Moscow Blue. Philip Kurland
of Oleg’s orange Lada, Crocker was aware that nothing in the car had changed since his last trip. The atmosphere of cheap perfumed disinfectant blended with stale Russian cigarette smoke, filled his lungs. The lucky-charm temptress still swung from the rear view mirror, her exotic Spanish-style paintwork still chipped on her nose, breasts and buttocks. The four windows were permanently shut, the interior handles having been stolen some months earlier to feed a growing market for Lada spares.
‘Keeps the warm in,’ Oleg had proclaimed when first asked about the closed windows. Crocker had decided there was no point in trying to argue with such practical Russian logic.
‘We were all so sorry to hear about your brother, Mr Lee,’ said Oleg, his face turned up to the roof of the car.
All the mystery and sadness surrounding his brother’s death, flooded back into Crocker’s consciousness from wherever it had been consigned by the unexpected police interrogation.
‘Thanks, Oleg. The shock still hasn’t worn off.
‘You were good friends?’
‘If you mean close, no. Not really.’
‘Yes, close.’
’I’m going to miss him, although we saw each other mainly through business. We didn’t socialize a great deal.’
‘I understand.’
‘He was some years older. A little wild when we were kids. Probably thought I was dull. But, hey; that’s enough about Paul. How’s your wife and boy?’
‘They are very happy, Mr Lee. Yes, very happy, thank you.’
The American stretched his six-feet-two-inch frame as far as the rear of the Lada would allow, and he pondered on his unexpected encounter at the airport; the round face, the dead eyes and the prominent ears coming back to him. Kolyunov? Kolyunov? He searched his memory once again for some forgotten connection no matter how tenuous, but still the name meant nothing to him. He wrote it down on the back of his air ticket, promising himself to check it out the next day at the office.
With his mind overloading with many varied topics, from conversations with his erstwhile live-in partner, Angie Powers, to recent events in Moscow, he decided coming here was fast becoming anathema to him.
What the hell do I want this for? I don’t need it.
He tried telling himself he was being irrational, probably because the incident with the police had rattled his nerves, and he was hungry and tired. But deep down, he didn’t believe it. Knowing himself as he did, he anticipated this police matter would prey on his mind until he had all the answers. He hated loose ends.
While the Lada continued along the bumpy, poorly lit roads of Moscow’s suburbia, in the darkness of the car, Crocker rummaged through his shoulder bag among the presents bought at the Duty Free. He dug out one of the large packs of Marlboros and dropped it onto the empty front seat.
‘Thank you, Mr Lee,’ acknowledged Oleg over his shoulder, his wide grin held for several seconds. Being embarrassed for distributing largess was a thing of the past for Crocker. It was on his first visit that he understood recipients were not interested in his personal or emotional upheaval when they were beneficiaries of unattainable presents from the West.
Driving in complete silence, neither Oleg nor Crocker noticed the dipped lights of the large saloon car maintaining a constant distance behind.
3
It had taken the best part of an hour in softly falling snow for the Lada to reach Gorky Street where it pulled up gently in front of the Intourist Hotel. Crocker made his way through the miserable clutch of crudely made-up prostitutes, black market traders and unshaven taxi-drivers, clustered together in the snow around the hotel’s portico. He didn’t find it pleasant being propositioned by any of this gathering, especially the hookers, whose make-up reminded him of a second-rate waxworks he’d once visited as a youngster with his parents back home in Connecticut. He collected his resident’s identity card at the crowded reception desk and took the elevator to the fourth floor where dust and the day’s cigarette smoke were searching for nonexistent open windows. A tall brunette in a tight white coat exchanged his card for a room key.
Crocker had learnt a golden rule from his late brother: he routinely checked out the phone on entering a hotel room for the first time. If it were dead, he would change rooms, but today the apple green phone perched on the large television set by the window was in working order.
He let himself drop fully clothed onto the nearest of the two single beds and closed his eyes.
With the volume turned up fully on his small tape machine, he could hear his choice of music playing above the din of the shower. La Boheme instantly put him in a good mood. Music had been a passion ever since he’d learned to play the piano as a boy and often felt grateful to his mother for insisting he continue lessons, unlike brother Paul, who had found any excuse for skipping class to play ball. Crocker had led the college jazz group on harmonica, and as a late teenager, played piano at night in some of the local bars for pocket money. Now, without much opportunity to play himself, he mostly listened while accumulating air miles.
Eyes closed, he let himself become lost in the music filling the steamy room. But something deep inside reminded him, annoyingly, that what had begun in that small grey room at Sheremetyevo airport was not yet over and could only add to his present problems. His stomach tightened at the thought of being a potential suspect in a murder case, especially a Russian murder case, and, even more especially, a Russian murder case in Moscow, where he knew none of the rights afforded to the private foreign individual.
When the shower eventually ran cold, he dried off, dressed in his cords and went out to eat.
- o -
At Yanov’s, the local ex-cooperative restaurant, he ordered the day’s specialities of red ‘caviar’, pickled fish and roast chicken, washed down with Georgian red wine. It became obvious to him as he removed dozens of bones from the fish that the matter of his now terminated relationship with Angie had to be set aside until his other problems were resolved. He would have to find the time in his work schedule to look into Paul’s death and now Kolyunov, even though the trading business was in decline and demanding more of his time.
Back in his room, he lay on the bed in boxers, eyes closed, quietly playing his harmonica, a constant companion on his trips abroad. He was deeply into the blues since Angie Powers had introduced the first sad element into his life. The last conversation he’d had with her had made the situation between them clear: their outwardly comfortable relationship was over. If she stuck to her word, and he knew she was the type of self-possessed woman who would, she would have moved out of his Manhattan flat, lock, stock and sheep dog, long before he returned.
Shouldn’t I have missed her more when we were away from each other? We seemed to have managed being apart too easily.
He poured a large scotch from the bottle he kept in his shoulder bag and went to the bathroom to pee. Before he finished, the phone began to ring.
Moving through different time zones had taught Crocker not to be surprised to be called at unsociable hours. But tonight, having started to make himself comfortable, and with enough on his mind already, he didn’t welcome the intrusion into his resting time. With reluctance he lifted the phone.
‘Yup?’ he grumped.
There was a crackle on the line as a woman’s voice announced in English, ‘Mr Crocker, there is a call for you.’
‘Yup.’
After a brief pause, a man’s voice with a heavy Russian accent said, ‘Ullo? Mr Lee?’
‘Yup. Who’s this?’ Crocker wondered who apart from Oleg, the police and the office, knew he was in Moscow at that moment. He tugged to free the phone-cord from under the carpet and sat on the edge of the bed with a bath towel wrapped around his shoulders. He began taking in