Читать книгу Moscow Blue - Philip Kurland - Страница 10

Building 23, Sokhalinskaya Street, was one of a ring of sombre concrete apartment blocks rising out of the ground like gargantuan ogres, frozen for eternity around a football field of mud and snow.

Oleg stopped the car, got out and pointed through the twilight with a bony finger.

‘That is where Slava lives,’ he said, letting Crocker out. ‘Seventh floor, number 27. Remember; green door. I will wait for you here.’

Crocker stretched his spine and waited for his body to acclimatise to the cold wind as he took his bearings. Even in this open space there was the unmistakable smell of Russian cigarettes.

‘You’ve got enough smokes to keep you warm, Oleg?’

‘Many, many, Mr Lee, thank you.’

Hard snow crunched under Crocker’s feet as he walked. He knew there were eyes watching his every move from behind the drawn curtains in the buildings around him. Curiosity was a basic instinct with some Russians, but it could mean survival for others. He pulled up his collar to hide his face and protect against the wind.

The front of the building bore a poorly lit sign, ‘Block B’. The doors were reinforced with sheets of rusting steel, and when he noticed the lock had been broken off, Crocker smiled to himself.

The doors creaked as he pulled hard on the ice-cold handles. Having stepped through, he found himself in a long passageway with the only illumination coming from a low-wattage bulb suspended by two wires protruding through the wall. Strong springs quickly closed the doors behind him with a rush of freezing Siberian air that made him shiver. He wished he had brought a torch.

Strong smells of damp and disinfectant soon hit him, and the poor light took his eyes some seconds to be able to see clearly. Stepping over a broken pushchair, he kicked to one side what looked like the discarded parts of a motorcycle, and further along, where the shadows darkened, he saw communal dustbins and long banks of electricity meters set on either side of the widening passageway. At the far end he could make out the box-like shape of a lift.

With his limited Russian he tried to guess the meaning of the graffiti-covered notices on the walls, while his footsteps echoed along the concrete floor.

At the lift, he couldn’t see much until he flicked on his cigarette lighter. He pressed the single unmarked button on the side, and then again a few seconds later when there was no response. In the silence, it occurred to him that he was being either brave or foolish, standing alone in this poor light in such a godforsaken place. He sensed his heart rate increase.

There was no sound of mechanical gear slotting into place, only an eerie silence. Looking up, Crocker could see nothing moving, and rather than stand in the dark hallway any longer, he decided to take the concrete stairs winding up around the lift shaft like a flattened snake.

To his gratification, the floors came and went without too much effort, proving those hours spent in the gym had not been wasted. The light improved marginally as he got nearer the glass-domed roof that let in a glimmer of street lighting through a heavy patina of grime.

The seventh floor had the smell he associated with lavatory disinfectant. Even though the lighting was minimal he had no difficulty in finding Flat 27 from Oleg’s description, its front door being the only one covered in buttoned green imitation leather. The rest of the corridor was dark-brown wood and dark-brown paint.

Although he had neither seen nor heard another soul, he sensed others knew he was there. At that moment he didn’t care.

He rang the bell, and for several seconds listened to the muffled sounds of movement inside. Bolts were drawn and the door opened.

Slava extended his hand, but with the bright light behind him, it was difficult to make out his features immediately. ‘Nice to meet you, Mr Lee.’

‘You too, Slava.’

In contrast to his brother, Slava was short and hefty with two glittering gold teeth fitted in the centre of his upper jaw. After a furtive glance both ways along the corridor, he ushered his guest inside.

‘If you had wished,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘I would gladly have come to you and saved you the long journey. It is not very safe around here, I’m afraid, and not very pretty either.’

Crocker thought for a second and decided not to respond.

Slava shuffled to the centre of the room on his slippered feet.

Looking around him, Crocker was struck by the tidiness of the apartment. Not a thing out of place. Slava was clearly a man with pride in his possessions.

Is he married? considered Crocker. He isn’t wearing a ring. No photographs of a happy couple.

Slava took the American’s hat and coat, whisked them away into a curtained alcove, and directed Crocker to the most comfortable-looking chair in the room.

‘Please,’ he indicated with an open hand. ‘Take a seat.’ He looked pleased to have a guest, and while he busied himself in a corner, Crocker took in the paraphernalia around him. The glass-fronted, highly polished cabinets were crowded with old photographs, knickknacks and memorabilia, and he spotted some large cut crystals, and wondered whether they were real, or local fakes. The highly polished wooden floor reflected the bright lights of the chandelier hanging in the centre of the room, and in one corner, on a colourful Moldavian rug, stood a large, black-screen Sony television set which dominated the room. A video recorder was tucked in beneath it.

Crocker had never ceased to be amazed at how Muscovites could afford these expensive appurtenances while continually cursing their impoverished circumstances. A thought crossed Crocker’s mind. With all this, he must be successful in whatever he does for a living.

Slava brought over two short glasses and a new bottle of vodka.

‘Please! Drink! It will keep you warm.’

Crocker noted the small beads of nervous perspiration on Slava’s brow.

‘Just one. Thanks.’ Holding out his glass, he detected a slight tremor in Slava’s hand as he poured. There was a fragrance in the room that he recognised as the ersatz lavender that Oleg used in his car.

‘Nasdrovia!’ he said, trying to relax his host.

‘Nasdrovia!’ beamed Slava.

With most of his drink gone in one gulp, Crocker could contain his curiosity no longer.

‘So, Slava. What have you got that may be of interest to me?’ He watched Slava’s eyes scan him rapidly.

‘You get to the point very quickly, Mr Lee,’ said Slava, emptying his glass. ‘I like that.’ But in reality it seemed to Crocker his directness made his host even more tense and apprehensive.

With a hand still shaking gently, Slava offered Crocker a refill, which he declined. Making the most of the opportunity, he topped up his own glass and slumped onto the sofa opposite Crocker.

‘This deal I have to offer you is a little complicated,’ began the Russian, ‘and is really in two parts. You will like this, Mr Lee, I promise you.’ He smiled broadly, showing his gold teeth.

‘Two for the price of one?’ suggested Crocker, trying to keep the conversation light and friendly.

‘Exactly, Mr Lee.’

Crocker noticed his host adjust his position on the sofa, as if preparing himself for a long session.

‘Now this is the first part.’ Slava paused to tidy up his approach before he continued.

‘You know, of course, about osmium 187?’

‘Of course.’ Crocker nodded, but his heart sank instantly. Oh no! Not osmium!

At the mention of osmium, as far as Crocker was concerned, the great “deal” was as good as stillborn. All his anticipation and excitement had been for nothing.

‘It is one of the most expensive items on earth,’ continued Slava. ‘And it is so strong that even the smallest amount added to steel makes it almost impenetrable.’

‘As I said, I do know about osmium 187,’ said Crocker, trying to be polite, but wanting to cut the meeting short.

Slava wiped his brow with a handkerchief. He looked uncomfortable.

‘But you know it is also used for other purposes,’ he continued quickly, urgently, trying to keep control of the conversation. ‘It has uses in the nuclear and medical fields as well. But, Mr Lee, the main interest is military. And there are twenty kilograms sitting right now in Moscow and other places.’ He beamed arrogantly. ‘Yes, twenty kilograms,’ he continued, still beaming and expecting Crocker to give some indication that he was impressed. ‘And this parcel of osmium 187 is very special, because …’ He paused for effect. ‘Our government officially does not know it exists. You understand what that means, Mr Lee?’

He kept his eyes locked on Crocker’s, trying to decide whether or not his guest appreciated the full implication of what he had said.

‘Some is in the factory, some in the Kharpov laboratory, and some is already in a Luxembourg vault, I understand.’

His forehead was now cast in moist furrows as he waited for some positive reaction from his guest. But he was disappointed because Crocker sat unmoved, his thoughts now on the polished crystals in the cabinet, unaware that Slava was having great difficulty waiting for a response. Not many Russians had the courage to bring an American biznessman into their home like this. Decades of mistrust and suspicion had led to the belief that there were miniaturised State listening devices secreted everywhere. Occasionally, such fears were justified, with betrayal leading to interrogation by the FSB, torture, or even disappearance.

‘I’m afraid we don’t have a requirement for osmium 187, Slava,’ Crocker said apologetically, to be polite. ‘Is that all you wanted to talk to me about, or was that just the first part?’

He leant forward, hands on the armrests of his chair, preparing to leave.

Slava’s heels tapped the ground in a tense, nervous rhythm as he thought quickly.

‘Slava, it’s only fair to let you know,’ said Crocker, relenting slightly, ‘I, and many of my associates, have been offered osmium 187 by so many Russians over the years that it’s a standing joke among us. We’ve all agreed that as a commercial exercise osmium 187 is a complete waste of time and money.’

Slava examined his patterned slippers.

‘But why, Mr Lee?

‘I’ll tell you, Slava. It’s like this. Despite all the work traders and their buyers put into getting a deal settled, when it came to the crunch, the sellers never had any osmium to sell. There was always some complicated story; nothing as simple as "Do you want it? Here it is." The last time I got involved with an osmium 187 deal, some months ago, I was taken blindfolded late at night to the Chekov factory on the outskirts of Moscow somewhere. When we got there, a handful of high ranking military gave me, in complete secrecy, the outline of a deal which involved the loading of a private plane at their expense, and then flying me, together with armed bodyguards, to some European destination of my choosing.’

The American didn’t want to admit that he’d turned the deal down at the mere thought of bodyguards and guns. He had wanted nothing to do with that scene.

Slava, obviously discouraged, stared at the dead television screen, tapping his knees hard, with all his fingers.

Crocker passed his glass from one hand to the other, wondering whether the Russian really had anything else worthwhile to offer, or whether this was the end of a wasted trip. It’s a long drive back. He emptied his glass. ‘Did you know,’ he went on, ‘that one of the Moscow mafia gangs was offering franchises for $10,000, for consignments of osmium 187 that didn’t exist. And people paid up good money, wanting to make their fortune. The sad part was, anyone who paid their ten thousand dollars or so and got as far as finding a buyer, was threatened with very unpleasant reprisals when they demanded their metal or their cash back.’

Slava stared at him blankly. ‘I have never heard of this sort of thing, Mr Lee. Believe me.’

‘And,’ Crocker continued, upset at his disappointment, ‘I’ve never met a single person who’s actually succeeded in concluding a deal involving this damned material.’ His speech was getting faster and louder as his temperature rose within. ‘Nor have I ever met anyone who knew of somebody else who had. But I know of hundreds who were offered damned osmium.’

He knew he was getting angry, and put it down to being tired. He didn’t like upsetting the Russian. Placing his glass on the floor beside his seat, he made to stand once again.

‘No, no,’ cried Slava, a note of panic in his voice, his open hand held beseechingly in the direction of the armchair. ‘Please, let me finish, Mr Lee. Please, sit.’ Realising he was on the verge of losing his potential buyer, he began to speak with even greater urgency.

‘You know how much this material is worth? Sixty to seventy thousand American dollars for each gramme. You know this, don’t you, Mr Lee?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Please let me tell you some more. I know you must have had many offers here in Moscow, because everyone gets offers. But this is real. You understand? Real! Real and very special.’ Leaning forward, he proffered the vodka again. This time Crocker allowed a refill. The adrenaline rush of his initial excitement had long since passed and he was becoming cold and depressed as well as tired.

Slava carried on, strain showing on his face. ‘Please forgive me if you already know something of osmium 187. But my father-in-law works at the Kharpov laboratory where the material was tested and sealed. So I know it is real. The owners are a group of very powerful generals who have kept the knowledge of the existence of this material away from the official government department. You know what I am saying?’ Again he continued without waiting for Crocker to reply. ‘They will want a profit, of course, a big profit. A profit for themselves. But then this deal is worth a billion dollars, and so there is profit enough for all.’ Slava flashed his fixed, golden smile once more and waited for the figure of one billion dollars to gel in Crocker’s mind. ‘And now for the second part of the deal. Something else.’