The Metronome (The Counterpoint Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  “Was that the bombings investigation?”

  “No. Money laundering, illegal arms dealing, drug trafficking. Companies, accounts, names. Some big names, both Russian and Western.”

  “And what did you do with these materials?”

  “Nothing. You see, your dad was not sure about them. He asked me ‘Are the notes in the margins definitely Natalya’s?’ and I could not say. They looked like Natalya’s handwriting, but I was not 100 percent sure. The letters seemed almost too careful.”

  “Has anyone seen them?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  “Can I have them?”

  Bezginovich looks at me guiltily. “No. I am sorry. In December, two clients canceled my services. And then I received a call. I don’t know who was on the other end, but he knew everything. He told me to stop the investigation, or more of my clients would start canceling and tax authorities would take an interest in my business. I loved my sister, but I do have a family to protect. I contacted your father and told him the assignment was off. Then I destroyed my copy of the documents.”

  “You stopped my father?”

  “I stopped being his client. Whether he stopped investigating, I don’t know. I am not sure he did.”

  “So he still had the document that you found in your sister’s safe deposit box?”

  “Yes, unless he destroyed it. But as I said, he doubted the document’s authenticity.”

  “Is there anything else you can tell me?”

  He shakes his head and gets up to leave. “No. I am not sure I should have told you as much as I did. I had to explain your father’s role, I owed that much to you. I am sorry he is dead, but the investigation must end.”

  Bezginovich leaves and I go walking through the Moscow night. Walking helps me think or just unwind. Bezginovich seems like a decent man despite his “lawyer for the mafia” reputation; he must have met with me to soothe his conscience. But the question remains: Was Streltsova investigating something that marked her for death?

  I pass by the Duma and the Bolshoy, with scores of people out on this warm night, and find myself in front of Lubynka. It’s a large Baroque-like yellow brick building, imposing, and ugly. It could be the headquarters of a large bank or insurance company, except that for many years it’s been the headquarters of the Soviet secret police in all its incarnations, from the Cheka to the KGB. The most dreaded building in the whole country. And the tallest, as a joke went: you could see Siberia from it. Yakov’s mentor, Lev Landau, was imprisoned here for a year. He would have been killed by the NKVD goons but for the stand taken by the head of the institute Pyotr Kapitsa. It’s hard for a non-Russian to understand Kapitsa’s bravery.

  There is a new monument in front of the building now; I walk over to look at it. It’s a stone from one of the infamous Gulag camps, here to remind people of the victims of Communist terror. The meat grinder of the Lubyanka cellars: Thousands upon thousands were executed in the basement of this ugly building, and many more were sent to slave away and die in the Gulag.

  Could the FSB have set up the 1999 bombings as Streltsova was alleging? If they did, and she had proof, that would have been a damn good reason to silence her. Is it possible they killed hundreds of innocents just to justify a minor war?

  I turn around, walk down Ilyinka Street to Red Square and St. Basil’s Cathedral. Scores of people are there on this warm night. St. Basil is lit up, rising like the flame of a fire. Legend has it that Ivan the Terrible had the architect blinded so he couldn’t build anything else. There is no truth to it, but it fits with the character. In reality, the Terrible sobriquet is misplaced. There is no proper English word to represent Grozny. It conveys a combination of dangerous, strict, and formidable. Ivan the Terrible was more like Henry VIII of England: intelligent, ruthless, and a womanizer. He was the first “Tsar of All the Russias,” he unleashed terror against his own people, he fought endless wars, and he had seven wives. In a rage, he killed his son, Tsarevich Ivan.

  Ivan the Terrible was an inspiration for both Peter the Great and Stalin. Tragically, Peter the Great condemned his son Alexei to death, while Stalin let his son Yakov die in a Nazi camp. In Genesis, God commands Abraham to offer Isaac as a sacrifice, then stops Abraham at the last minute. For the God of the Bible, the sacrifice is symbolic. In Russia, it’s real: To reach the pinnacle of the power, to be able to measure out death to countless others, you had to sacrifice your own flesh and blood. Here it’s a God of vengeance, not love.

  Where do I go from here? This city now feels foreign, I’ve been gone for too long. Yakov is my only connection, and I can’t jeopardize him and Anya and David. But I still have three names: Avtotorgoviy, Mershov and Voron. I’ll try to follow these clues the best I can and hope I don’t reach a dead end.

  Sunday, June 18

  Jet-lagged, I sleep fitfully. First, I dream of driving in a car with the top down through beautiful mountainous scenery, trees on one side, a valley of the other. A powerful engine purrs as I climb up. I reach the top and slow down, blue sky is all around me. The road starts heading downhill and the car picks up speed. I gently tap the brakes, nothing happens. I slam the brakes as hard as I can, but the car continues to accelerate, tires screeching, as I fight the steering wheel. I am flying into a sharp turn and realize that I won’t be able to make it.

  I wake up, sweating, toss and turn for an hour until the light starts seeping through the window, then fall asleep again. This time, I am with a woman, we are making love. We change positions, but I am always facing her back. I ask her to turn and look at me, she shakes her head. Her hair is blonde like Karen’s, but this does not feel like Karen’s body. In frustration, I grab her shoulder and throw the woman on her back. Sarah’s face is looking up at me.

  I wake up from the hotel phone ringing. It’s Yakov.

  “You did not call last night!”

  I did not realize I was supposed to call and just answer: “Sorry, I had a meeting and then it was late.”

  “Fine, fine. I have some news for you.”

  “What news?”

  “You get up, check out of your fancy hotel, come over here and I’ll tell you.”

  “Yakov, I am not going to inconvenience you and Anya…”

  “Don’t talk rubbish.” Yakov hangs up.

  I eat a quick breakfast, take the new PSP portable console and a couple of games that I bought for David, and walk to the metro.

  The game console is a hit with David, not so much with Anya. Yakov spreads his hands. “Where is your luggage?” I give them both a guilty shrug.

  Three of us proceed to the kitchen where, despite this being before noon, Yakov sets up tea. It’s a carefully orchestrated procedure. He measures loose leaf black tea from a colorful can using a small spoon he has for this purpose. Yakov then pours boiling water over the tea in a special teapot and lets it steep for exactly four minutes. Then he mixes it with hot water to your individual taste: strong, medium, or mild. Sugar cubes are lined up on the side. Yakov does not recognize the concept of adding milk to his tea.

  As I am sipping the hot liquid, Yakov tells his news. “When you asked me to look into this Gregory Voron, I thought ‘It’s Saturday, why didn’t he ask me earlier?’ But I called my friend Vera Semenovna from Student Services anyway – she’s been at the university almost as long as I, and after so many years I figured I would trouble her on a Saturday. And since everything’s been so computerized, she did not even have to leave her home, she could look everything up on the computer.”

  Yakov stops to drink his tea, no doubt for dramatic effect. Anya and I patiently wait.

  “So Vera Semenovna calls me back and she is all upset!” Failing to get a reaction earlier, Yakov prods us by pausing.

  “Why is she upset?” Anya plays along.

  “The records show that Gregory Voron graduated with a degree in history in 1993, but she could not remember anybody like that!”

  I laugh. “Ten thousand people graduate every year. How
can she remember them all?”

  Yakov raises his right palm as if to signal stop. “Don’t laugh yet. Vera Semenovna is a very thorough person with an excellent memory. See, in addition to graduation records, there are records for individual classes. These are not kept in the main system for long, but Vera Semenovna, being a thorough person, archives them.” Yakov goes back to his tea, then continues. “To make a long story short, Vera Semenovna went into the archives and started checking records of the classes that Mr. Voron supposedly attended. She checks one class record, no such person. She checks another class record, no such person. She checks…”

  “So basically he was not in any of the classes?” interrupts Anya.

  “Vera Semenovna checked seven classes and not a single one had him in it,” proudly declares Yakov.

  “Somebody inserted his name into the graduation record but did not bother modifying the old archives,” I think out loud.

  “Exactly right,” declares Yakov, “if someone wants to check whether Mr. Voron graduated from the university, they’ll be told ‘yes.’ Only a very thorough, expert examination would detect this fraud. Of course, Vera Semenovna is very upset and will take action first thing Monday morning.”

  “What kind of action?” I wonder.

  “Well, expose the fraud of course! We know there are cases of people ‘buying’ degrees from second-rate institutions, but nothing like this has ever happened in our university.”

  I shake my head, “Yakov, you should call Vera Semenovna and ask her to keep quiet about this.”

  “What do you mean? Why?”

  I don’t know what to do. Last night I decided I can’t involve Yakov and Anya any deeper into this case. How do I stop Yakov without saying anything? I try an evasive maneuver. “Yakov, it’s dangerous and best to leave it alone.”

  “Pavel, you asked me to check this name. What did you find out? Why is it dangerous?”

  I look from Yakov to Anya, pleading with them to listen. “Last night I met the man who hired my father to investigate a case. That man was threatened into stopping the investigation. I don’t know what my father had discovered, but I am afraid to involve you. I don’t think checking the records would endanger you, but asking further questions might.”

  Yakov sips his already cold tea, chews his lip.

  “Fine, I will ask Vera Semenovna to drop this matter. Is there anything I can do to help you?”

  “I have to investigate something that took place in the Russian stock market about eight years ago. If you can introduce me to someone who’s worked in the market back then, that would be helpful.”

  Yakov’s face turns to show his displeasure,

  “Unfortunately, you are not the only one of my students that traded real science for finance. Back in the 1990s, a number of promising young physicists went into banking and that kind of stuff.”

  “What about Tolik Osipov?” asks Anya. “He runs a bank of some kind.”

  “Yes,” ruefully nods Yakov, “he dropped out in 1995 without even defending his dissertation. Such a waste!”

  I have not heard the name, so Osipov must be not some major oligarch or something. Better this way.

  He disappears into the apartment, comes out with a cordless phone and an old address book that has pages falling out. Yakov flips the book’s pages back and forth.

  “I don’t have Osipov’s number. But I think I know someone who might be able to help. Do you remember Lyonya Krasnov?”

  Both Anya and I gasp. I squeeze out, “Of course.”

  “His family has always been well-connected,” says Yakov and dials a number. “Allo? This is Yakov Weinstein calling for Leonid Krasnov. Not available? So when will he be available? You don’t know? You will take my message, I understand. It’s his former professor Yakov Weinstein, W-e-i-n-s-t-e-i-n. What’s this about? Tell him that Pavel Rostin is in town and would like to get in touch with him.” Yakov hangs up, a bit flustered. “Such an important man, can’t answer his own phone on Sunday? All right, enough business for now. Anya, can we set up a lunch for our guest?”

  The phone rings as Yakov is still holding it.

  “Allo? Yes, this is he. Lyonya? Yes, I am well. Yes, Anya is well too. Pavel is here. He needs to get in touch with Tolik Osipov.”

  Yakov hands me the phone.

  “Pavel, my goodness, how long it’s been!” I easily recognize Lyonya’s voice.

  “Twenty years, Lyonya.”

  “That long, eh? So, why are you looking for Tolik Osipov?”

  “It’s not specifically him; I need to talk to someone who was active in the Russian stock market about ten years ago.”

  “OK, I’ll try to get hold of him. What’s your number? And why don’t you come over for the old times’ sake, perhaps I can help. I am still at the same address.”

  I don’t need to be reminded where it is.

  As I get up to leave, I ask Anya to walk me to the metro station. Yakov hugs me at the door. He does not predict my imminent return. Perhaps he is thinking that this time the prodigal son is disappearing for good. He was like a second father to me and I was not kind to my fathers.

  “May God keep you safe,” Yakov sounds solemn.

  “God? Yakov, you are a scientist. In all the lectures I’ve taken from you, I don’t recall you mentioning God once.”

  “Pavel, when you were taking my lectures, mentioning God would have cost me my job. I started believing in God on March 5, 1953, well before you were born.”

  “Why March 5, 1953?”

  “That’s the day that the monster died. Fifty years passed, but I remember it well. For months, the smell of pogroms was in the air. The editorials talked about evil spies and murderers, all with Jewish-sounding names. People talked about trains being readied to take all the Jews to Siberia. Stalin’s henchmen were experts at deportations: Poles, Germans, Crimean Tatars…and now they were coming for the Jews, to ‘save us from the righteous anger of the Soviet people.’ Our whole family was packed, sleeping in our clothes, expecting a middle-of-the-night knock on the door. Except for my grandfather, who said ‘God won’t allow this. Not after the Holocaust.’ Stalin died on March 5, before the plan could be carried out.”

  I mumble, “I am sorry, I did not know.”

  “Don’t be sorry, they did not teach this in school. Nobody cares now, they think it’s been too long ago to matter. And I realize it’s not logical and well might be just a coincidence, but I don’t think one comes to God through logic alone.”

  The day is nice and sunny, so Anya and I decide to go to the further-away Oktyabrskaya Station. Anya puts her arm through mine and we walk arm-in-arm through Gorky Park, like we did twenty years ago – before Karen swept into our lives.

  Back in the Soviet days, at the beginning of each school year they would send students to help on farms. Such was the brilliant outcome of collectivization: Once the private property had been eradicated, the farmers cared more about drinking than about the harvest. So each September, the city folks would get mobilized and sent to the country to help. That particular year, we were sent to gather potatoes. Since I was already in my fifth year, I was in a privileged position of working inside where the gathered potatoes were cleaned and sorted.

  The younger students were condemned to labor in the muddy fields, under cold rain and hot sun. Inside we worked under the direction of Semyon Nikanorovich. Semyon was in his 50s, thin as a rail, and foul-mouthed. His bald head was covered by a dirty fur hat even when it was warm. Bloodshot eyes and a red nose immediately alerted us to Semyon’s priorities. He would show up at ten with a half-empty bottle of vodka, the first half already warming him up from the inside. Despite being perpetually drunk, he managed to maneuver through sharp rotating machinery without injuries. One of our seniors was not so lucky - he got half of his little finger cut off and was sent home to Moscow. His replacement was a petite younger girl with a long braid of black hair, big eyes, and a soft voice. She was at the far end of the conveyor, I barely saw
her and paid little attention.

  Until Semyon tapped me on the shoulder conspiratorially. “That new girl, she keeps looking at you.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” I said, trying to keep my eyes on the conveyor and my fingers away from it.

  Semyon belched, emitted a puff of alcohol breath, and confirmed. “Yes, she’s been here for two days, and she would stare at you and then quickly look away. Nothing gets by Semyon Nikanorovich.”

  I was flattered but trying to keep my fingers and limbs intact was the priority.

  Later that night, I stumbled on a bottle game. We all stayed in cinder-block barracks that must have been built years ago for the army and now were sitting empty eleven months out of the year, until the city folks would show up for the harvest. While there were separate sections for men and women, put a couple of hundred young people in their late teens and early twenties into close proximity and things get intermingled rather quickly. A game of bottle has numerous advantages: It does not require any tools but one empty bottle; it can be played in any state of inebriation; and it can be made as sexual or as innocent as the participants like. On one end of the spectrum, it can be played as strip poker where participants have to remove a piece of clothing whenever the bottle points at them. On the other end, you can be required to perform something, like singing a song or reading a poem. This particular game was in the middle of the spectrum: One person would spin the bottle and whoever it points at, had to kiss the first person. I was walking by and someone called out to me: “Pavel, help!”

  It was Volodya, my usual lab partner. He and one other senior boy were surrounded by four giggling younger girls.

  “There are four of them and only two of us.”

  “I am sure you can manage.”

  I smiled and was about to leave when a soft voice mockingly said, “What’s the matter, Pavel, are you afraid of us?”

  It was the black-haired girl that Semyon had pointed out. The others started laughing at me, “Yeah, he is afraid!”