Moscow USA

‘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.