MOSCOW
BLUE
Also by Philip Kurland
Kish
Unsafe Sex
Down in the Forest
Bust-up
Philip Kurland
____________
Moscow Blue
First published in Great Britain in 2008
by Philip Kurland
Copyright © Philip Kurland 2011
Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-0622-0
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a
retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means,
without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
All the characters in this book are fictitious,
and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead
is purely coincidental.
My thanks to:
Catherine Lamb my editor,
Erwin Brecher for his banking knowledge,
and
those traders still fighting to survive
Foreword
Moscow Blue concerns that period in global history when the mighty Union of Soviet Socialist Republics had already disintegrated irretrievably.
The action of the story is set in and around the world of international trading and its complex dealings in all forms of commodities, generating rich pickings for some, frustration for most and disaster for others. This old and well established form of business takes place in an environment where most contracts are negotiated freely, some desperately bargained for, and others taken by force.
It is perhaps not surprising to discover that in the years leading up to Perestroika, when capitalism and its main goal, profit, were illegal, raw survival for many in the USSR often consisted of various forms of secretive trading in which all types of commodity became negotiable currency.
Buried beneath the great land mass of the largest country in the world, spanning 12 time zones, lies enormous wealth. Despite this, pipedreams were negotiated at length in dark corners of private and public places, and people were bought and sold at any time of day, with or without their approbation.
With Perestroika came the lowering of political and physical barriers over which the residents within could fully appreciate what was possible and attainable on the outside, and being only human, mechanisms were put in place to allow some of the country’s colossal assets to find their way into the pockets of the avaricious few who had the opportunity, expertise and ability to trade. The deprived, thinking Russian, without the right background and its associated connections, became embittered, frustrated and malcontent at seeing some of his less deserving countrymen being overindulgent, profligate and intemperate, spending as if there were no tomorrow.
A major contribution to this bubbling and potentially explosive cauldron was the coming and going of visiting overseas biznessmen - as the Russians called them - who merely by casual contact, were living proof of the material benefits of Western ways which were to be found just beyond the borders.
The divide had begun. The powerful few used any means available to them to ride rough shod over the timid majority. Potent criminal gangs became organised, some within governmental departments, others independently, but all with the same purpose - to make easy money and lots of it. The Russian public at large had found it increasingly difficult to separate the lawful KGB and the overtly criminal Mafia, when members of one organisation could step into the shoes of the other, causing confusion and frustration. Now there was the FSB.
By 1992, there were no survivors with any commercial experience from pre-revolution Russia, and middle management had become a rare commodity since the Stalin purges. Major decisions were made centrally where a limited number of party members with newly acquired experience had been gathered together. Outside Moscow, there were only a few sophisticated Titans of industry who were privy to the whole gamut of procedures which together enabled their industry to function.
Thus the Devil’s seeds were sewn among the Russian populace, and no-one could foretell what mutations would evolve and fructify.
Prologue
Seriously engrossed at his desk, a smouldering butt perched on the edge of a full ashtray, senior bureaucrat, Kolyunov, didn’t react to the squeak of plastic-soled shoes on the polished wooden floor. Lesser mortals often arrived unannounced into the large, sparsely furnished office with its atmosphere saturated with the smoke of cheap Russian cigarettes. But by the time the three men had reached his desk, it was too late to ask questions. A savage thrust snapped his head back, stretching sinews to their limit. He grabbed the arms of his chair instinctively to anchor himself, and although his glasses were knocked askew, he could still make out the unmistakable swarthy features of the two intruders standing in front of him. From behind, cold hands of the unseen third had a rigid grip on his seventy-year old head.
‘What are you do --’ Kolyunov began, but his question was cut short by his tie, rammed into his mouth by a large, stubby hand. He kicked and struggled for freedom but his feeble attempts were easily brushed aside by younger, stronger men. No pain was inflicted during the melee and he barely reacted to the hypodermic needle passing through the tissues inside his nostril. The unseen man standing behind him suddenly released his grip on Kolyunov’s head, letting it fall forward heavily onto his buttoned waistcoat.
Kolyunov yanked the tie from his mouth, his face flushing with rage. He stood as sharply as he was able, knocking his desk and dislodging his butt from the ashtray. He needed a few seconds for his throat to moisten enough to swallow, but by then the three intruders were already at the door. They took one last look at their victim before disappearing into the hallway.
‘Who the hell are you?’ Kolyunov yelled. ‘Do you know who I am?’ There was a fruitless pause. ‘I’m Assistant to the Minister. What do you think you’re doing coming in here like that? Who sent you? Come back here! D’you hear me? I’m ringing Security.’ His authoritative tones reverberated off the flaking gloss-paint on the lofty walls, but by the time he had finished, the men were far gone and there was neither courage nor strength to run after them.
‘Viktor!’ Kolyonov shouted, his fingers stabbing ferociously at the intercom keys. ‘Come in here immediately!’ But there was no response from Viktor Besedof, his personal assistant based outside in the hallway.
‘Where the hell is he? The lazy bastard.’
