What he really regrets, Veronica thought, is my pulling him and Kendall to pieces in
front of the president.Understandable, really.
As she buttoned her coat, he said, “Perhaps both of us have been coming at this
situation from the wrong angle.”
Veronica knotted her scarf at her throat outside her collar. “What situation?”
“The collapse of CI.”
In the near distance, beyond the flotilla of heavy reinforced concrete anti-terrorist
barriers, tourists strolled by, chatting animatedly, paused briefly to take snapshots, then went on to their dinners at McDonald’s or Burger King.
“It seems to me that more can be gained by us joining forces than by being
antagonists.”
Veronica turned to him. “Listen, buddy, you take care of your shop and I’ll take care of
mine. I’ve been given a job to do and I’m going to do it without interference from you or
Secretary Halliday. Personally, I’m sick and tired of you people extending the line in the
sand farther and farther so your empire can grow bigger. CI is off limits to you now and
forever, got it?”
LaValle made a face as if he were about to whistle. Then he said, very quietly, “I’d be
a bit more careful if I were you. You’re walking across a knife-edge. One false step, one
hesitation, and when you fall no one’s going to be there to catch you.”
Her voice turned steely. “I’ve had my fill of your threats, too, Mr. LaValle.”
He turned up his collar against the wind. “When you get to know me better, Veronica,
you’ll realize I don’t make threats. I make predictions.”
Three
THE VIOLENCE of the Black Sea fit Leonid Arkadin down to his steel-tipped shoes.
In a tumultuous rain, he drove into Sevastopol from Belbek Aerodrome. Sevastopol
inhabited a coveted bit of territory on the southwestern edge of the Crimean peninsula of
Ukraine. Because the area was blessed with subtropical weather, its seas never froze.
From the time of its founding by Greek traders as Chersonesus in 422 BC, Sevastopol
was a vital commercial and military outpost for fishing fleets and naval armadas alike.
Following the decline of Chersonesus-“peninsula,” in Greek-the area fell into ruin until
the modern-day Sevastopol was founded in 1783 as a naval base and fortress on the
southern boundaries of the Russian Empire. Most of the city’s history was linked to its
military glory-the name Sevastopol translated from Greek means “august, glorious.” The
name seemed justified: The city survived two bloody sieges during the Crimean War of
1854-1855 and World War Two, when it withstood Axis bombing for 250 days.
Although the city was destroyed on two different occasions, it had risen from the ashes
both times. As a result, the inhabitants were tough, no-nonsense people. They despised
the Cold War era, dating to roughly 1960 when, because of its naval base, the USSR
ordered Sevastopol off limits to visitors of all kinds. In 1997 the Russians agreed to
return the city to the Ukrainians, who opened it again.
It was late afternoon when Arkadin arrived on Primorskiy Boulevard. The sky was
black, except for a thin red line along the western horizon. The port bulged with round-
hulled fishing ships and sleek steel-hulled naval vessels. An angry sea lashed the
Monument to Scuttled Ships, commemorating the 1855 last-ditch defense of the city
against the combined forces of the British, French, Turks, and Sardinians. It rose from a
bed of rough granite blocks in a Corinthian column three yards high, crowned by an eagle
with wings spread wide, its proud head bent, a laurel wreath gripped in its beak. Facing it, embedded in the thick seawall, were the anchors of the Russian ships that were
deliberately sunk to block the harbor from the invading enemy.
Arkadin checked into the Hotel Oblast where everything, including the walls, seemed
to be made of paper. The furniture was covered in fabric of hideous patterns whose colors
clashed like enemies on a battlefield. The place seemed a likely candidate to go up like a
torch. He made a mental note not to smoke in bed.
Downstairs, in the space that passed for a lobby, he asked the rodent-like clerk for a
recommendation for a hot meal, then requested a telephone book. Taking it, he retired to
an understuffed upholstered chair by a window that overlooked Admiral Nakhimov
Square. And there he was on a magnificent plinth, the hero of the first defense of
Sevastopol, staring stonily at Arkadin, as if aware of what was to come. This was a city,
like so many in the former Soviet Union, filled with monuments to the past.
With a last glance at slope-shouldered pedestrians hurrying through the driving rain,
Arkadin turned his attention to the phone book. The name that Pyotr Zilber had given up
just before he’d committed suicide was Oleg Shumenko. Arkadin dearly would have
loved to have gotten more out of Zilber. Now Arkadin had to page through the phone
book looking for Shumenko, assuming the man had a landline, which was always
problematic outside Moscow or St. Petersburg. He made note of the five Oleg
Shumenkos listed, handed the book back to the clerk, and went out into the windy false
dusk.
The first three Oleg Shumenkos were of no help. Arkadin, posing as a close friend of
Pyotr Zilber’s, told each of them that he had a message from Pyotr so urgent it had to be
transmitted in person. They looked at him blankly, shook their heads. He could see in
their eyes they had no idea who Pyotr Zilber was.
The fourth Shumenko worked at Yugreftransflot, which maintained the largest fleet of
refrigerated ships in Ukraine. Since Yugreftransflot was a public corporation, it took
Arkadin some time just to get in to see Shumenko, who was a transport manager. Like
everywhere in the former USSR, the red tape was enough to grind all work to a near halt.
How anything got done in the public sector was beyond Arkadin.
At length, Shumenko appeared, led Arkadin to his tiny office, apologizing for the
delay. He was a small man with very dark hair and the small ears and low forehead of a
Neanderthal. When Arkadin introduced himself, Shumenko said, “Obviously, you have
the wrong man. I don’t know a Pyotr Zilber.”
Arkadin consulted his list. “I only have one more Oleg Shumenko left.”
“Let me see.” Shumenko consulted the list. “Pity you didn’t come to me first. These
three are my cousins. And the fifth, the one you haven’t seen yet, won’t be of any use to
you. He’s dead. Fishing accident six months ago.” He handed back the list. “But all isn’t
lost. There’s one other Oleg Shumenko. Though we’re not related, people are always
getting us confused because we have the same patronymic, Ivanovich. He doesn’t have a
landline, which is why I’m constantly getting his calls.”
“Do you know where I can find him?”
Oleg Ivanovich Shumenko checked his watch. “At this hour, yes, he’d be at work. He’s
a winemaker, you see. Champagne. I understand the French say you’re not allowed to use
that term for any wine not produced in their Champagne region.” He chuckled. “Still, the
Sevastopol Winery turns out quite a fine champagne.”
He led Arkadin from his office out through dull corridors into the enormous main
vestibule. “Are you familiar with the city, gospadin Arkadin? Sevastopol is divided into
five districts. We’re in the Gagarinskiy district, named after the world’s first astronaut, Yuri Alexeevich Gagarin. This is the western section of the city. To the north is the
Nakhimovskiy district, which is where the mammoth dry docks are. Perhaps you’ve
heard of them. No? No matter. In the eastern section, away from the water, is the rural