The foreman, a product of GRU training, was most unhappy at that moment. General Keradin had inquired about the new man, the one who knew so much about the time for the sweet wines. The foreman’s knowledge of grapes and wine-making had given him this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to work for the head of the Strategic Rocket Forces, one of the most influential men in the Kremlin. But his future success depended more on his security measures than it did on his skills with the grape. The peasants he employed were prized for their closed mouths. The workers were allowed out of their barracks only during working hours, and they never spoke out of turn. There were no labor problems at Keradin’s dacha.
“I hired no such person, General,” he’d responded earlier. “I believe it was my assistant who canvassed the neighboring villages for more help during the harvest.” It was a weak excuse, for the foreman was supposed to know the name of every person in the compound, every event that occurred. “At times like this, with the grapes so close, I make sure we put on some extra men for a day or two,” he said, shrugging knowingly. “Sometimes we have luck, I guess, and someone like this Berezin appears. But, General, please let me talk with this man first — it is my responsibility.”
Now when he noticed Keradin in conversation with one of his women, the foreman moved out to intercept Cobb. “I want to speak to you,” he hissed quietly, grasping the other firmly by the arm. “Give your basket to this man to empty.” And when they were out of hearing of everyone else, he demanded, “Who brought you here?”
“I came in this morning with the other workers, sir.” Cobb remained as respectful as he felt a guilty peasant might act, one who was poverty stricken and willing to do almost anything for a job. “I have had no work for so long. My children are hungry. Some people said there might be work here during the harvest.”
“What people?”
“Oh, just people I talk to.” He named some of the neighboring villages where he was sure some of the field hands lived. “Please, sir, I thought that maybe if I came here, showed you how hard I work, you might be kind.” He was whining now. “Let me start at low pay.”
“You should know that’s not the way things are done around here.” He maintained his grip on Cobb’s arm, the pressure increasing.
“I know, sir. I know.” Cobb remained subservient, eyes blinking nervously, hands wringing. “My children, they need food,” he repeated. “Please. I will show you how hard I work for beginning wages.”
Keradin’s conversation with Verra had finished. He watched appreciatively over his shoulder as she sauntered away in the direction of the barracks and then, beaming, he came over to the two men. “Well now, Kozlov! Have you been working on some problems?” It seemed obvious that the general’s immediate interest centered either on Verra or his wines, and his foreman was not quite sure that it was in his own best interests to change his optimistic mood.
“Sir,” responded Cobb in his best whine, his head down, groveling superbly, “I don’t think I know that much about the wines. I have forgotten much — there is so much difference here.”
“Nonsense. Up there,” he pointed toward the top of the hill, “you knew exactly what you were talking about.” His voice hardened perceptibly. “Come!” It was an order. To the foreman he added, “Do you prefer to join us?”
Kozlov had released Cobb’s arm when the general came over. Now he looked impatiently at the peasant with the hangdog appearance. “Yes, sir. I would like to see just how much he does know for myself. But first I would like to make sure that all the workers have left and that the security is set for the night. I will join you within half an hour.”
Cobb was well aware of the unhappiness underneath the calm demeanor of the foreman. It was now a matter of buying time. Thankful for the small amount of breathing space, Cobb still knew that he would have to account for himself to Kozlov when Keradin left to prepare for his evening in the dacha.
The cellars were cool and clean. Keradin may have only taken to wine making as a hobby, but his cellars were those of a professional. The equipment was modern, as up to date as that back in the Napa Valley. They sampled a number of wines selected by the General, discussing the maturation of the grapes, the blends, the aging process.
What General Keradin was looking for was just what Cobb’s mentor hoped to create in Napa. It would be the closest he could come to the great sauternes without developing a poor imitation. To do so would have been to come up second best. To be successful was to produce a new taste, one in the manner of a sauterne, but also unlike it. It had to possess a nose and an aftertaste that could hold its own. That would appeal to the connoisseur, not an imitation. As they talked, Keradin couldn’t have agreed with him more.
The foreman caught up with them eventually, and remained on the fringe. Amis folded, withdrawn from the discussion, Kozlov studied Cobb closely. Cobb sensed the foreman could spot trouble a mile away — that he was sure Cobb was not only not from Georgia, but that he knew too much for a peasant in that part of the Crimea. Yet he said nothing to the General, wisely keeping any suspicions to himself.
Back out in the yard again, Keradin turned to Cobb. “So, tomorrow you stay out of the fields, eh? First thing, we sample the juices from today’s crush — see what we have. Maybe we wander up there—” he gestured toward the arbor where they’d first met, “—pick some grapes, experiment a little, eh?”
“I would be honored to help, sir,” Cobb responded.
“Good. You go home to your family tonight, get yourself a good sleep.” He gestured to the foreman. “See that he gets some money to give his family. You have my permission to pay him in advance. Take good care of our Berezin.” And with that, Keradin was off at a brisk pace toward the twilight-obscured dacha, whistling in anticipation of his evening with Verra.
Cobb, hat in hand, had not quite decided his next move. “What are you thinking about, Berezin?” It was the foreman. Grabbing Cobb’s shoulder with a beefy hand, his fingers dug into muscle at the base of the neck. He knew how to inflict pain. “I think we should have a little talk — in private.” His hand maintained its painful grip as he turned Cobb around and walked him in the direction of the crushing shed. “Come into my office.” Once inside, with the door slammed behind them, the foreman spun Cobb around, shoving him against the rough wall. “So you call yourself Berezin. What is your real name? Berezin isn’t Georgian. Your accent is more northern — Moscow or Leningrad maybe — not Georgia.”
“I don’t understand, sir. I…” Cobb’s feigned innocence never had a chance. The foreman caught him in the side of the head with a stunning blow. The noise alone was enough to stun him; the impact knocked him off his feet. Before he could gather his senses, he was jerked to his feet and pressed against the wall.
“You don’t seem to understand,” the other snarled. “No one — no one makes a fool of me. And today the general must have thought me to be an idiot. We’ll just stay in here until we know a little more about you.”