Moscow USA

‘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 (#ufb43b5a6-d377-55e9-8f28-54b6955e0eee)

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.