Aristocratic Thieves

  Chapter 11 – The Plan, Part Two

  Blistov sat in the June’s living room, alone. He kept looking around and telling himself he would like a living room like this, only with darker colors. He wasn’t exactly in tune with sand yellows and light green grays and salmons. They don’t use those colors in the Hermitage; they use dark burgundies and dark emeralds and dark blues. The Hermitage is a very heavy place.

  The Russian was quite content in body, having enjoyed the five donuts and five cups of Brazilian coffee. He was a lot less content in his mind. With his eyes closed he visualized the great wooden warehouses bulging with Hermitage grade C junk. That's what the Hermitage know-it-alls called the stuff in the warehouses…junk. That’s not what the folks at Sotheby's and Christies would call it, though. They would call it MONEY. And that’s not what the nouveau riche Russians with winter houses on Sullivan’s Island would call it. They would call it HOME. And that’s not what the snooty wealthy Charlestonians would call it. They would call it I GOT SOMETHING YOU AIN’T GOT. They would say, “You got 18th century Boston……I got 17th century Saint Petersburg. You know where Saint Petersburg is, by the way?”

  But Jinny had been in tight places before, like the unheated hold of the Aeroflot cargo plane in which he traveled from St. Petes to Pittsburgh. No stuffed chicken-breast with baby carrots had been served on that flight. So Jinny was discontent, but not scared. He knew he would produce the missing piece of the puzzle; he just had to let his mind roam; roam the culture of the Saint Petersburg criminal jungle.

  The June’s dog walked into the living room, and set its chin on Blistov’s leg. He looked at the dog without touching it, but with visionary eyes. Blistov thought, 'If I can pull this off, I can have a borzoi in my living room, resting it’s aristocratic snout full of aristocratic teeth on my leg, unlike this mutt of an American dog, with it short nose, and teeth that couldn’t tear a squirrel apart.' He closed his eyes again and cast his mind back in time, back in space, to the grand Hermitage Palace. Who is there that can help? Who is there that wants what I want? Who is there that is like me?

  Roger walked to the living room doorway and gazed at the scene. A Russian criminal was sitting on his sofa with his eyes closed and his mouth open, and his, Roger’s, dog was resting it’s head on the man’s leg. Was Blistov sleeping? Is this guy a fraud? And why does my dog like him? Roger left.

  Jinny had not even heard Roger at the living room doorway because he had solved the problem. He just had to work out the details, which he was doing now. Jinny had identified the crucial person, and it was a woman, which surprised Jinny. A woman to help him with his scheme. A woman to get him his Borzoi and his coveted Brusshev 10 mm semi-automatic handgun. A woman to get him warm, February, Atlantic breezes.

  He smiled now, and almost broke out into laughter, picturing the woman in her Hermitage domain. He pictured her in late March, the middle of the Saint Petersburg winter, outside the Palace, driving around the grounds in a World War II era camouflage painted diesel military personnel carrier. The woman, whose name was Plouriva Roshenska, would drive around the grounds in this vehicle for one reason - it was like driving around in a mini blast furnace. The diesel engine ran hot as hell and there was no insulation in the cab. No one could drive this thing around during the summer, no way. But from November to June, that was the way Plouriva performed her job. And what was her job? She was the head grounds-keeper of the Hermitage.

  Let’s get the picture correct about the grounds of the Hermitage. Think Yellowstone National Park. It was about that big. You got a Palace with 1285 rooms in it, you need a big piece of property on which to build it, and that was Plouriva’s domain. She had done the job for twenty years, and she was master of her domain. No one messed with Plouriva. She was like the Russian spy chief witch in From Russia With Love, only good looking.

  Plouriva had the run of the grounds, and commanded a huge fleet of utility vehicles to accomplish her job. She even had a military half-track or two, though she rarely fired those up. But she had trucks, and more trucks. She drove her personnel carrier around all winter (all eight months of winter) because it was warm, and maybe because it intimidated a lot of people. Often she would park the beast next to her office wall with the engine running, because her office was located in one of the out-buildings with marginal central heating. In a few minutes, the diesel would radiate its heat straight through the brick walls and right into Plouriva’s back. Plouriva liked her job and her position of authority, but she hated being cold.

  So you see why Blistov thought of Plouriva as the answer to his prayers. Here was a woman with whom he had shared some memorable intimacies (until he was thrown into prison) and who just might find a sunny, sixty-degree February day on the beach appealing. She had access to the out-building warehouses where the junk was stored, and she had the run of the complex. Plouriva, my darling.

  At this point Blistov opened his eyes and smiled. He even began to develop an appreciation for the short-nosed mutt that now was slumped across his feet on the Oriental carpet of the June’s living room. He liked loyalty. He got up and wandered into the kitchen where he found Roger and Gwen doing dueling juliennes with carrots and celery and onions on his and her matching maple chopping blocks. Jinny had had chopping blocks when he grew up, too. One for the live chickens and one for the bigger animals. He sat down. They stopped their julienning and looked at him. He said, “I got it figured out. I just needed a little pressure. Thanks.” He told them about Plouriva and said he would explore this over the next few days. To the Junes he looked confident without looking over-confident, and that was all they could ask. Certainly Blistov was going to have to validate to the Junes this entire Saint Petersburg scenario, but there was something about him that led them to believe this was the real deal. And both of them trusted their intuitions.

  They threw their choppings into the pot on the stove, added some beef stock and some herbs, and set the burner to simmer. With that they led the way back to the living room and the easels. Roger took up his place and pointed to “Paris.” He looked at Jinny and, using body language, asked for his thinking. Jinny said simply that Russians loved their country, their art, their missiles, their aristocrats (well, some of the Russians loved their aristocrats) and their history, but they didn’t love their food. The only food the Russians thought was worse than their food was the food of neighboring Finland. It is sort of like the way other American southern states look down on Kentucky. What the Russians like and want is western food (except that of England), especially French food. The Russians think the Italians and Greeks are a little too demonstrative with their cooking and their loving, but that French food is just right. It is heavy and aristocratic (well, some of it, anyway) and delicious, and classy, and fresh, and complicated, and imaginative. In other words, all the things that Russian cooking is not. So that is what a lot of wealthy Russians want, and with it they want French wine. They want the whole cultural package. Jinny said he thinks a lot of these folks, these same folks who hate cold, long winters, and who now are very, very wealthy from stealing oil revenues along with Putin, are not spot-light seekers, but rather are heritage lovers. Jinny thinks these folks will pay through the nose for great French wine and someone to clue them in about its graces and sublimities. Especially if the assistant to the wine educator (Roger) happens to be a beautiful woman who they know carries a 40 cal. handgun somewhere on her person (even in that little black dress, they wonder?) and who can procure such items for them and their consorts. Ergo, the second point in the triangle is Paris, and that is where Roger will have to do the legwork to produce the goods. Roger looked at Jinny and Gwen, and says, “Can do.”

  Now it’s Jinny’s turn to wonder a bit about capabilities. Can Roger really buy or steal the wine (either way is ok with Jinny) and get it to Charleston at a cost that will allow for large profits? Well, the Junes displayed confidence in him; he
will do likewise with them. Partners are partners.

  Now to the last point in the triangle, written on the last easel: Charleston. What happens at the nexus of the operation, the place where people, antiques, and wine converge? Roger looked at Gwen.

  Gwen gets up and goes to the easel, taking the marker from Roger. As has been demonstrated, Gwen has a very sharp mind. Even though she was not part of Jinny’s original jailhouse generated concept, she was adopted into it right there in the restaurant. And from that minute onwards she had been analyzing the op from top to bottom. Most specifically she had been figuring out just how and where she fit in; how and where she could contribute; how and where she could earn her part of the profits, and she had formulated a plan within a plan.

  Long before the first container of antiques arrives at the Charleston shipping terminal, long before the first temperature controlled shipping container full of Burgundy and Bordeaux and Rhone wine arrives, something else would arrive: a planeload of Russian gangsters and their babes. At this thought, she examined her chauvinism. Couldn’t some of the principles be women? Couldn’t some of the gangsters themselves be women? Couldn’t some of the high-rollers and noveaux riches be women? She had no idea. She didn’t know much about Russian culture, though of course she knew something about those fabulous Faberge eggs. She wondered if she could get her hands on one of those.

  Anyway, Gwen was stimulated by the idea of meeting these folks at the airport and settling them into Charleston digs. She wondered if any of the guys would be handsome. After all, Omar Sharif was very handsome, and wasn’t he Russian? She remembered seeing a famous newspaper photo of Putin on vacation up in some forest in Siberia, fly-fishing for salmon. The photo was published around the world. Putin was standing shirtless in the middle of a raging stream, with forty-degree water up to his goolies. There was a bunch of bodyguards hanging around on the shore, all dressed in military fatigues and armed to the teeth. Gwen remembered the photo and thought, that guy has some pecs.

  Gwen hoped some of the guys would be studs, and some of the Russian babes would have bodies not reminiscent of rain barrels. Maybe Kournikova had become a courtesan now that she no longer played tennis. Ok, back to work considerations. Gwen’s job was threefold: obtain options on beachfront properties and convince the Russian boys and girls to buy them at top-dollar prices; school the kids in firearms use; and most importantly, create a social milieu for these folks that would convince them Charleston was their winter home. The latter would center around epicurean and aristological social events, in preparation for which Roger would sell them French wines, also at top-dollar prices. In other words, Gwen and Roger would organize luncheon and dinner parties that would compete with the olden events of Newport, RI and Cumberland Island, GA. They would not be like those low-rent, glitterati shindigs of Beverly Hills. These would be low-key, proper, all-class events where the money was sensed, not flaunted.

  Gwen wondered what it would be like to hang with this crowd. Would this be all work and no play, or was there imagination to be found? And just how much moola would she and Roger get out of this deal, anyway? Blistov hadn’t put any numbers on the board for consideration. Gwen and Roger had realized it wasn’t possible to calculate actual numbers; this whole enchilada was highly speculative. But somehow Blistov had convinced them, without any profit numbers on paper, and that was a testament to Blistov’s inner and outer persona. The guy had something about him that instilled confidence and….excitement.

  Another of Gwen’s duties would be to arrange the décor of the new Sullivan's Island digs, utilizing the Hermitage antiques as the foci of attention. This would be a challenging trick, to match beach flavor with old Russian aristocrat flavor. Could this be done? If anyone could do it, she could.

  So Gwen scribbled these thoughts and items down on the Charleston easel pad, and sat down on the sofa. The three partners looked at the four easels: Saint Petersburg, Paris, Charleston, and antiques, wine, and real estate. Blistov was all quiet smiles. Roger recognized the business and logistical challenges, while Gwen saw and hoped for some fun. All three saw dollar signs, and lots of hard work. Roger and Gwen asked themselves one last time why a Russian gangster was sitting on their $12,000 sofa. They looked at each other, thought some more, and resigned themselves to the venture. They reminded themselves of the famous statement by the fictional New York City detective, Nero Wolfe: “I like money, and require lots of it to live the way I want to.” The Plan was done. Time to execute.