Читать книгу Moscow Blue - Philip Kurland - Страница 7

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 the pictures on the wall.

‘You don’t know me, Mr Lee, but I am Slava Nikiforov, the brother of your driver, Oleg.’

‘Yup, 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.