Moscow Blue. Philip Kurland
to his decision not to mention Paul, although he felt he could confuse the Russian by bringing the name into the conversation.
‘You are Lee Crocker?’ asked Dead Eyes.
‘Yup, that’s me alright.’
‘Then we are speaking to the right man.’ He gave a sickly, condescending smile.
This sounds serious, thought Crocker, searching for the Dunhill cigarette lighter at the bottom of his coat pocket, a frequent source of inspiration or solace in a time of need. As he felt for its smooth sides he realised he was hungry. The food on the flight had been unusually inedible and his stomach was reminding him of its need for satiation.
‘The police report,’ began Dead Eyes, ‘says that he was found murdered in his office at one of our ministries, and your name, Lee Crocker, was written in a small book found on the body. And yet you say you have never heard of him. It is strange you did not know him.’
‘Isn’t it?’ Crocker concurred, shrugging his tired shoulders. He felt a little awkward at the prolonged silence that followed this curt reply. He decided to continue. ‘Look; sorry I can’t be more helpful, but I didn’t know this guy, Kolyunov, and I don’t know why he would’ve had my name on him. I suppose lots of people in Moscow know my name. After all, look at all the visits I’ve made here.’ He paused for some comment from the Russian, but none came. ‘Is that it? We’re done here?’ he asked hopefully, still worrying about his well-being. Looking at each policeman in turn, he put a hand on the desk, preparing to stand. ‘May I leave now? I’ve a lot to get through on this trip.’
Dead Eyes raised a finger to indicate there was more to come.
Shit! Crocker was frustrated.
‘So you are certain you did not know Kolyunov, Mr Crocker?’
Crocker noticed the movement of the interrogator’s prominent ears as he swallowed and clenched his teeth. While the policeman waited for a response, Crocker became aware of how quiet the room was despite the bustling crowds he had seen outside. This worried him somewhat, being held in a soundproof room by two unfulfilled and resentful policemen, probably envious of his Western lifestyle. ‘I’m positive,’ he said eventually, forcefully nodding his head and deliberately maintaining eye contact to imply openness. ‘What else can I say to convince you guys? The name means absolutely nothing to me.’ He turned his hands upward in humble submission. Crocker knew his patience was limited once he became bored with people or a topic, and here both bored him. He made a conscious effort to stay cool.
‘Anyway, why was he killed?’ he asked, just to be sociable.
‘If we knew that, Mr Crocker, we would not be here.’
‘And how was he killed?’
‘Old KGB trick: cyanide injected inside the nose. Very difficult to see as you can imagine.’
Crocker’s fists tightened as he sensed the taller man shifting behind him. But the big Russian remained against the wall after refolding his arms.
Crocker had become uncomfortably hot sitting in the airless room in his woollen coat. He dried his perspiring hands on his knees and longed for a cold drink. Dead Eyes began to re-read his papers, and while Crocker waited for the next question he passed the time by counting the cigarette burns along the edge of the table in front of him.
The Russian got to his feet, scraping his chair along the floor. The shrill noise echoed in the room.
‘We wondered why Kolyunov had placed a cross next to your name and not the others in his short list.’
Another slow shrug of his now sagging shoulders was all Crocker could offer. He tried hard to think of something to say, but his mind was blank. He had become very tired of all these questions and was about to say, “Book me, or let me go.” but quickly remembered he was in Moscow, not New York. His stomach made a low-level growl.
The policeman stared at him for a few seconds. ‘You are staying at the Intourist Hotel, Mr Crocker?’ he said, sitting down on the edge of the table, one foot on a chair.
‘That’s correct.’
The interrogator placed his right arm behind his back, exposing more clearly the pistol on his belt. ‘And you are sure there’s nothing at all you can tell me that concerns this man, Kolyunov?’
‘Absolutely nothing.’
Crocker took his hands from his pockets, sensing the interview was about to end. ‘If I think of something, I’ll let you know,’ he promised with not much conviction.
‘Perhaps we will talk again before you leave the country, Mr Crocker.’
The Russian stood and put his hat on.
About time.
As the American rose, the taller policeman moved swiftly to open the door with a large, muscular hand. Crocker noticed the wide knuckles as they blanched white around the doorknob.
‘Sorry for delaying you, Mr Crocker,’ said Dead Eyes.
2
With his bag hanging from his shoulder, Crocker forced a farewell smile as he slid sideways through the doorway into the noisy confusion outside. Feelings of relief and irritation flooded through him in equal measure. Knowing the murdered Kolyunov probably knew him, or of him, made him feel distinctly uncomfortable. But he liked an alternative even less: he could have been set up as the fall guy in some nefarious plot. He had no doubt such things did happen in Russia, but then decided there was probably a simpler explanation.
He craved fresh air and couldn’t wait to get out of a place starting to feel like a sauna in a Turkish bath.
‘Taxi? Taxi?’ insisted a swarthy man leaning over the living swarm milling around the doorway leading from the Customs Hall. Crocker gave him a quick glance and ignored him.
‘Taxi? Taxi?’ called another.
And another.
Crocker shook his head slowly, not wanting to dislodge his schapka while at the same time willing these uninvited pests to disappear. His eyes searched for Oleg Ilyich Nikiforov, the company driver employed to ferry him around when he was in Moscow. After a long flight, the last thing Crocker felt like doing was bargaining with one of the many evil-looking villains who, calling themselves taxi drivers converged like vultures around the terminal’s main exit.
It was difficult to see through the stale, copper-tinted haze in the poorly lit hall, and he was about to become even more downcast when a quiet voice greeted him from behind.
‘Ullo, Mr Lee.’ The familiar greeting was all he craved at that moment. The tension growing within him disappeared instantly.
Oleg was a singularly unattractive, spindly man in his late forties wearing a knitted orange ski-hat topped with a floppy orange pom-pom. With widely spaced bulbous eyes, fixed grin and poor complexion, the driver resembled an overgrown, badly painted, bandy-legged garden gnome. But now those eyes were crinkled in a friendly welcome. He was clearly pleased to see the American, almost as pleased as Crocker was to see him. They shook hands warmly.
‘It’s good to see you, Oleg. Are you well?’
Oleg cleared his airway with a thick smoker’s cough.
‘As usual, Mr Lee.’
Good old reliable Oleg.
Crocker followed the driver out towards his car, at peace with the world again, at least for the moment.
The sky outside was pitch-black, and the change from the kerosene-saturated warmth of the terminal building to the bitter winter air outside seized Crocker by the throat. Of all the cities he visited in his work, Moscow could feel colder in January than anywhere else. It was not for the first time he was grateful for his thermal underwear. He prayed the drive into the city would be the final hurdle without any more surprises before he could settle down