Читать книгу Moscow Blue - Philip Kurland - Страница 5

Suddenly it was dark outside. The loping aircraft was descending through thick cloud which had wrapped Moscow in a grey shroud for almost a week. Despite poor conditions made worse by a freezing Siberian wind, Aeroflot flight SU242 from London Heathrow touched down at Sheremetyevo-2 on time.

With a document case under his arm, the tall, thirty-eight-year-old New Yorker was Central Casting’s archetypal Western biznessman. Impressive in immaculate midnight-blue topcoat, crisp Brooks Brothers’ navy suit and black Church’s lace-ups, he would have been more comfortable in jeans and sweatshirt, but he had learnt from hard experience that it was essential in Russia to conform, especially in business where appearance counted for much more than it did back home.

In deference to Russian winters, he wore the grey rabbit-fur shapka his father had given him. The hat hid his wavy blonde hair and threw shadow over his deep-set, bespectacled blue eyes. Arriving in Russia used to give him an indefinable buzz, but with all the political upheaval, he sensed the atmosphere was now one of foreboding. Nothing specific, but he was aware of the constant unsettling sensation of strangers watching strangers. For him, coming to Russia now was not dissimilar to jumping into cold water, only to find it not too bad once you were in.

Brisk, confident strides took him along the first-floor galleried walkway, distancing him from the mighty Ilyushin 86 still disgorging its luggage onto trucks in the snow outside. Guards stationed at regular intervals and the lights of the Duty Free shops below, were the only signs of life in the building.

Crocker took the stairs down two at a time, making his way to Immigration and Customs Control. There was a lot on his mind: the pig iron from Kiev to Germany, survival suits from Thailand for the Russian merchant navy, condoms for his friends in the military, and copper for London. Trade had dropped off considerably for his company since the break-up of the USSR, but he was a pragmatist of the first order. Endeavouring to lift his mood, he quietly whistled a few bars of Misty, standing in line in the large hall with its confused echoes. He had nothing else to do but think and reminisce, detached briefly from his surroundings until chimes and incomprehensible babble burst from the public address system, jerking him back to reality.

With his visa and passport examined by the young soldier with an acne-splattered face, Lee Henry Crocker knew he was now officially in Mother Russia and over the first hurdle of his trip. He began to relax. His enviable, easy smile had faded since news of his brother’s death had reached him a week earlier, and now, with the realisation that Paul was not going to be waiting for him at the gate, the frame of mind he had fought hard to overcome during the three-hour flight, came back. The solitary rose, the slap on the back, the ‘Hi there, kid,’ all gone, forever.

He grabbed his shoulder bag from the carousel and with a fresh imprint on his Customs Declaration form, made for the exit, more than pleased to be getting out of the malodorous building. He stopped at the Duty Free and spent some of his US dollars before heading for the gate.

Suddenly, from the shadows of the building, two uniformed policemen appeared, blocking his way. The sight of them instantly cleared and concentrated his mind. Pistols holstered at the hip made Crocker feel apprehensive, especially as neither seemed too friendly. This was a major hurdle he had not anticipated. He took a quick look at his watch and decided he was okay for time.

The shorter and slighter of the two policemen was bald with dead eyes as grey as the colour of his uniform. His round, pasty face was almost without feature. ‘Mr Lee Crocker?’ he snapped.

‘Yup,’ replied Crocker, a man not easily fazed. Puzzlement was mingling with a hint of alarm.

‘Come with us.’ It was an order, not a request. The sounds and sights around him coalesced into a blur as Crocker followed the direction indicated by the taller, more powerfully built man. He knew of the heavy-handed style of Russian totalitarianism, and how much it was prone to corruption, but he was willing to give it a chance, hoping it would turn out to be some misunderstanding. With his eyes on the pistols, he followed obediently.

He was led into a small, brightly lit room where the bare concrete floor and walls were painted in battleship-ship grey with matching metal desk and chairs. Posters bearing screeds of small legislative copy were the only embellishment. The American tried hard to guess what was to come.

‘Sit down, Mr Crocker,’ said Dead Eyes, who appeared to be the senior of the two. Crocker presumed the taller man was there as extra muscle should things become difficult during the ensuing interview.

‘What’s this all about?’ demanded Crocker, having become less tolerant since his graduation from MIT with a good Masters degree. Removing his hat, he looked from one policeman to the other. ‘I’ve got a valid visa and I’m in a hurry.’ He thought exerting a little authoritative pressure would indicate a superior status and a lack of timidity. It was also the only thing he could think of saying at the time.

‘Just a few questions, Mr Crocker,’ said an unperturbed Dead Eyes with an unconvincing attempt at a friendly smile. ‘Just answer truthfully please.’

‘Of course,’ muttered Crocker.

The taller man moved to stand behind Crocker while the other sat at the desk, placing his peaked hat in front of him.

Crocker did not like the idea of being unable to see both men at the same time. He had never had dealings with Russian police before, but rumours were rife as to the way they operated. He decided he was caught in the classic white hat, black hat routine with the black hat towering behind him. Crocker could not help staring at the policeman’s pallor as Dead Eyes scanned a few sheets of paper taken from his jacket pocket.

This guy ought to get out more often and catch some sun.

‘You are in Moscow on business, Mr Crocker? A general trader, I understand?’

‘Yup, among other things. A routine trip I’ve made many times before. I’ve got a multi-entry visa. But then you must know that.’ He wondered whether there could be a little confusion with Paul, but after a brief consideration, decided not to mention his brother at this time. Crocker would have paid to learn what was written on the papers Dead Eyes was reading. He knew the police would have done their homework well beforehand and had most of the answers before asking the questions.

‘Yes, we are aware of that, Mr Crocker. But tell me, what was your connection with Boris Pavlovich Kolyunov?’

There was silence while Crocker, head turned to one side and staring at the floor, tried to recall the name. He worked through a list of Russians he knew from the company offices in London, New York and Moscow but came up with a blank. ‘Who?’ he asked eventually, a deep furrow between his eyebrows.

‘Boris Pavlovich Kolyunov,’ the Russian repeated, staring straight into Crocker’s eyes, searching for any hint of deception.

‘I’m afraid I’ve never heard of the guy. What is he? A dealer?’ He folded his arms and tried hard to guess where this was heading.

‘Kolyunov was found murdered just before Christmas, Mr Crocker.’

Oh boy! Crocker felt his throat go dry. The grey walls around him seemed to close in a little and the air was suddenly thicker.

‘I’m very sorry to hear he’s dead, but I’ve never heard of the guy.’ He shook his head to confirm. ‘You’re sure it’s me you want to speak to?’ He stuck 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.