Moscow USA

‘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.