Gordon Stevens - Moscow USA

Chert vozmi , Kincaid thought. Screw you. You didn’t stand in the morgue at Belle Vue, you had no idea what it means to go into a place like the morgue on C’urupy Ulica. He leaned across, wrenched the bottle from Sherenko’s grasp, and took a long pull.

Sherenko took the bottle back, emptied it, threw it in a bin at the side of a kiosk with tables in front, jerked into the driver’s seat and started the engine in one movement, and pulled away, barely waiting for Kincaid to get in.

‘Riley said you and Brady were showing me Moscow tonight.’ Sherenko’s eyes were fixed on the road in front.

Screw you, Sherenko, Kincaid thought again. Screw you, Joshua. ‘Yeah. Show you Moscow.’

When the two of them plus Brady arrived at the Santa Fe it was almost nine-thirty. The restaurant, in one of Moscow’s residential suburbs, was protected by tall white walls, BMWs and Mercedes were pulled in to the dust strip between the road and the wall, and the South Western American style double gates were slightly ajar, one guard outside and a second inside. Sherenko nodded at the guards and led Kincaid and Brady through. The restaurant was to the left, white-washed and Spanish style, with steps up to it.

The first bar was spacious, high ceilings and tables and chairs around the edge. All of those present were well-dressed, a mix of expats and Russians. They looked round, chose a table near the door, and smiled at the waitress who asked for their drink orders. Didn’t expect to find tequila and Tex-Mex in Moscow, Brady joked, and ordered a margarita. Same, Kincaid told the waitress. Three – Sherenko held up three fingers. Two minutes later the waitress brought the margaritas and took their orders: salsa dip, ribs and French fries, and San Miguels in the bottle.

‘ Vashe zdorovye .’ Kincaid held up the glass.

The woman came in the door behind them, looked at Kincaid and Brady, allowed her eyes to settle on Sherenko, and walked through to the restaurant at the far end. She was mid-twenties, tall, dark hair immaculately groomed, high-heeled shoes and expensive dress.

Brady turned as she went past.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ Sherenko told him.

‘Why not?’

‘You couldn’t afford it.’

Brady was still watching the woman. ‘Why couldn’t I?’

The waitress cleared the cocktails and brought the San Miguels.

Sherenko rubbed the lime round the rim of the bottle. ‘To understand, you have to understand the new Russian women, some of whom you see here tonight.’ He waved his hand towards the rest of the bar, the movement controlled and economic. ‘Okay, some of them are working girls. Some of them are young, probably late teens, dressing up and trying to look good. Others are high-class, good lookers, good dressers. Probably born into the party. By which I mean the Communist Party.’

He took a pull of San Miguel and smiled as the waitress served them the tortilla chips and salsa.

‘There is, however, a third type. Probably slightly older. Late twenties, early thirties. Similar background, university educated and multi-lingual, but now running their own businesses, or at least successful in their chosen careers. High-earners and high-players, but not on the game.’ He played with the bottle. ‘A woman like this might be single or might still be married but is running the show, might have got fed up with her husband. Perhaps he drinks too much Stoli so she’s kicked him out.’

He looked at Kincaid. Too close to home – Kincaid felt the unease, though for Stolichnaya read Jack Daniels. Screw you, Sherenko.

Sherenko looked back at Brady. ‘So she works hard during the daytime and plays hard at night. Comes to a place like this – hell, you can see them, see the way they do it. They could make the catwalks in Milan without problems, but the fashion world doesn’t appeal because it’s not as much fun as here.’ Sherenko looked round the bar again and Kincaid realized the woman who had come in earlier was glancing at him. ‘So she comes in, looks round, decides who she likes the look of. Makes eye contact and they’ll eat, possibly dance. She might pay, he might pay, it doesn’t matter. Might take in a club, might do some dope. And if she fancies him then she’ll go to bed with him; if she doesn’t, she’ll say ciao.’ He paused slightly. ‘ Takova zhizn .’ He threw back his head and hands in a slightly exaggerated manner. ‘I’m me and nobody else. Take me or leave me.’

Arrogant son-of-a-bitch, Kincaid thought again.

‘So why couldn’t I afford one?’ Brady asked.

‘You could still afford some of them, but not the high class girls, not the ones you’re really talking about.’

And you’re saying you could, Kincaid thought. More than that. You’re saying you wouldn’t have to.

‘Why not?’ Brady asked.

‘A year ago the men they went for, the ones with the dollars, were the expats, the foreign businessmen. Now the ones with the real money in Moscow are the mafia.’

When Sherenko dropped them at the block containing the company apartment it was past eleven. The apartment was on the fourth floor, the furniture and decor functional rather than attractive. Two bedrooms, sitting-room, kitchen at the rear, and small bathroom. No bath, but an electric power shower bought in London.

Riley was at a computer in the sitting-room. ‘Coffee?’ He logged off the Internet.

‘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.