The petrov ledger, p.12
The Petrov Ledger, page 12
Mary Jane was glad to be back in Key West. It had become more of a home to her in her heart than Cleveland had ever been. She was glad to be home. However, a part of her would much rather have been in St. Petersburg with Tag. And Olga, but, mostly with Tag.
She felt she knew Tag. She felt that she had always known Tag. It was hard to believe she had met him less than a week ago. She certainly knew him better than he knew himself. He thought he was ordinary. He thought he was average. He was right in a way. He was physically average. He was mentally average. He just couldn’t see that undercurrent of extraordinary that ran through him demanding that he always try to do the right thing. He certainly was no paragon of virtue, but he just couldn’t see his ability to see what was the right thing to do, to be correct about it, and to always try to do it was a form of above average virtue. Mary Jane saw it. Maybe that was what attracted her.
And what of Olga? Who was she? If Uncle Steve couldn’t find Olga Andreiovna, she didn’t exist. So how in the hell had she been in Key West with Tag? She knew her cell phone number. She had wrangled a program from her uncle allowing her to search the activity on that number. She loosed a heavy sigh as she began what she thought would be a long afternoon of searching through numbers.
There were only ten calls to and from two phone numbers over the last month. She recognized Tag’s number. She didn’t recognize the other number. She tried a search on the strange number and got absolutely nothing in return. It had to be a “burn phone”.
Who else would Olga call? That was a very good question she couldn’t answer. She checked the records farther back. That was odd. There were no records beyond the last month. No incoming calls. No outgoing calls. OK, this was bringing up more questions than it answered. It was time for a new approach.
Olga had been staying at the Mermaid and Alligator over on Truman. She had likely made her reservation by phone. She hadn’t made the call on her cell. The phone she had used to make the reservations could give Mary Jane something else to use to solve the mystery. Had Olga even made the reservations herself?
Mary Jane knew she had a way to find out, distasteful though it was. One of the managers at the M & A spent most of his afternoons at Turtle Kraals ordering mojitos from her. He had given her his phone number at least 15 times, the last time on the afternoon before they had escaped to Miami.
She usually shredded them as soon as he left the bar. She hadn’t shredded this one. She smiled at the nature of Fate and searched for the bar napkin. It was in the pocket of the shorts that she wore to work that day. She called the number. Fate intervened one more time. It was his day off and he had just been thinking of her. He would love to meet her for a drink at Jack Flats. He was glad she had finally overcome her shyness and he would see her at 5:00. As she hung up the phone, she wondered how any reasonable human could mistake revulsion for shyness.
She steeled herself to the task at hand on her walk to Jack Flats. Her target arrived early. Good, he was anxious. He wasn’t unattractive, until you got to his personality. His personality was what made him a detestable scumbag.
According to plan, she allowed him to ply her with liquor. She made sure he drank two for every one she drank. It didn’t take long until she found him very responsive to her request to show her his Bed and Breakfast. He mentioned there were some empty rooms tonight. She gave him another chance to mistake revulsion for shyness. He did not disappoint.
Once at the Mermaid and Alligator, it was easy to talk him into finding the particulars of Olga’s reservation. They didn’t store incoming phone numbers, but he gave her the date on which she had made the reservation. He mentioned he had taken the call and had checked “that fine piece of Russian ass” in when she arrived. He had recognized her voice and accent from the reservation call. That was all she needed. She quickly diffused the situation and was able to make her escape. She smiled at the thought of his waiting anxiously for a second call and a second “date” that would never happen.
Once back in the safety and security of home, she took a quick shower to try to wash off the evening and set back to work. She had copied the entire list of reservations made on the day in question. Now, she just needed to use her program and a reverse number look-up to match the calls that were made to the B & B on that day to the people who had made reservations. The one that didn’t match would have to be Olga’s.
She eliminated the reservations from the list of incoming calls. There were eight numbers left. One of them had to be Olga’s. There was a call from Raleigh-Durham that traced back to a dorm room at Duke. Not Olga.
Another of the calls was from another college student at the University of Tennessee. Again, not Olga. There were six calls left. She looked at the remaining numbers then looked at them again to try to make more sense out of what she was seeing.
The remaining six calls were all from the 305 area code. That was the area code for the Keys. She recognized all of the exchanges as Key West exchanges.
Olga had called to reserve a room at a Bed and Breakfast in Key West from Key West.
One number was a call from the other afternoon bartender at Turtle Kraals. She had called Diane enough to know the number. She only hoped it hadn’t been a personal call to the scumbag manager. She thought more of Diane than that.
Three of the other numbers were from other local B & Bs. They were most likely courtesy calls or checking to see if the M & A had rooms available because they didn’t.
Another call was from a local hotel. More than likely, it was for the same basic purpose as the calls from the B & Bs.
The remaining number would be Olga. The only problem was the number didn’t exist. It wasn’t a mobile number. It was a landline. It just had no listed address and no listed owner. How was that even possible? She dialed the number and listened as it rang unanswered for a full thirty seconds. No answer. No voicemail. What the hell? Everybody had voicemail these days. Maybe Jimbo could help.
Jimbo was an installer for the local telephone company. He was a good guy and had helped her out of several dicey situations at the Kraals before. She decided to give Jimbo a call.
According to Jimbo, it was probably a pirate line. Technically adept people could activate a phone line at the local trunk. It was usually too easy to detect for the line to stay active for very long. So either someone was a very good pirate or they had paid well to make sure the piracy went undetected. They could also have bribed an unscrupulous installer to active the line at the main trunk and keep it off the record.
He had never done it, of course, but he knew of some installers who had. He said he’d ask around and see what he could find. She thanked him in advance for his help. She hung up the phone and drummed her fingers on the table as she ran through the facts again.
There was no person named Olga Andreiovna who could be Tag’s Olga on record in the Soviet Union or the Russian Federation. “Olga” had called to make reservations at a Key West Bed and Breakfast from a pirate phone line in Key West.
The more she learned, the less she knew. She did know one thing for sure. It bothered her more than it should to think of her as “Tag’s Olga”. She felt an unwelcome and totally surprising pang of jealousy. Great. Just great. One more thing that made absolutely no sense.
She hoped that Uncle Steve was getting more answers than she was.
CHAPTER EIGHT
It was thought sharks had to stay in constant motion in order to continue to breathe. It’s not true, but it did give Steve Caputo somewhat of a reason to feel the whirlwind in which he currently found himself was a natural and necessary thing. He wondered if “constant motion” meant sometimes swimming in circles.
He was certainly not making much headway in finding helpful information for Tag at the moment. He had found quite a bit of information about the Honorable Vladislav Tretiak. Not a bit of it seemed really helpful.
Vladislav Tretiak was a contemporary of Dmitri Petrov. In fact, some said they had been rivals since they were children. Tretiak was a distant cousin of his older namesake, a former standout goalie and the current head of the Ice Hockey Federation of Russia. The younger Tretiak had none of the athletic ability of his famous kinsman, but he showed political ability early and often. He successfully ran for a seat in the Duma while he was still studying for his exams to become a lawyer.
As a twenty-three year old lawyer, he was a vocal supporter of the FSB and its then head, Vladimir Putin. When Putin assumed the Presidency from Boris Yeltsin, Tretiak became one of the youngest judges in the history of Russia.
Tretiak then proceeded to make a name for himself by helping the FSB take on organized crime in the former Soviet Union. It was mostly due to his rulings and his harsh sentencing of suspected organized crime figures that the FSB allowed themselves to declare the end of organized crime in Russia.
Try as they might, Tretiak and the FSB had never been able to land Andrei Petrov. Tretiak had found something, somewhere on Dmitri, though. Immediately following Andrei’s death, Tretiak had issued an arrest on sight order for Dmitri.
Where the hell was the FSB when you needed them? They could have had Dmitri the night before last at the Coral Room. Would Dmitri actually risk going back to Russia to follow Tag? For his father’s ledger and the money it meant? Oh yeah.
Still, the outstanding warrant gave Tag some leverage. Tag could always turn Dmitri in to the FSB if he showed his face in Petersburg. That is, of course, if Dmitri didn’t have Bob break Tag into a million pieces first.
The Shark had no faith in Olga’s ability to help. Sweet girl. Not much of a thinker. Damn it. Tag was still on his own and the only thing he could do to help was send him contact information for Tretiak.
They used to think sharks had to stay in constant motion in order to keep breathing. This shark didn’t like swimming in circles one little bit.
It was a brand new day in St. Petersburg. I awoke with, what I thought was a strangely misplaced feeling of hope. There was even an undertone of excitement as I mentally set our agenda for the day. It felt like a really good day to visit some churches. I liked the idea. A few prayers for our safety would not be out of place.
Also, St. Petersburg is home to magnificent churches. There’s St. Isaac’s, the cathedral at the Sts. Peter and Paul Fortress, the Church on Spilt Blood, the Nevsky Monastery, and, of course, Our Lady of Kazan.
We would likely have to save the monastery until I had arranged a car and driver. A stop at VTB for a sizeable cash withdrawal would facilitate that nicely. OK, a trip to the bank first. Actually, even that wasn’t correct. The first item on the agenda for the day was a trip downstairs for breakfast.
The Arkadia offered an awesome breakfast. Lots of menu choices, lots of food, and, best of all, it was free to guests. They say breakfast is the most important meal of the day. When your odds of surviving until supper are currently being negotiated by outside parties, it becomes doubly important.
The day would have to wait for Olga. She slept soundly beside me. I just could not bring myself to wake her. She looked so peaceful. Her slow, even breathing reminded me of a cat purring. She completed the feline picture as she began to wake. She stretched as long as she was then leaned back into me with a sigh.
“Good morning, Tag.”
“Dobroy utro, Olga.”
She turned toward me and smiled.
“So what shall we do today?”
“First, breakfast, then we go where the day takes us. I feel like making it up as we go along.”
She kissed me on the bridge of my nose as she threw off the covers.
“It is a beautiful plan. I shall dress, then we shall eat.”
I was suddenly unsure if it was her inexperience with English or just her nature that made most of what she said sound like an order. I decided it was the former and it would be a good idea if I dressed for breakfast as well.
I was well acquainted enough with the female of the species to know that it would take her longer to prepare than it took me. I dressed and waited. Olga surprised me by stepping out of the bathroom, fully prepared to face the day on her terms, within a few moments of my dressing. She further surprised me by not asking about our itinerary at breakfast. Did she trust me to make decisions for us? It certainly seemed that way.
As we finished and the plates were cleared, she said nothing, but looked to me expectantly. She smiled as I reached my hand across the table to her. She took my hand and held on as we left the dining room, the hotel, and made our may toward Nevsky Prospekt. I must say having this beautiful woman holding my hand as we walked the two blocks did wonders for my psyche. The world was again mine as it had been before the doubts of Dmitri and Bob crept into the equation. She cast an understanding glance at me as we made our way down Nevsky to the branch of VTB. The Escalade was still there. It would be interesting to see where watchers in the SUV would go after we had left the bank.
I spoke enough Russian to ask the teller to withdraw money from my account. The teller had checked my credentials and found them satisfactory. She now only waited for the amount of the withdrawal. I needed Olga’s input for that. I turned to her.
“Dorogoy. How much will it cost to rent a car and a driver for the duration of our stay and can you arrange it?”
She smiled at me.
“Of course, my Tag. I can get us a limousine for 15,000 rubles, a regular car and driver for 8,000, and…”
I interrupted her there.
“A regular car and driver will be fine.”
I filled out the required form to withdraw $5,000 dollars worth of rubles. The teller looked at it with skepticism until she verified the amount in the account. She then walked straight to her Supervisor. He looked at me questioningly then looked at the account information in front of him. He authorized the withdrawal with a nod and rose to meet his major account holder. He spoke to me in Russian, which I barely understood. Olga stepped in and answered all of his questions.
What I heard said that he doubted my right to the account. Olga defended me and referred back to the provided identification to prove my rights and worthiness. God love her. At the current exchange rate, $5,000 U.S. was worth just over 160,000 rubles. I handed 40,000 rubles over to Olga right there at the teller window. She smiled and tucked the pile away. I pocketed the leftovers and we made our way out of the bank. Olga took my hand to stop me as we merged in with the crowd on Nevsky Prospekt.
“Why did you give me so much, Tag?”
“It’s “just in case” money. We may get separated. You may see something you want to buy and don’t wish to bother asking me.”
“We will not get separated. I know what is at stake. I will not leave your side.”
I brought her hand to my lips and kissed it.
“You may not have a choice, dorogoy.”
“That is the only way I will leave you.”
She followed my lead down Nevsky toward the Dom Knigi. Olga wrapped her arm through mine and leaned in on me. She spoke in an unneeded whisper.
“Do you see the Cadillac, my Tag?”
“I saw it last night, dorogoy. They will try to follow us now.”
“And you will let them?”
“For now. This is my plan after all. They will follow us to the Church of the Savior on Spilled Blood and get bored as we tour the inside.”
“It will not be easy for them to follow us in a car.”
“That’s their fault for parking on the wrong side of the street.”
Olga beamed a smile in my direction. She gave me a quick kiss and let me lead her down the street.
I could not stifle a smile of my own as I glanced back at the Escalade attempting to exit their parking space and follow us. It reminded me of salmon trying to swim up a waterfall. We turned left at Dom Knigi and made our way toward the Church on Spilt Blood. God, what a beautiful sight.
All of the colors that had been somewhat muted under the glow of artificial light last night became vibrant and alive with the light of day. The sun glinted off of the polished gold onion domes. The blue of the other remaining domes seemed to shift between blue and green as the light danced across them. The silver accents on the domes shone like diamonds.
As we drew closer, the outer mosaics began to stand out. The colors danced and the iconic images formed from the sum of the individual tiles made you understand the workmanship and artistry that went into this edifice.
Oddly enough, though the approach up the Griboedov embankment from Nevsky Prospekt is the most common way to get to the Church, it brings you to the back of the building. The entrance, as with all Russian Orthodox churches is on the east. We were coming in from the west. The Kazan Cathedral is the same. The beautiful colonnade that you see from Nevsky Prospekt is actually the back of the building. The true entrance is on the other side. That brought an idea to mind that made me smile. I had just come up with another way to frustrate and temporarily mislead our surveillance detail.
For now, I was anxious to see the inside of the Church of the Savior on Spilled Blood. We bought our tickets and entered the museum.
See, it was never really used as an active church. It was always intended to be used only on special occasions. It mostly served as an overly huge monument to mark the place where Alexander II was assassinated. The inside of the Church is covered, floor to ceiling with intricately beautiful mosaics depicting scenes from the Orthodox perception of Jesus’ life. Even the onion domes have mosaics on the inside.
It makes even more poignant the simple cobblestones within the altar that marks the spot where the “Reformer Tsar” fell. As I looked around and drank in the beauty and magnificence of the place, it was hard to imagine some of the uses it had been put to.
During the Siege of Leningrad, it was used as a temporary morgue for some of the million and a half that died. Then, after the War, the Soviet government in its infinite wisdom decided it would be the perfect place to store vegetables. That last usage earned the place the satirical nickname “The Savior on Potatoes.” To me, it would always be the magnificently beautiful Church of the Savior on Spilled Blood.
