Charles Taylor - First Salvo

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 Amis folded, withdrawn from the discussion, Kozlov studied Cobb closely.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.”

It was all Cobb could do to remember his alias. He took a deep breath. “My name is Berezin. I…” The remaining air whooshed out of his body as the foreman buried his fist in Cobb’s midsection. He doubled over onto the floor, his legs kicking spasmodically, gasping for air.

“When you’re ready, you may get up. Then we will start again.” The voice seemed to come through a tunnel, echoing through Cobb’s head, and he tasted bile, choking on it as he gasped. There was no way, Cobb realized, that he could go through this and still execute his plan that night. He got to his hands and knees.

“Now what do you think, my Berezin friend? Shall we talk?”

Cobb wiped at the blood running down his chin. His words came in gasps. “What I think… is that it won’t matter what I say.” He waited. There was no reaction from the other man. “I was brought up in Georgia. I don’t know where my family name came from,” he added quickly. “I can tell you about our grapes, our vineyards, our wines.

He didn’t see the blow coming this time, a brisk open hand to the side of the head that was as hard as a closed fist. Cobb went down again, ears ringing.

“I am sure you can tell me many things I don’t need to know about your wines. Anyone can be trained to do that.” The foreman had seemed relatively calm up to that point, but now anger was evident in his voice. “I want to know who sent you here. Nobody, not even the high and mighty in Moscow, makes a fool of me in front of General Keradin.” He pointed his index finger at Cobb, then jerked his thumb upward, indicating he wanted Cobb to get to his feet. “You could be from anywhere, but I suspect someone sent you to break security, someone who wants to see me sent off so that they can have this job.”

He went on, but Cobb barely heard what he was saying. The fact that the foreman thought he was being tested more for a breach in security than actually being compromised from the outside was Cobb’s ace in the hole. He had passed the test as a Russian, but not as the little old wine maker. Well, play Kozlov’s game, then!

“You are much wiser than anticipated,” Cobb began.

“This has been done before, you realize. I have been able to see through it each time. General Keradin is well taken care of, my friend. No one is going to compromise his position.” The words were spoken with arrogance and cruelty by a man who had succeeded in a mean world. Cobb had heard tales of GRU spying within the ranks, of how underlings sought to overthrow superiors by any means possible. Only the wisest, crudest, most suspicious survived to retire. “All I want to know,” the foreman said, “is who sent you in.”

Cobb lowered his eyes, sensing he might have a chance if he played the part of the enemy within. The foreman took a step in his direction, stopping when Cobb raised his hands in a gesture of peace. “You place me in a difficult position,” Cobb spoke slowly, still gasping. “If anything happens to me, you will of course, be considered responsible. If I am allowed to leave, you will be considered a fool. If I tell you who wants your position, then I will be a dead man.”