wiped his brow with a handkerchief. He looked uncomfortable.
‘But you know it is also used for other purposes,’ he continued quickly, urgently, trying to keep control of the conversation. ‘It has uses in the nuclear and medical fields as well. But, Mr Lee, the main interest is military. And there are twenty kilograms sitting right now in Moscow and other places.’ He beamed arrogantly. ‘Yes, twenty kilograms,’ he continued, still beaming and expecting Crocker to give some indication that he was impressed. ‘And this parcel of osmium 187 is very special, because …’ He paused for effect. ‘Our government officially does not know it exists. You understand what that means, Mr Lee?’
He kept his eyes locked on Crocker’s, trying to decide whether or not his guest appreciated the full implication of what he had said.
‘Some is in the factory, some in the Kharpov laboratory, and some is already in a Luxembourg vault, I understand.’
His forehead was now cast in moist furrows as he waited for some positive reaction from his guest. But he was disappointed because Crocker sat unmoved, his thoughts now on the polished crystals in the cabinet, unaware that Slava was having great difficulty waiting for a response. Not many Russians had the courage to bring an American biznessman into their home like this. Decades of mistrust and suspicion had led to the belief that there were miniaturised State listening devices secreted everywhere. Occasionally, such fears were justified, with betrayal leading to interrogation by the FSB, torture, or even disappearance.
‘I’m afraid we don’t have a requirement for osmium 187, Slava,’ Crocker said apologetically, to be polite. ‘Is that all you wanted to talk to me about, or was that just the first part?’
He leant forward, hands on the armrests of his chair, preparing to leave.
Slava’s heels tapped the ground in a tense, nervous rhythm as he thought quickly.
‘Slava, it’s only fair to let you know,’ said Crocker, relenting slightly, ‘I, and many of my associates, have been offered osmium 187 by so many Russians over the years that it’s a standing joke among us. We’ve all agreed that as a commercial exercise osmium 187 is a complete waste of time and money.’
Slava examined his patterned slippers.
‘But why, Mr Lee?
‘I’ll tell you, Slava. It’s like this. Despite all the work traders and their buyers put into getting a deal settled, when it came to the crunch, the sellers never had any osmium to sell. There was always some complicated story; nothing as simple as "Do you want it? Here it is." The last time I got involved with an osmium 187 deal, some months ago, I was taken blindfolded late at night to the Chekov factory on the outskirts of Moscow somewhere. When we got there, a handful of high ranking military gave me, in complete secrecy, the outline of a deal which involved the loading of a private plane at their expense, and then flying me, together with armed bodyguards, to some European destination of my choosing.’
The American didn’t want to admit that he’d turned the deal down at the mere thought of bodyguards and guns. He had wanted nothing to do with that scene.
Slava, obviously discouraged, stared at the dead television screen, tapping his knees hard, with all his fingers.
Crocker passed his glass from one hand to the other, wondering whether the Russian really had anything else worthwhile to offer, or whether this was the end of a wasted trip. It’s a long drive back. He emptied his glass. ‘Did you know,’ he went on, ‘that one of the Moscow mafia gangs was offering franchises for $10,000, for consignments of osmium 187 that didn’t exist. And people paid up good money, wanting to make their fortune. The sad part was, anyone who paid their ten thousand dollars or so and got as far as finding a buyer, was threatened with very unpleasant reprisals when they demanded their metal or their cash back.’
Slava stared at him blankly. ‘I have never heard of this sort of thing, Mr Lee. Believe me.’
‘And,’ Crocker continued, upset at his disappointment, ‘I’ve never met a single person who’s actually succeeded in concluding a deal involving this damned material.’ His speech was getting faster and louder as his temperature rose within. ‘Nor have I ever met anyone who knew of somebody else who had. But I know of hundreds who were offered damned osmium.’
He knew he was getting angry, and put it down to being tired. He didn’t like upsetting the Russian. Placing his glass on the floor beside his seat, he made to stand once again.
‘No, no,’ cried Slava, a note of panic in his voice, his open hand held beseechingly in the direction of the armchair. ‘Please, let me finish, Mr Lee. Please, sit.’ Realising he was on the verge of losing his potential buyer, he began to speak with even greater urgency.
‘You know how much this material is worth? Sixty to seventy thousand American dollars for each gramme. You know this, don’t you, Mr Lee?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Please let me tell you some more. I know you must have had many offers here in Moscow, because everyone gets offers. But this is real. You understand? Real! Real and very special.’ Leaning forward, he proffered the vodka again. This time Crocker allowed a refill. The adrenaline rush of his initial excitement had long since passed and he was becoming cold and depressed as well as tired.
Slava carried on, strain showing on his face. ‘Please forgive me if you already know something of osmium 187. But my father-in-law works at the Kharpov laboratory where the material was tested and sealed. So I know it is real. The owners are a group of very powerful generals who have kept the knowledge of the existence of this material away from the official government department. You know what I am saying?’ Again he continued without waiting for Crocker to reply. ‘They will want a profit, of course, a big profit. A profit for themselves. But then this deal is worth a billion dollars, and so there is profit enough for all.’ Slava flashed his fixed, golden smile once more and waited for the figure of one billion dollars to gel in Crocker’s mind. ‘And now for the second part of the deal. Something else.’
6
Crocker was comfortably installed in his chair and prepared to listen a while longer. This had better be good, or I’m out of here.
Slava took a deep breath before continuing. ‘The same generals, the ones who own this osmium, they also control the sales of warplanes. They have done so for many years, from before Krushchev’s day.’
Crocker shifted deeper into his seat as he sensed something in Slava’s voice that compelled his attention.
‘You remember Krushchev, don’t you?’ Staring into Crocker’s eyes Slava pressed home what he felt was an opening. ‘Well, these generals arranged the sale of warplanes to Egypt, to Syria and Albania and a few other countries. You know how much these planes are worth?’ His question was rhetorical. ‘They are worth more rice than these countries can produce in a thousand years. So these countries owe us. You can imagine. They owe us a great many dollars. But …’ He raised a stumpy finger. ‘But they don’t have the dollars, only their own useless currencies.’
‘But what use is this to me?’ Crocker interjected as soon as Slava gave him the opportunity. He looked fleetingly at his watch. ‘Please get to the point, Slava, because I’ve got to go. I’m very tired.’ He downed the last of his vodka.
‘Yes, Mr Lee, please,’ implored Slava. ‘Please wait just one more moment and I will explain. Now this useless money, if it could be converted, is worth many billion dollars. So …’ His stubby
