My Reichmarks do far more than my vocal chords ever did.” “A reasonable statement.” “I’m a reasonable man. And what appears somewhat unreasonable to me now is why you would look me up. Not that I don’t enjoy your company, for I do. But why now? You say you’re not employed in your former profession; what could I possibly have that you’d be interested in?” “Advice.” “You have legal problems in Essen? Don’t tell me a dedir-ated Communist has private investments in the Ruhr.” “Only of time, and I have very little of that. I’m trying to trace a man, a family from Leningrad who came to Germany-to Essen, I’m convinced-between sixty and seventy years ago. I’m also convinced they entered illegally, and secretly bought into Ruhr industry.” Kassel frowned. “My dear fellow, you’re mad. I’m trying to tick off the decades-I was never very good at figures-but if I’m not mistaken, you’re referring to the period between 1910 and 190. Is that correct?” “Yes. They were turbulent times.” “You don’t say? There was merely the great war to the south, the bloodiest revolution in history in the north, mass confusion in the eastern Slavic states, the Atlantic ports in chaos, and the ocean a graveyard. In essence, all Europe was-if I may be permitted-in flames and Essen itself experiencing an industrial expansion unseen before or since, including the Hitler years. Everything, naturally, was secret, fortunes made every day.

  Into this insanity comes one White Russian selling his jewels-as hundreds did-to buy himself a piece of the pie in any of a dozen companies, and you expect to find him?” “I thought that might be your reaction.” “What other could I possibly have?” Kassel laughed again. “What is the name of this man?” “For your own good, I’d rather not tell you.” “Then how can I help you?” “By telling me where you would look first if you were me.” “In Russia.” “I did. The Revolutionary archives. In Leningrad.” “You found nothing?” “On the contrary. I found a detailed description of a mass family suicide so patently at odds with reality that it had to be false.” “How was this suicide described? Not the particulars, just in general.” “The family’s estate was stormed by the mobs; they fought all day, but in the end used the remaining explosives and blew themselves up with the main house.” “One family holding off a rioting mob of Bolsheviks for an entire day?

  Hardly likely.” “Precisely. Yet the account was as detailed as a von Clauswitz exercise, even to the climate and the brightness of the sky. Every inch of the vast estate was described, but outside of the name of the family itself, not one other identity was entered. There were no witnesses listed to confirm the event.” The attorney frowned again. “Why did you just say that ‘every inch of the vast estate was described’?” “It was.” “But why?” “To lend credibility to the false account, I assume. A profusion of detail.” “Too profuse, perhaps. Tell me, were the actions of this family on that day described in your usual enemiesof-the-people vitriol?” TaIeniekov thought back. “No, they weren’t actually. They could almost be termed individual acts of courage.” Then he remembered specifically. “They released their servants before they took their own lives… they released them. That wasn’t a normal thing.” “And the inclusion of such a generous act in a revolutionary’s account would not really be all that acceptable, would it?” “What are you driving at?” “That account may have been written by the man himself, or a literate member of the family and then passed on through corrupt channels to the archives.” “Entirely possible, but I still don’t understand your point.” “T’he odds are long, I grant you, but bear with me. Over the years I’ve learned that when a client is asked to outline a deposition, he always shows himself in the best light; that’s understandable. But he also invariably includes trivial particulars about things that mean a great deal to him. They slip out unconsciously: a lovely wife or a beautiful child, a profitable business or a… beautiful home. ‘Every inch of the vast estate.’ That was this family’s passion, wasn’t it? Land. Property.” “Yes.” Vasili recalled Mikovsky’s descriptions of the Voroshin estates. How the patriarchs were absolute rulers over the land, even to holding their own courts of law.

  “You could say they were excessively addicted to property.,, “Might they have brought -this addiction to Germany?” “T’hey might have. Why?” The attorney’s eyes turned cold. “Before I answer that, I must ask the old conspirator a very serious question. Is this search a Soviet reprisal of some sort? You say you’re unemployed, that you’re not working at your former occupation, but what proof do I have?” Taleniekov breathed deeply. “I could say the word of a KGB strategist who altered an enemy’s file twelve years ago, but I’ll go farther than that.

  If you have connections with Bonn intelligence and can inquire discreetly, ask them about me. Moscow has sentenced me to death.” “Me coldness thawed in Kassel’s eyes. “You wouldn’t say such a thing if it weren’t true. An attorney who deals every day with international business could check too easily. But you were a dedicated Communist.” “I still am.” “Then surely an enormous mistake has been made.” “A manipulated mistake,” said Vasili.

  “So this is not a Moscow operation, not in the Soviet interestT’ “No. It’s in the interests of both sides, all sides, and that is all I’ll say. Now, I’ve answered your serious question very seriously. Answer mine. What was your point regarding this family’s preoccupation with the land?” The lawyer pursed his thick lips. “Tell me the name. I may be able to help you.” “How?” “The Records of Property that are filed in the State House. There were rumors that several of the great estates in Rellinghausen and Stadtwald-those on the northern shores of Lake Baldeney~were bought by Russians decades ago.” “They would not have bought in their own name, I’m certain of that.” “Probably not. I said the odds were long, but the covert acquisition of property is not unlike depositions. Things slip out. Possession of land is very close to a man’s view of himself; in some cultures he is the land.” “Why can’t I look for myself? If the records are available, tell me where to find them.” “It wouldn’t do you any good. Only certified attorneys are permitted to search the titles. Tell me the name.” “It could be dangerous for anyone who looks,” said Taleniekov.

  “Oh, come now.” Kassel laughed, his eyes amused again. “A seventy-year-old purchase of land.” “I believe there’s a direct connection between that purchase and the extreme acts of violence that are occurring everywhere today.” “Extreme acts of The lawyer trailed off the phrase, his expression solemn. “An hour ago I mentioned Baader-Meinhof on the phone-Your silence was quite loud. Are you suggesting?…” “I’d rather not suggest anything,” interrupted Vasili. “You’re a prominent man, a resourceful man. Give me a letter of certification and get me into the Records of Property.” The German shook his head. “No, I won’t do that. You wouldn’t know what to look for. But you may accompany me.” “You’d do this yourself? WhyT’ “I despise extremists who deal in violence. I remember too vividly the screams and diatribes of the Third Reich. I shall, indeed, look for myself, and it we get lucky you can tell me what you wish.” Kassel lightened his voice, but sadness was there. “Besides, anyone sentenced to death by Moscow cannot be all bad. Now, tell me the name.” Taleniekov stared at the attorney, seeing another sentence of death.

  “Voroshin,” he said.

  The uniformed clerk in the Essen Hall of Records treated the prominent Heinrich Kassel with extreme deference. Herr Kassel’s firm was one of the most important in the city. He made it plain that the coarse-looking receptionist behind the desk would be delighted to make copies of anything Herr Kassel wished to have duplicated. The woman stared up unpleasantly, her expression disapproving.

  The steel file cabinets in the enormous room that housed the Records of Property were like gray robots stacked one on top of the other, circling the room, staring down at the open cubicles where the certified lawyers did their research.

  “Everything is recorded by date,” said Kassel. “Year, month, day. Be as specific as you can. What was the earliest Voroshin might have reasonably bought property in the Essen districts?” “Allowing for the slow methods of travel at the time, say late May or early June of 1911. But I told you, he wouldn’t have bought under his own name.” “We won’t be looking for his name, or even an assumed name. Not to begin with.” “Why not an assumed name? Why couldn’t he buy what was available under another name if he had the funds?” “Because of the times, and they haven’t changed that much. A man does not simply enter a community with his family and proceed to assume ownership of a larlge estate without arousing curiosity. This Voroshin, as you’ve described him, would hardly have wanted that. He would establish a false identity very slowly, very carefully.” “Then what do we look for?” “A purchase made by attorneys for owners in absentia. Or by a trust legation from a bank for an estate investment; or by officers of a company or a limited partnership for acquisition purposes. There are any number of ways to set up concealed ownership, but eventually the calendar runs out; the owners want to move in. It’s always the pattern, whether you talk about a candy store or a conglomerate or a large estate. No legal maneuver is a match for human nature.” Kassel paused, looking at the gray cabinets.

  “Come. We’ll start with the month of May, 1911. If there’s anything here it may not be that difficult to find. There were no more than thirty or forty such estates in the whole of the Ruhr, perhaps ten to fifteen in the Rellinghausen-Stadtwald districts.” Taleniekov felt the same anticipation he had experienced with Yanov Mikovsky in the archives in Leningrad. The same feeling of peeling away layers of time, looking for a clue in documents recorded with precision decades ago. But now he was awed by the seeming irrelevancies that Heinrich Kassel spotted and extracted from the thick pages of legalese. T’he attorney was like a child in that candy store he had referred to; a young expert whose eyes roamed over the jellybeans and the sour balls, picking out the flawed items for sale.

  “Here. Learn something, my international spy. This tract of land in Bredeney, thirty-seven acres in the Baldeney valley-ideal for someone like Voroshin. It was purchased by the Staatsbank of Duisburg for the minors of the family in Remscheid. Ridiculousl” “What’s the name?” “It’s irrelevant. A device. We find out who moved in a year or so after, that’s the name we want.” “You think it may be Voroshin. Under his new identity?” “Don’t jump. There are others like this.” Kassel laughed. “I had no idea my predecessors were so full of legal caprice; it’s positively shocking.

  Look,” he said, pulling out another sheaf of papers, his eyes automatically rivited on an indented clause on the first page, “here’s another. A cousin of the Krupps is transferring ownership of property in Rellinghausen to a woman in Diisseldorf in gratitude for her many years of service. Reallyl” “It’s possible, isn’t it?” “Of course not; the family would never permit it. A relative found a way to turn a handsome profit by selling to someone who did not want his peers-or his creditors-to know he had the money. Someone who controlled the woman in Diisseldorf, if she ever existed. The Krupps probably congratulated their cousin.” And so it went. 1911, 191, 1913, 1914… 1915.

  August 0, 1915.

  The name was there. It meant nothing to Heinrich Kassel, but it did to Taleniekov. It brought to mind another document ,000 miles away in the archives in Leningrad. The crimes of the Voroshin family, the intimate associates of Prince Andrei.

  Friedrich Schotte.

  “Wait a minute!” Vasili placed his hand over the pages. “Where’s this?” “Stadtwaid. There’s nothing irregular here. As a matter of fact, it’s absolutely legal, very clean.” “Perhaps too legal, too clean. Just as the Voroshin massacre was too profuse with detail.” “What in God’s name are you talking about?” “What do you know of this Friedrich Schotte?” The attorney grimaced in thought, trying to recall irrelevant history; this was not what he was looking for.

  “He worked for the Krupps, I think, in a very high position. It would have had to be for him to buy this. He got in trouble after the First World War.

  I don’t remember the eircumstances-a prison sentence or something-but I can’t see why it’s relevant.” “I can,” said Taleniekov. “He was convicted of manipulating money out of Germany. He was killed on the first night of that prison sentence in 1919.

  Was the estate sold then?” “I would think so. It would appear by the map survey to be a rather expensive property for a prison widow to maintain.” “How can we find out?” “Look through the year 1919. We’ll get there—’ “Let’s get there now. Please.” Kassel sighed. He got up and headed for the cabinets, returning a minute later with a bulging folder. “When a brief is interrupted continuity is lost,” he muttered.

  “Whatever we lose can be restored; we may gain time.” It took nearly thirty minutes before Kassel extracted a file within a file and placed it on the table. “I’m afraid we’ve just wasted a half-hour.”.,Why?” “T’he estate was purchased by the Verachten family on November 1, 1919.” “ne Verachten Works? Krupp’s competitor?” “Not then. More so now, perhaps. The Verachtens came to Essen from Munich soon after the turn of the century, sometime around nineteen six or seven.

  It’s common knowledge, the Verachtens were Munichers, and they couldn’t be more respectable. You have a V, but no Voroshin.” Vasili’s mind raced back over the information already known. Guillaume de Matarese had summoned the beads of once-powerful families, stripped-nearly but not entirely—of their past riches and influence. According to old Mikovsky, the Romanovs had waged a long battle against the Voroshins, labeling them the thieves of Russia, provokers of revolution…. It was clear! The padrone from the hills of Porto Vecchio had*summoned a man-and by extension, his family-already in the process of a covert immigration, taking with them everything they could out of Russial “The imperial V, that’s what we’ve found,” said Taleniekov. “My God, what a strategyl Even to the prolonged use of truckloads of gold and silver sent out of Leningrad with the imperial V!” Vasili picked up the pages in front of the attorney. “You said it yourself, Heinrich. Voroshin would build a false identity very slowly, very carefully. That’s exactly what he did; he simply began five or six years before I thought he had. I’m sure if such records were kept or memories could be activated, we’d find that Herr Verachten came first to Essen alone, until he was established. A man of wealth, testing new waters for investments and a future, bringing with him a carefully constructed history from faraway Munich, money flowing through the Austrian banks. So simple, and the times were so right!” Suddenly Kassel frowned. “Flis wife,” said the lawyer quietly.

  “What about his wife?” “She was not a Municher. She was Hungarian, from a wealthy family in Debrecen, it was said. Her German was never very good.” “Translated, she was from Leningrad and a poor lirtguist. What was Verachten’s full name?” “Ansel Verachten,” said the attorney, his eyes now on Taleniekov. “Ansel.” “Andrei.” Vasili let the pages fall. “It’s incredible how the ego strives to be sublime, isn’t it? Meet Prince Andrei Voroshin.”

  They strolled across the Gildenplatz, the Kaffee Hag building blazing with light, the Bosch insignia subdued but prominent below the enormous clock.

  it was eight in the evening now, the sky dark, the air cold. It was not a good night for walking, but Taleniekov and Kassel had spent nearly six hours in the Records of Property; the wind that blew across the square was refreshing.

  “Nothing should shock a German from the Ruhr,” said

  the lawyer, shaking his head. “After all, we are the ZUrich of the north.

  But this is incredible. And I know only a part of the story. You won’t reconsider and tell me the rest?” “One day I may.” “That’s too cryptic. Say what you mean.” “If I’m alive.” Vasili looked at Kassel. “Tell me everything you can about the Verachtens.” “There isn’t that much. The wife died in the midthirties, I think. One son and a daughter-in-law were killed in a bombing raid during the war, I remember that. The bodies weren’t found for several days, buried under the rubble as so many were. Ansel lived to a ripe old age, somehow avoiding the war crimes penalties that caught the Krupps. He died in style, heart seizure while on horseback sometime in the fifties.” “Who’s left?” “Walther Verachten, his wife and their daughter; she never married, but it didn’t prevent her from enjoying connubial pleasures.” “What do you mean?” “She cut a bold figure, as they say, and when she was younger, had one to match her reputation. The Americans have a term that fits: she was-in some ways, still is-a 4man-eater.’” The attorney paused. “Strange how things turn out. It’s Odile who really runs the companies now. Walther and his wife are in their late seventies and are rarely seen in public these days.” “Where do they live?” “They’re still in Stadtwald, but not at the original estate, of course.

  As we saw, it was one of those sold to postwar developers; it’s why I didn’t recognize it. They have a house further out in the countryside now.” “What about the daughter, this Odile?” “That,” replied Kassel, chuckling, “depends on the lady’s whims. She keeps a penthouse on the Werden Strasse, and through those portals pass many a business adversary who wakes up the next morning too exhausted to best her at the conference table. When she’s not in the city I understand she maintains a cottage on her parents’ grounds.” “She sounds like quite a woman.” “In the forty-five-plus sweepstakes, few outclass her on the track.” Kassel paused again, again not finished.

  “She has a flaw, however, and I’m told it’s maddening. Although she runs Verachten firmly, when things aren’t going well and swift decisions are called for, she often announces that she must confer with her father, thus postponing actions sometimes for days. At heart she’s a woman, forced by circumstances to wear a man’s hat, but the power still resides with old Walther.” “Do you know himT’ “We’re acquaintances, that’s all.” “What do you think of him?” “Not much, never did. He always struck me as a rather pretentious autocrat without a great deal of talent.” “The Verachten Works thrive, however,” said Vasili.