Читать книгу Moscow USA - Gordon Stevens - Страница 8

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.