pocket and lit one while Drew struggled to start a sentence.
“So, what’s it like?” he asked.
“The old parts of Moscow are interesting. Last month, I took a long weekend and went up to Leningrad. I could have spent a week at the Hermitage; the collection is incredible.”
“Your grandmother worked at the Hermitage after the Revolution, didn’t she?”
“I’m sure this line is tapped. Drew, how’s—”
“Oh dear,