When Natalia saw the world through Count Sokolov’s eyes, everything became more vivid. Sunsets were not the end of the day, they were blazing fires of a dying sun as it reclined in exhaustion. The chocolates she sent him for Christmas weren’t a simple gift, but quite possibly the finest culinary creation since God himself sent manna to the Hebrews wandering in the desert.
“Let me show you how we communicate,” she said to Liam, taking a seat beside Aaron at the telegraph machine. Her message notified Count Sokolov of the incoming loan installment and projections for the next month. Even though the wire was going to Russia, they were always sent in English.
Natalia was fluent in Russian, of course. Her Russian mother had raised her from birth on Russian language, folklore, and customs. It was Natalia’s ease with Russian culture that gave her father the confidence to assign her to the Russian account. Soon Natalia had a better understanding of the Russian economy than anyone else in the bank, and she was promoted to lead the Trans-Siberian project.
While Aaron tapped the brass sounder to send the message, she continued explaining to Liam how the Trans-Siberianwould soon reach the Pacific Ocean. It meant that Americans could start exporting their goods from California to the huge Russian market. It was a privilege to be a part of something that was going to change the world. Dreaming about the Trans-Siberian captured her imagination, even though she needed to keep this exuberant part of her soul hidden. It was essential to project the same logical formality as all the other soberly suited businessmen of Wall Street.
A cascade of clicks from the telegraph sounder came to life with an incoming message. Its brevity made it obvious it did not come from Count Sokolov, who would have berated Natalia for such a terse message without a salutation or an inquiry about his health.
Aaron passed her the message:
Confirmation received. Payroll next month anticipated to hold steady.
“That’s all?” she asked in dismay.
“That’s all,” Aaron confirmed.
She wouldn’t tolerate it. Dimitri’s continuing absence worried her. “Send a message asking for the whereabouts of Count Sokolov,” she ordered. The miracle of modern telegraphy meant that messages arrived at their destination after only a few minutes, but her growing unease made her impatient. When the answer to her message arrived five minutes later, the news was not good:
Count Sokolov has been reassigned.
“I don’t believe it,” she insisted. Dimitri would love to be transferred back to Saint Petersburg, but he wouldnothave left his post without telling her goodbye. If Count Sokolov no longer worked on the railroad, she had no idea how to contact him.
But she knew who could help.
The police department of New York City served the most diverse community in America. Immigrants from all over the world clustered into ethnic enclaves, where their native languages continued to thrive for generations. Many of those bilingual immigrants found work in the police department, and Boris Kozlov was just such a man.
Boris arrived from the Ukraine twelve years ago and patrolled a Russian-speaking section of the city informally known as Little Odessa. He strolled the two-mile loop through the neighborhood and often stopped in at The Samovar, a Russian market and tea shop that catered to the Slavic community. If Natalia waited at the tea shop long enough, Boris would eventually make an appearance.
As always, customers filled the stools at the service counter of the crowded shop. Tightly packed shelves covered the walls, weighed down with jars of pickles, herring, and sauerkraut. Ropes of garlic and dried sausages hung from hooks near the ceiling, and barrels of imported spices filled the remaining floor space.
“Has Officer Kozlov been through recently?” Natalia asked the young waitress in Russian.
“Not yet,” the woman replied, also in Russian. “He’ll probably come by soon.”
It was a rough neighborhood, and the owners of The Samovar usually slipped Officer Kozlov a pastry or a mug of something hot in exchange for regularly stopping in.
Natalia took a seat at the counter and ordered a pirozhki, a fried yeasty bun filled with cabbage and onions. This sort of peasant food would never be served at her father’s Fifth Avenue mansion, but when Natalia’s mother was alive, they came here often, and Galina delighted in sharing the comforting food of her youth and filling Natalia with tales of her faraway homeland.
Natalia had just finished her pirozhki when Officer Kozlov entered the shop. The police officer’s uniform did little to disguise his rough edges. Everything from Boris’s bulldog expression andthick mustache to his barrel chest made him seem tough and intimidating. He’d been walking the beat for years but aspired to become a detective and thus sought investigative work on the side to prove himself to the police hierarchy.
Natalia waved for him to join her at the last remaining seat at the counter and ordered him a pirozhki. “I need information about a man in Russia,” she said.
“Name?” Boris asked.
“Dimitri Sokolov.CountDimitri Sokolov.”
Boris looked surprised by the lofty title, but only for a moment. “I’ve never heard of him. Where does he live?”
“He’s originally from Saint Petersburg but has been posted to the far eastern provinces for the past three years, working on the railroad. He left his post a few weeks ago. He may have returned to Saint Petersburg, but I can’t be sure.”
“This one is going to cost you,” he said.
Anything Boris did for her always cost plenty. She slipped him a few bills, which was probably more than he earned in a week.
“That should get you started,” she said. “There may be fees for wires or informants in Russia. I’ll pay for those too. And if you find him, there will be a nice reward.”
“How nice?” Boris asked, his eyes gleaming.
