Val Karren - The Deceit of Riches

“Peter, I thought that you told me this morning that you would not continue your research into this topic,” she rebutted.

“Valentina, yes, that is what we agreed. Do you expect me to stop all research on any topic? That database has information about all sorts of different topics about Russia. It has nothing to do with my research about the new class entrepreneurs,” I pleaded.

“Please then explain to me what the topic your research will be and I will see what we can do to restore your research abilities,” she demanded.

Not having had time to consider a new topic yet, I decided to throw a curve ball at Valentina and see what reaction this might elicit from her. “I am planning to research the government’s current decision for the privatization of the aerospace factories here in Nizhniy Novgorod.”

With no warning, Valentina stood straight up out her chair and in an outraged voice yelled, “Mr. Turner, I will not stand for this any longer! I have explicitly instructed you to stop researching any areas of politics and economics that have anything to do with Mr. P and his interests. To continue to do so will see your student status revoked and you will be sent home,” Valentina was almost foaming at the mouth.

I sat quietly and blinked at her in disbelief. I did not say another word for maybe thirty seconds until Valentina had regained her composure and had retaken her seat. She had almost immediately realized that she had just overplayed her hand and let slip information that I had not yet uncovered myself.

“Please excuse me, that was very inappropriate of me. Mr. Turner, I think it would be best if you handed over to me all of your research materials now and ceased from all forms of research into the current economic and political situation in this country. I am afraid that you asking any further questions will create an incident with the university and the local government that we will not be able to repair. I cannot permit to have any research privileges any longer. You are welcome to continue your studies in linguistics and literature, for which you have been invited to study at our school. Any further meddling in the government’s economic reforms will not be tolerated. Is that clear, young man?” She held tight to her regained composure, but it wasn’t convincing.

“Very, very clear, Valentina Petrovna,” I muttered with my eyes locked on her in a cold stare.

“Please then, give me all your notes and materials now and I will have them destroyed,” she insisted.

“Yes of course ma’am. Only I do not have them with me. There is too much material for me to carry around with me each day. I have them in my room in Zarachenaya in two folders,” I volunteered innocently, but defiantly.

“Then you will go get them and bring them to me at once. At once, Mr. Turner!” she stomped her foot under the desk.

“Would it be allowed for me to bring them tomorrow morning first thing? It would take another two or three hours to make the whole trip. I will be here for early Friday lectures tomorrow morning and I will bring you all that I have, I promise,” I requested deliberately.

“That will be fine. Tomorrow morning at eight-thirty,” she ordered.

“Very good. I will see you tomorrow then,” I stood up and excused myself from her office.

“Mr. Turner, it would be a good idea if you took the next two weeks of holidays to reevaluate your standing at this university and be prepared when we reconvene to stay focused on your language exams for the MGU. Perhaps you would be happier studying in Moscow than our small provincial city.” She was not making a suggestion. This was my expulsion notice.

“I will certainly do my best to score a high mark on the exam, ma’am. Guaranteed!” I affirmed.

The parade of cars that were tracking me that morning had thinned out to just one black Volga, with the other two vehicles no longer to be seen up or down the street. Perhaps they had heard the entire exchange with Valentina Petrovna? What Valentina had just revealed to me by accident was more than I was ever meant to know, and remembering Del’s interest to make a link between Mr. P. and the aerospace industry, I had now a very frightened feeling that I had just stepped over a line that would be impossible to get back over. I was desperate to find Del and get out of Nizhniy Novgorod as quickly as possible.

“Who’s there?” to my relief it was Misha asking his usual gruff questions.

“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.