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.
4
Moscow, 6 January
Crocker was awake when Reception rang through at 8.30 a.m. precisely. He had fallen asleep with the curtains open and was woken by the bright early morning sunlight falling brusquely on his eyelids before snow clouds had time to cover the sky. His jaws were sore from grinding during the night; a sure that something was getting to him. He couldn’t decide whether it was Paul, Slava or Kolyunov. Or even Angie Powers. But then it could have been any combination. He quickly gave up thinking about it, dressed and went down for breakfast.
Oleg was waiting for him outside the front of the hotel looking cold and hungry as usual. Every time Crocker saw him, he felt sorry for the man.
Powder snow was falling, and in the morning light Crocker had to confess that Oleg’s orange ski hat was not a mere affectation. It certainly made picking out both driver and Lada far easier.
The hard black plastic-covered upholstery uttered a soft hiss as Crocker dropped onto the back seat. He was still feeling tired having found himself awake during the night planning his campaign of ways to learn more of his brother’s death. These thoughts mingled with snatches of Slava’s phone call and the airport interrogation, and sleep had returned only after he had persuaded himself that nothing could be done until morning.
When Crocker arrived at the offices of JC Trading Corporation, the staff of five was seated around what was loosely referred to as the ‘conference table’ situated under two flickering fluorescent strips of pink light. They all stood as Crocker approached.
‘Please sit down, everyone,’ said Crocker, surprised at the unusual courtesy.
One person remained standing. It was Yuri Pischl, the German multilingual manager who had worked in the London office for some years. Dressed smartly in a charcoal grey suit, he was a slim fifty-year old but his weather-worn skin made him look older.
‘We all wish to say how sorry we are about the death of Paul,’ said Yuri. ‘Moscow is not a civilised place to be.’
‘Thank you all,’ responded Crocker, feeling a little humbled. ‘I still haven’t got over the loss myself. But let’s get on.’
A dense cloud of cigarette smoke hovered over the room. Other than Aleksei, the young computer apprentice, all of the staff were smokers.
The manager took obvious pleasure as he introduced the new member of staff. His hand was on the shoulder of an attractive mid-thirties woman with shiny blonde hair tied back in a bun. She stood smartly. Her muted purple dress was simple, fresh and stylish, but Crocker could tell she had one of those shapes that would look good in a bin-bag.
‘This is Evelina Livenko, who is bilingual, almost,’ the manager explained in his characteristically undiplomatic manner. ‘She started work a few weeks ago. Call her Lina. She’s learning the ropes. She has replaced Anna who did yours and Paul’s secretarial work, you’ll remember, and who you may have noticed is not here today.’
Lina’s pretty open Slavic face betrayed a little reservedness, but Crocker didn’t notice as he shook her hand.
‘Hi, Lina,’ he said, his gregarious manner coming to the fore with a wide smile. ‘If you have any problems concerning your work, just you let me know. Okay?’
I must get to know her better. This trip could work out fine.
She nodded politely, her light brown eyes giving a hint of a smile.
Before he sat down, Crocker carried out a well-established and appreciated ritual: he distributed small gifts he had bought at the airport. He wasn’t expecting the newcomer and gave Lina the packet of Earl Grey tea Anna had always appreciated.
‘If there’s something you want instead of tea, please say so for next time,’ smiled Crocker, fighting hard to retain an employer’s remoteness.
‘Thank you. This is lovely,’ said Lina, examining the package from all sides.
While he sipped sweet black coffee from a small white cup, Crocker checked the current work-in-hand situation from the bundle of papers Yuri had placed in front of him. He paused to read through two frustrated contracts.
Damn!
He was very aware that the company couldn’t afford to lose this work, and though based more in London, Crocker knew that the plight of the Russian wing of the company could bring down the whole business.
As he read on, a voice in his head kept repeating two magic words of a hypnotic mantra:
‘government . . . rich’
When the meeting broke up, Crocker took Yuri aside and asked, ‘What happened to Anna?’
‘To be honest, I don’t really know. You know how much you can rely on what these people tell you, but apparently someone called to say her mother needed her in Saratov, down south on the Volga somewhere. Maybe. But maybe she was secretly having a baby. Who knows? Contraception is very difficult to come by and you know what it’s like trying to get an abortion here in Moscow?’
‘No,’ was all Crocker could think of. He understood Yuri’s vagueness because he had experienced the same national trait of Russians to generate unusually complex stories to avoid a simple but truthful answer.
He found his gaze wandering to Lina sitting at her desk directly opposite him. They ventured a minimal smile at each other as their eyes met.
Crocker wrote ‘Kolyunov’ on his pad a few times, and called Yuri into his office.
‘Have
