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  DOING LUNCH

  All Rights Reserved © 2001 by Barry Kohl

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrival system, without the permission in writing from the author.

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  ISBN: 1-931297-67-3

  CHAPTER 1

  THE NEED TO CHANGE

  Serge Sergotoff’s physical make up left one with the impression that he was a very strong man. Standing six feet five inches tall and weighing two hundred and sixty pounds of solid muscle, the fifty-two year old Russian diplomat could easily be mistaken for a retired football player. Underneath his heavy overcoat was a taut body that was subjected to rigorous weight training on a daily basis. Sergotoff was proud of his body, and he made those around him aware that he was proud of it.

  Having climbed to the top of the power ladder within the communist party with expert use of manipulation, he also knew how to intimidate if he needed to. Once at the top of the power structure, it was something he did not want to relinquish, having tasted both the power and the luxuries that came with it. Having been moderate in his conduct, he made few enemies on his way up, although he used his healthy set of lungs that generated a deep resonating sound to bully people when he felt it absolutely necessary. He used it rarely, showing good judgment on just when to use it and on whom. He tempered this act with an occasional display of generosity. His voice was considered Russia’s first boom box with only one channel.

  Making his way through Moscow’s heavy snow, his tracks in the white powder showed where he had come from. His pure white skin and a full head of silver hair blended in with the element. The faces around him were as depressing as the weather itself and as white as the falling flakes.

  Reaching his destination, the state building, he anticipated its warmth, something that his body needed. Entering the building, he was quickly disappointed as the temperature was only slightly warmer than the fifteen degrees outside. The only good thing about being inside was that the corridors did not need to be shoveled and there was no wind chill factor. Entering the self-service elevator, he quickly reached the fifth floor, his destination, where he knew the meeting that morning was going to be of the utmost importance to him. He should know since he was the one that scheduled it.

  Entering the conference room and being greeted by six stone cold faces that seemed to be looking at Sergotoff for an answer, he would give them one if he only knew the question. Removing his overcoat and hanging it up, Sergotoff tossed his attaché case up onto the table.

  “Good morning, gentlemen!”

  The quiet caused Sergotoff to look at the hard, cold faces that appeared to have spent too much time outdoors in the cold, harsh Moscow winters and he began to justify the inaction of his colleagues by believing that they were frost bitten. He knew he had to create the spark that would get this session going. Opening his attaché case, he removed some papers and tossed them in the center of the conference table.

  “I have spent the last two weeks studying these reports. We have trouble.”

  “You are telling me we have trouble! You are telling me!” snapped Yalantov, the Minister of Trade. “This free enterprise is not working because the people are not working. They want everything given to them. Shoes, sweaters, apartments...they are used to showing up at a factory and putting in their time. We produced nothing under communism. What did we produce? Now the people still think you produce nothing under capitalism, they don’t understand that there is a difference.”

  “That is exactly the answer, we produced silence. These people think clothing grows on trees.”

  “The lines are long, Sergotoff, and what we have to offer is almost nothing,” interjected Medansky, the head of the KGB. “Even if my people could do something, it would not help. There are just too many people who have become disgruntled. We cannot stop them all.”

  Looking at the faces around the conference table, Sergotoff felt like a dinner table centerpiece with all the eyes focused on him. While having brought an idea with him to the meeting about how they might handle the situation that existed all across Russia, he was not sure how it would be received. The uncertainty forced him to walk toward the window that overlooked Red Square so that he could take the heat off himself.

  “I have an idea, something that might work.”

  “What is it, Sergotoff?” asked Listisch, Minister of Transportation, with the sound of a man seeking a cure to prevent him from dying. Turning back toward his comrades, Sergotoff needed to see their physical response so that he could accurately gauge them.

  “We could bring in a new premier to run the country.”

  Looking at the others, Sergotoff found the response he expected. Everyone appeared confused and it was obvious that no one in the room understood what bringing in a new premier in the middle of an economic crisis could possibly do to make things better.

  The first comment was from Yalantov, “But if nothing else, comrades, Russia still produces the best Vodka, no?” There was a slight chuckle, which came to an abrupt halt when Sergotoff broke into it with his deep baritone voice that sounded like it had all six foot five inches of wind behind it. “You people have no idea why I made that suggestion, do you?”

  Sergotoff’s blue-gray piercing eyes made everyone in the room feel like a child as their eyes met his. The conference room might as well have been called a library for as quiet as it had become.

  “Yalantov, do you enjoy the resort on the Crimean?”

  “Well, of course I do. If we did not have that privilege, my wife would have left me.”

  “And you, Listisch, do you not enjoy the cuisine at the Kremlin?” As Sergotoff asked the question his eyes focused on Listisch’s midsection, a part of Listisch’s anatomy that could actually make good use of the Kremlin’s health club. Feeling smaller than he appeared, Listisch was distraught over the fact that he could not make himself small enough to escape the humiliation that he felt in front of the others.

  “And you, General Ryaskoff, would you not miss the hunting at the party’s lodge in the Urals?”

  “Well, of course I would miss it. You know how many deer I killed on our last visit, Sergotoff. What point are you trying to make?” The general’s husky, gravelly voice was loud and filled with irritation, his voice being a match for Sergotoff's at anytime. Showing his emotions to Sergotoff was the wrong thing for the general to do because now Sergotoff knew he had him, he had his strongest possible opponent by the throat. Now it was time to go in for the kill, time to make his point.

  “We all have something we enjoy, something we enjoy because we are the elite, something that everyone else in Russia has no idea we have.” The others in the room looked at each other and when Yalantov flashed a small quick smile at Sergotoff, the speaker knew that at least someone was getting his drift. “The country is not far from a revolution and those in the privileged class will pay. We are the privileged class. We must bring someone in to take over as premier, someone with credibility that the public will accept, someone who will try to make private enterprise work. Then when things fail, he will fall and we will return to power. The people will demand the return to communism.”

  “Then you would want me to step down?” asked Potemsky, Russia’s current premier.

  “Yes, but it will only be temporary. A very short time I assure you,” answered Sergotoff, his now dulcet tone delivered deliberately to put th
e premier at ease.

  The smiling faces were all Sergotoff needed to see to know that he had struck home; the others in the room were more concerned about saving their asses and their privileges than with saving Mother Russia.

  “And you have someone in mind?” asked General Ryaskoff, for he could not fathom anyone being such a fool to subject themselves to the public’s demands with the heat in the kitchen reaching new highs everyday.

  “Professor Debenov.”

  “Professor Debenov?” came the response from a startled Listisch “He is a bookworm. He hides himself in the library.”

  “But he is respected, he loves Russia and he thinks he has an answer for everything. He will think he has an answer for this as well I am sure.” Looking around the oval table, Sergotoff received the positive nods of those seated at it. Sergotoff loved the idea that in reality just a few men controlled Russia and he controlled the few men.

  “But will we be able to get the support of the Constitutional Democratic Party and The People’s Front of Russia?” asked Yalantov.

  “I have put what little of capitalism I know to work. I have talked to Malaschenko of the People’s Front. If he and his family get to use the lodge in the Urals and the resort on the Sea of Azov, he says he could deliver the support we need.”

  “But what about the Constitutional Democratic Party? We will need their support too,” questioned Listisch.

  “That is, as they say, pending. I made the same deal to Zanin but I think he is holding out for more. He must have read the same books on capitalism that I have read. I will work it out.”

  Looking over at Potemsky, Sergotoff didn’t understand why he looked so dismayed.

  “What is wrong, Vladimir?”

  “I cannot believe that these two are at the forefront for change and now they are willing to just kick it all back.”

  “But they are not kicking it back. They moved closer to the pot and they like the taste of the better food. Do you really think the system matters to them as long as they are getting theirs?”

  Potemsky just put his elbows on the conference table and placed his head in his hands. He knew that what he just heard about the two wanting to make deals for their own personal gain was the truth.

  Professor Alexi Debenov was a man of great knowledge, which he accrued from his years at Moscow University. He had even spent some time at Oxford in England and the Sabournne in Paris, where he added another language to his vocabulary and two inches to his waist. While he was waiting for life to begin at forty, he felt that he was already thirteen years late in getting a start and had passed the time reading and working out.

  Teaching physics, Alexi also dabbled in astronomy and chemistry. His knowledge was so great that students sought him out for assistance, which only alienated professors who actually taught those subjects. No matter where in the University Alexi would travel, he was bound to run into someone who just wanted to see him bit by a snake. This bothered Alexi because he really had an easy-going nature and wanted to be loved by all.

  Driving through the snow covered streets of Moscow; the professor could not understand why he had been summoned to the office of Foreign Minister Sergotoff. They had only met on a few occasions and there was no real social interaction between the two. Alexi found Sergotoff to be too much of a stiff, a man with no sense of humor, just far too business-like for the physics teacher.

  Entering the building, Alexi couldn’t figure out for the life of him why he felt as cold in the building as he had outside. Maybe it was cold because the hallways were about as warm as the types of people that walked down the halls of this place, Alexi thought to himself. Arriving at Sergotoff’s office, Orlov, the Foreign Minister’s secretary, warmly greeted him and suddenly Alexi felt that someone was tampering with the thermostat. Orlov led him into Sergotoff’s inner office where he found his host sitting behind his desk.

  “Sit down, Professor Debenov.”

  The office was tastefully furnished with what Alexi quickly assessed as expensive antiques. He knew that if he were given thirty minutes he could accurately appraise the furnishings to within a hundred dollars of their fair market value. The learned man was not quite sure where to plant himself since he felt like a fish out of water; this just wasn’t his tank.

  “Please professor, sit down,” Sergotoff again made the request. Looking at two armchairs that faced the Foreign Minister, Alexi opted for the one he believed to be less valuable. Quickly he reasoned that if the Foreign Minister had a 'break it you buy it' mentality, he could pay it off quicker.

  “I have asked you here today, Alexi...I can call you Alexi, can I not?” The guest nodded his approval because he could not get the words out while his mind laughed at what he perceived to be such a shallow, pretentious man.

  “You know how bad things are getting for the people, do you not?” Alexi thought this question quite preposterous, considering the fact that one could not walk a block in Moscow without seeing hungry and homeless people.

  “It is obvious.”

  “We would like you to become premier.” The unexpected request caught Alexi off guard completely and he made every effort not to fall out of the antique chair in fear of doing it some harm. Remaining silent, he had provided Sergotoff some more ammunition to fire at him.

  “Does the job sound too difficult for you?”

  “Of course not, but why me?”

  “You are educated, you are perceptive. We need someone like you to lead the people, to get them to work, to believe in free enterprise.” Sergotoff walked over to the window and stared out into the white blanket where the freezing temperatures would turn the streets to ice.

  “That woman there, she has been to that trash can three times today that I have seen.” Sergotoff’s words meant nothing to Debenov; he was all too familiar with the Foreign Minister’s slight of hand. From the moment he had heard the proposal, Alexi questioned the motives but his compassion for the people was something that came into play. He had to deal with that.

  “What about Potemsky?”

  Turning toward his guest, Sergotoff walked over to a small buffet table in his office that had a silver teapot and several small cups set upon a silver platter sitting on it. Above the buffet hung a portrait of Nicolei Lenin.

  “Tea?”

  “Please.” Sergotoff poured a cup and walked it over to Alexi.

  “Sugar?”

  “I am sorry, comrade, but since we have cut the funds to Cuba, we get no sugar.”

  “That’s all right,” responded Alexi, “we figured out that if you figured out the rubles we were giving Cuba for the sugar they were giving us, Russia was paying about two dollars and thirty-five cents a pound in American currency.”

  “Why do you talk in American currency, Debenov? Is Russian ruble not worth anything?”

  Looking at the professor, who remained stone silent, Sergotoff had his answer. He also understood that the country was as bad off as he thought it was.

  “That is why we need you, Alexi. The people will follow you. You could get them to work.”

  Sipping his tea, he knew this was wrong. He was familiar with capitalism, with free market economies, but he had never started a company. What would be the best way to start Russia toward the road to economic recovery?

  “We need you, Alexi, the Communist party needs you.” Debenov hated being reminded that he was a member of the communist party. He had made the mistake of joining it thinking how wonderful the ideology sounded, everyone sharing. Right! He had come to terms with man’s greed and desires for challenge and had quit the party quite some time ago. The only problem was they never took him off their mailing list. He had the same problem with a book club.

  “What about premier Potemsky?”

  “Comrade, he feels the same as I, that we need you. You must take the reigns of power.” Yes, that was the magic word with these guys, power.

  “Will I be able to choose my own people?”

  “Of course!” replied Ser
gotoff, hardly attempting to reassure Debenov that he meant what he said.

  “I will have to think about it.”

  “Think about it?”

  “Yes, think about it. And I must talk to my family.”

  “But Alexi, all of Russia will be at your disposal.”

  “That is if you don’t send it down a disposal first.” Alexi finished sipping his tea, sipping it slowly so that Sergotoff would know that he was not intimidated by him. Handing the empty cup back to him, he moved toward the door. Glancing back, he looked at Sergotoff with sorrowful eyes, knowing that the man hated that, knowing that it made him feel like a failure.

  The Debenov house was in the outskirts of Moscow. A small two bedroom that he had raised his children in, it was a good area. Since the government had furnished the houses, most of the people living in them were people who taught at the university or did research there. He knew that most had become disappointed with the advent of a free enterprise system since now they would have to fight for government dollars for research projects. It was so much easier when all the government wanted to do was research; they did not have to compete for the rubles.

  Orlina Debenov, Alexi’s wife, a woman in her late thirties, was a poster woman for the stereotypical Russian women. Overweight with dark features and a growl always at the ready, the burden of her lifestyle was always with her. Her kerchief often doubled as a hanky when the burden became too much. She loved Alexi because of his intelligence and wit and he was the one relief in her life, save the two children, Mitchev and Demitri.

  Entering the house, Alexi could not wait to remove his heavy clothing, which became a burden to carry through the snow-covered streets. The smell of the borscht that permeated the house reminded him how much he enjoyed being home. The reason that the borscht brought this thought to Alexi’s mind was because it was the meal that the Debenov family had most often. He was just glad that borscht did not come as a canned fragrance.