The Garden of Betrayal - Lee Vance [37]
He lifted a finger, and a bulky bodyguard I’d mistaken for another of the senator’s security staff snapped to attention.
“My associate will retrieve your things. Shall we?”
He led the way out a side entrance, through a courtyard, and to Madison Avenue beyond. Three black SUVs with tinted windows were parked in the shadow of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. The rear window was open in the last car, and I could see two guys sitting backward in the third row of seats with unzipped gym bags in their laps. I wondered if Narimanov carried a diplomatic passport and what kind of strings he’d had to pull to get permission to ride around New York City in a heavily armed motorcade.
Yet another large man opened the rear door of the center car, and we both got in. The interior was crammed with electronics—flat screens, keyboards, and telephones, all professionally mounted and ready to hand.
“Nice,” I said, as the door closed. My experience of billionaires was that they liked to have their toys complimented.
“Functional,” Narimanov replied offhandedly. “So. Senator Simpson’s associate, Mr. White, reached out through a mutual acquaintance to suggest I attend today. Why do you imagine I was invited?”
The pleasantries were over.
“He didn’t tell you?”
“I spent a few minutes with Senator Simpson and Mr. White before lunch. The senator told me that he is a great admirer of the Russian people. He wanted to know if I played tennis.”
I laughed and then gave the question some thought. Narimanov hadn’t been invited because of his money. Simpson was evidently willing to run the risk of cozying up to the hedge-fund community, but no mainstream politician would be dumb enough to take money from a foreign national or a foreign-controlled company.
“You’re plugged into the Kremlin,” I said tentatively. “Maybe Simpson wants you as a back channel to your government, to give them a window on what he’s thinking.”
“My conclusion exactly,” Narimanov said. “But why?”
It was a tougher question. Russia had become a major energy exporter since the collapse of the Soviet Union, so their only stake in the game was political.
“Pushing his plan will mean trouble with Europe and Asia,” I ventured. “They’re not going to like the idea of America formally asserting a first call on Middle Eastern oil and gas. Maybe he wants Russian support?”
“Again, my conclusion. In exchange for what?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted, having exhausted my ingenuity.
“Nor do I.”
“You could ask.”
“If I wished to be a messenger. It’s not always a desirable role.”
I took his point. Politics was a means for businesspeople, not an end. The front door opened, and the bulky bodyguard got in the passenger side, handing my coat and briefcase back to me.
“Where to?” Narimanov said.
“Forty-sixth and Park, if it’s not out of your way. I could walk as easily.”
“It’s not a problem.”
The bodyguard murmured something into his sleeve, and all three cars pulled away from the curb simultaneously. Narimanov craned his neck to look up at the cathedral as we passed beneath its spires. I took advantage of his distraction to pose a question of my own.
“How do you think your government is going to respond to the Nord Stream attack?”
“Do you know the word ‘laldie’?” he asked, still gazing out the window.
“No. Is it Russian?”
“Scottish. I spent a year on an offshore rig in the Sea of Okhotsk when I was in my twenties, apprenticed to a Glaswegian chief engineer. When a worker reported drunk, he’d give them a laldie—a thorough beating with a pipe wrench. It sent a message.”
“And you think Russia’s getting ready to give someone a laldie?” I asked, catching his drift.
“Russia and our new allies, the French. Most definitely.”
“The Ukrainians?”
“I’ll let you know if I hear.”
“Will you?” It never hurt to ask.
“Perhaps,” he said seriously, turning away from the window to look at me. “In exchange for your candid opinion of Senator Simpson’s proposal.”
I knew he was just jerking me around, but I liked the fact that we were talking.