Читать книгу Moscow USA - Gordon Stevens - Страница 10

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.’