“E.M. tells me you like cigars,” Mazie said. “I love the smell of a good Havana.”
Von Lubeck bestowed his most charming smile on her and reached for the humidor. “I understand the storm is causing widespread damage on your West Coast.”
“It’s the worst recorded storm in history,” Mazie said, again taking a sip. “It looks like it’s spreading inland.”
“Global warming, no doubt.”
“So the scientists claim. Which is one of the reasons I’m here.” She raised the glass and drank. “This is excellent.”
The conversation had taken an unexpected turn and von Lubeck puffed at his cigar, wanting time to think and for the brandy to give him the edge he needed. But Mazie pressed ahead, taking it away from him. “Our scientists are mostly agreed that it’s due to the greenhouse effect. Automobiles are the major source.”
Von Lubeck sighed. “Ah, the automobile. I do not see you Americans giving up your beloved cars.”
“We won’t have to,” Mazie said. “Perhaps you’ve heard of our research in fuel cells. Our scientists may have made a breakthrough.”
“A development to be desired,” von Lubeck murmured, calculating what Germany could do if it controlled that invention. Dealing with the Arabs then would be an absolute delight. “Our scientists tell me a usable, cheap, mass-produced fuel cell is a ghost on the wind, a fairy tale like cold fusion.”
Mazie smiled. “I understand you have spent billions chasing that particular ghost.”
It was a body blow and von Lubeck almost flinched. “So close,” he murmured.
“Fuel cells are not imaginary,” Mazie said, taking a longer sip of the brandy and wrapping the glass in her hands. It was time to offer the carrot. “We have so much in common, a desire for a stable Europe, strong economies, advanced technologies.”
The pieces fell into place for von Lubeck. “We hold some patents you need,” he said, cutting to the heart.
She smiled at him. “Perhaps.”
“Germany would be most interested in participating in the development of your fuel cells.”
“Nothing is free,” Mazie said.
Von Lubeck nodded. “You mentioned a stable Europe earlier.”
“Exactly. President Turner is very worried about Poland and certain very disturbing trends.” She took the gloves off and picked up the stick. “If Germany continues its massive purchases of land and businesses, western Poland will become your vassal state like the West Bank of the Jordan River is to Israel. That is unacceptable to President Turner.”
The brandy had done its work and she had laid out the quid pro quo too soon. Fuel cells in exchange for an independent Poland. It was easy to counter the offer. “Ah, but it creates a barrier between my country and what the Russians are doing in eastern Poland.”
Mazie ignored his excuse. “If you persist, we will stand aside and let events in Poland play out. Maybe the Russians will prevail and extend their influence right up to the German border. Regardless, we will deal with whomever is in charge after the dust settles.”
Von Lubeck almost laughed. She was saying too much. “You’re bluffing. You have nothing to offer us.”
“I am sorry you believe that,” Mazie said. She stood up. The meeting was over.
Von Lubeck said, “I pity Poland. Your country likes to make promises and encourage others to do the heavy lifting. Then you abandon them at the first sign of trouble. Show us you can contain the Russians and stop the drugs. Then we might be interested.”
“We do need a strong partner in Europe,” Mazie agreed curtly. “There are others who are interested.” They exchanged the usual words of departure. Then she was gone.
Von Lubeck stared into the slowly dying fire. He snorted. “Fuel cells.” He had used the carrot and the stick approach too many times to fall victim. Still, there were reports that had come across his desk. He dismissed them. His world was geopolitics and he called up his mental map of Poland. “Stupid woman,” he muttered, thinking not of Mazie but of the president of the United States. He threw his cigar into the fire and turned to leave. He glanced at Mazie’s snifter of brandy. It was full. His eyes opened wide.
THIRTY
It was a ritual the old man adhered to with the rigor worthy of a true believer. Every Wednesday afternoon at exactly three o’clock, his old Russian-made Fiat wheezed up to the newly renovated Sandunovsky Baths and the old man would get out. An attendant would wait for him at the door and escort him inside where the restored statues and tiles of the bathhouse glittered again with czarist splendor. The old man would fish a few rubles out of his pocket and pay the cashier. That was as much a part of the ritual as the weighing-in, soaping, steaming, and rinsing.
After the first round, the old man would sit in the changing room with a sheet wrapped around him and gossip with the other regulars, happy to be among friends. Nothing about him, his clothes or actions, suggested he was one of the most powerful godfathers in the Russian Mafiya, a member of the Circle of Brothers, and wealthy beyond a czar’s wildest dreams. In fact, he had saved the baths and paid for their restoration, a minor out-of-pocket expense.
Two other men, lesser lights in the world of Russian crime joined him. Common knowledge held they were in competition to be the old man’s heir. The regulars moved away, creating a circle of privacy. “Are you going to Yalta?” the youngest asked.
“No,” the old man answered.
“Others may follow your example.”
“That is for them to decide.”
“Mikhail will be insulted.” This from the older of the two.
“He is outside the law.” To accuse Vashin of breaking the codes and rules of the vor was the worst accusation the old man could hurl at anyone.
“It will be dangerous not to go,” the youngest man said.
“At my age, danger is the only thing that gives me a hard-on.” Their laughter joined and the tension was broken. Two men, fully dressed and wearing black leather topcoats, walked into the changing room and stood in the doorway. For a moment, the old man and his friends gossiped about the infidelity of a young wife and traded obscene comments. The old man shot the newcomers a disdainful look and jerked his head for them to leave. When they didn’t move, he knew. “Vashin?” he muttered.
A slight head nod answered him and he sighed in resignation. He stood and walked into the steam room as if for another round of sweating. One of the men drew a sawedoff shotgun from under his leather coat and motioned for the men in the changing room to lie on the floor while the other man threw a grenade into the steam room. He jammed a wedge into the latch and stepped back, pulling out a submachine gun. The explosion blew the door of the steam room off its hinges. The two men sprayed the room with gunfire, killing any witnesses before walking nonchalantly to a waiting Mercedes-Benz.
“Who was the wife they were talking about?” one asked.
“A new widow,” the other answered.
Vashin liked the old-fashioned way Geraldine had organized the Yalta meeting. Easels were erected around her office holding charts diagramming the accommodations where the godfathers and their large entourages would be quartered. In one corner, a big board held the arrival schedules of the aircraft and the number of limousines, cars, and trucks that would be necessary to transport the arrivals to their dachas. It was a carefully integrated flow plan that kept the vehicles in constant motion.
“By controlling transportation,” she told Vashin, “we control all movement.”