Politika (1997) by Tom Clancy

Author:Tom Clancy [Clancy, Tom]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2011-03-17T20:23:44+00:00

Chapter Twenty-five.

SAN JOSE, CALIFORNIA AND NEW YORK CITY JANUARY 8, 2000

THE MOMENT HE GOT OFF THE HORN WITH NIMEC, Gordian rang up Lenny Reisenberg, who headed his regional shipping office in New York.

"To what do I owe a call from the gantse knahker?" Lenny said, taking the call from his secretary.

"I thought I was the groyss makher."

"There's a subtle difference," Lenny said. "The first means 'big shot.' The second's somebody who makes things happen. Generally speaking, though, the terms are interchangeable, since most makhers are also knahkers, and vice versa." He paused. "Now, on the other hand, if I were to call you an ahlte kakhker, you'd have reason to be peeved."

Gordian smiled tolerantly, shaking his head. He had no idea why, but Lenny seemed convinced it was vital that he learn Yiddish, and had been giving him these lessons in regular installments for over a decade. Were the best employees always so full of idiosyncrasies, or was it just that he knew how to pick them?

"Len, I need a favor," he said.

"And because it's only nine in the morning in your neck of the woods, and you're still on your first cup of coffee, I'm assuming it's urgent."

"Very," Gordian said. "There's a Russian exporter, the Zavtra Group--"

"Hold it a sec, let me jot this down." Gordian heard Lenny shuffling things around on his desk. "Okay, that's spelled Z-A-V-T-R-A?"

"Right."

"Don't think we've ever done business with them. Off the top of my head, of course."

"That's not important, Len. What I want are chronological records of everything Zavtra's shipped into the New York area over the past, say, six to eight months. We may eventually have to go back further, but let's start with that. I'll need to know the ultimate purchaser, too."

"May I ask why I'm getting hold of this information?"

"On this one, it's better you don't."

Reisenberg huffed out a breath. "Okay, I'll see what I can do. There's a guy I know in the customs office over at the World Trade Center. If we end this conversation in the next ten seconds I might be able to get hold of him, take him out for a bite. I've got just the thing to make him feel kindly toward us, come to think of it."

"Whatever it takes, as long as you don't get yourself in hot water."

"Right, right. I'll call you back soon as I find out anything."

"Thanks, Len."

"No problem. This is why I'm known far and wide as a stud among prizewinning thoroughbreds."

"And a genuine mensch," Gordian said.

"Sorry, don't speak French," Reisenberg said.

And hung up the phone.

"You ask me, it's a crying shame those antismoking Nazis made it against the law to light up anywhere in the city, including your own fucking toilet." This out of Steve Bailey, the customs supervisor Lenny Reisenberg had mentioned to Gordian. He was sitting across from Lenny in a leather booth at Quentin's, a British-style pub across the street from the twin towers, with a lot of dark wood wall paneling, an enormous horseshoe

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