The Ice Curtain (3 page)

Cities, islands of gray concrete in a green, rolling sea, fell beneath the wing. Novosibirsk, Roschino, Bolshoye Savino. Nowek peered down through the scratched plastic porthole as a low, sinuous hump of hills appeared. The Ural Mountains, dividing Asia and Europe. They weren't much to see from the ground. They were even less impressive from above.

“You were once a geologist. Tell me about diamonds.”

Nowek looked up. “How much do you want to hear?”

“I'll say when to stop.”

Nowek shifted in the seat. “Pure carbon exists in just three states: graphite, amorphous, and diamond. The first two are almost worthless. The last is not. What makes a jewel instead of something you put in a pencil is the environment of extreme heat and pressure found deep inside the earth. Okay so far?”

“Keep going.”

“On their way to the surface, most diamonds burn up. Those that survive take on trace elements from the surrounding rock. These give color to the pure crystals. Nitrogen makes a clear diamond yellow. Boron turns it blue. Greens have been irradiated. Reds are very rare. No one knows what turns a diamond red. Reds are mysterious.”

“Maybe to you.”

“Red
diamonds
. The crystals get caught up in flows of lava that erupt at the surface in a kind of volcano of diamond.”

“Grisha, this is just rocks. . . .”

“So are diamonds. That's the secret the cartel doesn't want anyone to know.”

“Fascinating. Now tell me what I need to know.”

“Take a lump of coal, squeeze it with tremendous pressure, bake it under extreme heat, blast it to the surface, and dig it up and it becomes something you put in a vault, not a furnace.”

“Thank you. Now what about
our
diamonds?”

“Discovered in northern Yakutia in 1947. The Mirny mine was opened in fifty-four. Siberia is the number-two producer of diamonds in the world. More than South Africa.”

It aroused Volsky's competitiveness. “Who's first?”

“Australia by weight, Botswana by value. Siberian diamonds go straight to Moscow, to Petrov. He's supposed to sell them to the highest bidder. That's always been the cartel. Now they want to pay us less and so nothing has been sold. No one can force Petrov to act. He's under nobody's thumb.”

“He's under the President's thumb.”

“Maybe.” Nowek had his doubts. In a bankrupt country where influence came from money, who had more power? A sick President or a man who controlled billions?

“So all our gem diamonds go to the cartel?”

“
Everyone's
gem diamonds end up there. They control ninety percent of the world trade. When Mirny was discovered, the cartel's stock went down twenty-five percent overnight. They flew to Moscow the next day because they were afraid we would flood the market, drive down prices, and break the cartel.”

“So then why aren't they afraid of us now?”

“It's a good question. You should ask Petrov.”

“I will.” Volsky turned away. In a minute he was snoring softly.

Four, five, six hours. It was already time for dinner by Nowek's watch when the roar of the engines quieted to a whisper, and the airliner tilted steeply down. The stewardess reappeared and busied herself with powder and lipstick at a mirror.

Outside Nowek's porthole, a deck of clouds swiftly rose up to meet them. The jet slipped through into gray, bumpy murk. Lower, lower, the view below darkened, then cleared, revealing rich green earth, almost wild-seeming, with only the occasional dacha, surrounded by summer gardens gone fallow.

Ahead, the dark spires of Moscow pierced a smoky horizon, ominous and black in the smudged light. City of Dead Souls.

The old terminal at Moscow's Shermetyevo I Airport was part circus, part mob. Traders from the south in Italian clothes, gangsters from the west in leathers, northerners already in fur. Western tourists with backpacks and running shoes, homing beacons for pickpockets, thieves. A poster showed a busty blonde wearing an old leather aviator's helmet and nothing else. An advertisement for a club. Across the top, in block letters:
YOU WILL DO IT TONIGHT
.

“The Kremlin sent a car. It's probably at the VIP terminal,” said Volsky as they pushed through the crowds. “I'll wait. You go look.”

Nowek found a uniformed guard and asked for directions. He got a cold look for an answer. Either Nowek already knew where VIPs should go, or there was no reason for him
to
know.

Outside, a fine mist fell from pearl-gray clouds. Taxis dove and darted, ignoring Nowek and Volsky, competing for foreign passengers. Mercedes sedans floated by on invisible currents, the
biznismen
within hidden behind tinted glass, shepherded by Jeep Cherokees bristling with gun barrels.

A loud
blaat,
followed by a crunch, then the almost musical tinkle of a shattered taillight lens, made them turn and look.

A big black dinosaur of a car, a Chaika 10, backed up, disengaged from a cab's rear bumper, and rolled forward again in a cloud of blue oil smoke. You could hear each beat of its engine.

“Brezhnev's ghost,” said Nowek. The Chaika looked like an American car from the fifties with prominent fins and a toothy grille.

“I wonder who . . .” Volsky began, but he stopped when the Chaika rolled up to the curb and stopped. The driver got out, put a blue flasher on the roof and turned it on.

He was young, dressed in a leather jacket and an officer's wide-brimmed cap. A long dark ponytail dangled from beneath it, halfway down his back. “Gentlemen! I'm Gavril.”

“So what?” said Volsky.

“I'm your driver. This is your car. Chairman Petrov sent me.”

Volsky looked at Nowek, then back.

Gavril smiled, then said, “Welcome to Moscow.”

Chapter 3

The City

Gavril maneuvered the old Chaika into the stream of traffic heading for the M10 highway. Theoretically, the blue flasher on the roof was reserved for official traffic, though you could buy one on any street corner. It might make Moscow's famously corrupt traffic police hesitate before requesting a bribe. Then again, it might not. “You really work for the President?” asked the driver. “Normally they send his people to the Metropole.”

The most expensive hotel in Moscow and so tightly controlled by the
mafiya
it appeared
mafiya
-free. Volsky said, “We're not?”

Gavril looked into the rearview mirror. “You're booked at the Rossiya. It's not the Metropole, but it's very convenient.”

“Convenience is important,” said Nowek, earning him a dirty look from Volsky.

Everyone knew the Rossiya. Built in 1967, the concrete monster was proclaimed the world's largest hotel, eight hundred seventy-five rooms on eighteen floors. Now the Rossiya was famous for being the very worst place to stay in Moscow. Its endless corridors and gloomy halls had become a kind of vertical slum.

“Chairman Petrov uses the Rossiya for foreign visitors of a different rank. . . .” Gavril let his words trail off into a cloud of implication.

Volsky said, “Which?”

“Visiting diamond men from Angola, Botswana. You know . . .”

“Africans,” said Nowek.

When Gavril nodded, his ponytail slithered up and down his leather-clad back like a puppet's string. “I hear the restaurant on the top floor still has a great view.”

“We'll be sure to look.” The radio was tuned to Radio Orfee, the best classical music station in Moscow. Nowek recognized one of the Bach “English Suites,” though he wasn't sure which one. A violin was individual, full of character and innuendo. A piano was a machine made from hammers, pulleys, wires. A piano dominated. A violin insinuated, seduced. A violin sang.

They turned onto the highway, heading southeast. The Chaika slowly gathered speed. It might be a derelict, but it still moved with exaggerated dignity, as though it were carrying a Politburo member to an important meeting. The announcer identified the piece as the Suite Number 6 in D Minor.

“
Look
at all this traffic,” Gavril chatted. “And a Saturday. Did you know there are more cars in Moscow now than in all of Siberia?”

“In Siberia,” said Volsky, his voice like rocks rumbling down a steel chute, “we say the same thing about thieves.”

Through the outer MKAD Ring Road, by the giant tank trap sculptures commemorating the defense of Moscow, they rolled by the sparkling new IKEA furniture store, marooned in a muddy field.

“The Swedes should have known better,” Gavril chatted amiably. “They built their store just outside city limits so they wouldn't have to pay off the mayor. No one told them all the roads came from the Moscow side. The mayor said if the Swedes want customers, they can fly them in by helicopter.”

Volsky gave Nowek a look that said,
Moscow
.

They crossed the inner Garden Ring. The Chaika lumbered on into the heart of the capital. Coming out onto Ulitsa Varvarka, the windshield filled with an extraordinary sight: a cluster of attractive sixteenth-century stone buildings dwarfed by an overhanging tidal wave of cracked, filthy concrete: the Hotel Rossiya.

Across the street, partially blocking the view to the domes of St. Basil's, a billboard advertised an American cigarette with
A TASTE OF FREEDOM!

“Here we are,” said Gavril.

Nowek peered up at the hotel's stark facade. There were windows missing, smashed, covered over with plywood sheets.

Gavril docked the old limousine under the Rossiya's swooping concrete canopy, scattering a few prostitutes out working the afternoon shift. “The Chairman is expecting you at six-thirty. He's booked a private room at
Ekipazh
. It's the best club in the city. What time would you like me to pick you up?”

Volsky looked at the Rossiya's forbidding entrance. “Early.”

“Good idea. It's safer in daylight. We'll say five-thirty. And one piece of advice about the elevators . . .”

“Don't worry,” said Nowek. “We'll walk.”

Outside, the rain had settled into a spitting mist. Inside, the Rossiya looked depressingly normal to Nowek. It could be any one of a hundred hotels scattered across Siberia, only bigger.

Their rooms were on the fifth floor. They took the stairs.

“So,” Volsky huffed as they climbed the stairwell. The carpet had once been red. It was now stained to an Oriental complexity of yellows, purples, browns, and whites. It seemed less a carpet, more like something that once was alive and might be still. “It's almost four. You've got some time. What will you do?”

Nowek carried his own bag and one of Volsky's. “There's a record shop called
Melodiya
that stocks old recordings. My father thinks they have some of his. I also want to check my mail.”

“Mail?”

“
Elektronka.
I can connect by phone to the Internet.”

“Is it expensive?”

“It's free.”

Volsky looked puzzled. “How is that possible?”

“To be honest, I don't think anyone knows.”

They opened the fire door to their floor and hunted for the
dezhurnaya,
the keeper of the keys, the minder of everyone's business. The Rossiya might be owned by
mafiya,
but the fifth floor was hers. They found her in an empty room, passed out on the bed, the television on. They claimed their keys from her desk.

Nowek's room was reassuringly normal. The window had glass, triple-paned and with a tiny operable portion caulked shut. The bed was monkishly narrow. He hoped the bathtub stains were rust.

Nowek unpacked his laptop computer. A Pentium, so it elicited sighs and substantial offers whenever it was seen. Nowek tried to keep those occasions to a minimum, for of all sins, envy was the most Russian. He switched it on. The screen glowed soft, cool blue. He picked up the telephone. There was no dial tone. He tapped the receiver a few times. Nothing.

He put the machine away and knocked on the communicating door to Volsky's room. It was unlocked. The room reeked of cologne. Volsky was taking a shower. “Arkasha!”

“. . . believe it? There's no fucking hot water.”

“The phone doesn't work, either. I'm going out.”

“The car arrives at five-thirty. Don't be late.”

“Arkasha, why are you going to war over diamonds? What about coal miners? Teachers? None of them have been paid, either.”

The water splashed a steady
sshhh,
then Volsky said, “They're killing them. It has to stop. I'll tell you more after we beat up Petrov.”

Killing them?
“If I'm not back in time, I'll meet you at the club.”

“There's a business card by the phone. Read it.”

Nowek found it. On the back was a telephone number with a 095 prefix, followed by 661-18-94, and a word.
Buran.
Blizzard.

“If you need help, call that number and use the code word.”

Yeltsin's private number was easy enough to remember;
661
was June 1961, Nowek's birthday.
18
was Galena's age. And
94
? The year his wife, Nina, had died.

“Don't get lost. I need you there tonight, Grisha,” Volsky called out.

Nowek slipped the card into his jacket. “I'll be there.”

The music store
Melodiya
was on Nikitinskaya Street. The rain had stopped and it wasn't far, so Nowek walked. He spotted it beyond a dour brick building that proclaimed itself the Soviet Home for Working Artists. A small jewelry shop called
Eleganza
had been carved into a corner of its first floor.

Nowek was drawn to the golden light of its window. Beyond the thick glass were coiled heaps of necklaces executed in thick, heavy gold. Just the thing for a warrior princess, or a
mafiya
's girlfriend. Behind them, under a hot spotlight, were the diamonds. A small sign shouted
A DIAMOND FOR EVERY WALLET!

Maybe they were diamonds, maybe not. It took serious science to tell the difference between a cubic crystal of silicon carbide and a cubic crystal of pure diamond. Both were clear, colorless gems. Both superbly hard. Both filled with brilliant, refractive fire. One was industrial waste, the other a priceless gem signifying eternal love. But that was psychology.

Eleganza
was closing. The shopkeeper peered out at Nowek, then tossed a cloth over the display and switched off the lights.

It began to rain. Nowek turned and headed for the music store.

Melodiya
didn't look like the sort of place that specialized in old recordings. Teens in black leather and polychromed hair lounged against the windows, blocking the door. Advertisements behind the glass touted acid-jazz, Caribbean ska, and something called house.

Nowek pushed his way inside.

The shop was bigger than it seemed. The main room was filled with long tables stacked with CDs. A half-dozen kids in headphones tested music in a separate listening room. They swayed, eyes shut. The air vibrated with heavy bass notes.

The smell of coffee wafted over from the bar. The price for a cup was a breathtaking one hundred twenty-five rubles. A fifth of a teacher's monthly pension, when he got one. There were computers there, too, turned on, probably connected to the Internet. He could check for messages from Galena if there was time. He made his way to the counter.

A girl in a forest-green tunic stood behind a computer screen. Her shoulder-length hair was lank yellow, pinned back with tiny black headphones. Her face was hidden behind enormous glasses set with rhinestones. Her nose was decorated with a ring. In her matching green tights she looked like a forest elf gone bad.

“I'm looking for . . .”

“Classical's over there,” she said, briefly looking up.

“What makes you think I was looking for classical?”

“Just a lucky guess. Is there something in particular?”

“The Dvo(breve)rák Violin Concerto in A Minor. It's performed by the Czech Philharmonia.”

Her fingers poised at a keyboard. Her fingernails were painted a bright, acid green. “Violinist?”

“Tadeus Nowek.”

“Your name?”

“Gregori Nowek.”

She looked up, focusing on his face. The light made her eyes seem almost violet. She entered the name into the computer.

“Has this store been here long?”

“My grandfather opened it.” She peered at her screen. “I'm not showing anything in current stock.”

“It wouldn't be current. It's an old recording. My father thought you might have some left.”

“Maybe upstairs. It will take a little time to check.”

He'd have to leave soon. “Ten minutes?”

She nodded over in the direction of the coffee counter. “Buy a cup of coffee. I'll be back.” She disappeared behind a door.

He bought a cup of coffee, found an open computer, and logged on to his
elektronka
account. There was a message from Galena.

His daughter was staying in America with Anna Vereskaya, an American woman of Russian parents, and a biologist at the University of Idaho. He'd met her when she came to Siberia to save the last few hundred Siberian tigers. Once, they thought they might be in love. Anna's Russian was fluent, but underneath she was one hundred percent American. It was a gap too wide for either one of them to cross.

From: Gail Nowek <[email protected]

To: Gregori Nowek

Father:

You probably already could guess, but I won't be coming back to Irkutsk next week. Please thank Uncle Arkasha for everything he did to get me into the university. But there's not one student in Irkutsk who would stay if she had the chance to live here. It's like switching on a TV and instead of black and white, everything is now in color. I know what you'll say, but you haven't seen America so you don't have a clue. Sure, I could study for years in Irkutsk. Then what? Don't be too mad. Even better, why don't you come? If you do, you'll never want to go back, either.

Gail

Gail?
Nowek stared into his expensive cup of coffee. He started typing, slowly at first, then faster, then pounding.

To: Galena Nowek <[email protected]

From: Gregori Nowek

Galena:

I read your letter. “Gail” can stay in America but Galena must come home. Your classes will begin soon and your visa will run out. If you are still in America when that happens, they can arrest and deport you. I am in Moscow now. I will be in Irkutsk next week. Make sure you are, too. It's autumn now, the trees are beautiful. There are colors here, too.

Your father

“You're in luck.” It was the girl in green.

He followed her behind the counter, through the door, and up a narrow set of stairs. “What's your name?”

“Tatiana.”

“Have you read Pushkin's
Onegin
?”

“It's a book?”

“Never mind.”

She knocked on a door, and then opened it.

The air smelled of must and age and old vinyl. The walls were hidden behind thousands of records carefully racked in specially built shelves. Thin, dusk light came through yellowed lace curtains.

An old man sat in a padded chair. There was a cardboard record sleeve on his lap. He had a pink face and a fringe of white hair. He wore a loose cardigan of indeterminate color, a white shirt and tie, maroon corduroy pants. His eyes were magnified behind thick lenses. They were pale, watery blue.

“Your granddaughter said she found a copy of the Dvo(breve)rák. . . .”

“The A Minor. It's rare. I have just the one.” The old man peered at the back of the old record. He handed it to the girl. “Show him.”