“Good! Stay impressed! Good man! We can use it to destroy our enemies.”
Tretiak strode to the banister and bellowed down to the foyer, summoning his chief operating officer.
“Vereshagin, arrange a meeting!”
“With whom, Mr. Tretiak?”
“The President of Russia! I want Botvin and me to see him tomorrow night at the Kremlin!”
Botvin blinked rapidly and moved closer to ask a question of penultimate importance.
“Me? Meet with the President? But why?”
Tretiak threw a large arm around the small man’s shoulders. “As the capitalists say: You don’t sell the steak, you sell the sizzle. We’re going to sell Karpov ten billion dollars’ worth of sizzle.”
Vereshagin called the Kremlin, carefully wording Tretiak’s demand as a polite, respectful request. The message’s essence was immediately relayed to Nikolai Korshunov, the president’s chief of staff, who delivered it personally to his superior.
President Karpov was well aware of two dreadful facts of life: (1) Ivan Tretiak was his most volatile and powerful opponent, and (2) Ivan Tretiak was undoubtedly behind the inexplicable energy crisis.
If Tretiak wanted to meet with him, Karpov would be a fool to resist and a fool to comply. He chose the lesser foolishness and scheduled the meeting.
The following evening Ivan Tretiak, trailed by Vereshagin, Ilya, and Botvin, was escorted through the Kremlin’s impressive corridors by uniformed guards. He stopped to admire and covet the ceremonial sabers, Fabergé eggs, and priceless tapestries. The guards, well aware of their guest’s identity and reputation, regarded Tretiak and his associates with deserved suspicion.
Botvin, perspiring terribly, girded himself for the upcoming deception while father and son conferred.
“Only that scientist can spoil my plan,” Tretiak whispered urgently to Ilya, “if she gets back to London and talks to the press...”
“Don’t worry,” Ilya replied smugly. “Dr. Russell’s plane won’t leave the runway — at least not in one piece.”
The three charlatans were officiously directed into a heavily secured Kremlin meeting room. Awaiting them at an impressive hardwood conference table were a wary and careworn President Karpov and Nikolai Korshunov.
“Welcome, gentlemen,” said Karpov coolly, and he motioned for them to sit opposite him.
Tretiak and Botvin sat, but Ilya lingered at the door like a sulking guard dog.
Ivan Tretiak shivered with theatrical gusto. “Chilly in here, Mr. President.”
“As long as the heating crisis persists, we keep our thermostat quite low.” The president spoke with presidential politeness.
“Yes, let us discuss the heating crisis, Mr. President,” Tretiak leaned forward, fixing his gaze on Karpov. “As former minister of energy and power, I hear all manner of schemes to provide cheaper power.. ”
“I’m sure you have,” offered Karpov with a hint of cynicism.
Tretiak continued as if the remark had not been made.
“Our countrymen are freezing to death, Mr. President, but I have become aware of a marvelous new technology about which I am hopelessly out of my league from a scientific viewpoint. That’s why I’ve brought our eminent physicist here, Lev Botvin, from the University of Moscow.”
Documents, charts, graphs, and assorted impressive pieces of paper were shuffled and handed, as a matter of protocol, to Korshunov.
He began flipping through the pages while Karpov looked on.
“Before we’re dazzled by the good news,” offered Korshunov, “let’s dispense with the bad. What’s the price of this ‘marvel’?”
Vereshagin leaned across the table, finding the relevant page.
“Here. Right here are the research and development costs. Those are the only costs — I repeat — the only costs you’re asked to defray.”
Karpov leaned over and cast an interested glance at the figures. When he saw the total, he almost fell off his presidential chair.
“Ten billion?! My God! You must be mad!”
Tretiak started to rise. Vereshagin and Botvin followed his lead.
Karpov motioned them back down.
“Wait, wait,” he said with forced joviality, “I thought we’d drink some Kremlyovakaya to get a bit warmer and discuss all this in more detail.”
Tretiak smiled.
Korshunov arose from the table and moved to a bookcase shelf. Hidden behind was a crystal decanter of vodka and some tumblers.
“Mr. President,” began Tretiak as he sat back down, “in all candor, I’m tired of these silly partisan political struggles. You ask the average Russian and he or she will tell you that politicians are boring, fighting is a waste of time, and that what we need is more comfort and less speeches.”
Karpov nodded. He wanted to know where Tretiak was going with this.
“If a major scientific breakthrough such as the one we are asking you to fund would bring warmth and happiness to the people, I would gladly devote my time and my life to my family business and... my dear family.” He threw an almost believable sentimental look at Ilya.
Karpov wasn’t gullible. He knew Tretiak was as sentimental as a rabid Doberman.
“In other words,” clarified the president, “you would withdraw your opposition?”
Tretiak showed his teeth in an approximation of a sincere smile. “It is my sweetest dream.”
The message was clear. Karpov looked at Korshunov. The latter poured the vodka.
“Without making any sort of commitment,” said Karpov officiously, “we wish to study these documents. Dr. Botvin, will you kindly explain, in layman’s terms, this cold fusion?”
Botvin cleared his throat, repositioned his fogged lenses, and began his elaborate, yet simple, explanation — an explanation not intended to make cold fusion any more understandable, but to make the ten billion in hard currency more obtainable.
He was, in effect, drawing a verbal map from Karpov’s wallet to Tretiak’s pocket.
Part Tree
1
“As the number of deaths from freezing mounts, the mood here is increasingly ominous,” stated CNN correspondent Jan Sharp broadcasting from an improvised canopy outside the Kremlin. “A bankrupt Russian government — unable to provide the heating oil its people so desperately need — claims to be working on some mysterious solution to the crisis.”
The street was strewn with broken bottles, charred trashcans, torn clothes, spent teargas cartridges, and Tretiak placards.
“Meanwhile,” continued Sharp, “what Ivan Tretiak’s Oktober Party bills as rallies are turning into nightly riots...”
Detailing the debris and disorder prevalent in Moscow, the newscaster paid no notice to the rain-slickered businessman edging past the clutter, folding his umbrella, and entering a small side-street shop.
Dark and narrow, the counters were crammed with cheap copies of Russian Orthodox art, cardboard icons, plastic chalices, tin pendants, and other low-rent replicas similar to the more authentic-looking items Templar had seen in the Moscow underground.
The owner, wearing an overcoat indoors and pacing the small space to stay warm, was the same woman who dealt in higher-priced but equally bogus items below ground.
“Excuse me,” said the businessman with a New Orleans accent, “but I’m looking for either an authentic relic from the estate of the late Prince von Oldenburg who was married to a sister of the czar, or a genuine Madonna icon...”
Frankie brightened, sensing a score.
“With an American dollar deposit, we could meet somewhere else. I can show you rare objects. Prince von Oldenburg” — she gave the name serious thought — “very rare, very famous. His grandson was a movie star, did you know that? See him on pirate videotapes from America. Old black and white.” Frankie made a motion with her hands as if turning a combination lock. “Breaking open the bad guy’s safe; breaking the women’s hearts, yes? A true Russian!”