GORDON STEVENS
MOSCOW USA

A great many people in London, Washington, New York and Moscow helped with this book. Because of their pasts, and in some cases their futures, few of them would wish to be identified. They know who they are.

The company Omega is based on an actual organization. Its name and certain of its details have been changed to protect it, its founders and its personnel.

Gordon Stevens

Moscow

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Epigraph

ALPHA the beginning

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

OMEGA the ending

Keep Reading

About the Author

Also by the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

ALPHA

The beginning. The first letter of the Greek alphabet.

Until the dissolution of the Soviet Union in December 1991, the Special Forces unit of the KGB.

OMEGA

The ending. The last letter of the Greek alphabet.

An investigation/security firm comprising mainly ex-Alpha members in the new Moscow.

ALPHA/OMEGA

The first and the last.

The basic reason for being, the most important part.

ALPHA the beginning

The weather that morning was hot, which was one of the things those questioned later would remember. In addition to the personal things, and the fact that Hurricane Bob was beating a circle off Florida and threatening to wreak havoc up the East Coast. Items of no consequence to the Dark Suits. And even then the woman with the child and the salesman and the Mormon preacher would never know the real reason for the visit. There were others, of course, a total of 184 passengers on the two flights, plus air crew and staff at the relevant airports, but the woman and the salesman and the preacher were those in whom the investigators had a special interest, because they had not only caught flight 2171 but had made phone calls at the same places and the same times as the man called Joshua.

The airport, four miles west of town, was modern but small. Rolling Idaho wheatfields around it, the occasional poplar tree, and two low hangars. The terminal itself was single-storey and glass-fronted, one room serving both arrivals and departures. The check-in desk was to the left, the baggage X-ray machine was in the centre, opposite the entrance, and the coffee and candy machines, the pay phones and the mail box, were against the wall to the right. Flights in and out every hour, but only to a handful of destinations; the parking lot never full and the drop-offs and pick-ups quick and easy.

The Shermans arrived fifty minutes before departure, the three of them crammed into the front seat of the Chevy pick-up. Annie Sherman was thirty-two years old, her face and hands tanned with the seasons, though the first tell-tale crow’s-feet of worry were wrinkled at the sides of her eyes. Her husband Ted was two years older, tall, with cornflower-blue eyes. The suit he wore uncomfortably that morning was dark navy, and the neck of the shirt was slightly too tight. Ted and Annie Sherman had been married eight years and struggled against the odds, plus the occasional flood and the interest on a bank loan, to run 300 acres east of town, on the road to Genesee. Their daughter Mary was six, the Chevy was second-hand, and a year from today the bank would foreclose and the three would stand silent as their home and their worldly goods, for which they had fought and sweated and bled, were auctioned in front of them. Today, however, the mood was lighter: Annie taking Mary to visit the girl’s grandmother on the occasion of her seventieth birthday.

As they arrived a Toyota Landcruiser pulled away.

Ted hauled their bags from the back, waited as they stood in the queue and glanced at his watch. The meeting with the bank was at nine thirty.

‘You go,’ Annie told him. ‘We’re okay.’

‘Better call Mom.’ The concern furrowed his brow. ‘Let her know that the flight’s on time.’

… What did she do then? the Dark Suits would ask. FBI, the Dark Suits had said. Investigating someone running a scam and the person might have been on the flight.

Ted left, she would tell them; she and Mary checked in, then they went for a coffee. From the machines by the far wall, she would explain, even though they hadn’t asked, because that was the way they were, expecting the detail and wanting you to give them more than you thought you knew.

Anything she’d missed, they would come back at Annie; how about any phone calls? Because she was on the airport security video as making one, though they wouldn’t tell her. Called Mom, she would remember, told her that she and Mary would be arriving on time and confirming the pick-up. Who else was around? they would ask; anyone else making a call at that time, anything she remembered about the other people making calls?

A salesman – she would screw up her eyes in concentration. And a bible-puncher, short hair and beaming faith. No one else. And they would wait, because they knew she was wrong. One other person, she would suddenly remember. Somewhere in his late forties or early fifties, well-cut suit, good-looking but without being obvious. Couldn’t get through to the number he was calling, because he hung up without speaking then tried again.

Anything else about the man in the suit? they would ask. Because you can’t really see much on the security video. Even though, as far as we can tell, there’s nobody else we know at the airport at that time. But if there had been, Joshua wouldn’t have made the call …

Good-looking woman, Joshua thought; nice-looking girl; life taking its toll on the woman even though she was fighting to mask it. The woman and the girl left the phones and carried their bags to the X-ray machine. He dialled again. Not the same number, because the first he had tried had been unavailable rather than busy. The tone he heard was high-pitched and whining. Both direct lines closed down, he understood; one might be unfortunate, two wouldn’t be a coincidence. Therefore it was already under way, the man to whom he wished to speak cut off and isolated, even though he probably still thought he was surrounded by his friends. Even though he was one of the two most important men in the world.

It was still thirty minutes to the flight. Joshua crossed to the seats and wrote the letter. No name because that would be a security risk … When you receive this, he began, it will be over. If I have been able to achieve what I am about to do, then I will tell you; if not, then others might not … He finished it, read it but did not sign it, folded it once and slid it into the envelope, sealed the envelope but left it blank, folded it, slid it into a second envelope, and addressed and stamped the second. Then he rose and walked to the mail box, hesitated for a second, slid it in, waited till he heard it drop, walked to the pay phones, and called the number in New York.

Jack Kincaid ignored the file on the coffee table in front of him and looked at the man opposite him. The safe house was on the outskirts of Miami’s Little Havana. Outside the temperature was closing on 95, inside it was almost chilly, the drapes drawn and the air conditioning humming slightly.

Kincaid was late thirties and deceptively big build. The man three metres away was slim and urbane, smart suit, hair greased back and thin moustache. Cuban diplomat, the Miami office had said: access to secret police records and knowledge of Russian intelligence activities in Central America, both past and present. Anti-Fidel, despite his background and position, and wanting to trade.

Call for you, Kincaid was informed. Perfect timing, he thought. He nodded at the Cuban and went to the next room.

‘Jack, this is Bram.’ O’Bramsky was deputy head of division. ‘You’re needed in New York. Briefing here first. My assistant will pick you up at National.’

‘When?’ Kincaid asked.

‘It’s an immediate.’ Immediate was a message prefix. Immediate meant NOW. PRIORITY. DROP EVERYTHING. Only one prefix ranked above immediate. Flash. And flash meant the bombs were about to fall. ‘The DCI has been notified. At this moment he’s briefing the President.’

DCI – the Director of Central Intelligence, the head of CIA.

‘On my way,’ Kincaid told O’Bramsky.

Kincaid’s flight from Miami to Washington National was on a commercial 737. An Agency plane would not have covered the distance any quicker. At National he was third off. He strode quickly through the terminal, picked up O’Bramsky’s assistant, followed him to the unmarked Chevy in the satellite parking area, and slid into the back seat without asking what was running. The driver left National, turned right along George Washington Parkway, the Potomac glistening on the right, and began to climb through the trees. Fifteen minutes later the car stopped by the elevators in the underground parking lot beneath the large off-white building tucked amongst the woodlands of Virginia. The first elevator was engaged. Kincaid pressed the other button, rode the executive elevator to the division, and was escorted immediately to the bubble.

Each division had its own secure room – no walls on the outside of the building, no windows, even internally; electronic grids, white noise and lead-lined drapes. Regular sweeps just to make sure. Conference table in the centre and communications facilities along one wall.

Jameson, O’Bramsky and Miller were waiting. Others as well: the heads of operations and security, plus counter-intelligence. But Jameson, O’Bramsky and Miller were the ones that mattered.

Grere Jameson, forty-five years old, tall, with the first grey playing in his hair. Chief of Soviet and Eastern Europe Division for the past three years.

O’Bramsky, two years older and Jameson’s deputy, white hair, hands like the lumberjack’s his father had been, and brain like an IBM mainframe.

Ed Miller, early forties and Russia desk chief.

Kincaid sat down, was given a coffee, and the briefing began. No other formalities, because there was no time.

O’Bramsky faced him across the table. ‘Three hours ago someone calling himself Hemmings contacted the New York office and asked to speak with Leo Panelli.’ Kincaid had worked with Panelli, starting in Berlin. ‘Hemmings, it transpires, is KGB. He and Leo know each other because they both worked the United Nations. Leo is in Paris on leave. Hemmings said it was an immediate. Because of this we arranged for Hemmings to speak with Leo. Before they spoke, Leo sent us this cable.’

O’Bramsky passed the de-crypt across the table. Kincaid read it once.

The Director – on the first line.

The security classification – SECRET – on the second. Only FLASH messages warranted TOP SECRET.

The slug, the routing indicator for the computers which would receive the cable at Langley, on the next. Slugs related cables to specific projects, operators, agents or geographic areas.

The slug on the de-crypt in front of Kincaid was AMSNOW. The first two letters, AM, were a prefix for Soviet Division, and the next four, SNOW, indicated a general message within that division.

I have been notified by New York office that a contact identifying himself as Hemmings has been in communication. Hemmings stated he wished to speak with me and said it was an immediate. NY station will give him a direct number into Paris station. Hemmings is a private code between the individual and myself.

Kincaid passed the de-crypt back.

O’Bramsky took it and slid him another. ‘Leo then sent this follow-up.’

Never refer to someone and give their identity in the same cable, Kincaid thought. Perhaps Panelli was old school, despite encryption; perhaps it was the game; perhaps Panelli was aware he was about to send Langley ballistic. Because send them ballistic he had – DCI, the President, briefings in the Sit Room, now the eagles locked in the bubble and the whole show running like there was no tomorrow.

Kincaid read the single line.

Hemmings is Joshua.

He handed the cable back and waited for O’Bramsky to continue.

‘Joshua wants a face-to-face, but Leo can’t make it back till tomorrow and Joshua says tomorrow will be too late. Leo suggested you and Joshua agreed. At this point we don’t know whether Joshua’s buying or selling, though we assume it’s the latter. Until Leo gets back, you’re holding Joshua’s hand.’

‘You’re saying there’s a chance that Joshua’s defecting?’

‘Possibly, but we’re still not sure.’

At the other end of the conference table the eagles still threw the arguments between themselves. Reasons for the Joshua contact. Implications. Anything it might spin into or rebound off. Joshua’s personality. Was Joshua under stress or had Joshua been drinking? How had he conducted himself in the past and how was he conducting himself now? Had he shown any previous signs of such an approach? What might Joshua know? How much did he know about the other side and what might he know or want to know about theirs? Was the contact genuine or the first stage of a sting?

O’Bramsky took a mouthful of coffee. ‘Nothing’s happening that might indicate why else Joshua’s been in touch. The DCI’s seen the President; according to the White House and the State Department there’s nothing in the pipeline which would impact on a defection, or which might be affected by it. Moscow station also reports that everything’s quiet. The Kremlin’s closed down for the summer and Gorbachev is on holiday in the Crimea.’

Gorbachev the architect and champion of the new Russia.

‘Except …?’ Kincaid asked.

‘Except when Joshua made contact with New York station he said it was an immediate, and when he spoke to Leo he upgraded it to flash.’ The bombs were about to fall. ‘When Leo said he could be state-side tomorrow, Joshua said that tomorrow would be too late.’

‘Who’s Joshua?’ Kincaid asked.

Bram looked at him across the table, then the IBM mainframe switched on. ‘Mikhail Sergeyevich Buskov. Born Leningrad. Married with one daughter. Former KGB rezident at the United Nations, also KGB rezident in Washington DC.’

A rezident was the Soviet equivalent of chief of station.

Christ, Kincaid thought. ‘What’s Buskov’s present status?’

‘Mikhail Buskov is now a major-general in the First Chief Directorate at KGB headquarters in Yasenevo, Moscow. We believe he’s behind some of the financial scams the Directorate is running to finance its overseas operations.’ O’Bramsky paused. ‘He’s the biggest one we’ll ever get, Jack. Make sure you bring him home.’

Kincaid nodded. ‘How did he get in touch?’

‘As I say, he phoned the New York station.’

‘Where from?’

O’Bramsky half-smiled. ‘You’re not going to believe this.’

‘Try me.’

‘Joshua was calling from Moscow.’ He saw the disbelief in Kincaid’s eyes. ‘Not Moscow as in USSR. Moscow as in Idaho, Moscow USA.’

Served by the airport four miles out of town.

‘Arrangements and timetable?’ Kincaid asked.

‘Joshua’s inbound to New York from Seattle. He’s due to arrive at Newark at 1800. We’ve already spoken to him and will speak again when he lands. He’ll be directed through a number of cut-outs. After that he’ll be on his way to you. The contact is at the Famiglia restaurant on East 54th. You’ll be waiting. The security boys will be there as well, in case the opposition finds out or beats the surveillance and tries a heist.’

‘Who’s riding shotgun?’

‘Langley’s bringing in the best.’

Erickson received the call fourteen minutes and thirty seconds after the hour. Daniel Michael Erickson was thirty-nine years old, tall, eyes shading between blue and slate-grey, and a body strength concealed beneath the loose sweater and slacks he habitually wore.

‘You’re needed in New York,’ his controller told him on his cellphone. ‘Usual communications.’

Erickson closed the call and returned to the North End area of the city. Boston was warm but quiet, already tightening slightly in anticipation of Hurricane Bob which was forecast to hit the city sometime the following afternoon.

He changed into a suit, collar and tie, checked the credentials he was carrying, left the safe house, walked three blocks, took a cab to the airport, and caught the next shuttle to La Guardia. The nerves were already eating him. No fear, no edge – he remembered what his instructor had told him.

At La Guardia he left the plane, cleared the arrivals gate, and automatically scoured the sea of faces for the one that was out of place or the eyes that turned away from his. Perhaps he was getting too old for this, Erickson sometimes thought; perhaps the image of his wife and daughter played on his mind too much nowadays.

He made his way to the pay phones, called the contact number, switched phones, and waited for the next instructions.

Kincaid told the driver to drop him two blocks from La Famiglia and walked down the street. Joshua’s flight would be landing in ten minutes; between an hour and ninety minutes after that Joshua would be stepping out of a cab in front of where Kincaid now stood, and entering the restaurant. He checked up and down the street, checked the houses in front and behind. The parked cars were a problem, because the cab dropping Joshua would have to stop in the middle of the street. But it would only be a problem if the Langley tails decided that someone else was sitting on Joshua, and if they did, then the meet would already have been aborted at one of the cut-outs, and Joshua would call the contact number the next day for fresh instructions. Except Joshua had been specific that tomorrow was too late.

He concentrated on La Famiglia. The front was white and double-fronted, blue woodwork round the windows, and dining areas either side of the door. There was a bar in the middle, according to the briefing, men’s room at the rear with a back door on to the alleyway behind. When the meet went down, the security section would be sitting in the restaurant, with more in a car at the rear in case the opposition tried to come in the back, or in case they had to take Joshua out that way in a hurry. Plus the faceless ones, who would oversee everything.

Kincaid left the street, checked the rear, walked back to the pick-up vehicle, and returned to the safe house.

‘Code name Caesar,’ Daniel Erickson was informed. He switched phones. ‘La Famiglia restaurant, on East 54th,’ he was informed. He switched phones again. Typical organization – he cursed quietly; typical concern with security. He was carrying a cellphone, but cellphones were notoriously insecure.

‘What does Caesar look like?’ he asked.

‘Tall, early fifties, dark hair, wearing a dark-blue suit and carrying a brown leather attaché case. He’ll be arriving by cab.’

‘Any opposition?’ Erickson was always careful.

‘Shouldn’t be.’

Erickson took a cab to the World Trade Center then another to East 52nd and walked the rest. East 54th was nondescript. He checked up and down the street, checked the streets and alleys behind it and running off it. Walked past the entrance to La Famiglia and imagined the moment Caesar stepped from the cab. The parked cars might have been a problem, because he might have lost line of vision as Caesar stepped through them, on to the pavement, and into the restaurant. Except the position he had already selected was high above, from where he could view all around him.

Joshua has arrived at Newark, Kincaid was informed. Joshua has been code-named Caesar for the tails. The tails in place at each of the cut-outs, the boys from security ready to move into position inside and outside La Famiglia, and the game running. Joshua has made contact with Langley, O’Bramsky updated him. Joshua has taken a cab from Newark and is inbound for the first cut-out. Joshua is approaching the first cut-out.

Kincaid left the safe house and was driven to East 54th.

Caesar is approaching the first cut-out, the tails reported back. Caesar is looking clean. Caesar is leaving the first cut-out and is still looking clean.

Kincaid walked down 54th and into the restaurant. The dining area was in two sections, a bar in the middle, and a corridor to the bathrooms at the rear. The tables were covered with gingham cloths and the waiters wore black waistcoats. Half the tables were occupied. He sat at the bar, in a position from which he could see the door, and ordered a Jack Daniels. Caesar is approaching the second cut-out, the shadows reported back. Caesar is at the second cut-out. Caesar is looking clean. Kincaid left the bar and checked the bathroom, checked the corridor and the door at the rear, and made sure the door would open.

In his position above 54th Erickson swept the street for any sign of the opposition.

Kincaid’s cellphone rang. ‘Mac. It’s Dennis. Managed to get those tickets for the Yankees game. The tenth be okay for you?’ Joshua through the last cut-out and with him in ten minutes. ‘Sounds good. I’ll see you.’

Erickson scanned the streets and pavements below for the first indication that something might be wrong. The cellphone rang. In the silence of his concentration the noise was like thunder. He pressed the button and held the set close to his left ear. ‘Caesar is clean. He’ll be with you in ten.’ The nerves washed away and the calm and the cold took their place.

The cab stopped outside the restaurant. Middle of the street, because of the cars parked either side. Too soon, Kincaid knew, and looked away from the window. Thank God for the security boys – those he could see but especially those he couldn’t.

Erickson saw the couple step out. Man and woman, mid-twenties, the man paying the driver and the woman walking between the parked cars and waiting on the pavement for him, then the two of them going into the restaurant. His line of vision had remained unimpaired as the woman stepped between the parked cars. Significant, or just chance that a couple arrived just before Caesar was due?

Six minutes now, five, and counting down. Another cab slowed then moved away without stopping. A man walked up 54th and entered the restaurant. Wrong age, wrong description.

One minute. Kincaid ran the Jack Daniels around the glass and told himself to relax.

The cab stopped and Joshua stepped out.

On time, Kincaid thought.

Right age, Daniel Erickson thought, right description. Dark-blue suit, early fifties, brown leather attaché case.

Joshua paid the driver, stepped between the parked cars and stood on the pavement.

Kincaid placed the glass on the table and moved slightly so that he could view the door without appearing to do so.

In the building opposite Erickson reached to his right.

Daniel Michael Erickson did not exist. As a driving licence and a social security number, as a name on a credit card and an entry on the passenger list from Boston to La Guardia. As a cover.

But not as a person.

Nikolai Alexandrovich Sherenko did.

The target’s more important than you could ever imagine, Vorkov his controller had told him; make sure you take him out.

Sherenko held his breath gently, so that his body and mind were still and controlled, and squeezed the trigger.

The last shuttle of the evening touched down at Boston thirty seconds early. Sherenko hurried through the emptying terminal, took a cab to the city centre, then a second to the North End. By midnight he was in the two-room safe house between the wine bar and the boutique.

The Black Label was in the drinks cabinet. Sherenko would have preferred Stolichnaya, but vodka might have threatened his cover. He threw a handful of ice into a glass, topped it up, and switched on the television. Perhaps he was right, perhaps he really was too old for this game; perhaps he was thinking of his family too much. At least Vorkov had talked about going home soon.

The local stations were all running news reports on the progress of Hurricane Bob up the eastern seaboard and the threat to Boston and the surrounding area the following day. He flicked to CNN, went through to the bathroom, began to strip, and heard the sudden change in tone of the newscaster.

‘This is a news flash. We are just getting reports from Moscow that there has been a coup in Russia. President Gorbachev has been placed under house arrest in his holiday dacha in the Crimea. First reports say that hard-liners from the KGB and the Red Army have taken over.’

The morgue was white-tiled and silent, an echo somewhere down a corridor and the smell of disinfectant in his nostrils. There were no staff present, no pathologists or attendants, no clerks to note down the details and ask for a signature against release of a corpse. Kincaid stood alone and stared at the body bag on the slab in the centre of the floor.

I was point man for you – for the past hours he had tried to push the confessional from his mind. I was babysitting you, Joshua; I was the one who was supposed to bring you through. I was the one in whose hands you put your faith and your trust and your life. And I let you down.

He ran his fingers along the body bag.

So what game were you playing, Joshua? Was whatever you were doing connected to the events in the Soviet Union? Langley was going ape-shit, of course: Langley and State and the White House and Christ only knew who else. Tanks on the streets of Moscow. Swan Lake being run non-stop on Soviet television, and the new order, the new Russia, which Gorbachev was promising, suddenly under threat and the image of a return to the bad old days looming large.

He unzipped the body bag and looked at the face.

The Agency had covered itself, of course. Pulled everything and everybody out of East 54th, so that even in the handful of seconds before the first blue and whites of the NYPD arrived there was no link. Just a businessman with an attaché case shot through the back. No ID, no name or plastic or driving licence.

Plus Langley had made certain arrangements. The Club took care of its own, even though they were from different sides. So not even Langley, in a way especially not Soviet Division, wanted Joshua to spend the statutory two weeks in a freezer in the county morgue at Belle Vue, then be consigned to a city burial along with the other John Does. Therefore Langley had made the call – discreet, person to person, the same way that Joshua had sought to contact Leo Panelli.

No autopsy, though, no incision in the chest, no rib cage cut open. Partly because Joshua had only been of use alive, partly to say to the opposition: he’s yours, we had nothing to do with it, so take him home and lay him to rest where his wife and his daughter can mourn over him. Whatever lies you tell them about where and how he died, because lie you will. As we would.

In forty seconds the footsteps would come down the corridor.

‘Sorry, my friend …’

He zipped up the bag and left.

Sherenko stood at the window and looked across the street at the first winds and the first black rain.

The epicentre of Hurricane Bob was scheduled to hit Boston shortly after four. Now it was 3.45 and the sky was black. Down the coast torrential rain and winds were whipping off roofs and throwing trees in the air as if they were the devil’s playthings. In Boston the streets were deserted and the city waited, emergency services on full alert.

On the television set in the corner of the room CNN was running updates from Moscow, retired military and intelligence specialists being wheeled in to comment, and politicians renting their opinions about what might or might not happen.

Sherenko turned from the window and flicked back to one of the local channels.

‘The epicentre of Hurricane Bob is five minutes from Boston.’ The newscaster was tense. ‘Do not go outside. Repeat, do not go outside.’

Sherenko went to the bedroom, stripped, and put on shorts and Nikes.

‘The epicentre of Hurricane Bob is one minute from Boston.’ The newscaster’s voice was almost shrill. The rain outside was horizontal and the trees bent in the wind.

‘Hurricane Bob is one minute, repeat, one minute, from Boston city centre.’

Sherenko stepped outside, locked the door behind him, and began to run.

Kincaid left Langley and drove to the bar on the edge of McLean which the old-timers used as one of their watering holes. O’Bramsky was waiting for him. The evening was closing in and the bottle of Black Label was on the table. Kincaid settled in a chair and nodded as O’Bramsky filled his glass. ‘So what’s new from Moscow station?’

‘A handful of politicians are standing up and being counted.’ O’Bramsky ran his fingers through his white hair. ‘Yeltsin’s in Moscow and on his way to the White House. The first crowds are gathering outside to defend the building against the army and the KGB, but there are reports that KGB Alpha teams are already in the building with orders to assassinate him.’

‘What about Joshua? How does he relate to what’s going down in Moscow?’

‘At this stage nobody’s sure. One theory is that he knew of the plans for the putsch but didn’t know who was behind it, therefore didn’t know who to alert in order to stop it, so he contacted us.’

They both knew what Kincaid was going to say.

‘And we let him down.’

Bram refilled their glasses. ‘Don’t take it personally, Jack.’

‘Difficult not to, Bram.’

Difficult to stand in the morgue at Belle Vue and not think that you betrayed the man in the bag. Difficult not to try and work out what little thing you might have done that would have made the difference.

He swilled the Black Label around the glass, downed it in one, reached across the table and poured them each another. ‘Funny, isn’t it? In five years nobody will remember what happened in August ’91. Nobody will remember the attempt to depose Gorbachev.’

‘What are you getting at, Jack?’

‘I guess that some things you remember for the fact that they were a crossroads for the world. Some things you forget, even though at the time the world thought they were cataclysmic. Some things you remember for what they meant to you as an individual.’

O’Bramsky looked across the table at him. ‘Like I said, Jack, don’t take it personally.’

At eleven the next morning Kincaid took his seat before the panel investigating the Joshua affair. No Jameson or O’Bramsky, he noted. Miller was present, so Ed had covered his ass, and thank Christ for that. Some faces from the seventh floor, plus a woman he didn’t know. Early forties, good-looking, ash-blond hair and cut-glass English accent. So London had been cut in on the deal somewhere along the line and were now demanding their pound of flesh.

In Moscow the crowd defending the White House had grown to a hundred thousand, the KGB Alpha teams which had been sent to assassinate Yeltsin had changed sides and were now protecting him, key units of the army were also going over, and the coup showed every sign of collapsing.

Where were you when you were first informed of Joshua …? the questioning began. When did you first hear the code-name Joshua …? Who told you and who did you speak to after that point …?

The Leningrad sun was hot on her back, and the sweat ran in streams down the faces of the men carrying the coffin. Anna Buskova stood at her mother’s side and held her mother’s arm. An hour earlier, before they had screwed down the lid, she had kissed her father goodbye for the last time.

Love you, she told him again now. Remember so many things, remember the toys you made me when I was young and before you and Mamma had any money, remember how you were away so much later. Remember the porcelain horseman you gave me. Remember not just the gifts you brought back when you returned, but how you brought them back. As if they were no more or no less precious than the dolls you made for me at the kitchen table.

And now, my father, you are dead. Now you lie in your KGB uniform, and the other generals have come to say goodbye, though the times are strange and the conversation before the service was muted and conspiratorial, as it will be after.

The coup has ended, probably Communism as well. All of which is irrelevant to me because the only thing I will remember about August 1991 is the fact that my father, whom I loved dearly, was taken from me.

The KGB still takes care of its own, though. So that when your body was returned to us, after you had suffered the heart attack, you were already in dress uniform, your eyes closed and your hands folded in peace across your chest.

A heron flew overhead. She heard the ruffle of its wings and looked up. The guard of honour snapped to attention and the first volley echoed into the sky.

The December snow was on the ground and the sky was a dark threatening grey. Anna Buskova picked her way between the headstones, the white of the snow like mantles on them, till she came to the mound in the corner. In the spring, when the earth had settled, they would erect a proper headstone, now the grave was marked by a simple cross.

The snow fell from the sky again, and her hands and feet were cold. She removed her gloves and took the envelope from the pocket of her greatcoat. The envelope was thick, as if something was folded inside it. She took the second envelope from it, then the letter from inside it. The envelopes had been delivered by an American friend ten days earlier, when she was in Moscow. The snow was falling more heavily now. She brushed the flakes from her eyelids and opened the single sheet of the letter. There was a date on it, a date in August, but no names, neither hers at the top nor her father’s at the bottom.

She wiped the snowflakes from her cheeks, except they were not snowflakes and began to read.

When you receive this it will be over. If I have been able to achieve what I am about to do, then I will tell you; if not, then others might not. If others tell you, judge them, not me, by what they say. What I do, I do because I remember the day you were born and wish that others might know such happiness. What I do, I do because even now I know I have a smile on my face at the memories of our family together, and wish that others might also smile. But that they may smile in freedom and in joy. What I do now, I do because I am a patriot. What I do now I do for Mother Russia. Always be strong, always smile.

She wiped her cheeks again, then she folded the sheet of paper and placed it inside the first envelope. The envelope had no name or address on it. Then she folded it and tucked it inside the second envelope. The second bore the name and address of the friend in Boston who had hand-delivered it to her, the stamp in the top right corner was a United States 32 cents issue, and the postmark indicated Moscow, though the date and the state were blurred and barely legible.

Tomorrow she would bring flowers, she decided. Tomorrow, even though the snow would be deep and the ice would be packed hard, she would place the flowers on the grave of her father. Anna Buskova turned, placed the envelope in her coat pocket, and retraced the line of her footsteps.

The snow was turning to ice on the pavements outside and the windows of the bar were steamed with condensation. Sad night, Kincaid thought, sad faces: Jameson and Panelli, himself and O’Bramsky. Ed Miller there with them, even though he’d survived the night of the knives.

Miller rose, pulled on his coat, and patted each of them on the shoulder. Sorry, the gesture said. Can’t find the words, but you know how I feel. He turned and left, Jameson and Panelli followed him into the snow ten minutes later.

Kincaid called the waiter and asked for two more Black Labels. ‘Ironic, isn’t it?’

‘Why ironic?’

‘If Joshua had been aware of his death, then he would have thought he had failed. But he didn’t need to try anyway, because the putsch collapsed and the old days are over for ever.’

That morning the Soviet Union had ceased to exist.

O’Bramsky nodded. O’Bramsky hadn’t spoken much all evening.

‘So what did the enquiry report say, Bram? Because you’ve seen a draft and I haven’t.’

‘That Joshua was trying to make contact with us to prevent the Gorbachev putsch, and that his own people suspected what he was about to do, tailed him, and took him out.’

‘No other reason why he should contact us?’

‘Not according to the draft report.’

‘But we carry the blame.’

O’Bramsky laughed.

‘What about Moscow, Idaho?’ Kincaid asked. ‘What about the fact that Joshua made the first call from there?’

‘The enquiry will decide that Moscow USA was irrelevant, that Joshua was covering his tracks and trying to confuse us.’

Kincaid drained his glass. ‘So what you going to do now, Bram?’

‘What I should’ve done long time back; do up the house on the Chesapeake, paint the Hobie, and tell myself the last twenty-five years didn’t end like this.’

And what about you, Jack? – it was in O’Bramsky’s stare. I know that there’s something on your mind, but I can’t tell what.

‘I had a dream last night, Bram. I dreamt I met up with the bastard who took out Joshua. Actually I’ve had the dream every night.’

‘Why?’ O’Bramsky asked.

‘Because I feel guilty about Joshua, I guess. Almost as if I’d betrayed him.’

‘And it’s eating you up?’

‘Yeah, Bram, it’s eating me up.’

They stood to leave.

‘You got to shake it off, Jack.’ O’Bramsky pulled on his coat. ‘What happened was business, not personal. You can’t carry Joshua’s ghost with you for the rest of your life or it will devour you, every day you live and every second you breathe.’

They stepped outside. The snow was falling thicker now; as they walked down the street it was a mantle on their shoulders.

‘I know, Bram. But I’d still like to get whoever pulled the trigger.’

‘Forget it, Jack.’

‘Because it was business not personal?’

‘No.’ O’Bramsky sunk his hands deeper into his coat.

‘So why?’

The snow was falling even heavier; the sounds around them were muffled and the street lamps hung like halos in the white.

‘You know the game, Jack. You’re part of the Club. You know there’s no way the two of you will ever meet.’

Five Years Later … August 1996

1

Kazakhstan that August morning was like Kazakhstan every August morning: hot, the land flat and featureless and stretching for ever, and the ground below it running with wealth. ConTex had signed up three years before, and now operated an oilfield on the north-east coast of the Caspian Sea. ConTex was also hustling contracts elsewhere, which was why its head office was in Moscow.

Maddox rose at five.

Arnold Maddox, Arnie to both friends and colleagues, had been with the Consolidated Oil Company of Texas six years and had switched from Angola to Moscow nine months earlier. Maddox was late thirties, tall and lean build, hailed from Austin, Texas, and had been in exploration and production since graduation. He was married with two teenage boys, though his wife and family never accompanied him on his overseas postings. In the political chaos of Angola he had brought order and efficiency; in the frontier atmosphere which was the new Russia he brought an instinct for the local way of doing things which singled him out from many of the foreign businessmen now streaming east. Thus the night before he had spent four hours over black bread, local black caviar and Absolut vodka with the general introduced to him as head of the republic’s KGB, even though the KGB had been renamed and reorganized after the dissolution of the Soviet Union five years ago.

By seven he had tied up the remnants of paperwork left over from the previous day; at seven-fifteen, over breakfast of cheese, cold meats and black coffee, he held a final meeting with the local manager and security chief. By early afternoon he was back in Moscow.

The suites which ConTex occupied were on the eighth floor of a modern block off Tverskaya. Red Square and the Kremlin were 200 metres away, on the other side of the inner ring road, and the red and yellow of McDonald’s occupied the ground floor.

After Kazakhstan the office seemed the height of civilization: prints of ConTex’s various operations on the walls, cocktail cabinet, conference table at the end nearest the door, and Maddox’s mahogany desk in front of the window. PC to the right, a bank of telephone monitors, including a Stu-iii, to the left, mandatory family photograph in the middle and executive chair behind.

He checked with his secretary, asked her to get him a coffee, and called Dwyer on an internal line. ‘I’m back. Do we need to talk?’

Ten days earlier, and two months before they would even unofficially be known to exist, Maddox had acquired the preliminary details of a new exploration area, plus names and backgrounds of relevant officials and politicians, and ConTex had sent in Dwyer.

Dwyer came through, sat down and shook his head when Maddox’s secretary offered him coffee. ‘Looks like we’ll get what we want.’ Dwyer was Vice President responsible for New Business Development and on the main board. I’ll need five million.’ At this moment in time, and at this stage of the process. Because five million dollars was small beer. When it got really heavy you could put a zero on the end of that, and ConTex wouldn’t think it was out of place.

So five million, plus the one million Maddox needed for Kazakhstan to cover local wages, expenses and other payments. Delivery tomorrow and everything straightforward and routine. Three minutes later the request had been sent to Houston on the secure fax.

When Maddox and Dwyer left the office the early evening was warm. Maddox’s driver dropped Dwyer at the Balltschug-Kempinski, across the Moskva river from the Kremlin and next to the British embassy residence, then took Maddox to the former sanatorium, now a country club, where he leased a luxury chalet. At eight-thirty, having showered and changed, Maddox joined Dwyer for dinner.

The Kempinski was expensive, but the Kempinski was safe-relatively speaking, but everything was relative in the new Moscow. Black-windowed Mercedes and BMWs were parked outside, but black-windowed Mercedes and BMWs were parked outside everywhere nowadays. Guards on the doors, but it was only when there were no guards that you began to worry.

At nine-thirty they left the hotel, crossed the river, and walked past St Basil’s into Red Square. The evening was still warm and the sky was an almost transparent shade of blue.

‘You want a drink?’ Dwyer asked.

‘Where?’

‘How about Nite Flite?’

They crossed Red Square then dropped between the Arsenal Tower of the Kremlin and the sterner red brick of the Historical Museum into the tarmac area beyond. Even though it was late evening the area still milled with people: along the pavement to Ploshchad Revolyutsii the booths selling cigarettes and alcohol were crowded with shoppers. Opposite, on the pavement under the grey featureless mass of the Moskva Hotel, was a single stall selling drinks, a handful of wooden tables around it and cars parked in front of it. At the entrance to the subway under the inner ring road to Tverskaya and the Okhatniy Ryad metro station, there was another cluster of vendors – mainly men but two women.

The first woman was selling cigarettes. She looked mid-sixties, small and thin and stooped. She was wearing a cardigan, skirt, torn basketball boots, and a Michael Jordan cap which had long lost its shape and colour.

The second was taller and early fifties. On a tray in front of her, balanced on makeshift legs, were sets of audio tapes. Her hair was tied back, her back was straight and her dress was blue and clean and neatly pressed. A light coat was thrown over her shoulders and on the left side of her bodice she wore a row of medals.

They walked past her and down the steps into the underpass. The passageway was the familiar grey concrete, beggars and vendors lining the walls: a blind war veteran holding out his hands and a couple selling matryoshka dolls, a woman selling lottery tickets and more stalls selling military badges and fake icons. From the end nearest the metro came the sound of a string quartet.

They passed the musicians and took the steps to Tverskaya. The National Hotel was on the corner, Maxim’s nightclub on the ground floor below it and a fashion boutique next to it. Food stalls were spaced to the left, people eating at tables and a gypsy girl, thin and pretty, begging near them, her parents watching from twenty yards away. Beyond the shops the Intourist Hotel towered into the sky, Mercedes and BMWs were parked three deep on the road and along the pavement outside, a stretch limousine was pulled against the steps to the canopy over the entrance, and heavily-built young men in suits stood like phalanxes at the doors.

Ten minutes later they came to Nite Flite. Two well-dressed young women smiled at the thick-set man on the door and went in. Behind him a queue of tourists waited patiently. Maddox ignored the queue and went to the man on the door. Two more big men hovered in the shadows inside.

‘Full,’ the man told him.

Maddox reached inside his jacket for his wallet and snapped out two $50 bills. The minder took them, stepped aside and allowed them in.

The following morning Maddox spent ninety minutes in the office then took the 9.55 flight to St Petersburg. In London it was seven in the morning. Forty minutes earlier American Airlines flight AA106 had touched down from New York. Amongst the items unloaded and placed in bond were the six million dollars Maddox had ordered the previous afternoon. By the time they were secured in the bond area near Terminal 4 Zak Whyte had done his five miles, returned to the Holiday Inn at the edge of the airport, showered and changed, and taken the lift to the restaurant on the ground floor.

Zak Whyte was thirty-one years old: he stood six-three, weighed in at 190 pounds, and had been out of the United States Marine Corps two years. The security/courier company for which he worked, like others in related fields, had a propensity to recruit men of similar backgrounds. Pearce, the courier who would double up with Whyte on the Moscow run, had served nine years with the British Royal Marine Commandos, making corporal and ending his service with the elite Mountain and Arctic Warfare cadre.

When Whyte entered the restaurant Pearce was already at a table in the corner furthest from the door. Whyte helped himself to orange juice and full English breakfast, and sat down.

‘You all right?’

Pearce’s coffee was untouched. ‘No.’ The belt of pain tightened across his abdomen.

‘What is it?’

‘No idea. Been up since three this morning.’ He forced down some coffee. ‘What time we due out?’

‘They’re collecting us at eight-thirty, pick-up at eight forty-five; the flight’s confirmed as leaving at nine-fifty.’

They always cut it tight. Nobody liked hanging around with what they would be carrying, even in London.

‘Should be okay by then.’ Pearce excused himself and returned to his room.

When Whyte checked him at seven-thirty he was motionless on his bed; at seven forty-five he had not moved. At eight Whyte checked with the office that the pick-up car was en route, notified them of Pearce’s condition, suggested a doctor, and was informed that no other couriers with the relevant visas were available at such notice. He would therefore have to carry the two bags himself, even though they normally doubled up if they were carrying over a million, especially going into Moscow. But one man could carry the two bags, and the boys would meet him the moment he stepped off the plane at Sheremetyevo.

He briefed Pearce, collected the small overnight bag, stuffed it inside the canvas holdall, checked out, and waited in the foyer for the pick-up. Pity about Mick, because Moscow could be fun, especially if you knew where to go. And old sweats like Mick and himself had it worked out, as they had most things worked out.

The Vauxhall Senator stopped outside, the two men in it. Twenty minutes later they had collected the six million from bond, transferred it to the two holdalls (reinforced bottoms, locks and shoulder straps) and driven to Terminal 4.

The drop-off area outside was busy. Whyte went first, pushing the baggage cart, the minder behind so that Whyte and the money were always in his vision. The interior was large and echoing. Whyte pushed the cart to one of the club class check-ins, smiled at the woman and handed over his passport and two tickets.

‘Moscow flight. A Mr Pearce and I have three confirmed seats. Mr Pearce has had to cancel. I’d still like the two bulkhead window seats.’

The entrance to the departure lounge was to the left. The minder watched as Whyte pushed the cart through, handed over his boarding pass for inspection, and cleared passport control. Airside was more secure, but even airside you didn’t hang around. He lifted the bags on to the screening belt, no indication of their weight or contents, parked the trolley to the side, and stepped through the magnetometer frame. To his left the X-ray operator stopped the belt and scanned the image on the screen. Paperwork, Whyte would say if asked. Check with the American embassy, my company and the airline security he would tell them if they pulled him on suspicion of carrying laundered money.

Gate 5 was at the far end of the departure area, flight BA872 already boarding and the last passengers going through. Whyte found the seats, stowed the bags as tightly as he could on the floor, and strapped himself into the seat nearest the aisle. Routine procedure: the bags on the seat or the floor next to the window, the courier in the aisle seat, and the other courier – if they were doubling up – in the nearest seat on the other side of the aisle. No one allowed to get anywhere near the holdalls.

Five minutes later the 767 pushed back; three minutes after that, at 10.02 GMT, it lifted off, climbed over north London, and turned east on the standard route to Moscow over Amsterdam and Berlin. Two hours and sixteen minutes later it crossed the border of what had once been the Soviet Union. An hour and sixteen minutes after that it dropped on to the pockmarked runway of Moscow’s Sheremetyevo airport, trundled to Gate 9, the air bridge was connected, the engines died, and the seatbelt signs flicked off. Whyte lifted the bags and joined the queue to leave the plane.

The boys were waiting at the top of the jetbridge. There were two of them, thirties, big build and disciplined, automatics concealed in waist holsters. A tall woman in the dark green of the Border Guards stood beside them.

‘Good flight?’ The bodyguard’s English was precise without being perfect.

‘Fine.’

Arnie Maddox was halfway to the airport when the cellphone rang. It was six-fifty in the evening; fifteen minutes to the airport and another forty after that till his flight took off for Moscow. The seven hours he had spent in St Petersburg that day had gone well and the paperwork from the last meeting was balanced on his lap.

‘Arnie?’

‘Yep.’ He held the cellphone with his left hand and used his right to turn over the page of the document he was reading.

‘Arnie, it’s Phil. There’s a problem. The money that was coming in this afternoon …’ Dwyer’s voice trailed off.

‘What about it?’

‘It’s gone missing.’

Maddox’s flight landed at Sheremetyevo just over three hours later. Arriving now, Maddox told his driver on the cellphone the moment he stepped off the plane. Even late evening the militia moved cars on outside the airport, so drivers waited at the Novotel, 200 metres away. Maddox pushed his way through the freelance drivers offering cab rides into the city and went outside. The Cherokee Grand Jeep pulled in. Maddox grunted a greeting, slid into the rear seat, and phoned Dwyer that he was on his way in. Thirty-five minutes later he was in his office off Tverskaya.

Dwyer sat opposite him and slightly left, his facial muscles twitching occasionally with nerves, and the American manager liaising with the Russian security company contracted by ConTex sat to the right, trying not to show anything. Maddox thanked his secretary for working late and asked her to bring him coffee.

‘Tell me.’ He looked at the security liaison manager.

‘The courier company confirm that one of their people, Whyte, left London as scheduled. Whyte was travelling alone. The courier scheduled to accompany him was taken ill this morning and there wasn’t time to bring in a replacement. British Airways have confirmed that Whyte was on the flight; the last time they saw him was walking up the jetbridge from the aircraft. Immigration confirm that Whyte was met by two security people. Problem is, they weren’t ours. The security team who were supposed to meet him were held up and arrived late.’

‘Jeez …’ Heads and jobs and reputations on the line, Maddox was aware; not just the man opposite him. He swung in the chair, sipped the coffee and gave himself time to think. ‘Houston’s been informed?’ It was to the security liaison.

‘Yes.’

‘And you’ve spoken to McIntyre?’ This time to Dwyer.

Cal McIntyre was President of ConTex, Cal McIntyre was ConTex. Cal McIntyre would already have been informed, but McIntyre would be waiting for Maddox to call him, because that was the way McIntyre operated.

‘Not personally.’

‘Better do it, then.’ Maddox put the mug back on the table. ‘Anything else before I talk to Cal?’

‘I still need the five million,’ Dwyer told him.

Thanks, Maddox almost said. He punched one of the direct numbers to McIntyre’s office in Houston on the Stu-iii, flicked the telephone on conference so they could all hear, then left his desk and stood with his back to the window, because that was what McIntyre would do when he took the call.

‘Cal McIntyre’s office.’ The secretary was honey-toned. Blond hair and good-looking, Maddox remembered. And efficient, because that was the only way you survived with McIntyre.

‘Hi, Shirl, it’s Arnie Maddox in Moscow. Is Cal there?’ He waited for the connection. In Moscow it was late evening, the sky purpling. In Houston it was early afternoon, the sky blue and the sun blazing. ‘Cal. Arnie Maddox in Moscow.’

‘Arnie.’ McIntyre was tall, big-boned but gaunt, early sixties and hide skin. He pushed the chair back from the desk, stood up, and leaned with his back against the window, the city spread seventeen storeys below.

‘Cal, I’m going secure.’ Maddox put the call on hold and turned the key of the Stu-iii. In Houston McIntyre did the same. ‘You’ve been informed.’ Maddox resumed the conversation.

‘Yep.’

Time to do it, Maddox understood; time to play it as Cal McIntyre would have played it.

‘Okay, Cal. This is the score. As you’re aware, this morning’s shipment went missing. I’ve begun running checks this end, first indication is that the security contractor screwed up.’ He made a point of taking a mouthful of coffee. ‘The insurance people will obviously want to run their own checks on this. I’m happy with that as long as they don’t get their noses up the wrong asses. Phil’s deal is looking good, Kazakhstan’s on schedule. In view of the latter two points we need a replacement shipment ASAP.’

‘Big shipment, Arnie,’ McIntyre told him, just to let Maddox know, then turned his attention to Dwyer. ‘Phil how close are you?’

‘Close as we can be at this stage.’

‘Anybody else sniffing?’

‘Nobody yet, but it’s only a matter of time.’

McIntyre switched his attention back to Maddox. ‘Okay, Arnie, you got another shipment coming in tomorrow.’ But don’t fuck up again. Because you’ve covered your ass on this one, but next time … ‘What about security?’

‘You want me to sort out someone else?’

‘I will. Speak to you in an hour.’ The ConTex president hung up, returned to his desk, consulted the confidential list of telephone numbers he had drawn up over the years, drew out two, and called the first.

‘Drew, this is Cal McIntyre at ConTex. Got a little problem in Moscow and would appreciate some advice on it.’

‘Shoot,’ the man in the lush forested green of the Virginia countryside told him.

‘Shipment of money’s gone missing. The security company ConTex has been employing are either involved or haven’t got their asses in the ball game. I need another company, able to provide security plus investigation.’

‘Give me an hour,’ the man from Langley told him.

McIntyre thanked him, called the second number, and waited while the secretary connected him.

‘Jon, this is Cal McIntyre at ConTex.’

‘Cal, good to hear. How’s it going?’ A year ago the Deputy Assistant Secretary had been one of the smartest counsels on Capitol Hill; now he was amongst the brightest of the bright at State.

‘Got me a problem in Moscow, Jon. Hear you just got back from there and wondered whether you might be able to help me …’

‘Plenty of security companies in Russia at the moment,’ the former lawyer told him after McIntyre had explained. ‘Give me an hour.’

Forty-three minutes later the Langley desk chief phoned back.

‘Cal, this is Drew. I know it sounds like jobs for the brothers, but the guy you want is Grere Jameson. Used to be with the Agency. One of the best. Should’ve stayed but left to set up his own company. Now runs an outfit called ISS, one of the Beltway Bandits.’ One of the myriad of companies set up by ex-government employees and located within the Washington Beltway. ‘Jameson has a joint venture going with the Russians, goes by the name Omega.’

‘Why do you say he should have stayed?’

‘Because he’s the sort the Agency should have fought like hell to keep instead of allowing him to get pissed off with internal fuck-ups and cost-cuttings.’

He gave McIntyre the number in Bethesda.

‘Thanks, Drew. I owe you.’

Three minutes later the former Capitol Hill counsel phoned back.

‘For what you want, there’s only one.’

‘Who?’

‘Omega.’

He gave McIntyre the details.

‘Thanks, Jon. It’s appreciated.’

The area code was 301. McIntyre called it and asked to speak to Grere Jameson. Mr Jameson was not available, the receptionist informed him and connected him to Jameson’s secretary. Mr Jameson was out of town, the secretary told him, could someone else help or could she get Mr Jameson to phone him back?

‘How long will it take for him to get back to me?’

‘How urgent is it?’

‘Very.’

‘Ten minutes. If he can’t, I’ll let you know.’

COPEX, the Covert and Operational Procurement Exhibition, occupied one entire floor of the Javits Center in the middle of Manhattan. The exhibits themselves were as the name suggested: state-of-the-art covert, security, surveillance, assault and operational gadgetry. Entrance was by invitation only, and requests for invites were carefully vetted. Most of those present were from national or international agencies, governmental or private, and many were from overseas.

Grere Jameson left the intelligence briefing on economic espionage and returned to the main exhibition area.

Five years ago this week someone calling himself Hemmings was phoning the Agency office in New York and asking to speak to Leon Panelli … Four years ago he was out in the cold and setting up his own company … Three years ago a London contact had introduced him to a Russian called Gerasimov who was in town looking for partners for a joint venture project in Moscow …

He stopped to check out a computer encryption programme, then hurried to the bar. Leo Panelli was waiting. Today Leo was senior partner in a Washington think tank providing high level intelligence analysis and risk assessment to US companies contemplating investment overseas.

‘Leo, good to see you.’

‘You too, Grere old friend.’

They shook hands, asked about business, and avoided talking about five years ago. Jameson’s cellphone rang. He excused himself and moved to a corner.

‘Grere, it’s Jenny. A Cal McIntyre from ConTex just phoned. Said it was urgent and asked if you could phone him back. ConTex is an E and P operator with contracts in Russia and Kazakhstan. I’ve had a check run in D and B. Cal McIntyre is president.’

Dun and Bradstreet was a subscriber database providing indepth information on business issues such as company structures, stock-holders and corporate personnel.

Plus ConTex was a big player getting bigger, Jameson thought. Which D and B wouldn’t know. And their Russian security contract expired in four months, because he and Gerasimov had discussed it the previous week.

‘Did he say what he wanted?’

‘No. He just said it was urgent. I told him you’d phone back in ten minutes.’

‘How long ago was that?’

‘Two minutes fifteen.’

‘Get me the times of flights from New York to Houston later this afternoon. Just in case.’

‘I’ve held a seat for you on the 17.25 Continental out of Newark.’

Jameson took down the number in Houston, hooked the encryptor unit on to the cellphone, and called the Moscow number. In Moscow it was twelve midnight. Gerasimov answered on the sixth ring.

‘Mikhail, it’s Grere.’ The conversation was in Russian. ‘I’m going secure.’ Jameson activated the encryptor and resumed the conversation. ‘Cal McIntyre from ConTex just called; he wants me to phone him back urgently. I’m checking in case you know what’s running.’

They discussed the options. Three and a half minutes gone since the office had phoned – Jameson checked the time. He ended the call and keyed the number in Houston.

Grere Jameson on two, McIntyre’s secretary informed the ConTex president. McIntyre glanced up at the clocks on the wall. Eight minutes down, two still to go.

‘Mr Jameson, good afternoon. This is Cal McIntyre. Thanks for calling back so promptly.’

‘My pleasure.’

‘Got a little problem in Moscow.’ Perhaps the Texan drawl was exaggerated, perhaps it was the way McIntyre opened every business discussion. ‘Like to chew it over with you.’

‘I’m in New York. I could be on the five twenty-five Continental flight, be with you eight twenty-one your time. A car at the airport would speed things up.’

‘You got it.’

The sign which the driver held up said simply ConTex. Jameson declined the man’s offer of assistance with his travel bag and followed him outside. In the sky to the west the sun was setting in a ball of fire. Twenty minutes later he shook hands with McIntyre in the ConTex president’s office.

McIntyre was wearing a dinner jacket, red bow tie and cummerbund, as if he had just come from, or was on his way to, an engagement. He poured them each a Black Label and took his place behind his desk.

‘Tell me about ISS and Omega.’

Jameson settled in a large wing-back leather chair in front of McIntyre’s desk but slightly to the right so that he wasn’t facing into the window.

‘ISS is an international security and investigation company staffed by former members of the security and intelligence services, mainly American but sometimes others. We have main offices in Washington and London, and subsidiary offices in other cities. Where necessary we form specific companies for separate projects or countries. In Russia this has taken the form of a joint venture. Omega is the company name of that joint venture.’

‘And who are your Russian partners?’

The sun had set now, and the sky was a gentle layer of blue and purple.

‘Omega is headed by a former KGB general. Most of the staff are former KGB, specialists in their fields.’

‘Why Omega?’ McIntyre asked.

Jameson hadn’t touched the Black Label. ‘Alpha-Omega, the beginning and the end, we provide it all. We would have liked to call the company Alpha, but that would have been confusing.’

‘Why?’

‘Alpha was the KGB’s anti-terrorist and special forces unit. Each republic had its Alpha unit. The head of our company in Moscow is the former head of state Alpha, the man who oversaw it all. A large number of the men we employ are also former members.’

McIntyre leaned forward. ‘Ten years ago they were the enemy, now you’re working with them?’

Jameson smiled. ‘The Berlin Wall came down in ’89, so in fact it’s seven years ago that they were the enemy, not ten.’ He placed the Black Label on McIntyre’s desk. ‘It also depends how you define the enemy. Militarily and politically the Russians may no longer be the enemy, commercially they still are, but so are all our former friends. Britain, Germany, France, Japan. It’s something my Russian partner and I are totally aware of.’ He leaned forward and picked up the glass again. ‘You said you had a problem.’

‘This morning we shipped a consignment of dollars into Moscow. It went missing. We want it investigated.’

‘How much went missing?’

McIntyre took off his jacket, draped it across the back of his chair, and loosened his bow tie. ‘Six million dollars.’ He studied Jameson’s face for a reaction to the amount. Six million was small change, he understood. When the big shipments were going through there were armoured trucks waiting on the runway to load the dollars direct off the plane, and armed guards keeping everyone, but everyone, away. But six million of his money was six million of his money.

‘Hand-carried through Sheremetyevo?’ Jameson asked.

‘Yes.’

‘How many couriers?’

‘There should have been two but one got sick.’

‘You had a secure collection?’

‘We were supposed to have.’

‘What went wrong?’

McIntyre took a file from a drawer on the right side of his desk and passed it to Jameson. Jameson opened it, speed-read the five sheets of report inside, then laid it on the desk. Most people in his business guaranteed the world, but sometimes it was better to be straight. ‘I have to tell you that the chances of recovering that money are less than remote.’

‘The Russian mafia,’ McIntyre suggested.

‘Define Russian mafia.’

‘That’s why I contract people like you, for you to define it for me.’

‘One thing before I do. Are you sending another shipment over to replace the missing money?’

‘En route from New York to London at this moment.’

‘When do you want it in Moscow?’

‘Tomorrow.’

Today in London and Moscow, because of the time difference.

‘I assume you want Omega to provide the secure collection at Sheremetyevo?’

‘Yes.’

‘In that case, would you excuse me while I make the arrangements?’

Jameson telephoned Bethesda and ran the normal security routine. ‘Jim, it’s Grere. I’m with Cal McIntyre at ConTex. We have an immediate escort assignment, London – Moscow, leaving London on the next Moscow flight. I assume that’s the 9.50 AM British Airways. The shipment is six million, so we’ll need two couriers. There’s also an investigation, I’ll send you the background, but the first priority is the escort. Check with London who’s available, and put Moscow on standby for a secure collection at Sheremetyevo. Tell Moscow I want a guardian angel in addition to the pick-up boys. I’ll also speak to Gerasimov.’

On the other side of the desk Cal McIntyre leaned to his right, picked up a phone and spoke to his personal assistant. ‘My appointment tonight. Send my apologies that I can’t attend. Then dinner for two in my office.’

Jameson ended the call, punched Gerasimov’s number, and repeated the security procedure. ‘Mikhail, I’m with Cal McIntyre at ConTex.’ The conversation, in Russian, paralleled the one he had held thirty seconds earlier. ‘Jim’s phoning you from DC. I’ve told him I want an angel-khzanitel at Sheremetyevo as well as the pick-up team.’

He finished the call and sipped the Black Label. The cellphone rang. London and Moscow were running, he was informed. ‘Who’s London sending?’ he asked.

‘The lead man is Brady.’

‘Where’s Kincaid?’ Jameson was already thinking ahead.

‘Amsterdam.’

‘Bring him in. Brady makes the run with him, but Kincaid is number one. Tell Kincaid he might be in Moscow for a while, and get someone to Amsterdam in his place.’

McIntyre left his position behind his desk and settled in a chair opposite Jameson. ‘Define mafia,’ he said when Jameson had finished the calls.

‘You want the long or the short lecture?’

‘Somewhere in the middle.’

Jameson laughed. ‘The Russian mafia is not like the Sicilian variety, not la Cosa Nostra. In a simplistic way, mafia in present-day Russia, and I’m using Russia as shorthand for the whole set-up east of what was the Iron Curtain, simply means crime. Everyone’s running scams, or exposed to scams, in Russia at the moment. Each factory or business or office is offered kreshna, a roof; each street trader is requested to align himself or herself with a group who say they will protect him.

‘However, it’s actually more multi-dimensional than that. Mafia isn’t just about market traders offering vegetables at high prices or hoods shooting each other or blowing each other’s Mercs up over territorial disputes. It isn’t just about hitting bankers and industrialists and judges. Mafia isn’t even about US or UK or other foreign firms taking on Russian partners and discovering after ten, fifteen years, that they’re in bed with the baddies. In a way it’s how society, from top to bottom, operates; it’s a recognized way of doing things. Many of the people at the top of the old economy are the new leaders of the new capitalism. Some things don’t change. The old connections, the old agreements, have simply been updated.’

McIntyre leaned forward. ‘So those are the bad guys. Tell me about the good. Tell me about Omega. Actually, tell me about Alpha.’

Jameson sipped the Black Label again. ‘In addition to its intelligence role, both inside and outside the Soviet Union, the KGB had a number of secret armed units. One of them was Alpha. Alpha itself was created in the 1970s; its first major operation was a dirty job in Afghanistan: assist in the storming of the presidential palace in Kabul and the assassination of the then president Amin. This was before the Soviet Union occupied Afghanistan and Afghanistan became its Vietnam. In the eighties Alpha became the KGB’s anti-terrorist and Special Forces arm. Everyone knows about them now; then they were top secret.’

McIntyre leaned back and considered. ‘If everyone in Russia is on the make, how can you be sure your guys aren’t?’

‘Because of where their loyalty lies.’

‘Explain.’

The clock on the wall ticked past midnight.

‘What happened five years ago this week?’

McIntyre shook his head.

‘The Gorbachev putsch,’ Jameson reminded him. ‘Gorbachev, the architect of the new Russia, on vacation in the Crimea, senior KGB and Red Army officers ordering his arrest, the crowds gathering in the streets, and Yeltsin about to make a last stand in the White House. The KGB sent an Alpha unit into the White House to assassinate Yeltsin. Instead they protected him. If they hadn’t, perhaps the coup would have succeeded. In the event, it failed.’

‘Why did Alpha do that?’

Jameson shrugged.

‘So they’re the guys providing the security.’

‘Yes.’

The ConTex president returned to his desk, opened a drawer, pulled out a cigar box, offered it to Jameson – Jameson declining – selected a Havana for himself, and sat down again. ‘And who’ll be doing the investigation?’

‘One of the Moscow office.’

‘A former member of the KGB.’

‘Correct.’

McIntyre lit the Havana. ‘I’d like an American on board as well.’

‘One of the two couriers will stay on as joint investigator.’

‘Kincaid from Amsterdam?’

‘Correct again.’

‘What’s Kincaid’s background?’

‘Ex-Agency. Soviet Division.’

The cigar smoke circled McIntyre like a halo. ‘What about the Russian?’

‘That’s Gerasimov’s business, not mine.’

‘So Gerasimov will be running the show?’

‘Gerasimov and myself. I’m flying to Moscow the day after tomorrow.’

Which was what he knew McIntyre wanted to hear.

The cumulus was white against the grey-green of the North Sea. Kincaid declined coffee, eased the business class seat back, and drifted into a light sleep. Thirty-three minutes later the stewardess shook him awake, asked him to fasten his seatbelt, and offered him a hot towel. He thanked her and massaged his face. The Thames was suddenly below him, London in front, then Heathrow, the lights coming fast at them. The 737 touched down, gently but firmly, and taxied to Terminal 4. Behind them a 747 lifted into the morning sky. The seatbelt signs flicked off. He pulled his bag from the overhead locker and made sure he was among the first off. Nine minutes later he was in the public area of Terminal 4. The queues were already clustered round the economy check-ins, and the boys were waiting at the coffee bar at the far end.

Brady rose and shook his hand. ‘You want a coffee?’

‘No time.’

‘Pick us up,’ the escort told the driver on the cellphone.

Twenty minutes later they had collected the shipment from bond, Kincaid and Brady dividing the load between them, and returned to the terminal. Fifty minutes after that BA872 climbed into the sky and carved a graceful bank east. An hour and seventeen minutes after that it crossed into what President Reagan had called the Evil Empire.

His first time back in Russia since the death on East 54th – the ghost crept up on him … His first time in Moscow since he’d betrayed Joshua …

The man who collected the BMW and began the twenty-minute drive to the airport wore an inconspicuous grey suit. The first gun he carried, in a shoulder holster on his left side was a Sig Sauer P226, 15-round magazine, and the second was a shortened AKSU47, 5.45mm 30-round mag, which he would hang on a pull strap under his jacket.

Central Moscow was hot and busy; the usual BMWs and Mercedes parked outside the usual places, and the usual minders with the usual padded jackets. Last year the fashion had been shell-suits and tennis-ball haircuts.

The traffic lights next to the Moscow Dynamo stadium weren’t working, and there was an army tank at the crossroads outside the red-brick complex built for Catherine the Great to change her clothes before entering Moscow on her visits from St Petersburg, so there might be a road block later.

He had bought the 320 in Berlin, driven through Poland, crossed the border at Brest, and waited patiently while the police to the west checked his sales and purchase documents and those in the east his travel visas. And when he had arrived in Moscow he had customized it to his own specification. Rear window apparently cracked, no hub caps and front left wing slightly dented. Paintwork off-colour and seat covers, though not the leather beneath them, worn and ripped. Everyone in Moscow wanted a BMW, but with any luck nobody would want his.

The M10 to St Petersburg stretched in front of him, and the white and glass façade of the Novotel Hotel loomed to his right. He jerked round a pot-hole and pulled off the road and into the airport complex. The road in front divided, one section looping to the departures area on the upper floor, and the other passing underneath the canopy to arrivals. He drove through, parked near the Novotel, hung the Kalashnikov under his jacket, and walked back to the terminal.

The interior of the arrivals area was dirty and poorly-lit, the usual group of freelance cab drivers clustered around the exit from customs, and more drivers circling the floor near the bank and the shop. A few guards, not many and even those not paying attention. He returned outside and stood on the pavement.

Two minutes later the convoy swept in – two Saab 9000s, the Volvo between them. Pick-up time, he thought. The drivers remained in the cars, plus one passenger in each of the Saabs. The four men who left them – two from the first, one each from the second and third – moved inside. All were young – late twenties, early thirties – big build but athletic movement. The men went inside and the convoy pulled toward the Novotel.

In the sky to the west he saw the sun glint on the incoming plane.

Kincaid felt the bump as the 767 touched down. The Boeing swung right, followed the taxiway and stopped, and the seatbelt signs flicked off. Kincaid pulled one bag on to the seat, stood in the aisle, and allowed Brady to stand in front of him and pull the other bag from the floor. Whyte came this way yesterday, he was aware; Whyte thought everything was going smoothly. He took the weight of the bag, thanked the cabin crew and walked up the tunnel of the jetbridge. The woman in the Border Guard uniform was at the top, two men with her.

‘Kincaid?’ One of the two pick-ups greeted him in Russian.

‘Yes.’

‘How’s the weather in London?’ The first line of the code, still in Russian.

‘Fine, how about Moscow?’

‘Sunnier than Washington.’

Right pick-up team today.

He and Brady gave the woman their passports and visas; she ticked them off a list, waited till one other passenger joined them, the others going right to the normal immigration area, then she led them left, along the corridor, through the duty free area, and up the stairs to the VIP lounge. The room was small, a bar to the left, a Daewoo television set in one corner, an arrivals/departures monitor hanging from the ceiling, and two girls in an immigration booth to the right. The walls were covered with dark grey hessian and the seats were vinyl.

Two more pick-ups were waiting for them. Ten minutes later one of the pick-ups collected the passports from the window of the immigration booth. ‘Bring the cars in,’ the komandir, the team leader, told the drivers on the Motorola.

They left the lounge, went down the stairs, and cut through the crowds in the arrivals area. Sheremetyevo smelt wrong – it hit Kincaid: dark terminal and darker corners; so who was waiting for him, who was going to try to take him and Brady and the Omega guys around them? They sliced through the waiting drivers. So where the hell’s the angel-khzanitel, because that was what the briefing in London had said: security pick-up plus guardian angel. Hope to Christ the Omega boys had spotted whoever might be waiting for them, hope to hell the angel-khzanitel had him covered. Christ, why wasn’t he carrying?

The convoy came in – Saab 9000 in front, Volvo, second Saab 9000 behind – and stopped immediately opposite the main doors, the drivers remaining in place, engines running, and two men getting out of the lead and tail cars, neither of them looking at the cars, Uzis held discreetly beneath their coats and eyes scanning the crowd and the pavement and the doors.

Kincaid came through the door and saw the convoy: Saab, Volvo, Saab; saw the two men by the cars still scanning the crowd. Knew he was being taken care of but looked round anyway. They were five metres from the Volvo. The man beside it opened the rear door. Kincaid threw the bag on to the floor, crossed over to the other side of the car, one of the pick-ups already in the roadway on that side, and slid in. Brady threw his bag on the seat and tumbled in beside it. One of the pick-ups eased into the front passenger seat and clicked on the thief locks. The other pick-ups were already getting into the Saabs, two remaining on the pavement and still checking, even as the convoy began to pull off, then dropping through the doors as the drivers accelerated away.

The man with the Sig Sauer and the AKSU47 under his coat collected the BMW, left Sheremetyevo and pulled left toward Moscow.

Five years ago this week Vorkov had contacted him in Boston — the teni proshlovo came back at him again … Five years ago he had been in the air to La Guardia – the ghost reminded him … Five years ago Vorkov had directed him to the restaurant on East 54th …

In front of him Nikolai Sherenko saw the convoy.

2

The convoy cut across the river, passed the outer ring road, dropped toward the city centre and turned right down Gertsena Ulica. The street was lined with shops, three- or four-storey apartments and offices above them, and an occasional white-painted church or garden, railed off and set back from the road. The lead Saab stopped and the pick-ups stepped on to the pavement.

The door was wood and painted a dark heavy brown, no number on it. On one side was an electrical shop and on the other a small supermarket, both filled with shoppers. One of the pick-ups crossed the pavement and checked inside. The Volvo slid in behind the lead Saab, no doors opening, and the Volvo itself pointing out with enough space in front to scream away. The tail Saab slid in behind the Volvo and the other pick-ups got out, hands inside their jackets. The pick-up at the door checked inside and nodded.

Still a chance for someone to take them out – Kincaid glanced down and across the street. On the opposite side of the road the BMW pulled into position.

Clear, the komandir told Kincaid. Kincaid slid out, pulled the bag after him, Brady behind him and the pick-ups tight around them, crossed the pavement, up the single worn step to the door, and entered the building.

The floor inside was stone, there were stone stairs to the left, the walls were painted a faded off-cream, and an ancient elevator with a metal grille rattled up the front. The Omega team ignored the elevator and took the stairs, turned a corner, came to a landing, two doors off it, and continued up, came to another landing then another. The door on the left was wood but the one on the right was padded leather, the usual indication that the door itself was steel. The keyboard for the security lock was on the left. The team leader punched in the combination, pushed open the door and went in, Kincaid and Brady behind him and the pick-ups behind them.

The walls and ceiling of the outer office were lined with wood and the linoleum on the floor was worn. There were two desks, the men lounging against them standing to greet them as they came in. A door on the left ran back down a corridor, no indication what was there, and another corridor ran off the outer room, directly in front of them, two doors off it on the left and one on the right. A shaft of sun struggled through the bars on the single window in the room, the dust playing in its light.

‘Welcome to Omega,’ the team leader said in Russian.

Sure, Kincaid thought.

The man who entered from one of the rooms in the corridor in front of them was mid-thirties, just under six feet tall and wiry build. ‘Glad you made it safely.’ The accent was English. ‘Pat Riley.’ ISS’s manager in Moscow, Kincaid understood; service with the Parachute Regiment, ending his career as a major in the Third Battalion, plenty of time at the sharp end, including Northern Ireland, and fluent in Russian.

They shook hands then Riley led Kincaid and Brady along the corridor.

‘ConTex have been notified that you’ve arrived. They want five million delivered right away, the boys will see to that. They want the other million escorted to Kazakhstan tomorrow morning. Tom, you take that down with an escort. Mikhail’s on his way in.’ Mikhail Gerasimov, Grere Jameson’s partner in Moscow. ‘Conference as soon as he arrives. You needn’t attend, Tom.’

He led them into the office on the right of the corridor, overlooking the street. The room was functional but sparse: cream-painted walls, desks with computers, a good-looking woman at one, late twenties and well-dressed, and men at the others. Riley introduced them in Russian, translating for Brady:

‘Tatyana, our office manager …

‘Oleg and Josef, a couple of the boys …

‘Igor Lukyanov …’ Former KGB intelligence, their access point to the present FSB. Lukyanov was five-six and squat; his blond hair was short, and the suit jacket which hung on the back of his chair was expensive and well-cut.

‘Igor, this is Jack Kincaid and Tom Brady from DC. Jack’s working on the ConTex investigation. You probably had a file on him in the old days.’

Gerasimov’s room was on the opposite side of the corridor, and furthest from the outer office. It was wood-lined and small, functional desk and computer, grey carpet on the floor, one print on the wall, and a single window to the courtyard at the rear. The conference room next to it was also small: oval table with hard-backed chairs round it, window on to the courtyard, and the walls were papered, the design like the onion domes of St Basil’s in Red Square.

‘Not like ISS’s offices in London or DC,’ Riley suggested to Brady.

‘Not quite,’ the ex-FBI man conceded.

Riley perched himself on the edge of the table. ‘One thing you have to realize, Tom. Moscow is the third most expensive city in the world. Office space is at a premium; so you pay through the nose or you do a deal with someone you know for somewhere like this. Another thing you have to understand is how the system works here. The owner’s an old friend of Mikhail’s. He runs an import-export business from an office down the corridor, to the left as you come in. We get cheap rates for Omega, and he gets protection from the government and the mafia.’

He led them back to the main office and poured them each a coffee from the percolator in the corner. On one of the phones someone was speaking to Kazakhstan, on another to Kiev, the secure fax humming in the background.

‘While you’re in Moscow, for this trip at least, you’ll be staying in the company apartment which I use. Tom, you’ll be collected at five tomorrow morning, then fly to Kazakhstan with an escort and an interpreter. You return to London via Budapest. It’s an eye-opener. You may even enjoy it.’ He finished the coffee and poured himself another. ‘I’ve asked one of the boys to show you both around this evening.’

He turned to Brady. ‘Give us five, Tom.’ The order was polite and friendly. Brady nodded. Riley settled behind the desk in the left corner of the room and Kincaid pulled a chair in front of it and took the file Riley gave him.

‘Background on the ConTex investigation. You’ll be working with one of Mikhail’s people. We know this is a team job, but remember this is Moscow. New Moscow maybe, but some things never change. If you want anything, do it through them.’

Mikhail Gerasimov was on his way in, the office manager told them.

‘Any questions?’ Riley asked Kincaid.

‘Not yet.’

Kincaid went through to the conference room, sat at the table and read through the file. It was eleven hours since he had first been woken in Amsterdam and told to get to London, and the tiredness was seeping into him. Perhaps because he had been woken in the middle of the night, perhaps because he’d been carrying six million dollars and the previous day six million dollars had gone missing. Perhaps because he was in Moscow again.

The door opened and Gerasimov and Riley came in. Gerasimov was forty-eight, tall and powerfully built.

‘Mikhail Sergeyevich Gerasimov.’ Riley did the introductions. ‘Jack Kincaid.’

‘Good to meet you, Jack.’

‘You too, Mikhail.’

They sat at the conference table, Gerasimov at the head, his back to the window and facing the door, Riley at the other end, and Kincaid between them. The door to the boardroom opened again and the fourth man came in. I know you – it was a flash in Kincaid’s subconscious. I’ve seen you before.

‘Jack Kincaid, Nikolai Sherenko.’ Gerasimov did the introductions this time. ‘I think you’ve already met.’

‘Sort of.’ Kincaid spoke in Russian. The angel-khzanitel, at the airport. ‘Good to meet you.’

‘You too.’ Sherenko’s reply was in English. Traces of East Coast, almost Boston, Kincaid thought.

Sherenko hung his jacket on the back of the chair opposite Kincaid and sat down. The Sig Sauer still hung in the shoulder holster, but he had left the Kalashnikov in the secure cupboard in the other office.

‘Anyone interested in what was happening today?’ Gerasimov asked him.

Sherenko shook his head. ‘Not after yesterday.’

Gerasimov nodded and opened the briefing. ‘The pick-up went smoothly, which it should have done anyway, but ConTex is pleased. ConTex has now confirmed the contract to investigate the six million that went missing yesterday. Grere Jameson flies in from DC tomorrow to head up that investigation.’

‘Why?’ Sherenko asked.

‘Why what?’

‘Why is it necessary for someone to come in from DC to head an investigation in Moscow?’

Arrogant bastard – it was a flicker in Kincaid’s subconscious.

Gerasimov was unruffled. ‘Politics. ConTex is an American company, therefore wants to see an American running the show. We want the main ConTex security contract, they call the tune, we dance.’ He switched his attention to Kincaid. ‘You’ve read the reports?’

‘Yes.’

They ran through the various lines of enquiry. Whether the theft came from a conspiracy or a leak of information. ConTex itself, and the Americans and Russians who worked for the company. Whether the plan for the robbery began in Kazakhstan or Moscow, and who knew or might have known of the shipment. The security and courier companies contracted to ConTex and the couriers themselves, including the significance of Pearce’s sudden illness.

‘No sign of Whyte yet?’ Kincaid asked.

‘We haven’t had time to make enquiries. The primary objective today was the safe pick-up of the second shipment.’ Gerasimov spread his hands on the table. The hands were large and the fingers were thick and muscular. ‘We have his personal details and description, but we’re still waiting for a photograph.’

They finished the preliminaries and moved to the short and medium term stages of the investigation.

‘Background checks on the key players, both American and Russian. Whether any of them are in financial trouble or show indications in the past of sudden jumps in wealth.’ Gerasimov spoke in shorthand, Kincaid thought; the delivery clear-cut but staccato. Or perhaps it was the way he himself heard it, the combination of tiredness and the fact that he hadn’t listened to someone speaking Russian for five years. ‘Whether any of them are screwing, or being screwed by, anyone who might be a security leak. Jack, you run one set of checks through ISS’s offices in London and Washington. Nik, you run a second set through Igor Lukyanov, see if the computers at the FSB have anything to offer. You also check the morgues. Start this evening, show ConTex in Houston that we’re already moving.’

Five years ago this week he stood in the morgue at Belle Vue … it was a wisp in Kincaid’s subconscious.

‘Jack, you arrange interviews with ConTex personnel. Nik, you do the same with the security company personnel. Electronic sweep of ConTex offices and examination of their communication systems. Questions to airline and airport staff, plus interviews with VIP lounge staff and Border Guard personnel for a description of the bogus team which met Whyte.’

Gerasimov looked round the table. ‘Questions?’

Sherenko raised his hand. ‘How much time do we have and how long and how far do we go?’

‘I’ll tell you after Grere and I have talked.’

‘But what’s the bottom line?’

‘We want the main security contract for ConTex, therefore we’ll pursue this enquiry as far as we can, but the bottom line is that we don’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell of getting the money back.’

‘And ConTex know that?’

‘Grere has already warned them that the chances of getting the money back are zero. ConTex aren’t virgins. If we come up with anything more than a detailed report, they’ll be happy.’

He closed the meeting and they returned to the main offices, Sherenko to his desk in one corner of the main office, and Kincaid to one opposite which had been cleared for him. Brady was waiting patiently. Couple of things to set up, then they’d be gone, Kincaid told him.

Igor Lukyanov crossed the room and slipped the photograph on to Sherenko’s desk. ‘Zak Whyte. Just come through from London.’

Sherenko studied it and passed it to Kincaid. Better get it out the way, his expression said. He lifted the telephone and punched the number. ‘This is Nikolai Sherenko at Omega. We’re looking for someone who went missing yesterday. Okay if we come now?’ He put the phone down. ‘You ready?’

My first time in Moscow since Joshua, Kincaid thought, and the first thing we do is go to a morgue. ‘Yeah, I’m ready.’ He turned to Brady. ‘Get Riley to arrange transport for you back to the apartment. We’ll pick you up when we’re through.’

They ran off copies of the photograph, took the stone stairs to the ground floor and collected Sherenko’s BMW from the courtyard at the rear. The evening was busy, the pavements crowded.

Kincaid settled in the passenger seat. ‘So where are we going?’

‘The central criminal morgue. Anybody goes missing, that’s where they turn up.’

‘If they turn up,’ Kincaid suggested.

Sherenko laughed.

They crossed the river, drove along Leninski Prospekt, and turned left down Profsojuznaja Ulica. It was early evening, warm and pleasant, Sherenko driving with the window open and children playing on the green areas between the apartment blocks. They approached the junction with Krasikova Ulica and the entrances to Profsojuznaja metro station. The buildings here were more grey and featureless, arcades of shops along the street and brightly painted kiosks selling liquor, food, vegetables and bread along the pavements on each of the roads leading into the junction, men and women milling around them. Sherenko turned left at the lights, stopped in a pull-in for buses and trams in front of a line of kiosks, and got out, Kincaid behind him.

Most of the kiosks on this stretch of road were selling alcohol or cigarettes; the doors were locked and the vendors were seated inside behind a small window. Sherenko checked along the line, stopped at the third, crouched slightly because the windows were low, examined the bottles on display, and pointed.

Stolichnaya.

Small bottle.

The woman inside took a bottle from a shelf, and placed it on the wooden ledge inside the window. Sherenko counted out nine 1000-rouble notes, passed them through, and the woman passed him the bottle. Sherenko checked that the seal on the top was intact, checked the writing on the label, checked the number stamp on the back of the label, turned the bottle over and checked that the glue on the back of the label ran in wide even lines, shook the bottle and watched for the vortex of bubbles. When he was satisfied the vodka wasn’t counterfeit he turned back to the car and put the bottle in the glove compartment. The evening was still warm, still sunny. They drove up the hill and turned into C’urupy Ulica.

Kincaid left the subway and crossed to Belle Vue hospital. Manhattan was noisy around him, a helicopter in the sky above and the wail of police sirens from the other side of the block.

Washing hung from the balconies of apartment blocks on the right and children played on the grass in front. A woman pushed a pram and a young couple walked together, holding hands. They passed a tennis court, also on the right, two thin girls playing with one ball and broken rackets. Silver birches lay on the ground where they had been cut down during the winter but not sawn up or hauled away, foliage still clinging to them and children playing in them. A dog crossed the road in front of them.

Kincaid stepped through the reception area. Time running out already, he knew. And he shouldn’t be here anyway.

The building to the left was new and low. Beyond it was another, set back from the road and grey, seven storeys high. Sherenko passed the modern building, passed the grey building, and turned left down the rough earth track along its far side. The link metal fencing on either side was torn, grass and weeds growing up through it, and the security gate at the bottom was hanging off its hinges. Beyond it was a second grey-brick building, two storeys high though the height and shape of the wide doors in front suggested there was only one level. Two policemen lounged in the doorway and a rubbish skip lay in the weeds to the right. A young man with blond hair, blood splashed over his surgical greens and white boots, fetched something from one of the three cars parked on a dust patch in front.

Sherenko parked, got out, nodded at the policemen and shook hands with the attendant. A bird was singing in a tree behind the grey-brick building. Kincaid left the car and glanced inside. The building was dark and cavernous, high ceiling, no upper levels, and a large concrete floor with a tarpaulin over something in the centre. No bodies, though. The attendant went into an office on the right and returned with two pairs of surgical gloves. ‘I’ll see you down there.’

The corridors smelt of antiseptic and the hospital bustled around him. Kincaid picked up the signs, turned left, then right. Checked his watch and hurried on.

Sherenko took one pair of gloves, gave Kincaid the other, and walked past the building. The area was rough and overgrown, grass and weeds growing on mounds and through a tangle of metal to the right. In front of them and to their left a ramp dropped underground towards the block on the road at an angle of around twenty degrees. The surface had been tarmacked at some stage but now it was torn and rough, and the sides were red brick, washed over with concrete. It was some fifty metres long, the last ten under the overhang of the ground above.

They walked down. No birds any more, Kincaid realized. The sides now were tarred black as protection against wet and damp, though the black and the concrete were peeling off and the brickwork underneath was decayed and crumbling. They stepped out of the sunlight. There were two doors in the semi-darkness at the bottom. The one to the right was metal and painted black, a padlock on it, and the one to the left was rusted red, no locks visible on it, therefore apparently no way of accessing it. They stood and waited, not speaking. There was a grating sound from inside the door to the left, as if someone was turning a handle, then the door was pushed open and they stepped through.

The corridors were silent around him now, though the smell of antiseptic was stronger. He turned right and stood in front of the door, punched the combination into the security lock, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.

The corridor was long; its floor, ceiling and walls were tiled white, but the tiles were discoloured and chipped, and eerie in the low-power overhead lighting. Left, Kincaid assumed, was back to the building at the rear. The attendant turned right. They followed him fifteen metres, turned half right then half left. The door was to the right. It was large and metalled, rusting at the edges and the bottom, a large metal handle in the centre also rusted slightly. The attendant looked at them. ‘You ready?’ He grasped the handle and turned it anti-clockwise, the sound the same as when he opened the main door to the outside, then pulled open the door. The light inside was already on. The attendant moved aside and Kincaid stepped through.

The morgue was empty, but that was the way it had been arranged. No attendants to ask questions and no pen-pushers to request signatures when the footsteps came down the corridor in two minutes’ time. The gleaming white examination slab was in the centre of the floor and the plastic body bag lay upon it. I was point man for you. I was baby-sitting you, Joshua; I was the one who was supposed to bring you through. I was the one Leo Panelli recommended to you, the one in whose hands you put your faith and your trust and your life. And I let you down. He walked round the slab, unzipped the bag, and looked at the face.

Oh Christ, Kincaid thought.

The bodies were naked and stacked on top of each other to the ceiling. Some blue, some white, some a garish tinted orange. Four or five deep, shoulders and heads hanging over one edge of the two tables which ran from the door to the far end, and legs and feet over the other. More on the floor underneath – again stacked on each other – as well as on the trolleys between. Eyes staring at him and mouths open to him. The lighting was in grilles overhead and the refrigeration bars which ran round the walls halfway up were rusting.

Oh Christ, he thought again.

The body nearest him had once been a man. The hair was long and matted, the eyes and mouth were open and twisted so the corpse seemed to be looking at him, the front of the torso was stitched following an autopsy, and the skin was orange. The body on which it lay was white, the one below that tinged a pale blue. The woman on the nearest trolley to him had a scarf tied round her head. A dirty sheet covered her nakedness – the only body covered – but her mouth was still open, her eyes were twisted up so that no matter where he stood they seemed to be staring at him, and the smell drifted out at him. Perhaps her smell, perhaps the smell of them all.

He looked for Joshua and saw the girl.

What had once been a beautiful face. Body still beautiful, breasts still full and nipples still dark on them. Blond hair splayed like corn over her shoulders and long slender legs slightly open as if the male body below was penetrating her.

Sherenko showed the attendant Whyte’s photograph and pulled on the surgical gloves. ‘He went missing yesterday, so where might he be?’

‘Should be at the front, but I’ve been away, and in this place you never know.’

Sherenko nodded. ‘Vpered.’ Let’s do it.

Sherenko picked his way between the two tables and Kincaid squeezed along the narrow space along the wall to the right.

Male, stiff and old, yellow skin and gunshot wound in lower abdomen. Woman, mid-forties, so don’t bother to look. Another male, too young – hell, no more than a kid. Another woman. Kincaid tried not to breathe, tried to look only at the faces, tried to stop the faces looking back at him.

‘Take the feet,’ Sherenko told him.

Business not personal, O’Bramsky had said five years ago. Business not personal, Sherenko’s attitude and eyes said now. Bastard, Kincaid thought. He grabbed the woman’s feet, Sherenko the shoulders, and moved her so they could see the face of the male underneath. Kincaid straightened and glanced at the girl even though he did not want to. Beautiful girl, beautiful body. So what the hell is someone like her doing here? Why the hell is Sherenko staring at her as if he’d paid his money at a peepshow?

The smell crept over them, consumed them; the eyes and the limbs and the hair. They came to the end, made their way back, and began to check the bodies on the table along the left wall. Male, white flesh almost translucent, the arm broken at a grotesque angle, either before death or after. Female, needle marks up the arms and face half missing. They finished checking the bodies on the tables, bent down, and checked underneath. An arm brushed against Kincaid’s face.

They came to the trolleys in the middle, came closer to the girl. Female, so no need to check, but the body beneath her was male, so they had to touch her, handle her. Move her so they could see the face of the man across whose body her legs were spread.

They came to the end.

In forty seconds the footsteps would come down the corridor. ‘Sorry, my friend …’ Kincaid zipped up the bag and left.

The attendant swung the door back in place and sealed the dead back in their own world, then they went back down the white-tiled passageway and out through the metalled rusting door to the gloom at the bottom of the incline down.

‘Thanks.’ Sherenko pulled off the gloves, shook the attendant’s hand, handed him a business card and slid him a folded hundred-dollar bill. ‘Keep the photo. If he shows, let me know.’

The man disappeared back inside and pulled the door shut. Kincaid and Sherenko walked back up the slope, into the sun at the top, and drove away.

The thin girls were still playing tennis and the children were still climbing amongst the felled trees, the washing was still hanging on the balconies and the couple were sitting on the grass holding hands. Kincaid rolled down his side window and allowed the little wind there was to brush against his face. At the top Sherenko turned left and dropped toward the Profsojuznaja metro station, past the kiosk where he had bought the Stolichnaya, then turned right at the lights toward Leninski Prospekt. Five minutes later Red Square was on their left, on the other side of the river, the domes of St Basil’s sparkling in the evening sun and the walls and towers of the Kremlin behind it. They crossed the river and turned right, up one street and down another. The buildings were suddenly changing, a set of kiosks on a corner – better built kiosks, better-dressed people round them – music coming from somewhere, and shops on either side.

Sherenko pulled in, switched off the engine, got out, and sat against the bonnet, breathing deeply. A well-dressed couple passed them, passed the armed guard on the door to the club behind them. A black Mercedes pulled in and two men – smart haircuts and padded suits – got out and went inside. Kincaid stepped out of the BMW and drew the air into his lungs, ran his fingers through his hair again as if that would dispel the odour. Sherenko fetched the Stolichnaya from the glove compartment and leaned again against the bonnet, cracked open the top and took a long stogram.

Chert vozmi, Kincaid thought. Screw you. You didn’t stand in the morgue at Belle Vue, you had no idea what it means to go into a place like the morgue on C’urupy Ulica. He leaned across, wrenched the bottle from Sherenko’s grasp, and took a long pull.

Sherenko took the bottle back, emptied it, threw it in a bin at the side of a kiosk with tables in front, jerked into the driver’s seat and started the engine in one movement, and pulled away, barely waiting for Kincaid to get in.

‘Riley said you and Brady were showing me Moscow tonight.’ Sherenko’s eyes were fixed on the road in front.

Screw you, Sherenko, Kincaid thought again. Screw you, Joshua. ‘Yeah. Show you Moscow.’

When the two of them plus Brady arrived at the Santa Fe it was almost nine-thirty. The restaurant, in one of Moscow’s residential suburbs, was protected by tall white walls, BMWs and Mercedes were pulled in to the dust strip between the road and the wall, and the South Western American style double gates were slightly ajar, one guard outside and a second inside. Sherenko nodded at the guards and led Kincaid and Brady through. The restaurant was to the left, white-washed and Spanish style, with steps up to it.

The first bar was spacious, high ceilings and tables and chairs around the edge. All of those present were well-dressed, a mix of expats and Russians. They looked round, chose a table near the door, and smiled at the waitress who asked for their drink orders. Didn’t expect to find tequila and Tex-Mex in Moscow, Brady joked, and ordered a margarita. Same, Kincaid told the waitress. Three – Sherenko held up three fingers. Two minutes later the waitress brought the margaritas and took their orders: salsa dip, ribs and French fries, and San Miguels in the bottle.

‘Vashe zdorovye.’ Kincaid held up the glass.

The woman came in the door behind them, looked at Kincaid and Brady, allowed her eyes to settle on Sherenko, and walked through to the restaurant at the far end. She was mid-twenties, tall, dark hair immaculately groomed, high-heeled shoes and expensive dress.

Brady turned as she went past.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ Sherenko told him.

‘Why not?’

‘You couldn’t afford it.’

Brady was still watching the woman. ‘Why couldn’t I?’

The waitress cleared the cocktails and brought the San Miguels.

Sherenko rubbed the lime round the rim of the bottle. ‘To understand, you have to understand the new Russian women, some of whom you see here tonight.’ He waved his hand towards the rest of the bar, the movement controlled and economic. ‘Okay, some of them are working girls. Some of them are young, probably late teens, dressing up and trying to look good. Others are high-class, good lookers, good dressers. Probably born into the party. By which I mean the Communist Party.’

He took a pull of San Miguel and smiled as the waitress served them the tortilla chips and salsa.

‘There is, however, a third type. Probably slightly older. Late twenties, early thirties. Similar background, university educated and multi-lingual, but now running their own businesses, or at least successful in their chosen careers. High-earners and high-players, but not on the game.’ He played with the bottle. ‘A woman like this might be single or might still be married but is running the show, might have got fed up with her husband. Perhaps he drinks too much Stoli so she’s kicked him out.’

He looked at Kincaid. Too close to home – Kincaid felt the unease, though for Stolichnaya read Jack Daniels. Screw you, Sherenko.

Sherenko looked back at Brady. ‘So she works hard during the daytime and plays hard at night. Comes to a place like this – hell, you can see them, see the way they do it. They could make the catwalks in Milan without problems, but the fashion world doesn’t appeal because it’s not as much fun as here.’ Sherenko looked round the bar again and Kincaid realized the woman who had come in earlier was glancing at him. ‘So she comes in, looks round, decides who she likes the look of. Makes eye contact and they’ll eat, possibly dance. She might pay, he might pay, it doesn’t matter. Might take in a club, might do some dope. And if she fancies him then she’ll go to bed with him; if she doesn’t, she’ll say ciao.’ He paused slightly. ‘Takova zhizn.’ He threw back his head and hands in a slightly exaggerated manner. ‘I’m me and nobody else. Take me or leave me.’

Arrogant son-of-a-bitch, Kincaid thought again.

‘So why couldn’t I afford one?’ Brady asked.

‘You could still afford some of them, but not the high class girls, not the ones you’re really talking about.’

And you’re saying you could, Kincaid thought. More than that. You’re saying you wouldn’t have to.

‘Why not?’ Brady asked.

‘A year ago the men they went for, the ones with the dollars, were the expats, the foreign businessmen. Now the ones with the real money in Moscow are the mafia.’

When Sherenko dropped them at the block containing the company apartment it was past eleven. The apartment was on the fourth floor, the furniture and decor functional rather than attractive. Two bedrooms, sitting-room, kitchen at the rear, and small bathroom. No bath, but an electric power shower bought in London.

Riley was at a computer in the sitting-room. ‘Coffee?’ He logged off the Internet.

‘Anything stronger?’ Kincaid asked.

‘Glenmorangie?’

‘Sounds fine.’

Brady claimed an early start the next morning and went to the second bedroom – two single beds, not much space between.

Riley fetched two glasses and a bottle. ‘Where’d Nik take you?’

‘The Santa Fe. Playing it safe, I guess.’

Riley laughed, poured them each a measure, and settled in the armchair. ‘How was it?’ he asked.

‘Take it or leave it,’ Kincaid told him. ‘Tell me about Sherenko,’ he asked.

‘Why?’

Kincaid shrugged.

Riley sipped the malt. ‘You have problems with Nik, Jack?’

‘He’s not the easiest man to work with.’

‘Which is why Tom’s pissed off and gone to bed?’

Kincaid shrugged again but said nothing.

Riley stared at him above the glass. ‘Can I ask you something, Jack?’

‘Sure.’

‘You got problems with Moscow?’

‘No. Why’d you ask?’

‘No reason.’

‘So tell me about Sherenko.’

‘Not much to say really. Ex-Alpha, like a lot of the boys. Apparently he served with Alpha for a while, then left. Surfaced two, three years back and Mikhail signed him up. Good operator, probably the best. Bit of a loner, keeps himself to himself. Divorced, couple of kids.’

Riley poured himself another Glenmorangie and passed the bottle across.

‘There’s one other thing I don’t understand.’ Kincaid splashed the clear brown liquid into the glass. ‘Sherenko was a member of Alpha.’

‘Yes.’

‘Alpha was Special Forces, including anti-terrorism, but primarily within the Soviet Union.’

‘For most of its history. Why?’

‘Nothing.’

Except if Alpha was internal, there was no reason for members of Alpha to speak English. The Omega guys are all Alpha, and they don’t. A few words perhaps, but nothing more. So why does Sherenko speak it fluently?

For the past hour he had lain on the bed and tried not to sleep; now he felt himself taking the first inevitable steps. The sunlight gave way to the shadow, the rusted door to the left opened, and the morgue attendant beckoned him in. He stepped into the cold; the white tiles of the corridor were almost blurred and the sounds of his footsteps were muffled yet echoing. You knew you would come this way, the sliver of rationality told him. He fought it anyway, tried to escape from it even though he knew it was to no avail. Moved slowly – all such moments were in slow motion – and followed the attendant. Stepped forward as the attendant moved aside, saw that it was his own hands which gripped the wheel at the centre of the door and ground it anti-clockwise. The sweat poured off his body. The lock gave way and the door swung open. He glanced to his left and saw the attendant grinning at him, the smile not on the face but on the gash of red which had once been his throat. Saw that the face was not the attendant’s, but his own. Saw his own hand, dismembered from his arm, beckoning him inside. The bodies were stacked to the ceiling. Red and blue and orange, the colours exaggerated and unreal, as if they had never been real, as if they were dummies from the set of a horror movie. He pulled the rubber gloves on. His fingers slid through the rips in the rubber, and he began the search. Saw the man: yellow skin and gunshot wound in the lower abdomen. Except there were two wounds, not one: the entry point of the 8.58x71mm round neat in the centre of his shoulders, and the front and chest of the body torn where the round had exited. He saw the girl. Naked body still beautiful, breasts still full and nipples dark on them, long legs slightly open as if the male body below her was penetrating her, blonde hair splayed like corn over her shoulders. Except the hair was black and the girl he now saw wore Levis.

Nikolai Sherenko pulled himself from the nightmare and stared at the ceiling. The apartment was quiet around him and the first light shone cold through the windows. He checked the time, rose, pulled on a dressing-gown, and made himself coffee. When he left it was six-thirty. Three minutes before seven he was at the office. Kincaid arrived at seven-fifteen. By seven-thirty they had updated the case log and Gerasimov and Riley had joined them.

The first backgrounds on Maddox and Dwyer at ConTex, and the couriers Whyte and Pearce, had come in overnight. They called for fresh coffee and flicked through them, then Kincaid and Sherenko were driven to the ConTex offices off the Tverskaya.

Maddox and Dwyer were waiting for them in Maddox’s office; both were in shirtsleeves and Maddox wore cowboy boots. They shook hands and sat down, Maddox leaning back in his chair with his feet on the desk, Dwyer in a high-backed leather chair to the right, and Kincaid and Sherenko facing them.

‘I’d like to make two things clear right away.’ Kincaid took the lead. US company, US money goes missing after all. ‘First, we’re all on the same side. Second, I brought in six million yesterday, and only one million of that went to Kazakhstan, so you’ve obviously got something else going which you might not want to talk about.’

‘Appreciated.’ Dwyer looked nervous.

Maddox changed position slightly. ‘Shoot.’

‘I’d like to do the interviews separately.’

‘No problems.’

Because we’re all on the same side, Kincaid understood; because us American boys have to stick together. He opened the briefcase he carried and took out a Sony cassette recorder. ‘I’d also like to tape the interviews. That way there’s no misunderstanding.’

‘Fine,’ Maddox told him. ‘Who’d you want to speak to first?’

‘Guess we’ll start with you.’

Dwyer began to leave. Got a meeting over lunch, but other than that he’d made the day free, he informed them. Kincaid thanked him, watched him go, accepted a coffee and clicked on the cassette recorder. ‘Arnie, I’ve read the reports. Can you take me through them, give us the general overall picture of what happened.’ His ballgame, his demeanour said; him calling the plays.

Maddox led them through his return from Kazakhstan, which was routine; the need for the dollars there, which was also routine, plus the need for additional dollars to finance something Phil Dwyer was working on.

‘Can you tell me what that is?’

Difficult, Maddox’s grimace said.

Commercial confidentiality – Kincaid nodded his understanding, no problems. Take me on, he told Maddox: how’d you communicate with Houston over this? When Kazakhstan wants money, how do your people there tell you? How did this shipment differ from any others? How many staff would have known about it and how much did the company providing the security pick-up know?

They broke for ten minutes while Maddox took a call from Kazakhstan.

Take me through your personal timetable, Kincaid asked Maddox when they reconvened; who you met and who you talked to. Take me through that day. What about the waiter who served him and Phil Dwyer at dinner, what about when he and Phil went for a walk after? What about Nite Flite; anyone pick them out more than the usual way, anyone target them? What about when they left, when Maddox’s driver picked them up?

They moved next door to the office Dwyer was using and ran the same routine, Kincaid asking the questions because the show was his.

Anybody Dwyer had met who’d asked him about what he was doing, anybody ask about the dollar shipments? The shipment was in two sections, they didn’t want the details of course, but what about the people he was dealing with? Were they from a company or a government department or were they individuals? How and when did the subject of payment come up? Did the guys he was dealing with specify a date and did they therefore know the money was coming in? Anyone asked him anything, but anything, which in retrospect struck him as unusual? What about his staff? Anyone at the hotel or Nite Flite?

Dwyer glanced at his watch.

‘Time to leave?’ Kincaid asked.

‘Afraid so.’ Dwyer stood up. ‘Like I said, I have to meet someone over lunch. Feel free to come back this afternoon.’

‘Not necessary, Phil. I think we have everything we want.’ Kincaid returned the cassette recorder to the briefcase and allowed Dwyer to show them out of his office and down the corridor. The atmosphere was relaxed and friendly. They shook hands. Dwyer half-turned from them to return to his office.

‘Hope you used some protection, Phil.’ It was Sherenko, casual, boys amongst boys, beer at the bar and your round next. ‘You know about the girls in Moscow.’

‘Course I used some protection.’ Dwyer was still on the half-turn, the laugh on his face and the conspiracy in his eyes. ‘Course we all know about the girls in …’ His face froze.

The fog descended on Kincaid: deep and cold and freezing. Screw you, Sherenko, he thought, because all morning you sat and listened and didn’t intervene. Okay, so I didn’t give you the chance, but screw you anyway. Screw you Dwyer and Maddox, because you played the American card with me and I fell for it. Thought you were telling me the truth therefore went easy on you. Okay, so I believed you because the ConTex enquiry is as good as wrapped up and the report’s as good as written. Okay, so I went into the goddam interview believing you before you’d even said a word, because I detest and loathe this city just as I detest and loathe people like Sherenko. So screw you, Dwyer and Maddox, for taking me to the cleaners. Screw you, Sherenko, for knowing what they were doing all along, even screw you for getting me out of it. Screw you, Joshua, because you’re still sitting on my shoulder as Bram said you would.

He stared at Dwyer. ‘Thought you said Arnie’s driver collected you and him from Nite Flite, Phil.’ There was just enough threat in his voice. ‘Thought you said you didn’t score that night?’

‘Yeah, well …’ Dwyer hesitated.

‘Think you’d better cancel lunch, Phil.’ Kincaid walked past Dwyer and back into the office, held the door while Dwyer then Sherenko came in, and closed it. ‘You want to sit down, Phil?’

Dwyer sat at his desk, the desk itself no longer a barrier between them, no protection for him. ‘Okay.’ He pulled the handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. ‘I scored at Nite Flite.’ He looked at his watch again. ‘Look guys, I really got to make this lunch.’

‘No problems, Phil,’ Sherenko told him. ‘Do lunch and speak to us after.’ He rose and opened the door for Dwyer. ‘Hell, Phil. Look on the positive side. At least you did wear some protection.’

The relief flooded over Dwyer. ‘Yeah, at least I did.’

They watched him leave, made sure he didn’t speak with Maddox, told Maddox’s secretary they needed ten minutes with the boss, and waited till they were shown in again.

‘Got a problem, Arnie.’ Kincaid looked straight at Maddox. No preamble. ‘You said that you and Phil left Night Flite together, that your driver picked you both up and drove you both home.’ We got it on tape, Arnie – it was in Kincaid’s stare; so time to come clean, time to drop the bullshit. ‘Phil tells us he scored that night. Phil says he picked up someone at Nite Flite.’

Okay, guys – Maddox was always bullish when he was on the defensive. Phil pulled someone. Good-looking chick, but they all were. He’d made sure Phil was covered, though, because although Phil was a man of the world, Moscow was something else. So he’d called his driver, made sure he was waiting outside Nite Flite with strict orders to take Phil and Phil’s piece of ass to Phil’s hotel and nowhere else. Then he had made his own way home. Except Phil was married – hell, they all were. So when Phil had asked him to cover it, he’d agreed.

Bastards – the anger boiled inside Kincaid. You set me up, laughed at me all the way to the bank. No problems, he told Maddox; they’d have to run a couple of things past Phil, but it was Phil who’d suggested he’d scored that night in the first place, so Arnie was covered. And no sweat anyway, because we all like a bit of spare occasionally, especially when we’re away from home.

‘Nite Flite …’ Kincaid picked up with Dwyer when he returned. ‘No problems, and everything’s confidential. The chick you picked up, though. Did you pick her up, or did she pick you up? Good idea taking her to your own hotel, of course, because you have to be careful.’

‘Lucky it wasn’t the Intourist.’ Sherenko’s voice was like winter.

‘Why?’ Dwyer looked at him.

‘Because there you have to buy in-house.’ Kincaid came at him like a wind out of Siberia. ‘Try to take your own in and they beat the shit out of you both.’

Dwyer was theirs, Dwyer would do anything for them. Dwyer would tell them nothing but the purest, most absolute truth.

‘Okay, Phil,’ Kincaid told him. ‘Take us through that evening.’

At four-thirty they left ConTex and the technical team moved in to sweep the premises. Freelance team, by which Sherenko meant FSB boys on a moonlight. Good at their job – installing or detecting – and American gear they’d bought personally from the shop at Frankfurt airport.

By the time Sherenko and Kincaid reached the Omega office Grere Jameson had arrived from Washington via an overnight in London. Kincaid did the introductions, then updated the case log and Sherenko phoned the morgue.

‘No Whyte.’ He put the phone down.

‘You don’t think we should check for ourselves?’

‘You want to?’

‘No point if we’ve left a photo.’

Riley came in, Gerasimov and Jameson behind him. They went through to the conference room, Jameson looking slightly tired and allowing Gerasimov to lead. Gerasimov checked his watch, brought the session to order and asked Sherenko for an update.

‘Looks leaky,’ Sherenko told him.

‘Explain.’

‘The organizational front at ConTex to begin with. The internal security is bad. Knowledge of a money shipment is not restricted. The chain of command and communication is such that too many people know when and how much is coming in, and we haven’t even started on the Russian staff or the office in Kazakhstan.’

Gerasimov turned to Kincaid.

‘There are also potential security problems on the personal front,’ Kincaid told them. ‘Five million of the missing money was requested by a ConTex vice president, Dwyer, who is doing some deal in Moscow. Probably getting ahead of the game in oil or gas leases. Unless it’s a scam, which is not our business at the moment, though I guess it might be sometime. On the night the money was ordered he and Maddox went to Nite Flite. Although they tried to brush it over, Dwyer picked someone up and spent the night with her.’

Gerasimov nodded. ‘Next?’

‘The motor the security pick-up used,’ Sherenko told him. ‘We should get the fingerprint people to take a look at it.’

‘Why?’

‘If it was involved in an accident, and the accident was one reason they didn’t make the airport for the pick-up, there’s an outside chance someone might have left a print.’

‘I’ll get someone in tomorrow.’

‘What about the courier who fell sick in London?’ Jameson spoke for the first time.

‘Tomorrow Nik does the security pick-up team and starts on the ConTex staff, and Jack flies to London to interview the courier. You carrying, Jack?’

‘No.’

‘Might be an idea. Fix him up, Nik.’ Gerasimov looked around the table. ‘What else?’

‘Might be good to know who runs the mafia at the airport.’ It was Sherenko again.

‘Why?’

‘Because if we don’t get anywhere within ConTex, whoever runs the airport mafia might not be too happy that someone else is doing something on his patch. Assuming he had nothing to do with it, of course.’

‘I’ll check it out,’ Gerasimov told him.

They left the conference room and returned to their offices. Gerasimov checked that his driver was waiting, then he and Jameson left.

‘Where are they going?’ Kincaid asked Riley.

‘Get changed, I guess.’

‘What for?’

‘Some sort of party.’

Kincaid waited for an explanation.

Riley sat forward slightly in his chair. ‘You remember what happened five years ago this week?’

‘Yeah. I remember what happened five years ago.’ Kincaid picked up his coat. ‘So why are Gerasimov and Jameson going to a party?’

‘Five years ago today it was Gerasimov’s men who were sent to assassinate Yeltsin in the White House. Five years ago tomorrow Gerasimov’s men protected Yeltsin instead of assassinating him, and probably changed the course of history.’ And that’s why he and Jameson are going to a party. ‘Drink?’ he asked.

‘Thanks anyway, but not tonight.’ Kincaid dusted his jacket. ‘See you tomorrow,’ he told Sherenko.

‘Yeah, see you in the morning.’

Kincaid left the office, walked down Gertsena Ulica and crossed to the Tverskaya. The evening was warm, there were strands of thin cloud across the sky, and the pavements were busy, cars parked along them and vehicles passing. So what’s this about, Jack my friend? What are you doing and why are you doing it? He stepped between the parked cars and held his hand in the air. The first Lada passed him and the second pulled in.

‘Leningradski vokzal.’ The Russian was too much like the language school rather than the pavements of Moscow.

‘Twenty thousand roubles.’

‘Too much.’

‘It’s out of my way.’

Kincaid stood back, watched the Lada jerk away, and held his hand in the air again. Another Lada swerved in.

‘Leningradski voksal.’ Better, he told himself.

‘Eighteen thousand roubles.’

‘Ten thousand.’

‘Fifteen.’

‘Okay.’

He opened the door and slipped into the rear seat. The windscreen was cracked, a fresh air filter was stuck to the dashboard and the back of the driver’s seat was ripped. ‘What time is it?’ he asked. The driver pulled out into the line of traffic without bothering to look and glanced at his watch. ‘Five to eight.’

‘Nice watch, what sort is it?’

‘Tag Heuer.’

‘Christ, you must earn a fortune.’

‘Counterfeit. Twenty dollars.’

They talked about prices in Moscow, where you could get what. You heard the joke about the new Russian, he told the driver. Goes to London and buys a watch for twenty thousand dollars. That evening he shows it to a friend. You’ve been done, the friend tells him: I know where I can get the same watch for thirty thousand.

The driver laughed and swerved, either to avoid a pothole or another cab, possibly both. New Russian wipes out his Merc, he told Kincaid. Why the hell you crying, a friend says; the car’s nothing; look, you’ve lost an arm. The man looks down. Christ, he says, my Cartier.

So what are you playing at, Jack, what are you up to?

The driver pulled in to the station. The building was brown and single-storey, steps going up to its three doors and people packed around it. Kincaid paid the driver and went inside. The hall was small and dark, connecting stairs and passages running off it, a kiosk selling drinks and a man who hadn’t shaved selling pirozhki, small pastries, from a wooden tray. People pushing past and the evening sun breaking through the dust on the windows at the far end. He felt in his pocket and pulled out a handful of notes. Counted them carefully and handed them over, moved to a corner and ate the pirozhki and drank the Coke, and sidled on. Passengers were already gathering for the mid-evening trains, a policewoman clearing a drunk from amongst them. Kincaid left the main station and crossed to the metro.

So what’s tonight all about, Jack old friend? What game are you playing and why?

Not Jack – he corrected himself. Jack Mikhailovich Kincaid, because in Russian everyone used the first name of their father as their own middle name.

Okay, Jack Mikhailovich, so what’s running?

He stepped on to the escalator, the descent reminding him of the metro stations at Dupont Circle or Bethesda, except in Washington the walls and ceilings were grey and concrete. He came to the bottom and stepped into a different world. Walked through the hallway connecting the various platforms and could have been walking through the Louvre or the Smithsonian or the Hermitage. The floor and walls and ceilings were marbled, marbled busts on plinths and marbled garlands in alcoves.

At the end of the platform a digital clock indicated how long ago the previous train had left and therefore, by deduction, how long the next would be. Even in mid-evening the platform was crowded. The train pulled in and the doors opened. Those waiting on the platform stood to each side, and those arriving poured off. The moment the last left the train those waiting streamed on. He found a seat and looked up and down the carriage at his fellow travellers.

So what’s this about, Jack Mikhailovich? Why take a cab, then the metro, and end up less than a thousand metres from where you started?

His observations over the next hour were footnotes to what had gone before. When he returned to the flat shortly before eleven the message from Riley was on a notepad.

Nik will pick you up at six. Session at range for six-thirty. You’re on the nine o’clock flight to London.

Gerasimov’s driver collected Jameson from his hotel at eight. Gerasimov was in the rear seat. He wore a dark blue suit and matching tie. In his left lapel he wore an Alpha pin. The driver cut across the inner ring road, skirted Red Square, and eased down the narrow tree-lined street three hundred yards from the Kremlin.

‘Brief me on who’ll be there tonight,’ Jameson requested.

Gerasimov briefed him.

‘Who’s important?’ Jameson asked.

‘They’re all important, but the man for the future is Malenkov. He was First Chief Directorate, now he’s a major-general in the SVR.’

The Omega driver eased to a halt on the right side of the street. They left the car and crossed to the building on the left. The house was three-storey, grey and anonymous, black door and no obvious security. As Gerasimov and Jameson crossed the road another car pulled in behind theirs.

The doorbell was on the left; before they had pressed it the black door opened and they stepped inside. The reception area was marbled, marbled stairs on the right leading to the floors above and a desk on the left, the monitors of the security cameras above it, one man at the console and another standing. They were escorted up the stairs, past the next floor, to the next. The double doors were wood and highly varnished, another set of stairs leading to the floor above. They went through the doors and into the flat.

The hallway was long, the walls a pleasant pastel, and the lounge was on the left. It was large, windows on to the street, and the furniture and decoration were art nouveau. The library was through a door in the far corner, the dining-room was on the other side of the hall – exquisite oval table, finest tableware, elegant chandelier above it and priceless Lalique glassware behind it. The first bedroom – as Jameson would be shown later – was on the same side as the dining-room: again art nouveau and twin beds. The bathroom, large and luxurious, was next to it, and the double bedroom – king-size art nouveau bed – was opposite the bathroom, on the same side as the lounge.

Half a dozen men were already in the room. Most were in their forties or early fifties, though two were older, all were wearing suits, and all were former or present generals in the KGB or its successors, the FSB, the internal security service, and the SVR, the Foreign Intelligence Service.

Jameson looked around. ‘Nice place.’

‘Marcus Wolfe used to use it when he was in town,’ Gerasimov told him.

Marcus Wolfe was the legendary East German spymaster.

‘What I would have given to have been here ten years ago,’ Jameson joked.

‘What we would have given to have had you here,’ Gerasimov joked back.

They accepted a Lagavulin and caviar and Gerasimov began the introductions, the conversations switching easily between English and Russian, and the handshakes and welcomes as if Jameson was a new friend rather than an old enemy.

There was a movement at the door from the corridor and Malenkov came in. He was six feet tall, late forties and slim; hair beginning to turn silver and hand-cut suit that made him look like a high-flyer in an American or European bank or blue-chip investment house. His eyes were sharp and blue, the antithesis of the West’s image of a KGB general.

‘General Sergei Malenkov, Grere Jameson …’ Gerasimov did the introductions.

‘Recognize you from your file,’ Jameson joked in perfect Russian.

‘And I recognize you from yours.’ Malenkov’s face was locked in a smile and his reply was in flawless English.

3

Sherenko rose at six.

The apartment was almost too big for him now. It had been small when Natasha and the girls had been there; the girls had had the bedroom, and he and his wife (when he was at home) a pull-down in the sitting-room. Their photos were still on the sideboard and the documents which chronicled their lives together lay in a folder in a drawer.

He made coffee, ate a small breakfast, then cleared the table, washed up, slipped on the shoulder holster and Sig Sauer, locked the flat and collected the BMW, checking underneath it before he opened it. Fifteen minutes later he turned into the street where the company apartment was situated. The street was almost empty: half a dozen slightly battered cars were parked along the sides, the pavements were dusty, and a dog was relieving itself against a tree. The only man in the street, leaning with his back against the wall as if he was waiting for a tram or trolleybus, was as grey and inconspicuous as the street itself. Sherenko stopped and Kincaid got in.

‘Nu, chto vchera delal?’ So what did you do last night?

‘Nichevo osolennovo.’ Nothing in particular.

The building, when they reached it, was faded red brick and looked like a factory. Sherenko turned through an unlit archway, showed an ID at the security barrier, then drove into the courtyard beyond. Despite the hour there were other cars already there, plus two transits. The morning was quiet, as if the walls around them deadened any noise. Sherenko locked the BMW and led Kincaid through a door in the wall opposite the archway, then down a set of stone stairs to the range.

There were ten plywood targets, paper facing on them; seven were Figure 11s, half-body and head, and three Figure 12s, head and shoulders. Six of them were being used: the men shooting at them were dressed in battle fatigues, no insignia or identification, and all were in their early twenties. Their instructor nodded at Sherenko, his students glancing across.

‘What did you train on?’ Sherenko seemed at ease in the place.

‘Normal stuff,’ Kincaid told him. ‘Walther, Beretta, Uzi.’

‘What do you feel comfortable with?’

‘They’re mostly the same, I guess.’

Sherenko took the automatic from his shoulder holster and gave it to Kincaid. ‘Sig Sauer P226. Swiss manufacture. The British SAS put it through two years of testing before they decided to adopt it in preference to the Browning. Fifteen-round mag, which is why the SAS also likes it.’

Kincaid checked that the safety was on, settled in front of one of the targets, dropped into a combat crouch and brought the Sig Sauer up. Felt for the safety with his right and fired six rounds. Sherenko wound back the target. One round had hit the right shoulder, three the chest and abdomen area, and two more were slightly to the left.

‘When did you last use a gun?’

The residue of antagonism flashed in Kincaid’s brain. ‘A few years back.’

‘You were a desk or a field man?’

Kincaid hesitated. ‘Field man.’ He hesitated again. ‘But we had gorillas to take care of the dirty stuff.’

Sherenko looked at him. ‘In Moscow you don’t have time to call the gorillas.’

Kincaid fired six more rounds.

‘I suggest you come in each morning.’ Sherenko took the gun, slid in a fresh magazine, put the automatic back in his shoulder holster and turned away from the target.

Screw you, you arrogant bastard, Kincaid thought as he had thought the previous evening.

Sherenko turned, hand taking the Sig Sauer as he did so, body dropping fluidly into a combat crouch, the automatic on target as if it was an extension of himself and the right thumb flicking off the safety smoothly and naturally. Three rounds, change position, second three rounds. Drop and roll to left, always present a moving target. Three more rounds.

Flash bastard – the other men on the range glanced across. Except he’s an old flash bastard. They themselves had been firing much quicker, getting off more rounds than Sherenko and were still on target, their rounds, like his, in a tight cluster.

Sherenko suddenly looks his age, Kincaid thought; Sherenko suddenly looks like me. The real flash bastards, the ones who really were on the ball, were the guys twenty metres away.

Sherenko stood, slipped on the safety, handed Kincaid the Sig Sauer, and wound back the target. The rounds were positioned in a tight cluster round the centre of the chest, none outside. ‘So that was my job and yours was running people. But this is Moscow, and in Moscow, if a street trader doesn’t pay up his pittance of roubles for protection, or a banker calls in a loan, he ends up in a place like C’urupy Ulica.’

‘And …’ Kincaid asked.

‘And we’re working together. If they come for you I might be there. So I’m looking after my ass as well as yours.’

‘Fuck you, Nik,’ Kincaid said.

‘Fuck you too, my friend.’

They left forty minutes later. In the last quarter-hour Kincaid’s groupings had begun to improve, and in the final five minutes the rate of improvement had accelerated.

‘What time’s the flight?’ Sherenko cut past a line of cars. The traffic was heavy now, but most of it was coming the other way, into Moscow.

‘Nine.’

‘I thought the first BA flight is this afternoon.’

‘I’m flying Aeroflot.’

So lucky you, Sherenko’s eyes said. ‘What time you seeing Pearce?’

‘As soon as I get in.’

‘What about the flight back?’

‘The first one as soon as I’ve wrapped up with Pearce. I’ll let the office know.’

Sherenko slowed for a set of lights. ‘Don’t get a cab into town. Most of the drivers are cowboys and the road is bad. Cross to the Novotel, there’s a shuttle for hotel guests every fifteen minutes.’ He turned into Sheremetyevo. ‘Riley told you about the party tonight?’

‘Yeah, he gave me the name of the restaurant. I’ll make it if I can.’

Sherenko pulled up the slope and stopped in front of the departures area on the upper level of the airport building. Kincaid hurried inside, checked on the monitors that his flight was on time, then stood in line for the currency, customs, ticket and passport formalities. Most of those checking in were businessmen, some of them Russian, the expats wearing the standard suits and the Russians wearing Versaces and looking as if they were going to a nightclub. Kincaid bought a black coffee in the Irish Bar and waited for the flight to be called.

So what was that about last night? Why the hell had he gone walkabout?

Because Sherenko and Riley had been right, even though they hadn’t told him directly. Because he, Jack Kincaid, God knows how many years in the game, had come into Moscow like all the other expats. Believing that he owned the world. Believing that because Moscow had lost the Cold War the Russians had everything to learn from him, and he had nothing to learn from them. And gently – actually not so gently – but in their different ways, Sherenko and Riley had let him know.

Riley to start with, when Kincaid had shown his reaction to the Omega offices on Gertsena Ulica, even though Riley had done it indirectly through Brady. Then Sherenko at the Santa Fe, indirectly again, via Brady; and Riley in the company apartment that night. You got a problem with Moscow, Riley had asked. And Riley after he had failed to show Gerasimov the proper respect at their first meeting. Good to meet you, Mikhail, Kincaid had said. Mikhail Sergeyevich – Riley had referred to Gerasimov in the conversation he had had with Kincaid the evening after. Had thrown in Gerasimov’s patronymic, his second name, because in Russian that was a sign of respect. Especially formally, or at a first meeting.

And Sherenko had pulled him out of the proverbial at the ConTex meeting. Kincaid had assumed that because the guys at ConTex, by whom he meant Maddox and Dwyer, were American like himself, they were telling him the truth. And all the time the bastards had been lying.

So screw Jack Kincaid, not Riley and Sherenko. Which was what last night had been about.

He looked up at the monitor, saw that flight SU247 was delayed an hour, and bought another coffee.

By the time he landed at Heathrow the delay had extended to an hour and a half. He cleared immigration and took the walkway from Terminal 4 to the Hilton.

So you went into Moscow like the proverbial virgin, Jack old friend. But why? Why did you screw up even though you knew what you were doing? Because you did know, right from the beginning.

Because five years ago this week I was supposed to hold Joshua’s hand and I didn’t, and therefore, and however indirectly it might have been, I betrayed him as surely as if it had been me who pulled the trigger on him. And all I could do instead was apologize to him and say goodbye to him in the morgue at Belle Vue before the hoods came to take him back to Moscow. And ever since then, Joshua has been sitting on my shoulder like a ghost. So that was what last night was about. Laying Joshua’s ghost. Getting him off my back. And last night I did it.

He checked with reception and telephoned the suite ISS had rented for the day.

‘Rich, it’s Jack Kincaid. I’m downstairs. I wonder if you and I should talk before I come up.’

Matthews joined him two minutes later.

‘Any problems?’ Kincaid asked.

‘They’re fidgety.’

‘So would you be if one of your people went missing with six million dollars.’

They ordered coffee, then Kincaid read through the range of reports collated by the London office: the second courier’s statement, the doctor’s report on his condition, and the background searches on both couriers, including financial details. Plus a security report on both.

‘The doctor said Pearce had a viral problem and that he’s still suffering from it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Could we arrange a lab test, see if anything could be used to produce or simulate the condition? A forensic analysis might also be useful – try the toxicology people at Aldermaston. They’ve experience of how the Soviets used to work, so they’ll know what to look for. We might need a polygraph if Pearce doesn’t play ball, or if we suspect he’s not telling us the truth.’

Matthews signed for the coffee and they went upstairs. The courier Pearce was in an armchair and two other men, a representative of the company and a lawyer, sat on a sofa. Matthews introduced them and they shook hands.

‘Before we begin there are certain guidelines.’ The lawyer was mid-thirties, public school accent, and dressed in a pinstripe suit.

Of course, the ISS man Matthews began to agree.

Kincaid smiled at the lawyer. ‘Before you say anything else, may I remind you that your clients lost six million dollars of my clients’ money.’ He smiled again. ‘I view this meeting as amicable. I also view your presence at this meeting as being at my discretion. If you have any problems with that you can leave now.’

The lawyer began to suggest to the company representative that they withdraw for a discussion.

‘I’m on the three o’clock flight back to Moscow,’ Kincaid told him. ‘Any costs incurred by any delay will be charged to you.’

The lawyer sat down.

Okay, Mike – Kincaid looked at Pearce and switched on the cassette recorder. Take me back to that morning; take me back to the night before. This viral problem, when were you first aware of it, when did you first tell Zak? How did the routine that morning differ from any other? Did you and Zak always know how much you were carrying? Who else knew …

Got to ask you this, Mike. Any chance Zak set you up, doctored your food or something so you couldn’t make the trip … He watched carefully for Pearce’s reaction. Got to ask you this as well, Mike. Any chance that you set up your own sickness, so that when Zak went into Sheremetyevo he didn’t have you by his side. Yeah, Mike, I know what I’m asking. What I’m asking is: were you part of the set-up? How do you feel about a polygraph, make sure you’re telling the truth when you deny what I’ve just said …

How about a break for refreshments, the lawyer suggested. Get something sent in, Kincaid told him.

So where do you and Zak stay in Moscow, Mike? You use a hotel or a company pad? Know anybody in Moscow? Outside the company, I mean … The stylus on a polygraph would have flickered, he was aware. What about girls, Mike? I mean, Moscow’s full of them? No girls, at all? So what the hell do you do in the evenings, because you don’t remind me of a Bolshoi man, if you know what I mean …

‘Okay,’ Pearce told him. ‘Zak and I have a couple of girls we see regularly when we’re in Moscow.’

Oh shit – Kincaid heard the slight drawing in of breath as the company representative tried not to react.

‘Couple of girls you see regularly in Paris and Rome and New York as well, I guess.’

Pearce laughed. ‘Actually not Paris or Rome because we don’t overnight there.’

This is like Dwyer at Nite Flite, Kincaid thought, this is one big honeypot.

The interview ended an hour later. It was fifty minutes to the last Moscow flight of the day. Kincaid hand-wrote a summary report on the interview, plus a request for Ivor Lukyanov to run checks on the two girls named by Pearce, and instructed Matthews to send them to Moscow on the secure fax.

The sky was laced with purple and the runway lights of Sheremetyevo were bright against the grey. The Ilyushin touched down and taxied toward the terminal. Walk to the Novotel and get the courtesy coach into town, Sherenko had said. Hope to hell immigration is quick tonight, Kincaid thought. The aircraft stopped and the seat belt sign flicked off. He stood, joined the line, and hurried off the plane. Sherenko was waiting at the top of the jetbridge. Ten minutes later they turned left out of the airport towards Moscow.

Kincaid settled in the passenger seat. ‘The pick-up’s appreciated.’

Sherenko waved the thanks aside. ‘So what about Pearce? You think the girlfriends might be involved?’

‘Pearce is straight. It could be he or Whyte let something slip, but if it was I don’t think it was Pearce.’

‘Why not?’

‘Pearce was Mountain and Arctic Warfare Cadre, therefore he’d have done the interrogation course.’

Sherenko changed down to beat a set of traffic lights. ‘Except the interrogation course doesn’t tell you what to say when somebody’s unzipping your flies. Or perhaps yours did.’

‘So what about Moscow?’ Kincaid asked.

‘You mean the interrogation course or the Contex money?’

‘Whichever.’

‘The ConTex interviews were routine though a couple of people were missing, including Maddox’s secretary. The financial backgrounds on Maddox and Dwyer are still coming in, but we might have a problem with Maddox. He’s married, but according to sources he’s having an affair with a First Secretary at the US embassy.’

‘Any indication she’s screwing with someone else as well?’

‘Not yet, but we’re checking. We’re also checking on the girlfriends of the two couriers.’

‘What about the security company who were supposed to make the pick-up?’ Kincaid asked.

‘Leaks like a sieve. The boys making the pick-up cocked up all the way down the line but seemed straightforward.’

‘You believe them?’

‘Probably.’

‘Why?’

‘The same reason you would. If I’d lifted six million, even if I had a cut of six million, I wouldn’t be in Moscow now.’

‘What about whoever runs the mafia at Sheremetyevo?’

‘Mikhail came up with a name. Alexei Kosygin. Igor’s running a check on him.’ Sherenko leaned back and handed Kincaid a box from the rear seat. ‘Present. You’re booked in at the range at six in the morning.’

They crossed the ring road and dropped toward the city centre, the traffic suddenly busy around them. Sherenko turned off the main road and into a side street, trees along the pavement and cars parked on either side.

‘So what was Moscow like five years ago today?’ Kincaid asked.

Sherenko reversed into a space and switched off the engine. ‘No idea. I wasn’t here.’

Vorkov left the glass-fronted building at Yasenevo, on the outskirts of Moscow, and was driven towards the city. It was shortly after ten.

Felix Andreyevich Vorkov was forty-three years old, tall, with dark hair swept back, well-built but even better dressed. In the old KGB Vorkov had attained the rank of major. In the new order, with the KGB disbanded and its functions divided, Vorkov had made full colonel in the SVR, the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service, formerly the First Chief Directorate.

Five years ago there had been chaos in Moscow … Five years ago today in New York Nikolai Sherenko had done the job on East 54th – the ghost came at him … Not that Vorkov knew all the details, because then, as now, Malenkov didn’t tell him everything. Thank God Malenkov had known about the bastard, though; thank God Sherenko had taken him out.

The cellphone rang.

‘Yes.’

‘The shipment’s on the way,’ he was informed. No other details, because the line wasn’t secure.

‘Good.’

Thirteen minutes later Vorkov’s unmarked car stopped outside the Up and Down Club. Vorkov told his driver he would call him when he needed collection and went inside.

Alexei Kosygin was seated at a table in the corner. Kosygin was early thirties, squat build, and dressed in a designer suit. He had two bodyguards on the next table, and two girls at his own. He greeted Vorkov, poured him a glass of champagne, and nodded that the girls should leave for a moment.

‘Za nas.’ Vorkov emptied the glass in one and allowed Kosygin to pour him another. ‘Thought you ought to know …’ It was said casually, as if it was interesting rather than important. ‘Somebody pulled your FSB file this evening.’

Kosygin poured them each another glass. ‘Which somebody?’

‘Omega, the security company. I’m not sure who in the company is looking at you. No doubt we’ll find out.’

4

The headlights bumped through the night behind him and the half moon arced like a shepherd’s crook over him. Another thirty minutes and he’d take a break. Karpov changed up and checked in the wing mirrors. Karpov was ex-military, so did things like checking rear mirrors. The man in the passenger seat unscrewed the flask and poured him a mug. Karpov swung round the bend and saw the car pulled into the roadside, saw the woman – mid-twenties and short skirt – waving to him. Christ, he laughed: must think he’d been born yesterday. He changed down and eased his foot on the accelerator. The trees on either side were like ghosts. They overtook a series of slower-moving trucks and purred on, the trees flashing by as if they, not him, were moving. The night was a brighter silver now and the man to his right was slumped in the seat, apparently asleep. Karpov rounded the bend. The Volvo was slewed at an angle, totally blocking the road.

‘We’re on,’ the man in the passenger seat whispered in the Motorola and wound down his window.

Karpov changed down and stopped thirty metres away from the Volvo. The men came out from the trees, five of them, all armed – in the dark he couldn’t make out the details. The first man reached him. His face was blackened and the gun he pointed at Karpov was a Kalashnikov. Another man joined him on the driver’s side of the cab, two others on the passenger side and one in front. What’re you carrying, they would ask; behave and you’re okay, they would tell him. Would kill him anyway.

‘Get down,’ the first man ordered him. The moon was more three-quarters than half, Karpov thought; funny how you noticed the insignificant things. ‘Get down,’ the man told him again.

The night erupted, sub-machine fire pouring in from the murk of the woods on either side, the first rounds tearing down the man giving the orders, plus the man at his side, and more slamming into the man in front of the cab. To Karpov’s right the man in the passenger seat raised his AK so that it cleared the window and squeezed the trigger.

The silence descended again. The figures came out of the trees, kicked the bodies round the cab, and made sure they were dead. ‘Bezdelniki luybiteli.’ Fucking amateurs. The turbo-charged Mitsubishi Shogun emerged from the black behind them and stopped behind the Scania. Karpov lit a Marlboro, left the cab and stepped through the carnage to the Volvo. The keys were in place. He started the engine, pulled the Volvo clear, returned to the Scania, and drove on.

Behind him the headlights of the back-up fell into position.

Kincaid’s brain was beginning to swim. He declined another vodka, knew he couldn’t win, shrugged, held up the glass in a toast, and downed another stogram. A waiter brought the next round of food, and a second the next bottle. Joshua dead and buried, so what the hell.

The party was in a private room off the main dining area; the table was circular, the centre section revolving so they could help themselves to the food piled high on the plates. Sherenko was on the other side of the table, drinking beer and an occasional malt. Grere Jameson was to his right, at Gerasimov’s side.

Mikhail Gerasimov rose and raised his glass. ‘To Alpha.’

They downed the vodka, the glasses were refilled, and someone else stood up and proposed another toast. ‘To Russia.’

Another round was poured, another toast. ‘To the job at the White House.’

‘To Afghanistan.’

‘To the bastards at the Kremlin.’

There was an uneasy silence.

Gerasimov stood again. ‘To Friends.’ He raised his glass. ‘That they, like we, never forget.’

The mood changed back again. ‘To Friends.’

When the Omega driver delivered him to the building which concealed the firing range five hours later, Kincaid’s head was surprisingly clear. There is a God, he decided, and this morning God was on his side. The range was busy. He ignored those around him, worked carefully and methodically for forty minutes, then was driven to the Omega offices. Sherenko was at his desk. They briefed Riley on their arrangements for that day, checked that Igor Lukyanov had not received any intelligence on the mafia boss Alex Kosygin or the Moscow girlfriends of the couriers Whyte and Pearce, confirmed that no body resembling Whyte’s had been brought in to the morgue on C’urupy Ulica, and drove to the ConTex offices for the interviews with non-American staff members absent the previous day. By midday they were back.

‘So?’ Sherenko settled behind his desk.

‘So last night is beginning to wreak its revenge.’

Kincaid fetched two black coffees.

‘Update on the financial backgrounds of Maddox and Dwyer.’ Riley gave them the reports. ‘All the bank accounts credited to each appear to be in order. How was ConTex?’

‘Two of the three who weren’t at work yesterday are back,’ Sherenko told him. ‘Maddox’s secretary wasn’t there again. There was a message at the switchboard that she was sick.’

Riley perched on the front of the desk. ‘What do you think?’

‘No problems with the two we interviewed.’

‘But?’

‘Money goes missing, next day Maddox’s secretary doesn’t show for work. We investigate, she goes sick.’

‘So what do you suggest?’

‘Leave it till tomorrow. If she doesn’t show, we go see her.’

The Kosygin material began to come through. Sherenko copied it and Kincaid tried the telephone numbers of the girls Pearce had given him in London the day before.

‘No answer,’ he told Sherenko.

They settled down to the material:

Alexei Ivanevich Kosygin. Born 1964. Education: School Number 20 and Moscow State Institute of International Relations. Occupation: businessman. Frequent trips to Europe and the Middle and Far East. Home and office address and telephone numbers.

‘Not much.’ Kincaid tossed his copy on to the desk. ‘Either we have the wrong man or the file’s been filleted.’ His head thumped and his mouth and throat were dry. ‘What’s the conventional wisdom from Moscow?’

Sherenko shrugged. ‘Either he’s clean, which nobody is. Or he’s bent, which everyone is. Or he has connections and somebody’s protecting him.’

Kincaid read the report again. ‘If he’s mafia, what sort of things is he running as well as the airport?’

‘Could be anything. He was educated at School Number 20, one of the top schools in Moscow, which suggests his parents were high up in the Party. He was also educated at the Institute of International Relations, which is the best there is, so his classmates will already be going places in government or business. He’ll speak at least one foreign language, certainly English, and he’s sophisticated, with good connections.’ Sherenko leaned back in his chair. ‘He’s doing the airport because that’s a nice little earner, but which probably also keeps him cosy with the FSB. He lets them know what’s going on, and they give him some protection. Probably the SVR, the foreign intelligence people as well.

‘He probably has interests in some clubs, runs one or two floors of a couple of hotels. Almost certainly he has some deals going with foreign businessmen.’ Sherenko stood up and paced the room. ‘Hell, he’s just what the Americans and the English and the French and the Germans and everybody else is screaming for. So he goes into partnership with them, fronts them. Plus he’s probably doing some share scams, might be into property, including overseas. Next time you go home you’ll probably find he owns half of New England. I mean, this guy is what the Protestant ethic and the American dream are all about. And in twenty, thirty years time he’ll be a pillar of the community.

‘Oh yeah, he’s probably having some run-ins with the banks. He’ll have taken out some loans, I mean big loans, but now some of the banks will be calling them in. So a banker goes missing, or goes dead. Gets blown up, gets shot, gets dead because someone’s put some sort of poison in his telephone, so every time he uses it he’s killing himself.

‘And each evening friend Alexei does the clubs, and picks up the girls, and has a great time.’ He looked at Kincaid. ‘Remind you of anyone?’

‘Yeah. He reminds me of the way some of America’s own great and good got started.’

‘You said it, not me.’

Something about the night before, Kincaid remembered. ‘Last night at the party.’

‘Yeah?’

‘One of the toasts was the bastards at the Kremlin, another was to Friends. What was that about?’

‘Betrayal.’ Sherenko was sharp, almost aggressive. He swung in his chair, checked the details on the report, lifted the telephone, and punched the number.

‘This is Nikolai Sherenko, from Omega. I’d like to speak with Mr Kosygin.’ He flicked the phone on to mute. ‘Kosygin also loves being called Mister.’ He flicked the mute off. ‘Sure, I’ll wait.’ He stared at the ceiling. ‘Mr Kosygin. Good afternoon. This is Nikolai Sherenko from Omega. There’s something we should talk about …’ He listened. ‘Yeah, the Tokyo at eight would be fine.’

He put the phone down.

‘So …’ Kincaid asked.

‘That was too easy. The bastard didn’t even ask who or what Omega was, or what it was about.’

‘Therefore he knows about the money?’

‘Either that or someone tipped him off.’

Gerasimov and Jameson were still out. They had a meeting with Kosygin this evening, they told Riley; like to put it on record in case there were any comebacks; like to get the company’s and ConTex’s go-ahead. Decision by six, Riley told them.

Alexei Kosygin replaced the phone and sat back in the leather executive chair he had had flown in from Berlin. The office was situated on an upper floor of the Intourist Hotel, at the end looking toward Red Square and the Kremlin. It was modern – computer, fax, shredder, three telephones, plus concealed drinks cabinet. It was also relatively secure, minders in the outer office, where his two secretaries sat, and reinforced doors.

He swung in the chair and punched Vorkov’s direct number at Yasenevo. There was no answer. He pressed the button for another line and punched the number of the cellphone. Felix Vorkov answered three seconds later.

‘It’s Alexei. The thing you mentioned last night. They’ve been in touch. I’m meeting them tonight.’

Vorkov was relaxed, as if it didn’t matter. Plus the fact that cellphones were still notoriously insecure. ‘Fine. I’ll be in touch tomorrow.’

Kosygin pressed the button for another line and called the second cellphone.

‘Yuri, it’s Alexei. Slight change of plan for tonight … Yeah, the Tokyo …’

He called the next number.

‘Olga. It’s Alexei. Change of plan for this evening. We’ll go to the Tokyo first.’ Olga knew the score and did what she was told. ‘Tell Tanya.’

So what else, who else? Because tonight was a game, and Kosygin liked games. He called the next number, spoke to the secretary, and was put through.

‘It’s Alexei. Wondered what you were doing this evening. It’s Yuri’s last night in town for a couple of weeks.’

‘Alexei, last night was Yuri’s last in town.’

‘Apparently he was delayed; he phoned me this morning.’

‘Who else is coming?’

‘Couple of girls, Olga and Tanya.’

‘You playing one of your games, Alexei?’

‘What makes you think I’m playing a game?’

‘Because I know you.’

‘So you want in?’

‘Sure.’

At five Kincaid made contact with the first of the girls named by Pearce in London. They can’t make tonight – he flicked the phone to mute and told Sherenko; she suggests tomorrow evening.

Sherenko looked across the desk. ‘Where?’

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.