Читать книгу Bank of Moscow Labyrinths - Jossiv Kim - Страница 2

Friday, April 9, 2010. Amsterdam

A cellphone, left on the back seat of Volvo, played the exuberant mazurka ringtone for a while, and then stopped. Kahn got into the driver’s seat, the musical ringtone resumed, the hands-free system in the car activated and a familiar voice said:

“Hello, Stas! This is Kalinovsky. It’s the second time I’m calling”.

“Hi, Andrzej! Sorry – I had to buy gasoline and left my phone in the car. I did not expect a call from you: yesterday your assistant told me that you were in England – attending reception at Her Majesty’s palace!”

“Well, that was yesterday! But indeed, we were there: we received a missile-carrier. What an impressive piece of machinery! All of the modules are fifth generation! Incidentally, I met Pan Rogozin at the reception, and we talked about you. I wish you were there”.

“Andrzej, I still don’t understand why Polish naval forces need a missile-carrier. Poland’s objective lies within the territorial waters of the Baltic region. You, a battle-hardened admiral, are on the NATO generals’ leash!” – Kahn started the car and headed towards the highway.

“Stas, you are right. But do you remember that in 1992, when you were teaching and I was studying in the Naval Academy in Gdynia, it was you who very actively supported Poland’s joining NATO?”

“Andrzej, let’s not refer to the past. I’m guessing this is not the reason for your call?”

Stas entered a tunnel and his telephone lost signal.

“I am here, I am listening: just lost you in the tunnel.”

“Stas, I am calling about your 3D cameras. My engineers tell me that our drones are equipped with exactly the same cameras.”

“Andrzej, first of all, these camerasare not mine, but Israel’s. Secondly, I have never kept from you that such camerasare in service with the USA and NATO. And thirdly, in accordance with the agreement between my Dutch company and the Americans, I may not sell chips to the third countries, especially to Russians – and I fulfill this obligation.”

“Kahn, I have no problem with it whatsoever: I’m just giving you a heads-up. By the way, I communicated with Israeli Mossad and they confirmed your rank in our army. I will not be available until Tuesday: tomorrow I am flying with President Kaczyński to Katyn on his TU-154. I will call you on Tuesday, after I come back.”

“Andrzej, you are a true friend. I owe you one.”

Kahn changed the gear to “Sport Mode” and his car flew down the highway.

“Fine! Have these cameras for your drones! The main thing is, they won’t fly over the Baltic Sea!” He could hardly hear Kalinovsky’s last words over the sound of his car’s powerful engine.

He drove right to the airplane. It was a Cessna 560XL. A pilot with a military bearing reported to him that the jet and its crew were ready for departure from Schiphol airport. Kahn proceeded to the cabin. The height of the ceiling allowed him to stand up straight. The walls were finished with light plastic panels and Chinese beech. In the center of the cabin there were two wide sofas, upholstered in beige colored leather. The plasma screen of a computer monitor glimmered on a small varnished table at the rear wall: Kahn noticed that Skype was available. A stewardess whose badge read “Marina”, written in Cyrillic letters, brought him a glass of fresh orange juice. The jet was getting ready for take-off, but the atmosphere there was so relaxing and luxurious, that Kahn felt as if he was on board of a lush ocean yacht and not an aircraft. He took his laptop computer out of its case. With a polite smile, Marina offered him the menu of the day with the internet password. Kahn turned on Skype and soon saw Nikita’s face on the screen.

“Hello, Mister Kahn! Please accept my apologies for this unexpected flight. In a couple of hours we will have lunch together aboard my yacht, that’s why I instructed Marina to offer you only a light breakfast.”

“No worries, Nikita: having worked with you all these years, I got used to your surprises. Besides, I am very comfortable here: the atmosphere is almost homely and the crew is very friendly.”

“I am glad to hear that. Have a nice flight. See you soon!”

With these words Nikita disconnected and a broadcasting program replaced his face on the screen.

Two hours later the Cessna landed in Ibiza airport, and soon after that, Nikita’s motor yacht left the harbor. It was a little windy on the upper deck, but Kahn enjoyed his comfortable chair and the sound of the engines slightly throbbing while the boat sailed out to the open sea.

“Nikita, why the rush? I was hoping to spend this weekend with my family.”

“Mister Kahn, did you see the morning news?”

“You know very well that I am not interested in your Russian news; besides, it’s my day off today.”

“Today, April 10, while attempting to land at the Smolensk North Airport, the presidential aircraft of Lech Kaczyński crashed, killing everybody on board. That’s why I asked you to come here, to my yacht.”

Kahn felt his head pounding. “Andrzej! Andrzej was there!” he thought immediately.

“Nikita,” he said in a choked voice. “Could you please arrange for me a secure communication with Poland?”

One of the stewards brought him a satellite phone.

Something clicked on the other end of the line and he heard a voice:

“Polish Navy Headquarters, captain Vozhnyak.”

“Captain, my I.D. number is 8120КS. Please connect me with admiral Kalinovsky’s assistant.”

After a few seconds of anxious waiting Kahn, still in disbelief, heard Andrzej’s assistant speak in a hollow voice:

“Pan General, you must still not know: the Admiral was with the President of Poland on the plane that crashed today in Russia. I am very sorry.”

Kahn heard the disconnect tone. He was sitting, clutching the phone, as if paralyzed by shock. Finally, he said:

“Yesterday in the afternoon I talked with Andrzej, and today he is gone forever. This is not the beginning of the 90s, when I lost so many friends.”

“Mister Kahn, would you like some water?”

“No, thank you, I’m fine. Let us drink to my late friend’s memory.”

The steward poured vodka into shot glasses.

“Please forgive me – but as soon as I found out about it from the news, I ordered my captain to go on-shore and sent my jet to Amsterdam.”

“And I thank you for that. I am alright. Why don’t we get down to business so that I can be back home by nighttime?”

“Do you mind moving to the salon? We are in the open sea now and it’s getting too chilly here.”

In the salon a table laid for two was waiting for them. A grand platter stood in its center: on it, on a bed of crushed ice, there was a spread of claws and tails of Canadian lobsters, king crabs, red shrimps, crawfish and small calamari. Slippery egg-size mussels and mouth-watering oysters topped this splendor. Slices of Spanish lemon, so sour that it brought tears to the eyes, were resting in a small crystal bowl. In front of every plate there were twelve silver instruments – from claw crackers and mussel knives with blunt and rounded blades, to little picks used for extracting meat from the shells. While going through cadet training in the military academy, Stas learned how to use all of these instruments. To the right of every plate he noticed small blue bowls filled with water, with a slice of lemon in each one – and smiled. This smile did not go unnoticed by his host.

“Stas, is something wrong?”

Kahn sat at the table, got comfortable and moved the blue bowl closer:

“On the contrary, everything is great. I just remembered one reception in Halifax, at the Harbor Master’s.”