Лесли Чартерис - The Saint

“Simon! Are you crazy? I’m safe. I’m on the next flight...”

Templar stopped in front of a heavily barred window.

“Look out there.”

Through the bars, Emma saw a gaggle of demonstrators on the plaza. Among them were Ilya’s goons, Vlad and Igor, patiently waiting.

“If you make it to the airport, they’ll get you on the plane,” stated Simon flatly, and Emma shuddered.

“What do I do?” Her voice trembled. Her feelings of safety and security were quickly evaporating.

“As long as you’re here, you’re safe. Tell the Marines you’ve developed a sudden fear of flying — post traumatic stress and all that. They’ll believe you, you’re a doctor. Then find a computer and a quiet room, finish the formula, and fax it to me.”

“Just like that?” Emma was incredulous. “Finish the formula and fax it to you?”

He handed her a number.

“This is your Moscow office?” Her tone was tinged with sarcasm.

“Portable fax, one international number that works anywhere,” responded the Saint cheerfully. “Modem technology at its most compassionate.”

She peered hard at his face.

“Speaking of compassion, are you sure this is about my safety and not your retirement fund? How do I know you’re not going to sell the formula — again?”

“Again, you’ll have to trust me.”

He resumed striding, and she walked at his side as if he were giving her an official tour.

“Of course I trust you, Mr. Straubing. I mean Mr. More, uh, Mr. Farrar, I mean Mr. de Porres... after all, you’re my personal saint.”

Simon smiled.

“To be a saint, you’ve got to be linked to three miracles. Don’t ruin my reputation, Emma.”

With that, he turned off down a hallway and blended in with busy embassy bureaucrats. She watched him go, still wondering if he were truly trustworthy or if she was about to be burned.

The burns inflicted upon Ilya in the Range Rover explosion were, according to his doctor, healing nicely with no sign of infection.

Ilya allowed a nurse to apply salve to his blisters while the house-call physician completed his follow-up exam. The doctor was more concerned with the decor of Ilya’s room — swastikas and Nazi flags — than he was with the thug’s injuries.

Tretiak, impatient and fed up with his son’s self-centered whining, paced nervously around the room.

“All in all,” remarked the doctor, “I’d say your son is a lucky boy.”

“Lucky? Look at me,” objected Ilya, “my cheek is singed! I look like a refugee from hell!”

“No, I mean you’re lucky because hundreds of thousands of Russians gave their lives to defeat the Nazis in World War II,” blurted out the angry physician. “You’re lucky some patriot hasn’t killed you for being a goddam Nazi yourself.”

Ilya brayed like an ass. “That stupid war was over years before I was born, Doc. Nobody remembers and nobody cares.”

The doctor remembered; the doctor cared.

Ilya’s exasperated father stalked from the room and almost collided with Botvin, who had been nervously awaiting an audience.

“I’ve run every test on Russell’s cold fusion formula,” stammered the little scientist, “and I’ve concluded that her formula is not incomplete — it’s impossible!”

This was not a good time to bring discouraging words.

Tretiak erupted with almost as much incendiary power as Ilya’s 4X4.

“I invest millions and you can’t make it work?”

Botvin had a sudden mental image of imminent death.

“But I’ve been working on it without sleep for nearly two weeks,” stammered Botvin, backtracking to a positive perspective. “At first blush the theorem appears quite impressive...”

Tretiak stopped midstride and turned slowly to face Botvin. The scientist took two wary steps back and held his breath. The face of Ivan Tretiak was no longer distorted by anger; rather, it was wreathed in what could be mistaken for a warm smile.

“You did just say ‘quite impressive,’ didn’t you?”

Botvin rattled his head up and down.

“Good! Stay impressed! Good man! We can use it to destroy our enemies.”

Tretiak strode to the banister and bellowed down to the foyer, summoning his chief operating officer.

“Vereshagin, arrange a meeting!”

“With whom, Mr. Tretiak?”

“The President of Russia! I want Botvin and me to see him tomorrow night at the Kremlin!”

Botvin blinked rapidly and moved closer to ask a question of penultimate importance.

“Me? Meet with the President? But why?”

Tretiak threw a large arm around the small man’s shoulders. “As the capitalists say: You don’t sell the steak, you sell the sizzle. We’re going to sell Karpov ten billion dollars’ worth of sizzle.”

Vereshagin called the Kremlin, carefully wording Tretiak’s demand as a polite, respectful request. The message’s essence was immediately relayed to Nikolai Korshunov, the president’s chief of staff, who delivered it personally to his superior.

President Karpov was well aware of two dreadful facts of life: (1) Ivan Tretiak was his most volatile and powerful opponent, and (2) Ivan Tretiak was undoubtedly behind the inexplicable energy crisis.

If Tretiak wanted to meet with him, Karpov would be a fool to resist and a fool to comply. He chose the lesser foolishness and scheduled the meeting.

The following evening Ivan Tretiak, trailed by Vereshagin, Ilya, and Botvin, was escorted through the Kremlin’s impressive corridors by uniformed guards. He stopped to admire and covet the ceremonial sabers, Fabergé eggs, and priceless tapestries. The guards, well aware of their guest’s identity and reputation, regarded Tretiak and his associates with deserved suspicion.

Botvin, perspiring terribly, girded himself for the upcoming deception while father and son conferred.

“Only that scientist can spoil my plan,” Tretiak whispered urgently to Ilya, “if she gets back to London and talks to the press...”

“Don’t worry,” Ilya replied smugly. “Dr. Russell’s plane won’t leave the runway — at least not in one piece.”

The three charlatans were officiously directed into a heavily secured Kremlin meeting room. Awaiting them at an impressive hardwood conference table were a wary and careworn President Karpov and Nikolai Korshunov.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” said Karpov coolly, and he motioned for them to sit opposite him.

Tretiak and Botvin sat, but Ilya lingered at the door like a sulking guard dog.

Ivan Tretiak shivered with theatrical gusto. “Chilly in here, Mr. President.”

“As long as the heating crisis persists, we keep our thermostat quite low.” The president spoke with presidential politeness.

“Yes, let us discuss the heating crisis, Mr. President,” Tretiak leaned forward, fixing his gaze on Karpov. “As former minister of energy and power, I hear all manner of schemes to provide cheaper power.. ”

“I’m sure you have,” offered Karpov with a hint of cynicism.

Tretiak continued as if the remark had not been made.

“Our countrymen are freezing to death, Mr. President, but I have become aware of a marvelous new technology about which I am hopelessly out of my league from a scientific viewpoint. That’s why I’ve brought our eminent physicist here, Lev Botvin, from the University of Moscow.”

Documents, charts, graphs, and assorted impressive pieces of paper were shuffled and handed, as a matter of protocol, to Korshunov.

He began flipping through the pages while Karpov looked on.

“Before we’re dazzled by the good news,” offered Korshunov, “let’s dispense with the bad. What’s the price of this ‘marvel’?”

Vereshagin leaned across the table, finding the relevant page.