“Hello, can we meet please?” I pleaded into the telephone.
“Nyet, that is not possible,” was Misha’s simple answer.
“It’s very important,” I argued.
Misha paused and covered the mouthpiece on his handset.
“OK, when?” he had changed his mind.
“Four o’clock, Gorky Square. In front of the Telephone -Telegraph building,” I ordered.
“Too visible!” he protested.
“Sorry I have no other choice. I’ll be at the bus stop. Just come ride a bus with me,” I commanded.
“OK, but no talking until we’re on the bus,” was his condition.
“Agreed.” I hung up my phone and sat down on a bench to take it all in until our meeting in ninety minutes.
I sat on the bench in the sunshine trying to anchor my racing thoughts after the revelation that Mr. P. was indeed linked somehow to the aviation industry in the city, just like Del and Els had been trying to establish. What did Valentina already know, but more importantly why? I could not make the connection between Mr. P. and Valentina that would put such an inconsequential person in a position to know the current or future business dealings of the head of a criminal organization. It is not often that academia and the mob mix company. The two trades seem diametrically opposed to each other. The academics try to establish and measure truth while the criminal does his best to obscure the truth from any form of daylight. The question played over and over in my head. Had she reacted purely on the point that I wanted to continue to research and observe the privatization process further? Did it really have anything to do with Mr. P. and his future ventures? The aviation industry could in no way be compared to the market for automobile spare parts. Each part for an aircraft must have a verifiable pedigree in order to be installed in an aircraft. A cheap knock-off spare part in an airplane that costs forty-five million dollars brings the whole investment into risk. No reasonable manager or engineer of an aircraft fleet would ever accept a part they couldn’t verify. It seemed to me that Mr. P. was neither clever nor connected enough to be able to launder aircraft parts or forge their authenticity. The producers of such are too few and far between to make bombastic claims that you have taken over the distribution of their spare and repair parts. It didn’t make any sense to me. Was I reading too much into it? Somehow, I knew that if I could share this information with Del that he would be able to shed more light on it. Why I needed that light shined on it was another internal struggle I sat and wrestled with, waiting to meet Misha and hopefully learn how to contact Del in Moscow.
With just a few minutes until my rendezvous with Misha on the bus I looked for my personal shadow in order to set him up, in order to lose him. He was taking it easy today riding around in the black Volga and smoking with the window down just out of my sight if I wasn’t looking for him, parked in a small service driveway by the T&T building. I hung back a bit out of his sight for a moment as I noticed Misha come from their direction and stand to wait for the next yellow bus to pull up. Misha did not look around for me. He stood with his back to me. He probably already knew where I was and had already anticipated my plan. He seemed very disinterested with the people around him. As the exiting passengers stampeded out of the doors of the arriving bus to the curb, I quickly stepped out from the corner of the building, using the commuters as camouflage, like a fish swimming against the current, and slipped into the middle doors of the bus without the ‘British Knight’ even stirring from his bucket seat. Misha had stepped in through the rear doors. The bus pulled away from the curb leaving a rank cloud of unrefined diesel fumes. Misha and I met in the back and looked out the back window while holding on the poles and railings to not topple over as the bus circled through the roundabout.
“You’re still being followed,” Misha said in a very business-like manner.
“Yes, not a day has gone by without the idiot in the white shoes,” I replied with sarcasm.
“Seems you’ve gotten pretty good at slipping away from them. That was well timed,” he complimented.
“Why thank you very much. I will treasure the compliment from a professional,” I answered with some pride in my voice.
“So, what is so important?” Misha asked turning to look me in the face.
“I need to contact Del. I have some important information he needs to know,” I muttered in a low tone. Do you know how I can reach him wherever he is?”
“No, I’m sorry. He contacts me daily but never tells me where he is. He calls at different times of the day as well,” was Misha’s honest reply.
“Do you have any idea of where he could be? Someplace that you know he stays regularly while in Moscow?” I was searching for any leads.
“Yes, he regularly stays at the Slavyanskaya hotel, but not always. He moves around also during his stays in Moscow. Never more than two nights in one hotel,” Misha confessed.
“What is it with this guy, Misha? There is something more to him than his hotel project, isn’t there,” I mused.
“I don’t ask. He pays me to run his business here in Nizhniy and keep his information safe and legal. He pays on time and he pays well. The rest doesn’t interest me,” Misha mumbled while looking disinterested out the window. “Doing this type of big ticket, highly visible business in Russia is not safe. He’s probably smart to stay moving around. Somebody always wants to steal what you’ve built.”
“Do you have a telephone number of that hotel?” I asked with hope.
“No, sorry I don’t. He usually calls me. I only know this information because I see his invoices that he keeps for tax deductions.”
“Would a receipt have a telephone number on it?” I was searching for hope.
“No, maybe in Germany or America, but not in Russia. They don’t want you calling them!” he looked at me with irony in his eyes.
“Ah yes, Russian customer service,” I sighed.
“The Slavyanskaya is near the Kyivskiy railway station. Do you know it?” Misha asked.
“Yes, I do,” I was in thought, trying to picture the skyline. “it’s just opposite the Supreme Soviet, correct?”
“The Russian White House, yes,” Misha confirmed.
The next morning, the final day of lectures before the spring break, I arrived at Valentina’s office at eight-thirty to surrender all my notes and research materials. I found her office dark and locked. I also found Arkadiy behind his desk typing his eternal letter. He was as upbeat as ever.
“Can I help you, Peter?” Arkadiy chirped.
“Valentina Petrovna? Is she not coming to school today?” I inquired.
“No, she has been called away. Can I help you with something?” he asked.
“No thank you. I think it would be better if I give these materials directly to her,” I said puzzled.
“I will tell her that you came by this morning. Is it something urgent?” Arkadiy never looked up from his screen but just kept typing.
“No, but it’s…,” my voice trailed off as I had become distracted, “…important. When will she be back?”
“Not until after the holidays I’m afraid.” Arkadiy looked up finally just as I was exiting the office.
I returned to my apartment with my bag filled with notes, articles, and interviews. I did not want to be out and about with this trove of information around my neck. It was not only heavy but very exposing should I be found with it. Better to keep it at home under my table if Valentina was not available to take custody of it. I thought about destroying it but figured that Valentina would not believe that I had done so and expel me from the university. I had to turn the notes over to her even if it was after the May break. I then spent five straight days at home avoiding the old city in order to avoid any trouble.