WATER WORKS: 3) ARUGULA

Sunday Funnies: A Serial Novel of Intrigue, Lunacy & H2O

4.

"It worked out great," I tell Pikestaff.

We are at DeCarlo's, his favorite restaurant, off Massachusetts Avenue in a posh northwest Washington neighborhood called Spring Valley.

"We're Morton's new partners," I add.

"We're… what?" Pikestaff stops chomping on his arugula salad mid-chew.

"We're partners with Morton Levi. In the water business."

"What water business?"

"Plural, Pikestaff. Businesses. Whatever water-related businesses we tag for him to buy, we're in for two percent. One point apiece."

Pikestaff chokes on his arugula and reaches for a glass of Chianti. "We can't go into business with Morton Levi!"

"Sure, we can. He's odd, but if you're going to have a business partner, you want it to be a billionaire."

"But you… we… we work for the government," Pikestaff splutters. "It's a conflict of interest to be in business with Morton!"

"No, Pikestaff." I shake my head. "You work for the government. I'm freelance. I'll hold your point in a trust."

"I can't do that."

"Okay then, I'll keep both points for myself."

"I can't do that either!" A piece of arugula had lodged between Pikestaff's two front teeth.

I’m not telling.

"In that case,” I say, “I recuse myself from your assignment. I'd rather have two points of every new business I broker for Morton than two grand a day from Uncle Sam."

"I… you can't do that. I introduced you to Morton Levi!"

"Introductory rights? C'mon, Pikestaff—we’re not in kindergarten. Given the choice between a billionaire and the government, I always opt for the billionaire."

Pikestaff harrumphs.

"Incidentally," I add. "The President of Hungary also wants to know what the Dulci Acqua Consortium is."

"How do you know that?"

"Morton called and asked him while I was there. Anyway, I've set up something called The Enki Group..."

"The what?"

“Enki Group. E-N-K-I. Enki is the Egyptian goddess of water. Here's my card." I pass my new business card to Pikestaff.

The Enki Group, Jay Sandak, Vice President

"Vice President?" Pikestaff cocks a brow.

"Yeah. If I didn't have a title, people would think I'm just a salesman. And if I call myself president, I'm supposed to have answers for everything. Problem is, I know diddly-squat about water. As vice president, I can defer to the president, and still sound important."

"Who's the president?"

"You, if you want, Pikestaff. It's up for grabs."

Pikestaff executes a double-harrumph. "What about the Russian scientist."

"One thing at a time. I have high hopes for that scientist—now that I'm in the water biz with Morton."

Pikestaff attempts the triple-harrumph, but can’t pull it off. He chokes and hacks into a linen serviette. Now the arugula covers a whole front tooth.

I chuckle.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing."

Pikestaff's next appointment is the White House.

5.

I look out of the jet window at wisps of cotton suspended over Poland before the sun-drenched landscape turns into an impossible jigsaw of farms, like a patchwork quilt crafted by someone on LSD, disturbed by the occasional clump of humanity, always alongside water—a river or a lake.

The clouds thicken, then darken, and I know we are near. What had been a smooth cruise now becomes rocky and uncertain as we bump into the Russian capital.

Sheremetyevo Airport is the usual circus. I wait my turn to be scrutinized and gurked into the grim Russian mix. The first step, a dark, cavernous arrivals hall, dim of wattage, low L.Q.

A dozen-plus taxi drivers descend upon me, one after the other, the most aggressive returning again and again from dark shadows, pitching the new Russian Roulette: choose the wrong driver, end up dead.

Daniel Petersen is supposed to meet me; I find a wall for my back, eyes alert for danger lurking just about everywhere. And then he arrives, huffing and puffing. "Sorry, it's terrible, just terrible," he whines, unlocking the door to his battered Volvo wagon.

"Living here?"

"Traffic. Five times more cars than when I arrived two years ago. Look around." Clearly frazzled, Petersen gestures both arms in a wide sweep at the unkempt junkyard of an airport car park. "Most of the cars are over 20 years old. They break down in the middle of major arteries."

Petersen seems on the verge of a breakdown himself.

I catch a taste of his pet peeve as we inch toward Hotel Baltschug-Kempinski near the Kremlin.

A hotel must evoke a sense of place—a view that tells you where you are. This is not a problem at the Baltschug-Kempinski. I open double windows to expose an unobstructed view of St. Basil's Cathedral.

We—Petersen and me—plant ourselves in the lobby bar. A SchneiderWeiss brewski for me; cola, for him.

"We're going to meet Alexandre, the scientist, tomorrow morning," he whispers.

"Do you speak enough Russian to communicate with this guy, Dan?"

"I'm not good with technical language. He's supposed to have his niece with him. She spent six months learning English in Pennsylvania."

"Any chance you were followed here?" I ask.

"I just stamp passports. The FSB seems to know that."

"Where did you go to school, Dan?"

"Cornell."

"Okay. If anyone stops to question us, we're Cornell alumni. A mutual acquaintance put us in touch so you could show me around Moscow. Got it?"

“Do you think that’ll happen?” Petersen trembles as the prospect.

This amuses me. “Did they never prepare you for such an eventuality?”

“Wasn’t my idea to get posted here,” he grumbles.

“What else can you tell me about Alexandre?”

He shrugs. “That’s all I know.”

Petersen buzzes off into another traffic jam. I order another SchneiderWeiss and listen to the strings of a female harpist.

I could have taken dinner in La Romanoff, but I opt instead for dining in my room, the best view in town. The caviar isn’t expensive—not by Western standards—but it isn’t cheap. No matter. Pikestaff’s tab.

Question is, is anyone with binoculars viewing me?