Gordon Stevens - Moscow USA

The walls and ceiling of the outer office were lined with wood and the linoleum on the floor was worn. There were two desks, the men lounging against them standing to greet them as they came in. A door on the left ran back down a corridor, no indication what was there, and another corridor ran off the outer room, directly in front of them, two doors off it on the left and one on the right. A shaft of sun struggled through the bars on the single window in the room, the dust playing in its light.

‘Welcome to Omega,’ the team leader said in Russian.

Sure, Kincaid thought.

The man who entered from one of the rooms in the corridor in front of them was mid-thirties, just under six feet tall and wiry build. ‘Glad you made it safely.’ The accent was English. ‘Pat Riley.’ ISS’s manager in Moscow, Kincaid understood; service with the Parachute Regiment, ending his career as a major in the Third Battalion, plenty of time at the sharp end, including Northern Ireland, and fluent in Russian.

They shook hands then Riley led Kincaid and Brady along the corridor.

‘ConTex have been notified that you’ve arrived. They want five million delivered right away, the boys will see to that. They want the other million escorted to Kazakhstan tomorrow morning. Tom, you take that down with an escort. Mikhail’s on his way in.’ Mikhail Gerasimov, Grere Jameson’s partner in Moscow. ‘Conference as soon as he arrives. You needn’t attend, Tom.’

He led them into the office on the right of the corridor, overlooking the street. The room was functional but sparse: cream-painted walls, desks with computers, a good-looking woman at one, late twenties and well-dressed, and men at the others. Riley introduced them in Russian, translating for Brady:

‘Tatyana, our office manager …

‘Oleg and Josef, a couple of the boys …

‘Igor Lukyanov …’ Former KGB intelligence, their access point to the present FSB. Lukyanov was five-six and squat; his blond hair was short, and the suit jacket which hung on the back of his chair was expensive and well-cut.

‘Igor, this is Jack Kincaid and Tom Brady from DC. Jack’s working on the ConTex investigation. You probably had a file on him in the old days.’

Gerasimov’s room was on the opposite side of the corridor, and furthest from the outer office. It was wood-lined and small, functional desk and computer, grey carpet on the floor, one print on the wall, and a single window to the courtyard at the rear. The conference room next to it was also small: oval table with hard-backed chairs round it, window on to the courtyard, and the walls were papered, the design like the onion domes of St Basil’s in Red Square.

‘Not like ISS’s offices in London or DC,’ Riley suggested to Brady.

‘Not quite,’ the ex-FBI man conceded.

Riley perched himself on the edge of the table. ‘One thing you have to realize, Tom. Moscow is the third most expensive city in the world. Office space is at a premium; so you pay through the nose or you do a deal with someone you know for somewhere like this. Another thing you have to understand is how the system works here. The owner’s an old friend of Mikhail’s. He runs an import-export business from an office down the corridor, to the left as you come in. We get cheap rates for Omega, and he gets protection from the government and the mafia.’

He led them back to the main office and poured them each a coffee from the percolator in the corner. On one of the phones someone was speaking to Kazakhstan, on another to Kiev, the secure fax humming in the background.

‘While you’re in Moscow, for this trip at least, you’ll be staying in the company apartment which I use. Tom, you’ll be collected at five tomorrow morning, then fly to Kazakhstan with an escort and an interpreter. You return to London via Budapest. It’s an eye-opener. You may even enjoy it.’ He finished the coffee and poured himself another. ‘I’ve asked one of the boys to show you both around this evening.’

He turned to Brady. ‘Give us five, Tom.’ The order was polite and friendly. Brady nodded. Riley settled behind the desk in the left corner of the room and Kincaid pulled a chair in front of it and took the file Riley gave him.

‘Background on the ConTex investigation. You’ll be working with one of Mikhail’s people. We know this is a team job, but remember this is Moscow. New Moscow maybe, but some things never change. If you want anything, do it through them.’

Mikhail Gerasimov was on his way in, the office manager told them.

‘Any questions?’ Riley asked Kincaid.

‘Not yet.’

Kincaid went through to the conference room, sat at the table and read through the file. It was eleven hours since he had first been woken in Amsterdam and told to get to London, and the tiredness was seeping into him. Perhaps because he had been woken in the middle of the night, perhaps because he’d been carrying six million dollars and the previous day six million dollars had gone missing. Perhaps because he was in Moscow again.

The door opened and Gerasimov and Riley came in. Gerasimov was forty-eight, tall and powerfully built.

‘Mikhail Sergeyevich Gerasimov.’ Riley did the introductions. ‘Jack Kincaid.’

‘Good to meet you, Jack.’

‘You too, Mikhail.’

They sat at the conference table, Gerasimov at the head, his back to the window and facing the door, Riley at the other end, and Kincaid between them. The door to the boardroom opened again and the fourth man came in. I know you – it was a flash in Kincaid’s subconscious. I’ve seen you before.

‘Jack Kincaid, Nikolai Sherenko.’ Gerasimov did the introductions this time. ‘I think you’ve already met.’

‘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.’