False Dawn

20

The mansion was done in the 1920s Mediterranean Revival style. It sat at the end of a brick circular drive trimmed with blooming hibiscus and bottlebrush trees. The walls were pink stucco, the roof mission tiles. You entered an interior courtyard through a loggia flanked by twisted columns. The floor was glazed ceramic tile, the exterior walls adorned with terra-cotta ornaments. There were wrought-iron grilles and wood brackets and casement windows shaded by pink-and-white awnings. There were arches everywhere, some flat, some pointed, some with Moorish elaborations. A second-floor balcony lined with balustrades overlooked the bay.

I had been here before.

There had been a party that night, too.

Only that time, I had been invited.

Foley and I had followed Kharchenko’s taxi from the theater. Once on the causeway, I knew where he was headed. I just didn’t know there’d be a crowd.

Matsuo Yagamata was playing host to his usual collection of political and social animals, some artist and writer types, plus a Russian cultural delegation and the cast and crew of the Bolshoi Ballet. The dancers would be along later. But Kharchenko was here now.

We pulled into the drive behind a line of limos and Mercedeses with an occasional Lexus thrown in. Not a Lada in sight. Foley’s government-owned Plymouth drew a look from the valet. For once, I was glad I had dressed up. Nobody stopped us; nobody asked to see an invitation. We entered the courtyard, passed through a segmental arch wide enough to accommodate a herd of buffalo, and came to the pool deck. Once, a thousand years ago or so, Yagamata had stood there and showed off an egg filled with a golden choo-choo train.

The scene on the patio reminded me of a famous party on a balmy February evening just down the street from here. I wasn’t there. I hadn’t been born yet. That night, arriving guests were searched by men with rifles. Miami’s politicians and social elite drank champagne and ate canapes, figuring it was just another Valentine’s Day party. The celebration was more meaningful, however, to the host. While the festivities were in full swing on Palm Island, seven members of Bugs Moran’s gang were gunned down at a garage in Chicago. Newspapermen later speculated that the party was intended to celebrate that event, since Bugs Moran was a bitter rival of the party host, Al Capone.

I wondered what Yagamata was celebrating tonight.

A gentle breeze wafted across the patio, flickering the torches. A string quartet strummed quiet music, guests milling about, oohing and aahing at the sheer delight of being here. Bars were set up every twenty yards or so to save on the shoe leather. In the center of the patio was a buffet table no longer than an average NFL punt.

“Stick with the zakuski, the appetizers,” Foley ordered. How clever. Yagamata, the perfect host, was serving a Russian feast. We loaded our plates with red and black caviar, sturgeon, cucumber-and-tomato salad, and pickled mushrooms. A server handed me a tiny silver pot covered with melted cheese.

“ Griby v’smetanye,” Foley said. “Mushrooms and onions in sour cream.”

I washed everything down with a double shot glass of ice-cold Moskovskaya vodka, then did it all again. The training table was never like this. Finally, I went back for blinis with sour cream and caviar.

By the time most of the guests had arrived, I was pleasantly stuffed from the food and warmed by the vodka. Foley hadn’t touched a drop of the liquor. We kept scanning the crowd. Half a dozen Russian officials in baggy suits were lined up at the buffet table, loading their plates as if it was their first meal in a week. Maybe it was.

“Think these guys are happy to be in the West?” Foley asked. “You can’t buy a decent sausage in all of Russia, but look at this. Sometimes you civilians don’t appreciate what we’ve got.”

“Don’t start waving the flag,” I responded, “without acknowledging that this isn’t America. This isn’t real. This isn’t the housewife stretching the food budget with peanut butter for dinner. This isn’t cocaine dealing a few blocks from the White House.”

Foley gave me a nasty look. “Let’s cut the bullshit and go to work. Time to earn our supper.” He nodded in the direction of the quartet. Matsuo Yagamata was working the crowd, moving slowly but steadily, granting each guest a precious twenty seconds or an even briefer hello-how-are-you-so-pleased-to-see-you-again. He wore an elegant tuxedo and smiled graciously at each stop on his way to the buffet table. Over the violins, I could hear him laugh politely at some remark as he gestured with a champagne glass and speared smoked salmon hors d’oeuvres from passing trays.

Foley used the cocktail party shuffle to edge between a woman in a white gown and Yagamata, who caught sight of him, then me. Our host registered surprise, then smiled evenly.

“What an enchanting development to see my government friend and my lawyer friend,” he announced loudly, his eyebrows raised. The woman in the white gown shot us a hostile look.

“Hello, Matsuo,” Foley said. “How’s tricks?”

“Tricks? You and your slang. Should we speak Japanese, so I can have the upper hand?”

“I didn’t come to banter. We need to talk business.”

“At a reception? And violate our protocol? The Russians would be offended.” He shot a look around the patio, and so did I, but I didn’t see Kharchenko anywhere. “Come now, Mr. Foley. Let us teach our new trading partners how to enjoy the spoils of true market economy, or at least, the part that a few can savor.” His voice was tinged with sarcasm as he clamped a hand on Foley’s shoulder, looked around as if afraid of eavesdroppers, and spoke in a stage whisper: “In Russia, the workers used to say of the nomenklatura, ‘They preach water-”‘

‘“And drink wine,’” I said, remembering our conversation on Yagamata’s boat.

“Precisely. Could not the same be said of American and Japanese politicians? Mr. Foley, you cannot abolish class distinction with either communism or capitalism.” With that, Yagamata drained his champagne glass and signaled a passing waiter for another.

“Under any system, Matsuo, you would be in it for yourself,” Foley said.

The laughter rattled in Yagamata’s throat. “And who would not be? In the old Soviet Union, was there ever a butcher, a doctor, or a shopkeeper not tainted by gryazny, the pursuit of profit? Was there ever a Party Secretary who did not relish his seaside dacha, his access to pleasures of the West? There is a Russian epithet that expresses the people’s disgust with their officials.” Yagamata thought a moment and said something in halting Russian that made Foley smile. It was not a pretty sight.

Foley turned toward me and translated, “Let him live on his salary.”

“Precisely,” Yagamata said. “Communism failed because it was based on principles contradictory to human nature. Japan succeeds because it is based squarely on the principles of competition, profit, growth, exploitation of markets and resources. Your own country founders because it cannot decide whether it is a welfare state or an industrial power. As for Russia, it is nothing but a decrepit third world country. Mr. Lassiter, do you know why Russian watches are the best in the world?”

“Sure, they’re the fastest.”

Yagamata chuckled. “Perhaps in the free market, the quality of the products will improve. To survive, they will Westernize. Did you see that Pravda held a fund-raiser, just as public television does here? No longer subsidized, the newspaper raffled off rugs and washing machines. What would Lenin say?”

Foley shrugged, and Yagamata concentrated on me. “As Mr. Foley knows, Pravda means truth and Izvestia means news. Unfortunately-”

“There was never any news in the Truth or truth in the News,” Foley added.

“Ah, you two have heard all my jokes.”

Yagamata was still chuckling at the stolen punch line when Foley grabbed his forearm and jerked him close. “This time, Matsuo, you’ve gone too far.” Yagamata’s smile froze in place. “You can’t steal all the fucking art from the Baltic to the Pacific.”

Yagamata pulled away. His face was white with anger. He smoothed the sleeve of his tuxedo. “And why not?”

“You’re raping the country, Matsuo,” Foley said.

“Stealing state property was the national pastime under the communists. I have merely raised it to an art form.” He laughed again. “Art form. That is a pun, is it not?”

“Where’s Kharchenko?” I asked.

Yagamata frowned. “Ah, the business with the girl. Perhaps your Yankee sense of manhood compels you to seek revenge. Those of you raised on John Wayne movies have such an outdated sense of chivalry. Instead, you should have the good sense to be thankful that you were spared. For that, I might add, you should thank me.”

“You’re out of your mind.” I turned to Foley. “Did you hear this? He just admitted-”

“I heard him. Look, Matsuo, it’s over. Everything’s changed. You’ve exceeded your authority. Langley thinks you’re out of control, and I’m under orders to take possession of the new shipment. Everything’s going back to Mother Russia, including Kharchenko. You’ll be paid for your trouble, and paid well. If you refuse to cooperate, you’ll be charged with conspiracy, racketeering, smuggling, and about a hundred other things the boys in Washington will lose a lot of sleep thinking up.”

Yagamata blinked twice, his eyes darting from Foley to me and back again. “And my personal collection?”

“Anything you’ve taken for yourself you can keep. It’ll be written off.”

“Including my new Matisse, of course. Girl with Tulips. I have coveted it for years. The girl is Jeanne Vaderin, and-”

“Yeah, yeah, including your new Matisse. You know, you’re really a little over the top about the art, Matsuo. It affects your judgment.”

Yagamata wasn’t listening. “And the works by Faberge, of course. I must keep the Trans-Siberian Railway Egg of 1900.”

“Yeah, the eggs, the paintings, whatever you’ve skimmed off before selling to your buddies in Kyoto. Christ, we’re talking about international politics here and you’re concerned with a few pieces of art?”

“Aren’t you?” Yagamata asked.

“I don’t give two shits about the art.”

“Then you are a fool.”

Foley shook his head. “Okay, I’m an ugly American, a declasse barbarian. Happy? Now, do you want the money or do I start reading you your rights?”

Yagamata seemed to think about it. “How much? How much for my trouble?”

“Fifty million.”

This time Yagamata didn’t blink. “I could make a hundred times that by selling the art.”

“You could get a hundred years in the can. I’ll use the forfeiture laws to confiscate every asset you have, right down to the last tin of caviar.”

Across the patio, a woman’s laugh tinkled like wind chimes on a balcony. “What is the timing of such an arrangement?” Yagamata asked.

“First, I take delivery of the shipment. Within twenty-four hours, you’ll be paid.”

“Are you authorized to make such an offer?”

“From the highest possible authority.”

“How do I know…”

“Have I ever breached a commitment to you?”

Yagamata shook his head. “No. You are consistently dishonorable and therefore immensely trustworthy. You always eschew principle and reward venality.”

“So what’s it going to be? We don’t have all night.”

“Ah, the well-known impatience of the Americans.” Yagamata tried to put some midwestern corn pone into his voice. “Let’s cut to the chase. What’s the bottom line? Is it a done deal, baby?”

“Matsuo, you’re getting on my nerves.”

“All right. I agree to your terms. What are the logistics?”

“Give me the location of the shipment. I’ll provide tractor-trailers. We’ll use your workers. We’ll start tomorrow at 0900. Fair enough?”

“Oh, perfectly fair. Unfortunately, however, I have no idea where the shipment is.”

Foley appeared stunned. “Why not?”

“It is not yet under my control. Kharchenko will release it to me after he has been paid and the goods repackaged to resemble cartons of pottery from Peru. As you can imagine, my outlay is many millions of dollars. Ordinarily, I would wire the funds to the Swiss accounts of Kharchenko and various Russian functionaries who made all this possible. Obviously, I do not intend to make the payment if you are going to appropriate the property.”

“You’re telling me you don’t follow the goods once they’re offloaded. You don’t know the warehouse Kharchenko uses. You don’t place agents along their route, bribe the drivers-”

“It’s not my concern. He always delivers when promised.”

Foley was incensed at Yagamata’s lack of professionalism. “Have you gone soft?”

Yagamata reached for a blini from a passing tray and dipped it in sour cream. “Maybe so, or maybe I just enjoy waking up each morning. You don’t play both sides of the Volga with Mr. Kharchenko.”

“I’ll deal with him,” Foley said, anger in his voice.

“Then, perhaps we should go inside,” Yagamata said. “There is something I would like you to see.”

“Yeah, what?”

“A little display I have put together from my personal collection. I call it the Treasure of the Czars exhibit. Furniture, artifacts, icons. It really is suitable for a museum. It’s in my gallery, and so is Comrade Kharchenko.”

“Let’s go have a look,” I suggested, “before he steals it all.”

T he floors were white marble, the columns green malachite, the cornices leafed in gold. Real gold. The ceilings were high, the lighting subdued. The gallery was quiet, almost churchlike. The only worshiper was a thick-necked man with a bandaged face.

Kharchenko stood next to a jade pedestal on which stood a gold vessel filled with what looked like white marbles. Yagamata raised his hand as if to signal Kharchenko not to be alarmed. Yagamata bolted the door behind him, and we crossed the room together. Enameled saddles shared space on polished wooden frames with silver bridle chains. Antique weaponry-rifles with ornate fretwork of silver beasts-was attached to the walls, along with intricate Russian needlework. Golden chalices laced with rubies and emeralds shared space with decorative military breastplates. A mannequin of a nobleman was dressed in eighteenth-century finery, its vestment encrusted with precious gems. Closer to the jade pedestal, I could see the gold vessel contained pearls-hundreds, the same size and lustre.

As we approached, Kharchenko pointed to a nearby painting of what looked like a holy man, head bowed in prayer. In excellent English, he said, The Measure Icon. Ivan the Terrible honored the birth of his son by commissioning a painting of the boy’s patron saint. Twenty-seven years later, Ivan murdered his son in a fit of rage.” Kharchenko watched us for a reaction, his dark eyes alert above the white bandages.

“Your history is like that,” Foley said. “Works of great beauty, acts of great horror.”

“Is it so much different from yours? We had our Gulag, you your lynchings.”

Yagamata cleared his throat. “Politics is so boring compared with business, and in any event, your histories are about to merge. With the free market, soon you will not be able to tell the difference between the streets of Boston and St. Petersburg.”

For some reason, I thought about the Hermitage going condo.

Yagamata was fondling a gem-studded egg that he had picked up from a marble-topped table. The egg was covered with a map of Russia engraved on silver. Two gargoyle creatures with shields and swords stood at the base of the egg, protecting Mother Russia, I supposed. Yagamata lifted off the top of the egg and withdrew what looked like a gold chain. “My favorite piece,” he said, unfolding a miniature train of solid gold, “the Trans-Siberian Railway Egg. I sometimes carry the train with me, just to draw it out of my pocket and enjoy the sheer pleasure of it. Have you ever seen such workmanship, such love of detail combined with whimsy?”

“Whimsy,” Foley said, barely suppressing a sneer. “It’s just a thing, Matsuo. It’s just an object to be bought and sold like everything else.”

Yagamata folded the train back into the egg. “No, Mr. Foley, it is not. Some ‘things’ are too valuable to simply be bought and sold. Some are more valuable than life.”

“Enough talk,” Foley said, his eyes seeming to narrow behind his glasses. He turned toward the Russian, who hadn’t moved. “Your face looks like shit, Kharchenko. Tell me, did a woman really do that to you, tough guy?”

“You cannot provoke me,” the Russian said. “I have my instructions, and I will carry them out.”

“There’s been a change in plans. I’m taking charge in the field. You’re to turn the shipment over to me.”

Kharchenko’s smile revealed a missing front tooth. He pointed a finger at Foley and said, “I don’t take my orders from you.”

Foley’s hand shot out with frightening speed. He grabbed the jabbing finger and pushed it backward. Hard. The crack echoed off the marble floors. Kharchenko let out a high-pitched wail, and Foley twisted the finger, left then right. Crack, crack. Three clean breaks, one at each knuckle. Kharchenko was on his knees, tears filling his eyes.

Foley never let go of the finger, but used it to yank the Russian’s right arm behind his back. His movements were so smooth, so quick, I never saw the clear plastic handcuffs come from his pocket. In a moment, Kharchenko’s hands were bound behind him. The Russian rocked back and forth, still on his knees. He gave the impression of being in painful prayer.

Foley’s eyes darted around the room. On an ornate desk was a gold wicker basket filled with lilies of the valley. Foley motioned for me to get it.

“Now? You want flowers now?” I asked.

Yagamata sensed something I didn’t. “You wouldn’t,” he pleaded with Foley, a tinge of fear in his voice. “Please. I abhor violence and detest the destruction of beautiful things. That is Faberge’s first flower study, a gift to Empress Alexandra-”

“Lassiter! Give me the goddamn basket. That’s a direct order.”

“Hey, I never joined up.”

“Goddammit! You’re an American, and I’m calling on you by the power vested in me by the President.”

I didn’t know what he was talking about, but it sounded impressive. I walked over to the desk and picked up the basket. These lilies didn’t need water, and the only scent was of unlimited money combined with incomparable artistry. I am, in the main, untutored in the world of art and artifacts. I do not go gaga over a fine jade doodad; I do not wax ecstatic over a Ming dynasty vase; but even my rough-hewn self could appreciate this. I had never seen such beauty in a man-made object.

The moss was spun gold. The delicate looping stems were solid gold rods, the flowers were pearls encircled with diamonds. Who was it who said that diamonds are a pearl’s best friends? I gently touched the green leaves.

“Nephrite,” Yagamata said.

“I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Yagamata laughed. “There is nothing like it, anywhere in the world.”

“Gimme!” Foley barked.

I walked toward him, and Foley tore the basket from my hand. He leaned over Kharchenko, who was silent now. “Where is the shipment?”

Kharchenko muttered something in Russian. Foley grabbed him by the collar of his brown suit coat and yanked backward. He roughly pulled one of the flower stems out of the golden moss. “Let’s see how much you love art, Kharchenko.”

There were perhaps ten pearls on the stem, tiny ones at the tip, growing larger toward the base, where each one was tipped by six rose-cut diamonds. Foley put a hand to Kharchenko’s bandaged face, then pressed hard at the jaw muscles, forcing the Russian’s mouth open. Then he jammed the stem in and let go of his jaw. “Eat! Savor every morsel.”

Kharchenko let the pearl-laden stem sit in his mouth but did not move. Yagamata looked away. He seemed to be memorizing every detail of a colorful tapestry. Foley crouched down, grabbed another of the Russian’s fingers, and bent it back again until it cracked. Pain shot across Kharchenko’s face, and he involuntarily crunched down. I heard the stem break between his teeth. “Be a good boy and chew every bite. You don’t want your tummy to hurt.”

Slowly, Kharchenko worked his jaws. Tiny cuts appeared at the corners of his mouth. Foley leaned over him. “Swallow! Swallow, you greedy Russian pig, or I’ll break every bone in your fucking body, one at a time.” He picked up another golden stem and rammed it in. “Eat, you big cow! Eat your country’s precious art.”

Blood flowed in rivulets down Kharchenko’s chin, staining the gauze bandages, as he chomped down again and again. A tooth broke with a sickening crack.

“Now,” Foley asked, squatting close to the Russian, “where is the shipment?”

Kharchenko spit a bloody fragment of gold into Foley’s face.

With an angry hiss, Foley straightened, paced around the room, and stopped in front of the vessel filled with pearls. “Lassiter, a Western visitor attended one of the czar’s parties in the Hermitage where the guests ate their weight in caviar. Do you know how he described the Russian nobility?”

I shook my head.

“He said they were ‘dripping pearls and vermin.’ Hey, Kharchenko, we’ll provide the pearls. You probably have your own vermin.”

Yagamata stood silently, hands clasped behind his back, eyes closed. Foley was relishing this. But I wasn’t. I was thinking about it, reading my moral compass. Kharchenko killed Crespo and Eva-Lisa, and if anybody deserved to die, he did. But it’s one thing to declare a man’s guilt and another to execute him. It gnawed at me now, watching him tortured, my standing there doing nothing, my silence deafening.

“Foley, I don’t think he’s-”

“Shut up, Lassiter. You did your job by finding him. Let me do mine.”

Foley grabbed the gold vessel from its pedestal. He waved it in front of Kharchenko’s face. “Neither cast ye your pearls before swine.” Foley laughed. He yanked Kharchenko’s head back again, forced his mouth open, and poured the pearls into it. They rattled against his teeth and filled his mouth and throat. The Russian coughed and choked, spitting out as many as he could. I saw his Adam’s apple bob, the muscles of his neck contract, his throat thicken.

“ Where! ” Foley demanded.

Kharchenko was gagging, spitting up blood and yellow phlegm, but trying to talk, too. Foley leaned close, listening. Kharchenko’s lips moved. Foley smiled and patted the Russian affectionately on the top of the head. Then he stood, hitched up his formal black trousers, drew his right knee to his chest, then kicked Kharchenko flush on the temple, toppling him sideways. By the time the Russian hit the floor, a purple stain had appeared beneath the skin where his meningeal artery had ruptured. Quickly the stain spread under his ear and across his face.

The room was silent except for a faint pinging as Empress Alexandra’s pearls dropped, one by one, from Kharchenko’s bloody lips and rolled merrily across the gleaming marble floor.