Moscow Blue. Philip Kurland
with Mitsui on his way to the meeting and had all his headings underlined on his pad, but when he arrived at the visitors’ hotel, he was not fully into his negotiating mode, and because of his lack of attention, had missed most of the points he wanted to raise. More frustration.
One positive fact Crocker learned at the morning meeting was from Mr Ichinowa, the leader of the Mitsui delegation who had said earlier, ‘I was very sorry to hear of your brother, Paul’s death. I only met him the one time, at an American Embassy evening a short while ago. He was a charming young man. It was he who made the original suggestion that we speak.’
‘Was it an official gathering?’ asked Crocker.
‘All embassy gatherings are official. Everyone is invited, and that is what makes them so interesting. Always the same titles, mostly Russians of course, and occasionally just the faces change. I remember your brother because I had not seen him before. And he drank sake.’
‘I didn’t know he liked it,’ said Crocker, pleased to have a non-commercial topic to chat about with the Japanese.
‘Oh yes. Took it hot. As if he’d been drinking it all his life.’
‘So, Mr Crocker, as well as a possible joining of our two companies, that’s a very large quantity of waste material you have in a long heap up there in Siberia. I think I was told it was something like 4 km long. It would be far cheaper to open a plant there on site than to ship it out. But it’s an interesting proposition which we must discuss again when we have had time to consider it further. Especially its location, which at present is without basic services. From what you said, it doesn’t even have a good road.’
The meeting broke up after another round of handshakes and promises to contact each other soon.
On his way down to meet Oleg, Crocker was annoyed with himself, knowing that as a negotiator he had wasted a first class opportunity and let down himself and his company, allowing a metal ore deal worth at least ten million dollars profit to remain vague and distant. To make up for this, while sitting in the back of the Lada, Crocker tried to concentrate on the details of Slava’s deal, analysing the subtle nuances and searching for pitfalls. It was difficult to shake off the major fear; which was that it seemed far too good to be true and therefore, ipso facto, wasn’t real. He then wondered why Paul would ask Mitsui to consider a takeover without mentioning it to him first. The thought was gone as fast as it had materialised.
With the radio tuned in to some local station that played nothing but folk tunes, Crocker asked Oleg, ‘Any jazz to listen to for a change?’ He needed some comforting distraction to relax with. He knew what the answer was going to be:
‘This is jazz, Mr Lee.’
Outside in the streets, nothing was registering or in focus for Crocker who held his glasses in his hand. Blurred, bundled shapes stopped, exchanged greetings, and continued on their way through the lightly falling snow.
He considered, What are their aspirations, their dreams? What has this town got to offer these poor bastards?
He had his own dream to tease, drive and taunt him with possibilities.
What would I do if I pulled this damned scheme off?
He quickly stopped fantasising.
Tell yourself it won’t happen, Crocker. Otherwise you’re going to be very disappointed! On the other hand, part of it could happen.
Action was the antidote to daydreams, he concluded, and, having considered his options, decided to cut short his Moscow trip by a couple of days and return to London, where he could best begin to make preliminary enquiries about Egyptian currency, a commodity that might solve or at least ease, a most pressing problem. This would leave him with two days to tidy up in Moscow. Paul and the Kolyunov matter would have to wait for a few days though he suspected they would turn out to be the more difficult of the bunch to crack.
The Lada came to a sudden standstill at the lower end of Novoslobodskaya, where Moscow City Works Department had started massive sewerage repairs. Parked in the road ahead were cranes, bulldozers and trucks, lined up with stacks of large cement pipes, steel rods and mesh, all covered in a smooth cloak of fresh snow. Crocker felt himself quickly becoming impatient at the delay, but he knew he had no choice other than to sit it out cursing and fuming, like the locals around him.
When Oleg finally pulled up outside JC Trading, Crocker went straight to his office, where he sat deep in thought, still wearing his coat and shapka, his feet up on the corner of his desk. Above his head the fluorescent lighting flickered. Yuri Pischl soon joined him.
‘No sign of “Kolyunov”, I’m afraid, Mr Lee. Aleksei went right through the database. Perhaps your brother had some dealings with him but never wrote it down anywhere?’
‘Oh well,’ said Crocker, disappointed. ‘Could be. He never mentioned him to me, but forget it.’
The manager nodded. ‘And what do you think of the new girl?’ he asked.
Crocker’s eyes shot over to Lina, working at her desk outside. He’d forgotten all about her. ‘Well, she’s got initiative and gets on with it and seems very efficient, at least from the little I’ve seen of her work.’
‘She is very good,’ said Yuri. ‘Worked for the government. And doesn’t she look good?’ His eyebrows marched up his forehead as he waited for Crocker’s man-to-man response.
‘Ain’t that a fact?’ said Crocker, his private thoughts remaining private. ‘How did you find her?’
‘I was standing next to her on the Metro, and she looked as if she had been crying, and one thing led to another and she told me she was out of a job, and it just so happened we were going to advertise for a girl who spoke good English. I thought you would find her pleasing.’
Yuri looked knowingly at Crocker over the top of his half-glasses for a few seconds, and when he didn’t get the response he’d expected, he left.
Crocker knew he had too many pressing problems already; he didn’t want Lina to become another. The aspect that worried him most about Slava’s deal was losing credibility if things went wrong. He had seen it happen to others who found that reliable, established people would not waste their time on them again when things went pear-shaped.
He tapped a finger on the desktop as he sought an answer, but couldn’t find one. His eyes fell on Lina bending down outside his door, her back to him, searching through the lowest drawer of a filing cabinet. Today, a suit had replaced the dress allowing his eye to follow the seams of her stockings to where they eventually disappeared under a tight, skirt. As he stared, she straightened up holding a file. She smiled, having noticed him watching. He sensed she held eye contact for just that moment longer.
Jesus Christ! Money isn’t everything. He was surprised, realising that all it took to take his mind from a billion-dollar deal was the rear view of a shapely female.
He dropped his feet to the floor, picked up the phone and punched in a seven-digit number. As he waited for a response, and for no apparent reason, Angie Powers came to mind. ‘All your damned travelling’ she had screamed down the phone. ‘Doesn’t make for a steady relationship, does it?’
What could I do at the time but agree?
She had threatened to leave months ago, and with Crocker running around the world on his own, it was becoming obvious there was no future for them as an item. He had received the ultimatum, and now he knew she was finally gone, at least, physically.
The phone line purred quietly for a while before a male voice answered.
‘Jack Spence,’ was the greeting.
‘Hi there, Jack. Lee Crocker here. How was your trip to Indonesia, buddy? Or was it Singapore?’ His feet returned to the top of the desk. ‘Still working for that German crowd and their plastics?’
‘How did you guess?’ said Jack Spence, one of the few men in Moscow who had not only become a good friend of both Crocker brothers, but also someone