Moscow Blue

Philip Kurland

Description

Lee Crocker is an international trader who spends most of his days in the USSR where he hopes to put together the mega deal that could only be pulled off in Russia.

He knows the odds against success are high but he finds himself involved in an unbelievable multi-billion deal that involves the U.S.Government and the Russian military.

But he never contemplated getting involved in murder.

Sujets

• Fiction
• Crime

Informations

• Publié par: eBookIt.com
• Date de parution: 21 février 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781456606220
• Langue: English

Extrait

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
http://www.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.’ Kolyunov thumped his desk out of pique, catching the side of his glass, shooting the remains of his tea over his documents. He paused to catch a laboured breath. ‘You bastards! You Georgian bastards!’ He wasn’t used to shouting, and in a bizarre way, realised he enjoyed the release of tension it brought.
He felt the front of his pants were wet, causing unfamiliar fear to freeze him for a moment. ‘What have they done to me?’ he mumbled, moving towards the open door with small faltering steps.
‘Viktor!’ he bawled. ‘Where are you? Damn you! What have those bastards done to me? What have they . . .’
At that moment he emerged into the hall. Viktor Besedov was nowhere to be seen. His chair was empty, and the long, well lit hall completely deserted. ‘Viktor?’ Kolyunov queried quietly, but there was not even a subtle echo to give him some degree of comfort.
As he turned and twisted in his fruitless search, he became aware of having difficulty maintaining his balance, and in trying to straighten his glasses, pitched them spinning to the floor. ‘Help me!’ he cried out weakly, creeping back to his room. ‘Help me.’ But his almost silent pleading was in vain. The building was deserted. ‘FSB!’ he croaked, leaning against his desk for support. ‘FSB. Three billion! I should never …’
Kolyunov tried to lift the phone, but the fatal injection was taking full effect and his limbs would not move. He knew all the authority and power he had enjoyed only minutes before, were gone, and as he begged for death not to claim him before he could say his goodbyes, his knees crumpled, dropping him to the floor, his face a bright pink.
Life for the Russian bureaucrat had faded to black while the three assassins became lost in a snowy encounter with Moscow’s early evening rush hour.
1
Moscow, 5 January
Suddenly it was dark outside. The loping aircraft was descending through thick cloud which had wrapped Moscow in a grey shroud for almost a week. Despite poor conditions made worse by a freezing Siberian wind, Aeroflot flight SU242 from London Heathrow touched down at Sheremetyevo-2 on time.
With a document case under his arm, the tall, thirty-eight-year-old New Yorker was Central Casting’s archetypal Western biznessman . Impressive in immaculate midnight-blue topcoat, crisp Brooks Brothers’ navy suit and black Church’s lace-ups, he would have been more comfortable in jeans and sweatshirt, but he had learnt from hard experience that it was essential in Russia to conform, especially in business where appearance counted for much more than it did back home.
In deference to Russian winters, he wore the grey rabbit-fur shapka his father had given him. The hat hid his wavy blonde hair and threw shadow over his deep-set, bespectacled blue eyes. Arriving in Russia used to give him an indefinable buzz, but with all the political upheaval, he sensed the atmosphere was now one of foreboding. Nothing specific, but he was aware of the constant unsettling sensation of strangers watching strangers. For him, coming to Russia now was not dissimilar to jumping into cold water, only to find it not too bad once you were in.
Brisk, confident strides took him along the first-floor galleried walkway, distancing him from the mighty Ilyushin 86 still disgorging its luggage onto trucks in the snow outside. Guards stationed at regular intervals and the lights of the Duty Free shops below, were the