Val Karren - The Deceit of Riches

“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.

With my research privileges revoked by Valentina and whoever was pulling her strings, and with no lectures to attend, perhaps the urgency of tracking my every movement would diminish and in mid-May, I could go back to life as normal. I spent the days reading on my bed with the windows open to catch the warming spring breezes and tried unsuccessfully not to worry about the world around me.

On the morning of May 9th, the apartment was a flurry of activity with Natasha and Raiya preparing for the Victory Day celebrations and presentations. Natasha was to receive a medal and recognition from the mayor and she was as nervous as a prima donna going on stage on opening night. The ladies had pulled their Sunday best from the closet and were fussing about hair or headscarves. Babushka chose for a rich red and paisley headscarf. She was beaming that morning. I slipped out the door before her family arrived and purchased her a small bouquet of roses, red roses for the Red Army hero, which she carried with pride with her up the old city to watch the parade and air show and be ready for the presentations. I accompanied the family up to Minin Square but did my best to keep out of the family discussions. I was present but kept a low profile. We rode the bus to Gorkiy Square where the bus stopped as the city center was closed down for only pedestrian and parade traffic. We strolled down Bolshaya Pakrovskaya to Minin Square where the festivities and ceremony would be held.

Knowing that Del had returned to the city on Thursday night I was very anxious to speak with him. I brought with me my book bag with the two folders of research materials hoping that together, before I had to surrender them to Valentina Petrovna, that Del could help me complete my model of a small criminal organization, the little shark, growing into a great white shark with teeth that take huge chunks of capital and lifeblood out of a country with one big bite. Even if I was not going to be able to publish the research in Nizhniy Novgorod I had decided that I was going to process the information as deeply as I could before the materials were confiscated so that I could reconstruct it once I was free again to research and write what I wished, in an environment of academic freedom. Valentina would not be able to expunge the information in my head once she shredded my materials. I was determined not to let the investment I had made come to nothing.

Minin Square was filled with spectators both old and young alike. Banners proclaiming 50 Years Victory hung from every lamp post and flagpole. The square was awash in red flags. There were groups of veterans, seventy years old and a bit, marching in columns in their war time dress uniforms. Their shrinking frames and growing bellies made the jackets difficult to button. Their gray hair and gold teeth shone in the May sunshine. Medals hung from their chests; The battle of Moscow, The battle for Leningrad, the capture of Berlin! They were cheered as they marched as proud as the day they returned from saving the Motherland from the fascists. Military transport trucks, some modern, some dated, towing artillery pieces rolled down Minin Street and across the square. Small children on the shoulders of their fathers waved to the young soldiers in dress uniform, faces stern and turned, saluting the crowd, ceremonial rifles on their left shoulders. The crowd cheered the local brigades and they trooped through with their local colors.

As the last of the parade marchers passed over the square a faint pulsing could be heard in the distance; dug, dug, dug, dug, dug. It grew louder. As it grew louder the heads of the people in the crowds looked up, looked left and looked right. A squadron of attack helicopters had announced its arrival and they flew up from the river over the Kremlin and then directly overhead above the square and were launching fireworks from rocket launchers. The deep pulsing vibrations of the rotors shook our soft abdomens. The squadron split into different directions with a bit of acrobatic flying, causing the crowd to applaud and cheer with surprise. Young children cowered and cried. As the reverberations of the helicopters faded there was a rush up the river valley, like rushing wind, or rushing water. The crowd turned forty-five degrees to the north to watch six military jets, MIGs, flying low over the water in a tight formation, pull up and ascend into the air at steep incline and then branch out from each other like a blooming flower, petals peeling off in six different directions with afterburners thrusting them into the atmosphere before arching upside down and eventually back toward the earth. As they looped around and toward each other, they too launched fireworks in a celebratory dogfight. As the MIGs swooped out of sight around the river bend a large formation of larger transport aircraft, propellers grinding through the air, buzzed the river bluff tipping their wings back and forth; a pilot’s wave. The crowd was electric and the cheers spontaneous!