without prescription in one sale was 180mg. The only product commonly sold within these restrictions was ChestEze tablets, which bundled 30mg of caffeine, 18.31mg ephedrine and 100mg anhydrous theophylline, the last being a member of the happy family of xanthines, a pharmacological cousin to caffeine. They came in packs of nine.
Belsey walked up to the counter where a teenage assistant stood picking at his skin.
“I’ve been told I need a product called ChestEze,” Belsey said. The boy looked at him doubtfully, then went to shelves behind the counter and fetched a pack. He placed it down between them. Belsey made a show of reading the small print: For relief of bronchial cough, wheezing, breathlessness and other symptoms of asthmatic bronchitis.
“Could I get two packs?” Belsey said.
“I can’t sell you two, I’m afraid.”
“One’s for my father. I got the bronchitis off him.”
The boy raised an eyebrow but went to fetch another. He seemed easy game. Belsey asked him to wait and found some air freshener, vitamins and a pack of Sudafed as well.
“I don’t have a PIN for it,” Belsey said, taking out the Amex.
The boy briefly closed his eyes with a weariness beyond his years, then he pressed a button and passed Belsey a chewed pen.
Belsey took his bag of supplements and walked to the public library on the high road. He asked for a guest code for the PCs, logged in and searched for Alexei Devereux. The top few hits looked credible: one was an article in Russian from the Khiminskaya Prada and one an article from the Wall Street Journal . You had to pay to view the Wall Street Journal article in full, but it began: “Of all the new crop of oligarchs to set their sights beyond Russia, Alexei Devereux is perhaps the most intriguing.” The Eurasian Trade News website dropped his name in a list of five men “changing the face of the Russian entertainment sector.” It didn’t say how. It said he was “notoriously reclusive.” Later it said, “The enigmatic Alexei Devereux is personally responsible for pumping two billion dollars into the ailing sports network TGT.” The Novaya Sayat newspaper linked a spike in Posky International shares to talks of a Devereux buyout. Posky operated in the leisure and retail sector. The piece was an inch-high column to the side of a general stock graph from 2007. Only the Moscow Business Gazette , dated to last October, gave something of the life: “Ultra-reclusive, ultra-successful investor,” Devereux was one of “the Christmas List,” ten men who pioneered the second round of sell-offs over Christmas 1998. It said Devereux had gone into political exile after his ties to opposition politicians made life increasingly untenable in Russia.
Belsey read the last article twice. The implication was that he had gone into exile shortly before the piece was written, which was ten weeks ago. It said he had bases in Paris, London and New York and would probably be welcome in any of them. But no one knew where he’d gone. No one knew where his businesses were going.
B elsey returned to the house. The smell of putrefaction had begun to fade. The insect life had moved on to its next show. He sprayed the air freshener, then found the bottle of champagne in the fridge and opened it. A recommended adult dose of ChestEze was one tablet in four hours. He took three with a glass of Veuve Clicquot. He shut the safe room and tried to forget it was there. He was slightly horrified by his actions, and yet this horror was a place to be for the moment.
Belsey looked at the American Express credit card. It became valid only five days ago. He called the customer services number on the back.
“I have a new credit card here,” Belsey said. “But I never received a PIN for it.”
“Would you like us to dispatch a new card?”
“I just need a PIN number.”
“We’d have to dispatch a new card as well.”
“That’s fine. And you send the PIN separately?”
“That’s
Belsey walked up to the counter where a teenage assistant stood picking at his skin.
“I’ve been told I need a product called ChestEze,” Belsey said. The boy looked at him doubtfully, then went to shelves behind the counter and fetched a pack. He placed it down between them. Belsey made a show of reading the small print: For relief of bronchial cough, wheezing, breathlessness and other symptoms of asthmatic bronchitis.
“Could I get two packs?” Belsey said.
“I can’t sell you two, I’m afraid.”
“One’s for my father. I got the bronchitis off him.”
The boy raised an eyebrow but went to fetch another. He seemed easy game. Belsey asked him to wait and found some air freshener, vitamins and a pack of Sudafed as well.
“I don’t have a PIN for it,” Belsey said, taking out the Amex.
The boy briefly closed his eyes with a weariness beyond his years, then he pressed a button and passed Belsey a chewed pen.
Belsey took his bag of supplements and walked to the public library on the high road. He asked for a guest code for the PCs, logged in and searched for Alexei Devereux. The top few hits looked credible: one was an article in Russian from the Khiminskaya Prada and one an article from the Wall Street Journal . You had to pay to view the Wall Street Journal article in full, but it began: “Of all the new crop of oligarchs to set their sights beyond Russia, Alexei Devereux is perhaps the most intriguing.” The Eurasian Trade News website dropped his name in a list of five men “changing the face of the Russian entertainment sector.” It didn’t say how. It said he was “notoriously reclusive.” Later it said, “The enigmatic Alexei Devereux is personally responsible for pumping two billion dollars into the ailing sports network TGT.” The Novaya Sayat newspaper linked a spike in Posky International shares to talks of a Devereux buyout. Posky operated in the leisure and retail sector. The piece was an inch-high column to the side of a general stock graph from 2007. Only the Moscow Business Gazette , dated to last October, gave something of the life: “Ultra-reclusive, ultra-successful investor,” Devereux was one of “the Christmas List,” ten men who pioneered the second round of sell-offs over Christmas 1998. It said Devereux had gone into political exile after his ties to opposition politicians made life increasingly untenable in Russia.
Belsey read the last article twice. The implication was that he had gone into exile shortly before the piece was written, which was ten weeks ago. It said he had bases in Paris, London and New York and would probably be welcome in any of them. But no one knew where he’d gone. No one knew where his businesses were going.
B elsey returned to the house. The smell of putrefaction had begun to fade. The insect life had moved on to its next show. He sprayed the air freshener, then found the bottle of champagne in the fridge and opened it. A recommended adult dose of ChestEze was one tablet in four hours. He took three with a glass of Veuve Clicquot. He shut the safe room and tried to forget it was there. He was slightly horrified by his actions, and yet this horror was a place to be for the moment.
Belsey looked at the American Express credit card. It became valid only five days ago. He called the customer services number on the back.
“I have a new credit card here,” Belsey said. “But I never received a PIN for it.”
“Would you like us to dispatch a new card?”
“I just need a PIN number.”
“We’d have to dispatch a new card as well.”
“That’s fine. And you send the PIN separately?”
“That’s
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