the reason it could fly,’ Mark continued, ‘is not because of the Egyptian deal, whatever that might be, but because the Pentagon would do anything to stop those North Koreans getting hold of this amount of osmium 187. We wouldn’t know what they might do with it.’
‘You’ve obviously come across osmium before,’ said Crocker.
‘Certainly have,’ replied Mark, stretching his tall frame, hands clasped behind his neck, ‘but only casually. But twenty kilos! I just wonder whether it’s ever been offered for sale in such quantity before. It’s a strategic commodity. The brass would be very interested to know more about this load.’
Crocker could see Mark knew what he was about. He was only now beginning to appreciate the importance of what Slava had said about the North Korean involvement in the equation. He opened his eyes wide.
‘That’s great, Mark. Really great,’ he said, leaning forward. ‘And how do you suggest we take things from here?’ He replaced his glasses.
There was another brief pause before Mark said, ‘Let’s just think about that for a minute or so, Lee.’ Lifting his cup from his knee, he slowly topped it up from the coffee pot.
Gerry said nothing, just sat listening and smiling at Crocker, his jacket straining at its buttons. Mark stared vaguely past Crocker’s head while he cogitated. Gerry had told Lee many months ago that Mark’s military discipline meant his approach to any problem was unemotional, cold and direct. These were exactly the qualities Crocker had wanted, and when Mark finally spoke, his conclusions were clear and precise.
‘We must have a meet with these Russian generals before we take any proposals to a Senate Committee, Lee. We must get a handle on the real situation, and not discover further down the line that we have problems disrupting our calculations or our game plan because of any errors or misunderstandings in this Slava’s reading of what’s going down. That’s a common problem when dealing with over-excited Russian middlemen; at least, so I’ve found in the past. I had to try and settle an oil contract a few years back and our contact man was nothing but trouble. I take it this Slava’s English was good?’
Crocker nodded. ‘Excellent.’
‘You arrange it, then, Lee, and let us know. Then we can take it from there.’
‘I’ll get on to it straight away,’ affirmed Crocker, cutting short the pleasantries as the meeting broke up, promising to call later to arrange a rendezvous for dinner.
‘You say that Paul wanted a price on osmium, Gerry?’ asked Crocker, standing.
‘Yeah, about a month ago. Didn’t get any further. I couldn’t get anything that sounded reliable. Have you any more news about him?’
‘Don’t want to spoil your trip,’ said Crocker, brushing down his jacket, ‘but apparently he wasn’t drowned like we thought; he was garrotted.’
‘Jesus,’ was all Gerry could say, while Mark was lost for words.
Crocker couldn’t wait to get back to his office and phone Moscow. All the way back he willed the taxi to go faster. He felt things were starting to move now, and in the right direction.
He had forgotten all about Paul and Kolyunov.
Back at his desk he dialled a number.
‘And Lina, make sure you get Oleg to confirm that he’s told Slava, and tell him this is very, very urgent. He’ll understand.’
Crocker’s hand on the receiver was hot and damp. He hadn’t been as thrilled since coming downstairs at his parents’ house on a Christmas morning.
Listening to Lina repeat his instructions over the phone, he could see her Russian make-up and her eyes smiling back at him. Just the thought of her was enough to make him happier, and this surprised him. Right now his emotions were readily confused.
‘Yes, Mr Lee. I’ll do all that immediately.’
‘Thanks.’ he said. ‘I’ll speak to you soon.’ He replaced the handset.
Out of the blue it dawned on him that in his excitement at the time, he had not registered something Mark had said. He had used the word “we” as if he had been invited to join the deal as a partner, and after a brief moment of deliberation, he realised he needed a partner for this more complicated deal. And this man is solid.
Dinner was booked for three at Le Souquet, his favourite fish restaurant off the Brompton Road. It was an occasion to celebrate with good food and wine.
12
Moscow, 21 January
The meeting was taking place in a second-floor suite of the old Sovietskaya Hotel on Leningradsky Avenue as it veered to the northwest and out of Moscow. The airless room smelled overpoweringly of dust and deodorising spray. Crocker was seated next to Mark Weinberg on a wide, pale-blue sofa directly opposite General Igor Chernov, who had taken a matching armchair to one side of the heavily curtained windows. To Crocker, Chernov looked in every respect the consummate Russian general: in his early seventies, five feet seven in his shoes and immoderately fat. A ragged scar running over his left eye added character to a fixed, friendly expression, and his thick full lips gave the impression of a permanent pout. His lower face, underpinned by folds of a loosely hanging chin, hid a tightly buttoned collar, and across his chest flowed a sea of military decoration. To Chernov’s left, two more army personnel occupied a second sofa, and to his right Slava Nikiforov balanced himself on an elegant wooden chair.
General Chernov stood, with one hand on the back of his chair; proud and erect in his dress uniform, his head nodding continuously like a toy dog in the rear window of a car. ‘We thought you would feel more comfortable here, rather than in our more democratic government offices,’ he said in his thick, guttural accent.
‘Thank you, General,’ replied Mark Weinberg. ‘This is excellent.’
‘Excellent,’ echoed Crocker, who loved the old opulent furnishings and the spacious walls of delicate faded pink, with wide landscape paintings enhancing the overall effect.
With his golden epaulettes reflecting the lights above, Chernov was standing in front of a life-size portrait of soldiers marching side by side, pressed together, tight as sardines. ‘Since help from the state was stopped,’ said the general, stroking the fraying fabric along the top of his chair, ‘things here are now very expensive for us people. But there are still a few privileges our President has left for us old soldiers. Please, excuse my English, but I have brought with me today, Captain David Uskov, who will help me in this matter.’ Chernov pointed at the younger of the two other military men as he settled himself back in his chair. Uskov dropped his head momentarily to affirm his identity. ‘Next to him,’ continued Chernov, ‘is another of my colleagues, General Vladimir Bashirev, who unfortunately speaks very little English.’ The second general recognised his name and nodded in acknowledgement. He too was overweight for a man in his early seventies. His decorations were less extravagant than Chernov’s, but he sat proudly in his uniform, arms folded across his full chest, his wide-brimmed hat on his lap. ‘And Nikiforov you already know, of course.’ Slava nodded at Crocker in recognition but did not speak. ‘Now captain,’ concluded Chernov, ‘please go ahead.’
A long, low wooden coffee table had been placed between them in the middle of the room. On it stood six bottles
