Russians, but it could mean survival for others. He pulled up his collar to hide his face and protect against the wind.
The front of the building bore a poorly lit sign, ‘Block B’. The doors were reinforced with sheets of rusting steel, and when he noticed the lock had been broken off, Crocker smiled to himself.
The doors creaked as he pulled hard on the ice-cold handles. Having stepped through, he found himself in a long passageway with the only illumination coming from a low-wattage bulb suspended by two wires protruding through the wall. Strong springs quickly closed the doors behind him with a rush of freezing Siberian air that made him shiver. He wished he had brought a torch.
Strong smells of damp and disinfectant soon hit him, and the poor light took his eyes some seconds to be able to see clearly. Stepping over a broken pushchair, he kicked to one side what looked like the discarded parts of a motorcycle, and further along, where the shadows darkened, he saw communal dustbins and long banks of electricity meters set on either side of the widening passageway. At the far end he could make out the box-like shape of a lift.
With his limited Russian he tried to guess the meaning of the graffiti-covered notices on the walls, while his footsteps echoed along the concrete floor.
At the lift, he couldn’t see much until he flicked on his cigarette lighter. He pressed the single unmarked button on the side, and then again a few seconds later when there was no response. In the silence, it occurred to him that he was being either brave or foolish, standing alone in this poor light in such a godforsaken place. He sensed his heart rate increase.
There was no sound of mechanical gear slotting into place, only an eerie silence. Looking up, Crocker could see nothing moving, and rather than stand in the dark hallway any longer, he decided to take the concrete stairs winding up around the lift shaft like a flattened snake.
To his gratification, the floors came and went without too much effort, proving those hours spent in the gym had not been wasted. The light improved marginally as he got nearer the glass-domed roof that let in a glimmer of street lighting through a heavy patina of grime.
The seventh floor had the smell he associated with lavatory disinfectant. Even though the lighting was minimal he had no difficulty in finding Flat 27 from Oleg’s description, its front door being the only one covered in buttoned green imitation leather. The rest of the corridor was dark-brown wood and dark-brown paint.
Although he had neither seen nor heard another soul, he sensed others knew he was there. At that moment he didn’t care.
He rang the bell, and for several seconds listened to the muffled sounds of movement inside. Bolts were drawn and the door opened.
Slava extended his hand, but with the bright light behind him, it was difficult to make out his features immediately. ‘Nice to meet you, Mr Lee.’
‘You too, Slava.’
In contrast to his brother, Slava was short and hefty with two glittering gold teeth fitted in the centre of his upper jaw. After a furtive glance both ways along the corridor, he ushered his guest inside.
‘If you had wished,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘I would gladly have come to you and saved you the long journey. It is not very safe around here, I’m afraid, and not very pretty either.’
Crocker thought for a second and decided not to respond.
Slava shuffled to the centre of the room on his slippered feet.
Looking around him, Crocker was struck by the tidiness of the apartment. Not a thing out of place. Slava was clearly a man with pride in his possessions.
Is he married? considered Crocker. He isn’t wearing a ring. No photographs of a happy couple.
Slava took the American’s hat and coat, whisked them away into a curtained alcove, and directed Crocker to the most comfortable-looking chair in the room.
‘Please,’ he indicated with an open hand. ‘Take a seat.’ He looked pleased to have a guest, and while he busied himself in a corner, Crocker took in the paraphernalia around him. The glass-fronted, highly polished cabinets were crowded with old photographs, knickknacks and memorabilia, and he spotted some large cut crystals, and wondered whether they were real, or local fakes. The highly polished wooden floor reflected the bright lights of the chandelier hanging in the centre of the room, and in one corner, on a colourful Moldavian rug, stood a large, black-screen Sony television set which dominated the room. A video recorder was tucked in beneath it.
Crocker had never ceased to be amazed at how Muscovites could afford these expensive appurtenances while continually cursing their impoverished circumstances. A thought crossed Crocker’s mind. With all this, he must be successful in whatever he does for a living.
Slava brought over two short glasses and a new bottle of vodka.
‘Please! Drink! It will keep you warm.’
Crocker noted the small beads of nervous perspiration on Slava’s brow.
‘Just one. Thanks.’ Holding out his glass, he detected a slight tremor in Slava’s hand as he poured. There was a fragrance in the room that he recognised as the ersatz lavender that Oleg used in his car.
‘Nasdrovia!’ he said, trying to relax his host.
‘Nasdrovia!’ beamed Slava.
With most of his drink gone in one gulp, Crocker could contain his curiosity no longer.
‘So, Slava. What have you got that may be of interest to me?’ He watched Slava’s eyes scan him rapidly.
‘You get to the point very quickly, Mr Lee,’ said Slava, emptying his glass. ‘I like that.’ But in reality it seemed to Crocker his directness made his host even more tense and apprehensive.
With a hand still shaking gently, Slava offered Crocker a refill, which he declined. Making the most of the opportunity, he topped up his own glass and slumped onto the sofa opposite Crocker.
‘This deal I have to offer you is a little complicated,’ began the Russian, ‘and is really in two parts. You will like this, Mr Lee, I promise you.’ He smiled broadly, showing his gold teeth.
‘Two for the price of one?’ suggested Crocker, trying to keep the conversation light and friendly.
‘Exactly, Mr Lee.’
Crocker noticed his host adjust his position on the sofa, as if preparing himself for a long session.
‘Now this is the first part.’ Slava paused to tidy up his approach before he continued.
‘You know, of course, about osmium 187?’
‘Of course.’ Crocker nodded, but his heart sank instantly. Oh no! Not osmium!
At the mention of osmium, as far as Crocker was concerned, the great “deal” was as good as stillborn. All his anticipation and excitement had been for nothing.
‘It is one of the most expensive items on earth,’ continued Slava. ‘And it is so strong that even the smallest amount added to steel makes it almost impenetrable.’
‘As
