The Ice Curtain by Robin White

Volsky would have to be careful.
    It reminded him of the Siberian Dilemma.
    It’s winter. Minus forty degrees. An ice fisherman falls through into frigid water. If he stays in, he’ll die in a minute. If he pulls himself out, he’ll freeze to a statue in seconds. Which will it be? A minute of life, or a few seconds?
    Forget Siberia. Here was the
Russian
Dilemma: official, unofficial, law and crime, businessman, politician, president, thief. They were
all
becoming distinctions without a difference.
    The headwaiter noticed him and hurried over.
    â€œWas there something you needed, sir?”
    â€œA phone.”
    â€œOur members usually carry their own.”
    Volsky spotted the foreign lawyer. He was no longer sitting alone. Another man was with him. Another foreigner. A blue blazer, an oxford shirt. Khaki pants. A Russian would have to work up a hard sweat to appear so casual.
    Volsky joined them. They looked up. The second man was much younger, and there was something odd about his eyes. Then Volsky saw what it was; they were not quite the same color. “It seems that I need your help after all,” he said to the drunk lawyer.
    â€œThat’s what I’m here for. Meet my friend—”
    â€œSorry. There’s no time. You have a cell phone?”
    Willie seemed puzzled, or just too drunk to understand.
    â€œPlease.” The second man reached into his rain-dark Burberry and handed his cell phone to Volsky. “Use mine.”
    The green light was still blinking, whatever that meant. “And you are?”
    â€œEban Hock. You’re the Siberian Delegate. I’d like to talk with you if you have a moment to spare.”
    â€œI don’t.” Volsky walked to a corner away from the tables and punched in a private number that rang in the Kremlin.
    The line clicked.
    â€œThis is A.V. Volsky. The Siberian Delegate.
Buran.
”
    Buran.
Blizzard. The code word that was supposed to prove that Volsky was Volsky. There was a long silence as a list was scanned one finger at a time. Finally, “Listening.”
    â€œI’m requesting an immediate inventory of the state diamond stockpile. Tonight if possible. Tomorrow if it’s not.”
    â€œThat’s the responsibility of . . .”
    â€œI’ve spoken with Petrov.” That was technically true. “It’s a big job, so we’ll need some help. We’ll need a representative from the Finance Ministry, one from the Presidential Administration, and, naturally, someone from the FSB.” The last was the Federal Security Bureau, the successor to the old KGB. “Have you got it all?”
    â€œYes. But—”
    â€œI also want a report on an American company licensed to sell Siberian diamonds. It’s called Golden Autumn. There’s paperwork someplace that authorizes it. I want it found and ready for inspection by tomorrow morning. Have you got all that or do I have to call Gorky-9 and have the President repeat it for you?”
    â€œEverything is noted!” the desk officer said.
    â€œSee that it happens.” Volsky folded Hock’s cell phone closed and returned back. “Thank you.”
    â€œNow, if you have just a few moments . . .” said Hock.
    â€œI’m staying at the Rossiya. You can call me tomorrow.”
    â€œI won’t be in Moscow tomorrow, I’m afraid.”
    â€œCount your blessings.” Volsky turned and walked back through the warm, intimate dining room to the guarded outer hall.
    The guards were gone. The telephone at the guard’s desk was ringing, a light on it flashing. He ignored it and found the button that unlocked the outer door. He pushed it.
    There was a loud buzz, then the click of steel tongues retracting into oiled slots. He grabbed the lever. The heavy door moved and a wave of cold, wet air flowed in.
    The temperature was dropping fast. Big flakes were falling through the glow of the outside lights, large and soft as