A sharp, metallic smell. Coffee. Rajendra's head was a single, solid pound of pain. He opened his eyes to a sliver of grey light through unfamiliar curtains. He was on a sofa, under a rough wool blanket. The room was small, clean, stark. A military-issue greatcoat hung on a hook by the door.
Memory flooded back in pieces. The canteen. The vodka. The singing. The cold walk. The woman.
He sat up too fast, and the room swam. A low groan escaped him.
"You are alive," a voice said in Russian-accented English. "This is surprising."
He turned. She stood in the doorway to a small kitchenette, leaning against the frame. She wore simple trousers and a sweater now, her wheat-colored hair tied back. Her grey eyes were assessing, calm. She held a steaming mug.
"I… apologize," Rajendra managed, his voice rough. He stood, forcing himself steady. "Thank you. For not leaving me in the street."
She gave a slight shrug. "A frozen Indian on my street would bring more attention than a sleeping one on my sofa." She nodded to a small table where another mug sat. "Coffee. Black. It will help."
He took the mug, the heat searing his palms. He drank. It was bitter and strong. It helped.
"I am Anya Petrova," she said.
"Rajendra Shakuniya."
"Indian. Merchant?"
"Yes. Textiles. I am here looking for… export ideas."
"At Stolovaya No. 17? With truck mechanics? Your search methods are unusual."
He met her gaze. She wasn't accusing. She was stating a fact. She was military, or something close. Her posture, her directness, the way she occupied space—it all spoke of discipline and authority.
"I was lost," he said, which was true in many ways.
"You were singing," she said, a faint, almost invisible smile touching her lips. "An old song. My grandfather had the record. Awara Hoon."
He was surprised. "You know it?"
"He liked the melody. Said it was about a man searching. It sounded sad." She studied him over the rim of her mug. "Last night, in your sleep, you said a name. Elena."
The coffee turned to acid in his stomach. He kept his face blank. "Did I?"
"You sounded… unhappy with her."
He weighed his options. Denial was pointless. A partial truth was better. "A business associate. In Moscow. The deal has become… complicated."
"Elena is a common name. But a business associate who complicates deals for Indian merchants… this is interesting." She put her mug down. "I am a logistics coordinator. For the army. I know about complicated deals. And I know that today, in Moscow, a complicated deal usually means someone is being cheated, or someone is desperate."
He said nothing, letting her talk.
"You have money," she stated. "I felt your belt. Dollars. Maybe gold. You are not a typical textile man. You are here for something specific. And your 'Elena' has caused a problem."
Her bluntness was disarming. There was no game here, just a clear-eyed analysis. He decided to match it.
"You are correct. The problem is here in Moscow. I came to solve it myself."
"And can you? A foreigner, alone, with no… local knowledge?"
"I am learning," he said.
She nodded slowly, as if he'd passed a small test. "The mechanics last night. Yuri and Pavel. They are good men. But they are not who you need. The people who move diesel fuel, or machinery, or anything of real value… they do not drink in stolovayas." She paused. "If your problem is a deal, and the deal involves resources, then your problem is not just a person. It is a system. And the system," she gestured vaguely out the window, towards the grim city, "is sick. It is eating itself. In such times, the correct paperwork is less important than the correct… connection."
"And you," Rajendra asked quietly, "are you a connection, Captain Petrova?"
"I am a person who does not like to see waste," she said. "And a drunk Indian with a ruined plan is a waste of potential. Also, my grandfather liked that song." She stood up straight. "You will stay here today. Sleep. The smell of vodka is still on you. Tonight, if you are recovered, I will take you somewhere. Where people with real problems make real deals. You will see if your 'Elena' has been there. And you will see if your problem can be solved."
It wasn't an offer. It was a decision she had made for him.
He had no better option. "Why would you do this?"
She looked at him, her grey eyes utterly pragmatic. "Two reasons. First, I am bored. My work is moving boxes from one leaking warehouse to another. This is more interesting. Second, if you succeed, you will owe me a favor. A favor from a merchant with dollars can be useful. In the new world that is coming, dollars will be king."
She was investing. Using her local knowledge to buy a share in his venture. It was a cleaner, more honest proposal than Elena's ever was.
"Agreed," he said.
She tossed him a small towel. "Shower is down the hall. Do not talk to the neighbors."
The day passed in a strange, quiet limbo. Rajendra slept, the deep sleep of exhaustion and hangover. When he woke, the light was fading. Anya was gone, back to her duties. He washed his face with icy water from the sink. He checked his money belt; everything was there.
He thought of Shanti in Mumbai, handling the business. Of Ganesh. Of the film, halfway done. His other life felt a million miles away.
Anya returned as full dark fell, carrying a paper bag with black bread, sausage, and more coffee. They ate in silence. She changed into darker, plainer clothes.
"We will go to Arbat," she said. "Not the tourist part. The old courtyards behind. There is a café. It has no name. The people there… they trade in things the state does not see."
"You are military. Is this not dangerous for you?"
She gave him a look that was almost pitying. "Captain's salary is 180 rubles a month. The coffee in that café costs five dollars. Everyone is dangerous now, Mr. Shakuniya. The trick is to be more useful than you are dangerous."
They left the apartment. The cold was breathtaking. She led him through a maze of back streets, her steps sure and silent. They came to a narrow archway, through a courtyard piled with frozen rubbish, to an unmarked metal door.
She knocked twice, paused, then three times.
A slot slid open. Eyes peered out. They exchanged a few low words in Russian. The door opened.
The inside was warm, smoky, and quiet. It was a small, low-ceilinged basement room. A few tables were occupied by men and a couple of women who did not look up. They wore clothes that were a mix of Soviet drab and foreign quality—a leather jacket here, Italian shoes there. The air smelled of coffee, tobacco, and intrigue.
Anya guided him to a small table in the corner. She ordered two coffees from a grim-faced waiter.
"Watch. Listen," she murmured in English. "Do not speak unless spoken to."
He watched. A deal was being finalized at the next table—a man with a Georgian accent was trading certificates for "construction machinery" for a pouch of diamonds. Another table discussed export quotas for timber, using a map and a stack of West German marks.
This was the black heart of the dying USSR. Not the grey market of Mumbai electronics, but the trading of the empire's very bones.
Then, he saw her.
Elena Volkova sat at a table near the back. She was with two men. One was the Greek shipping agent Ganesh had mentioned. The other was a sharp-faced Arab man in an expensive overcoat. The Dubai connection.
She was talking animatedly, pointing to papers. She looked alive, in control. Not the desperate woman he'd confronted in Mumbai. Here, on her home ground, selling his diesel scheme, she was in her element.
Anya followed his gaze. "Her?"
"Her," Rajendra confirmed, his voice flat.
He watched as the Arab man nodded, asked a question. Elena smiled, a confident, bargaining smile. The deal was happening. Right here, right now. And he was sitting in the corner, a helpless spectator.
Anya leaned close, her voice a whisper in his ear. "The Arab is Tariq al-Mansoori. He moves goods for people in Dubai, Abu Dhabi… and for anyone who pays. He is a shark. If your woman is dealing with him, she is not just making a deal. She is asking for protection. Once he pays, he owns a piece of her."
Rajendra watched as Tariq lit a cigarette, blowing smoke towards the ceiling, a gesture of finality. He said something. Elena's smile widened. She reached out and shook his hand.
It was done. She had sold the diesel contract, and likely a piece of herself, to the highest bidder. Her betrayal was complete.
He felt no anger now. Only a cold, clear certainty. She was no longer an asset or a problem. She was a competitor. And in this room, he was outgunned.
"We should go," Anya said softly, sensing the change in him.
They slipped out the way they came. The frozen air felt like a slap of reality.
"So," Anya said as they walked back through the dark streets. "You have seen. Your problem is now bigger. It has a Dubai bank account and its own security."
"Yes."
"What will you do?"
Rajendra looked up at the oppressive Moscow sky, starless and heavy. "I will find a bigger problem to sell him. One that makes my diesel deal look like a child's toy."
Anya looked at him, her grey eyes glinting in the dark. "Now," she said, "you are starting to think like a Moscow man."