Moscow Blue. Philip Kurland
and . . .?’ Please don’t tell me Oleg has suffered some major catastrophe.
‘Excuse me for calling you at this late hour but I would like to talk business with you.’
‘Go ahead, Slava.’
‘Firstly, may I say how sorry I was to read about your brother, Mr Lee.’
‘Thank you, Slava, but what did you want to talk to me about exactly? It’s getting late. Is Oleg okay?’
‘Yes, yes. Oleg is fine. Yes, fine.’ The Russian paused, seeming to have lost his way in what sounded like a rehearsed spiel. ‘No, it is something we cannot speak about over the phone. A most interesting offer, especially as I understand trade in general is a little slow. I am nearby, so may I come over and talk?’
‘You mean now?’
‘But of course, now.’ The voice was haughty but slightly muffled.
‘Now?’ said a very tired Crocker, turning to glance at the wall clock beyond the bedside table. ‘No way, Slava. Past midnight. It’s far too late.’ He didn’t want to set a precedent of late night meetings.
‘What a pity,’ said Slava, obviously disappointed.
‘Can’t you give me an idea what this is about, Slava?’ Crocker was feeling the cold wrapped in his towel, and it was becoming an effort to hide his discomfort.
The Russian continued, ‘No, Mr Lee. I have said I cannot tell you over the phone.’
There was a long silence, except for the sound of Slava’s heavy breathing and the constant crackle on the line. Crocker turned on the TV by pushing a button with his toe. When Slava spoke again his voice was soft, less breathy and distorted. Crocker held the handset painfully tight to his ear, trying hard not to miss anything. The TV picture arrived part way through an old black and white Bogart film.
‘You’ve been to Moscow enough times, Mr Lee,’ Slava continued. ‘You must understand.’ In a louder tone he added, ‘But perhaps I may see you when you have a few moments tomorrow?’
‘I’ll have to see,’ said Crocker, now shivering sporadically and beginning to have difficulty breaking his concentration on the film.
‘If I just tell you that what I have to say concerns something really interesting.’ The voice dropped to a whisper once more. ‘It could even involve your . . .’
The last words were almost lost in background noise but Crocker thought he heard ‘government.’ He was well aware of eavesdroppers and phone tappers and the risk his caller had taken in mentioning such a subject over the phone. In Slava’s anxiety to establish contact, he seemed to have been a little reckless.
‘It will also make you personally a very rich man.’ The voice had returned to normal. ‘Oleg knows how to contact me, of course, and perhaps we can arrange a meeting if you just tell him when it is convenient. I will fit in with you, any time. And I know that you will be very interested.’
‘Yup. I’m sure I will be,’ said a polite but firm Crocker, ‘but I’ll let you know.’
‘I am very sorry for having disturbed your evening,’ sighed Slava.
Crocker brought the conversation to an abrupt conclusion. ‘That’s okay. Good night!’
He hung up, turned off the TV and got into bed.
What was that all about?
Leaning back on the pillow, he took a draught of whisky and swished it through his teeth before swallowing. He picked up his harmonica and started to play again.
Like most visitors, he’d heard of rare opportunities to put together the bumper-size deal, of a magnitude that could only be pulled off in Russia: the deal of a lifetime. Even Paul had once discussed the possibility with him. If such a deal went through, though he didn’t believe for a moment that it would, he could settle the family’s financial problems, return to MIT to continue his metallurgy research, and never worry about Moscow and money again. His thoughts momentarily returned to Angie.
Perhaps she was right; perhaps I did make the wrong decision to leave Manhattan and take over Paul’s office here. And now I’ve said I’d look after Paul’s widow and their brats. No, I did the right thing. Life used to be so easy.
As his mind raced, his playing slowed down. To some fellow traders, ‘The Deal’ had become a drug, a true addiction, the fix they pursued in search of the ultimate high, regardless of any danger. He had too much common sense to fall prey to such a dangerous obsession without a lot of deliberation. He knew the windows of opportunity for this type of transaction were probably open only briefly, and one had to be extra careful in making quick decisions under these conditions. The odds against success were high, but there was not a biznessman anywhere, especially those visiting Russia like himself, no matter how circumspect, who wouldn’t admit in an unguarded moment that only a fool would pass up something really good if it seemed genuine.
Slava was right: business had not been great over the past months. In fact, turnover was way down, and Crocker knew as soon as Slava had finished speaking that he would fit an extra meeting into his Moscow schedule no matter how inconvenient it might turn out to be. JC Trading could certainly do with the business if there were any, big or small.
He finished his rendition of St Louis Blues, swallowed the last of the whisky in his glass, and sat up. He took a bundle of documents out of his case to go over his schedule for the next few days, hoping to clear his mind for more pressing matters.
The hook planted by Slava was well and truly in. Despite his attempts to ignore it, the sly, insistent voice kept reiterating itself forcefully in Crocker’s mind,
Ullo, Mr Lee … involve your government … very rich … Ullo, Mr Lee …
The mixture of Georgian red and Scottish single malt eventually took its toll; Crocker dropped into overdue sleep, his papers sliding to the floor.
4
Moscow, 6 January
Crocker was awake when Reception rang through at 8.30 a.m. precisely. He had fallen asleep with the curtains open and was woken by the bright early morning sunlight falling brusquely on his eyelids before snow clouds had time to cover the sky. His jaws were sore from grinding during the night; a sure that something was getting to him. He couldn’t decide whether it was Paul, Slava or Kolyunov. Or even Angie Powers. But then it could have been any combination. He quickly gave up thinking about it, dressed and went down for breakfast.
Oleg was waiting for him outside the front of the hotel looking cold and hungry as usual. Every time Crocker saw him, he felt sorry for the man.
Powder snow was falling, and in the morning light Crocker had to confess that Oleg’s orange ski hat was not a mere affectation. It certainly made picking out both driver and Lada far easier.
The hard black plastic-covered upholstery uttered a soft hiss as Crocker dropped onto the back seat. He was still feeling tired having found himself awake during the night planning his campaign of ways to learn more of his brother’s death. These thoughts mingled with snatches of Slava’s phone call and the airport interrogation, and sleep had returned only after he had persuaded himself that nothing could be done until morning.
When Crocker arrived at the offices of JC Trading Corporation, the staff of five was seated around what was loosely referred to as the ‘conference table’ situated under two flickering fluorescent strips of pink light. They all stood as Crocker approached.
‘Please sit down, everyone,’ said Crocker, surprised at the unusual courtesy.
One person remained standing. It was Yuri Pischl, the German multilingual manager who had worked in the London office for some years. Dressed smartly in a charcoal grey suit, he was a slim fifty-year old but his weather-worn skin made him look older.
‘We