“That one over there’s all right,” Kablukov resumes, nodding in Tom’s direction. “Usually your Americans need everything neatly laid out on shelves like at a pharmacy.” He spreads his thick fingers, talonlike, on my biceps. “That’s why it’s good to have one of our own here to talk to. Even if”—he sighs again—“Mother Russia isn’t good enough for you anymore.”
“Life leads us in her own direction, Ivan Matveyevich,” I say. By now it’s become clear to me that Tom hired me not merely for my engineering prowess but because Continental was looking for a friendly ambassador, someone effortlessly Russian and effortlessly American who could smooth things over to avoid involving lawyers (since ours are more or less useless in this corner of the world). I feel like Kablukov is testing me now, asking for proof of membership. Only, I’m a bit too drunk or jet-lagged to put him in his place. “It’s too late for me,” I say, mechanically adopting his nostalgic tone. “My son, on the other hand, he won’t leave this place for all the salt in the kingdom.” I can hear myself speaking before I know what I’m saying. But this confession draws a smile from Kablukov. His furry brows perk up above his Ray-Bans. “Oh? Did he grow up here, your boy?”
“No. He came with us to America when he was six. Moving back here was Lenny’s own idea. He wanted to try his hand at the roulette table among the other young Turks. What about your own children?” I say.
But Kablukov ignores my inquiry. “What does he do, your son?”
I tell him he’s in finance, but spare the details of Lenny’s recent adventures.
“I admire a man who forges out on his own,” Kablukov says. “How has his fortune held up?”
I’m surprised at his interest; it’s unusual for Kablukov to be curious about anything anyone says. I shrug. “You have kids. Do they tell you anything?”
The Boot nods gravely and cuffs my shoulder, then uses it to hoist himself up. “My friends,” he announces, “forgive me, but I must leave our cozy gathering.”
“So soon, Ivan Matveyevich?” Mukhov objects happily.
“Will you be joining us tomorrow,” I say, “for the first round of selections?”
The Boot shakes his head. “I’m afraid pressing business calls for me in Tallin. But my two mates here have assured me that we have nashi lyudi among us,” he says, addressing me. His warm, abnormally large hand is heavy on my shoulder. “I have complete trust in your good sense,” he continues, looking at me. To this he drinks his final bottoms-up, and heads for the glass doors, a cell phone already hanging from his ear.
As soon as Kablukov is out of the room, the good humor of the two lieutenants blossoms. Immediately Mukhov beckons a waiter to replace our dry decanter. Serdyuk loads the remaining veal chops from the silver tray onto his plate. The tactile memory of Kablukov’s fingers remains on my collarbone. It occurs to me that he didn’t say that he had complete trust in our “expertise,” but in our “good sense.” I turn to Serdyuk, now fully involved in the work of spearing and swallowing his meat. “So what’s so urgent in Tallin?” I say.
Serdyuk continues eating as if he hasn’t heard me. I decide I won’t repeat the question, and pour myself another drink. Across our zone détente of empty carafes and platters, Mukhov’s angling in for another joke, this one about a new set of snapshots that have turned up in Abu Ghraib. Rumsfeld has been announcing to the eager press that the recent batch is even hotter than the last. But if the American people want a glimpse, they first have to elect Bush to another term.
McGinnis is translating this dated joke for Tom, on whose face I detect barely suppressed disgust—more physical instinct than emotional state, as if he’s just smelled some foul canned meat. I want to tell Mukhov that there are no third terms and Bush has long since retired Rumsfeld. But why bother with clarifications? There’s no honor these days in defending America. Three years have passed and the images are still fresh—a chinless girl who looks like a ten-year-old boy in her military pantaloons, tugging a naked Iraqi on a leash. America’s degeneracy on full display and the world can’t get enough of it.
It’s almost a surprise when Serdyuk, cleaning off his plate, turns to me. “The Estonians have a refinery on the coast,” he says, finally ready to answer my question. “We built it for those kurads back in ’82. Then that rat charmer Khodorkovsky got his hands on it. And now it’s up for grabs, see? So we made them an offer, but they thought they could do better by selling to the Czechs.”
“Are you planning to outbid the Czechs?” I say, though I suspect that’s not exactly L-Pet’s strategy here.
“Cut it with the idiotic questions. Transneft cut off their tap months ago.” I watch Serdyuk’s hand twist an invisible pipeline valve. “That showed them how loyal the Czechs are. Now Tallin’s mayor is practically begging us to buy that old plant. But guess what—now we’re going to sit back and think about it.”
So that’s what it means to be VP of corporate security and communication. Kablukov, the affectionate capo, is being sent to Tallin to wrap up a little unfinished diplomacy alla famiglia. Now that L-Pet has conspired with Russia’s pipeline monopoly to cut off the refinery’s supply, driven it into bankruptcy, sunk its value, and frightened off its foreign suitors—now that it’s broken the Estonians’ shins—it’s finally ready to sell them some crutches. I’m surprised to find myself less disturbed by Kablukov’s role as enforcer in this scenario than by Serdyuk’s attitude about the whole affair: Who do those cheeky Czechs think they are to buy our refinery? And who do these dirty Estonians think they are to sell off what we built for them!
“But, really, why all the hysterics and runny noses over a few photos?” Mukhov says, picking up the thread. “We can get some good shots like that from our Chechen brothers in Chernokozovo. The point is, this scandal—what is it about? A myth. What myth? That your American soldiers fight with white gloves on.” He’s begun to address the table at large, dropping the role of joke teller and coming fully into his own as a propagandist. I prepare my face for what’s to come: Your military—sadistic brigands! No better than our Spetsnaz. Your democratiya, imitation-cheese democracy just like Russia’s! And your supposedly free press—let’s not even start on that charade. “Well, guess what? It turns out everyone is exactly the same!” he says, right on cue. “Only our State Department doesn’t bother with the pretense of publishing an annual report about what it’s done for democracy this year.” The righteousness of his anti-righteousness is simply too irresistible to contain. He’ll have no peace until he’s convinced me that every institution in America is a fabrication as elaborate as Russia’s own boundless Potemkinville.