Gordon Stevens - Moscow USA

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.

The convoy cut across the river, passed the outer ring road, dropped toward the city centre and turned right down Gertsena Ulica. The street was lined with shops, three- or four-storey apartments and offices above them, and an occasional white-painted church or garden, railed off and set back from the road. The lead Saab stopped and the pick-ups stepped on to the pavement.

The door was wood and painted a dark heavy brown, no number on it. On one side was an electrical shop and on the other a small supermarket, both filled with shoppers. One of the pick-ups crossed the pavement and checked inside. The Volvo slid in behind the lead Saab, no doors opening, and the Volvo itself pointing out with enough space in front to scream away. The tail Saab slid in behind the Volvo and the other pick-ups got out, hands inside their jackets. The pick-up at the door checked inside and nodded.

Still a chance for someone to take them out – Kincaid glanced down and across the street. On the opposite side of the road the BMW pulled into position.

Clear, the komandir told Kincaid. Kincaid slid out, pulled the bag after him, Brady behind him and the pick-ups tight around them, crossed the pavement, up the single worn step to the door, and entered the building.

The floor inside was stone, there were stone stairs to the left, the walls were painted a faded off-cream, and an ancient elevator with a metal grille rattled up the front. The Omega team ignored the elevator and took the stairs, turned a corner, came to a landing, two doors off it, and continued up, came to another landing then another. The door on the left was wood but the one on the right was padded leather, the usual indication that the door itself was steel. The keyboard for the security lock was on the left. The team leader punched in the combination, pushed open the door and went in, Kincaid and Brady behind him and the pick-ups behind them.