Moscow Blue

By Philip Kurland

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.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBookIt.com
• Release date: Apr 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781456606220

Book preview

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 only signs of life in the building.

Crocker took the stairs down two at a time, making his way to Immigration and Customs Control. There was a lot on his mind: the pig iron from Kiev to Germany, survival suits from Thailand for the Russian merchant navy, condoms for his friends in the military, and copper for London. Trade had dropped off considerably for his company since the break-up of the USSR, but he was a pragmatist of the first order. Endeavouring to lift his mood, he quietly whistled a few bars of Misty, standing in line in the large hall with its confused echoes. He had nothing else to do but think and reminisce, detached briefly from his surroundings until chimes and incomprehensible babble burst from the public address system, jerking him back to reality.

With his visa and passport examined by the young soldier with an acne-splattered face, Lee Henry Crocker knew he was now officially in Mother Russia and over the first hurdle of his trip. He began to relax. His enviable, easy smile had faded since news of his brother’s death had reached him a week earlier, and now, with the realisation that Paul was not going to be waiting for him at the gate, the frame of mind he had fought hard to overcome during the three-hour flight, came back. The solitary rose, the slap on the back, the ‘Hi there, kid,’ all gone, forever.

He grabbed his shoulder bag from the carousel and with a fresh imprint on his Customs Declaration form, made for the exit, more than pleased to be getting out of the malodorous building. He stopped at the Duty Free and spent some of his US dollars before heading for the gate.

Suddenly, from the shadows of the building, two uniformed policemen appeared, blocking his way. The sight of them instantly cleared and concentrated his mind. Pistols holstered at the hip made Crocker feel apprehensive, especially as neither seemed too friendly. This was a major hurdle he had not anticipated. He took a quick look at his watch and decided he was okay for time.

The shorter and slighter of the two policemen was bald with dead eyes as grey as the colour of his uniform. His round, pasty face was almost without feature. ‘Mr Lee Crocker?’ he snapped.

‘Yup,’ replied Crocker, a man not easily fazed. Puzzlement was mingling with a hint of alarm.

‘Come with us.’ It was an order, not a request. The sounds and sights around him coalesced into a blur as Crocker followed the direction indicated by the taller, more powerfully built man. He knew of the heavy-handed style of Russian totalitarianism, and how much it was prone to corruption, but he was willing to give it a chance, hoping it would turn out to be some misunderstanding. With his eyes on the pistols, he followed obediently.

He was led into a small, brightly lit room where the bare concrete floor and walls were painted in battleship-ship grey with matching metal desk and chairs. Posters bearing screeds of small legislative copy were the only embellishment. The American tried hard to guess what was to come.

‘Sit down, Mr Crocker,’ said Dead Eyes, who appeared to be the senior of the two. Crocker presumed the taller man was there as extra muscle should things become difficult during the ensuing interview.

‘What’s this all about?’ demanded Crocker, having become less tolerant since his graduation from MIT with a good Masters degree. Removing his hat, he looked from one policeman to the other. ‘I’ve got a valid visa and I’m in a hurry.’ He thought exerting a little authoritative pressure would indicate a superior status and a lack of timidity. It was also the only thing he could think of saying at the time.

‘Just a few questions, Mr Crocker,’ said an unperturbed Dead Eyes with an unconvincing attempt at a friendly smile. ‘Just answer truthfully please.’

‘Of course,’ muttered Crocker.

The taller man moved to stand behind Crocker while the other sat at the desk, placing his peaked hat in front of him.

Crocker did not like the idea of being unable to see both men at the same time. He had never had dealings with Russian police before, but rumours were rife as to the way they operated. He decided he was caught in the classic white hat, black hat routine with the black hat towering behind him. Crocker could not help staring at the policeman’s pallor as Dead Eyes scanned a few sheets of paper taken from his jacket pocket.

This guy ought to get out more often and catch some sun.

‘You are in Moscow on business, Mr Crocker? A general trader, I understand?’

‘Yup, among other things. A routine trip I’ve made many times before. I’ve got a multi-entry visa. But then you must know that.’ He wondered whether there could be a little confusion with Paul, but after a brief consideration, decided not to mention his brother at this time. Crocker would have paid to learn what was written on the papers Dead Eyes was reading. He knew the police would have done their homework well beforehand and had most of the answers before asking the questions.

‘Yes, we are aware of that, Mr Crocker. But tell me, what was your connection with Boris Pavlovich Kolyunov?’

There was silence while Crocker, head turned to one side and staring at the floor, tried to recall the name. He worked through a list of Russians he knew from the company offices in London, New York and Moscow but came up with a blank. ‘Who?’ he asked eventually, a deep furrow between his eyebrows.

‘Boris Pavlovich Kolyunov,’ the Russian repeated, staring straight into Crocker’s eyes, searching for any hint of deception.

‘I’m afraid I’ve never heard of the guy. What is he? A dealer?’ He folded his arms and tried hard to guess where this was heading.

‘Kolyunov was found murdered just before Christmas, Mr Crocker.’

Oh boy! Crocker felt his throat go dry. The grey walls around him seemed to close in a little and the air was suddenly thicker.

‘I’m very sorry to hear he’s dead, but I’ve never heard of the guy.’ He shook his head to confirm. ‘You’re sure it’s me you want to speak to?’ He stuck to his decision not to mention Paul, although he felt he could confuse the Russian by bringing the name into the conversation.

‘You are Lee Crocker?’ asked Dead Eyes.

‘Yup, that’s me alright.’

‘Then we are speaking to the right man.’ He gave a sickly, condescending smile.

This sounds serious, thought Crocker, searching for the Dunhill cigarette lighter at the bottom of his coat pocket, a frequent source of inspiration or solace in a time of need. As he felt for its smooth sides he realised he was hungry. The food on the flight had been unusually inedible and his stomach was reminding him of its need for satiation.

‘The police report,’ began Dead Eyes, ‘says that he was found murdered in his office at one of our ministries, and your name, Lee Crocker, was written in a small book found on the body. And yet you say you have never heard of him. It is strange you did not know him.’

‘Isn’t it?’ Crocker concurred, shrugging his tired shoulders. He felt a little awkward at the prolonged silence that followed this curt reply. He decided to continue. ‘Look; sorry I can’t be more helpful, but I didn’t know this guy, Kolyunov, and I don’t know why he would’ve had my name on him. I suppose lots of people in Moscow know my name. After all, look at all the visits I’ve made here.’ He paused for some comment from the Russian, but none came. ‘Is that it? We’re done here?’ he asked hopefully, still worrying about his well-being. Looking at each policeman in turn, he put a hand on the desk, preparing to stand. ‘May I leave now? I’ve a lot to get through on this trip.’

Dead Eyes raised a finger to indicate there was more to come.

Shit! Crocker was frustrated.

‘So you are certain you did not know Kolyunov, Mr Crocker?’

Crocker noticed the movement of the interrogator’s prominent ears as he swallowed and clenched his teeth. While the policeman waited for a response, Crocker became aware of how quiet the room was despite the bustling crowds he had seen outside. This worried him somewhat, being held in a soundproof room by two unfulfilled and resentful policemen, probably envious of his Western lifestyle. ‘I’m positive,’ he said eventually, forcefully nodding his head and deliberately maintaining eye contact to imply openness. ‘What else can I say to convince you guys? The name means absolutely nothing to me.’ He turned his hands upward in humble submission. Crocker knew his patience was limited once he became bored with people or a topic, and here both bored him. He made a conscious effort to stay cool.

‘Anyway, why was he killed?’ he asked, just to be sociable.

‘If we knew that, Mr Crocker, we would not be here.’

‘And how was he killed?’

‘Old KGB trick: cyanide injected inside the nose. Very difficult to see as you can imagine.’

Crocker’s fists tightened as he sensed the taller man shifting behind him. But the big Russian remained against the wall after refolding his arms.

Crocker had become uncomfortably hot sitting in the airless room in his woollen coat. He dried his perspiring hands on his knees and longed for a cold drink. Dead Eyes began to re-read his papers, and while Crocker waited for the next question he passed the time by counting the cigarette burns along the edge of the table in front of him.

The Russian got to his feet, scraping his chair along the floor. The shrill noise echoed in the room.

‘We wondered why Kolyunov had placed a cross next to your name and not the others in his short list.’

Another slow shrug of his now sagging shoulders was all Crocker could offer. He tried hard to think of something to say, but his mind was blank. He had become very tired of all these questions and was about to say, Book me, or let me go. but quickly remembered he was in Moscow, not New York. His stomach made a low-level growl.

The policeman stared at him for a few seconds. ‘You are staying at the Intourist Hotel, Mr Crocker?’ he said, sitting down on the edge of the table, one foot on a chair.

‘That’s correct.’

The interrogator placed his right arm behind his back, exposing more clearly the pistol on his belt. ‘And you are sure there’s nothing at all you can tell me that concerns this man, Kolyunov?’

‘Absolutely nothing.’

Crocker took his hands from his pockets, sensing the interview was about to end. ‘If I think of something, I’ll let you know,’ he promised with not much conviction.

‘Perhaps we will talk again before you leave the country, Mr Crocker.’

The Russian stood and put his hat on.

About time.

As the American rose, the taller policeman moved swiftly to open the door with a large, muscular hand. Crocker noticed the wide knuckles as they blanched white around the doorknob.

‘Sorry for delaying you, Mr Crocker,’ said Dead Eyes.

2

With his bag hanging from his shoulder, Crocker forced a farewell smile as he slid sideways through the doorway into the noisy confusion outside. Feelings of relief and irritation flooded through him in equal measure. Knowing the murdered Kolyunov probably knew him, or of him, made him feel distinctly uncomfortable. But he liked an alternative even less: he could have been set up as the fall guy in some nefarious plot. He had no doubt such things did happen in Russia, but then decided there was probably a simpler explanation.

He craved fresh air and couldn’t wait to get out of a place starting to feel like a sauna in a Turkish bath.

‘Taxi? Taxi?’ insisted a swarthy man leaning over the living swarm milling around the doorway leading from the Customs Hall. Crocker gave him a quick glance and ignored him.

‘Taxi? Taxi?’ called another.

And another.

Crocker shook his head slowly, not wanting to dislodge his schapka while at the same time willing these uninvited pests to disappear. His eyes searched for Oleg Ilyich Nikiforov, the company driver employed to ferry him around when he was in Moscow. After a long flight, the last thing Crocker felt like doing was bargaining with one of the many evil-looking villains who, calling themselves taxi drivers converged like vultures around the terminal’s main exit.

It was difficult to see through the stale, copper-tinted haze in the poorly lit hall, and he was about to become even more downcast when a quiet voice greeted him from behind.

‘Ullo, Mr Lee.’ The familiar greeting was all he craved at that moment. The tension growing within him disappeared instantly.

Oleg was a singularly unattractive, spindly man in his late forties wearing a knitted orange ski-hat topped with a floppy orange pom-pom. With widely spaced bulbous eyes, fixed grin and poor complexion, the driver resembled an overgrown, badly painted, bandy-legged garden gnome. But now those eyes were crinkled in a friendly welcome. He was clearly pleased to see the American, almost as pleased as Crocker was to see him. They shook hands warmly.

‘It’s good to see you, Oleg. Are you well?’

Oleg cleared his airway with a thick smoker’s cough.

‘As usual, Mr Lee.’

Good old reliable Oleg.

Crocker followed the driver out towards his car, at peace with the world again, at least for the moment.

The sky outside was pitch-black, and the change from the kerosene-saturated warmth of the terminal building to the bitter winter air outside seized Crocker by the throat. Of all the cities he visited in his work, Moscow could feel colder in January than anywhere else. It was not for the first time he was grateful for his thermal underwear. He prayed the drive into the city would be the final hurdle without any more surprises before he could settle down to some edible food, and then a good sleep.

Sinking into the rear seat of Oleg’s orange Lada, Crocker was aware that nothing in the car had changed since his last trip. The atmosphere of cheap perfumed disinfectant blended with stale Russian cigarette smoke, filled his lungs. The lucky-charm temptress still swung from the rear view mirror, her exotic Spanish-style paintwork still chipped on her nose, breasts and buttocks. The four windows were permanently shut, the interior handles having been stolen some months earlier to feed a growing market for Lada spares.

‘Keeps the warm in,’ Oleg had proclaimed when first asked about the closed windows. Crocker had decided there was no point in trying to argue with such practical Russian logic.

‘We were all so sorry to hear about your brother, Mr Lee,’ said Oleg, his face turned up to the roof of the car.

All the mystery and sadness surrounding his brother’s death, flooded back into Crocker’s consciousness from wherever it had been consigned by the unexpected police interrogation.

‘Thanks, Oleg. The shock still hasn’t worn off.

‘You were good friends?’

‘If you mean close, no. Not really.’

‘Yes, close.’

’I’m going to miss him, although we saw each other mainly through business. We didn’t socialize a great deal.’

‘I understand.’

‘He was some years older. A little wild when we were kids. Probably thought I was dull. But, hey; that’s enough about Paul. How’s your wife and boy?’

‘They are very happy, Mr Lee. Yes, very happy, thank you.’

The American stretched his six-feet-two-inch frame as far as the rear of the Lada would allow, and he pondered on his unexpected encounter at the airport; the round face, the dead eyes and the prominent ears coming back to him. Kolyunov? Kolyunov? He searched his memory once again for some forgotten connection no matter how tenuous, but still the name meant nothing to him. He wrote it down on the back of his air ticket, promising himself to check it out the next day at the office.

With his mind overloading with many varied topics, from conversations with his erstwhile live-in partner, Angie Powers, to recent events in Moscow, he decided coming here was fast becoming anathema to him.

What the hell do I want this for? I don’t need it.

He tried telling himself he was being irrational, probably because the incident with the police had rattled his nerves, and he was hungry and tired. But deep down, he didn’t believe it. Knowing himself as he did, he anticipated this police matter would prey on his mind until he had all the answers. He hated loose ends.

While the Lada continued along the bumpy, poorly lit roads of Moscow’s suburbia, in the darkness of the car, Crocker rummaged through his shoulder bag among the presents bought at the Duty Free. He dug out one of the large packs of Marlboros and dropped it onto the empty front seat.

‘Thank you, Mr Lee,’ acknowledged Oleg over his shoulder, his wide grin held for several seconds. Being embarrassed for distributing largess was a thing of the past for Crocker. It was on his first visit that he understood recipients were not interested in his personal or emotional upheaval when they were beneficiaries of unattainable presents from the West.

Driving in complete silence, neither Oleg nor Crocker noticed the dipped lights of the large saloon car maintaining a constant distance behind.

3

It had taken the best part of an hour in softly falling snow for the Lada to reach Gorky Street where it pulled up gently in front of the Intourist Hotel. Crocker made his way through the miserable clutch of crudely made-up prostitutes, black market traders and unshaven taxi-drivers, clustered together in the snow around the hotel’s portico. He didn’t find it pleasant being propositioned by any of this gathering, especially the hookers, whose make-up reminded him of a second-rate waxworks he’d once visited as a youngster with his parents back home in Connecticut. He collected his resident’s identity card at the crowded reception desk and took the elevator to the fourth floor where dust and the day’s cigarette smoke were searching for nonexistent open windows. A tall brunette in a tight white coat exchanged his card for a room key.

Crocker had learnt a golden rule from his late brother: he routinely checked out the phone on entering a hotel room for the first time. If it were dead, he would change rooms, but today the apple green phone perched on the large television set by the window was in working order.

He let himself drop fully clothed onto the nearest of the two single beds and closed his eyes.

With the volume turned up fully on his small tape machine, he could hear his choice of music playing above the din of the shower. La Boheme instantly put him in a good mood. Music had been a passion ever since he’d learned to play the piano as a boy and often felt grateful to his mother for insisting he continue lessons, unlike brother Paul, who had found any excuse for skipping class to play ball. Crocker had led the college jazz group on harmonica, and as a late teenager, played piano at night in some of the local bars for pocket money. Now, without much opportunity to play himself, he mostly listened while accumulating air miles.

Eyes closed, he let himself become lost in the music filling the steamy room. But something deep inside reminded him, annoyingly, that what had begun in that small grey room at Sheremetyevo airport was not yet over and could only add to his present problems. His stomach tightened at the thought of being a potential suspect in a murder case, especially a Russian murder case, and, even more especially, a Russian murder case in Moscow, where he knew none of the rights afforded to the private foreign individual.

When the shower eventually ran cold, he dried off, dressed in his cords and went out to eat.

- o -

At Yanov’s, the local ex-cooperative restaurant, he ordered the day’s specialities of red ‘caviar’, pickled fish and roast chicken, washed down with Georgian red wine. It became obvious to him as he removed dozens of bones from the fish that the matter of his now terminated relationship with Angie had to be set aside until his other problems were resolved. He would have to find the time in his work schedule to look into Paul’s death and now Kolyunov, even though the trading business was in decline and demanding more of his time.

Back in his room, he lay on the bed in boxers, eyes closed, quietly playing his harmonica, a constant companion on his trips abroad. He was deeply into the blues since Angie Powers had introduced the first sad element into his life. The last conversation he’d had with her had made the situation between them clear: their outwardly comfortable relationship was over. If she stuck to her word, and he knew she was the type of self-possessed woman who would, she would have moved out of his Manhattan flat, lock, stock and sheep dog, long before he returned.

Shouldn’t I have missed her more when we were away from each other? We seemed to have managed being apart too easily.

He poured a large scotch from the bottle he kept in his shoulder bag and went to the bathroom to pee. Before he finished, the phone began to ring.

Moving through different time zones had taught Crocker not to be surprised to be called at unsociable hours. But tonight, having started to make himself comfortable, and with enough on his mind already, he didn’t welcome the intrusion into his resting time. With reluctance he lifted the phone.

‘Yup?’ he grumped.

There was a crackle on the line as a woman’s voice announced in English, ‘Mr Crocker, there is a call for you.’

‘Yup.’

After a brief pause, a man’s voice with a heavy Russian accent said, ‘Ullo? Mr Lee?’

‘Yup. Who’s this?’ Crocker wondered who apart from Oleg, the police and the office, knew he was in Moscow at that moment. He tugged to free the phone-cord from under the carpet and sat on the edge of the bed with a bath towel wrapped around his shoulders. He began taking in the pictures on the wall.

‘You don’t know me, Mr Lee, but I am Slava Nikiforov, the brother of your driver, Oleg.’

‘Yup, and . . .?’ Please don’t tell me Oleg has suffered some major catastrophe.

‘Excuse me for calling you at this late hour but I would like to talk business with you.’

‘Go ahead, Slava.’

‘Firstly, may I say how sorry I was to read about your brother, Mr Lee.’

‘Thank you, Slava, but what did you want to talk to me about exactly? It’s getting late. Is Oleg okay?’

‘Yes, yes. Oleg is fine. Yes, fine.’ The Russian paused, seeming to have lost his way in what sounded like a rehearsed spiel. ‘No, it is something we cannot speak about over the phone. A most interesting offer, especially as I understand trade in general is a little slow. I am nearby, so may I come over and talk?’

‘You mean now?’

‘But of course, now.’ The voice was haughty but slightly muffled.

‘Now?’ said a very tired Crocker, turning to glance at the wall clock beyond the bedside table. ‘No way, Slava. Past midnight. It’s far too late.’ He didn’t want to set a precedent of late night meetings.

‘What a pity,’ said Slava, obviously disappointed.

‘Can’t you give me an idea what this is about, Slava?’ Crocker was feeling the cold wrapped in his towel, and it was becoming an effort to hide his discomfort.

The Russian continued, ‘No, Mr Lee. I have said I cannot tell you over the phone.’

There was a long silence, except for the sound of Slava’s heavy breathing and the constant crackle on the line. Crocker turned on the TV