Gordon Stevens - Moscow USA

The second was taller and early fifties. On a tray in front of her, balanced on makeshift legs, were sets of audio tapes. Her hair was tied back, her back was straight and her dress was blue and clean and neatly pressed. A light coat was thrown over her shoulders and on the left side of her bodice she wore a row of medals.

They walked past her and down the steps into the underpass. The passageway was the familiar grey concrete, beggars and vendors lining the walls: a blind war veteran holding out his hands and a couple selling matryoshka dolls, a woman selling lottery tickets and more stalls selling military badges and fake icons. From the end nearest the metro came the sound of a string quartet.

They passed the musicians and took the steps to Tverskaya. The National Hotel was on the corner, Maxim’s nightclub on the ground floor below it and a fashion boutique next to it. Food stalls were spaced to the left, people eating at tables and a gypsy girl, thin and pretty, begging near them, her parents watching from twenty yards away. Beyond the shops the Intourist Hotel towered into the sky, Mercedes and BMWs were parked three deep on the road and along the pavement outside, a stretch limousine was pulled against the steps to the canopy over the entrance, and heavily-built young men in suits stood like phalanxes at the doors.

Ten minutes later they came to Nite Flite. Two well-dressed young women smiled at the thick-set man on the door and went in. Behind him a queue of tourists waited patiently. Maddox ignored the queue and went to the man on the door. Two more big men hovered in the shadows inside.

‘Full,’ the man told him.

Maddox reached inside his jacket for his wallet and snapped out two $50 bills. The minder took them, stepped aside and allowed them in.

The following morning Maddox spent ninety minutes in the office then took the 9.55 flight to St Petersburg. In London it was seven in the morning. Forty minutes earlier American Airlines flight AA106 had touched down from New York. Amongst the items unloaded and placed in bond were the six million dollars Maddox had ordered the previous afternoon. By the time they were secured in the bond area near Terminal 4 Zak Whyte had done his five miles, returned to the Holiday Inn at the edge of the airport, showered and changed, and taken the lift to the restaurant on the ground floor.

Zak Whyte was thirty-one years old: he stood six-three, weighed in at 190 pounds, and had been out of the United States Marine Corps two years. The security/courier company for which he worked, like others in related fields, had a propensity to recruit men of similar backgrounds. Pearce, the courier who would double up with Whyte on the Moscow run, had served nine years with the British Royal Marine Commandos, making corporal and ending his service with the elite Mountain and Arctic Warfare cadre.

When Whyte entered the restaurant Pearce was already at a table in the corner furthest from the door. Whyte helped himself to orange juice and full English breakfast, and sat down.

‘You all right?’

Pearce’s coffee was untouched. ‘No.’ The belt of pain tightened across his abdomen.

‘What is it?’

‘No idea. Been up since three this morning.’ He forced down some coffee. ‘What time we due out?’

‘They’re collecting us at eight-thirty, pick-up at eight forty-five; the flight’s confirmed as leaving at nine-fifty.’

They always cut it tight. Nobody liked hanging around with what they would be carrying, even in London.

‘Should be okay by then.’ Pearce excused himself and returned to his room.

When Whyte checked him at seven-thirty he was motionless on his bed; at seven forty-five he had not moved. At eight Whyte checked with the office that the pick-up car was en route, notified them of Pearce’s condition, suggested a doctor, and was informed that no other couriers with the relevant visas were available at such notice. He would therefore have to carry the two bags himself, even though they normally doubled up if they were carrying over a million, especially going into Moscow. But one man could carry the two bags, and the boys would meet him the moment he stepped off the plane at Sheremetyevo.

He briefed Pearce, collected the small overnight bag, stuffed it inside the canvas holdall, checked out, and waited in the foyer for the pick-up. Pity about Mick, because Moscow could be fun, especially if you knew where to go. And old sweats like Mick and himself had it worked out, as they had most things worked out.

The Vauxhall Senator stopped outside, the two men in it. Twenty minutes later they had collected the six million from bond, transferred it to the two holdalls (reinforced bottoms, locks and shoulder straps) and driven to Terminal 4.

The drop-off area outside was busy. Whyte went first, pushing the baggage cart, the minder behind so that Whyte and the money were always in his vision. The interior was large and echoing. Whyte pushed the cart to one of the club class check-ins, smiled at the woman and handed over his passport and two tickets.

‘Moscow flight. A Mr Pearce and I have three confirmed seats. Mr Pearce has had to cancel. I’d still like the two bulkhead window seats.’

The entrance to the departure lounge was to the left. The minder watched as Whyte pushed the cart through, handed over his boarding pass for inspection, and cleared passport control. Airside was more secure, but even airside you didn’t hang around. He lifted the bags on to the screening belt, no indication of their weight or contents, parked the trolley to the side, and stepped through the magnetometer frame. To his left the X-ray operator stopped the belt and scanned the image on the screen. Paperwork, Whyte would say if asked. Check with the American embassy, my company and the airline security he would tell them if they pulled him on suspicion of carrying laundered money.

Gate 5 was at the far end of the departure area, flight BA872 already boarding and the last passengers going through. Whyte found the seats, stowed the bags as tightly as he could on the floor, and strapped himself into the seat nearest the aisle. Routine procedure: the bags on the seat or the floor next to the window, the courier in the aisle seat, and the other courier – if they were doubling up – in the nearest seat on the other side of the aisle. No one allowed to get anywhere near the holdalls.

Five minutes later the 767 pushed back; three minutes after that, at 10.02 GMT, it lifted off, climbed over north London, and turned east on the standard route to Moscow over Amsterdam and Berlin. Two hours and sixteen minutes later it crossed the border of what had once been the Soviet Union. An hour and sixteen minutes after that it dropped on to the pockmarked runway of Moscow’s Sheremetyevo airport, trundled to Gate 9, the air bridge was connected, the engines died, and the seatbelt signs flicked off. Whyte lifted the bags and joined the queue to leave the plane.

The boys were waiting at the top of the jetbridge. There were two of them, thirties, big build and disciplined, automatics concealed in waist holsters. A tall woman in the dark green of the Border Guards stood beside them.

‘Good flight?’ The bodyguard’s English was precise without being perfect.

‘Fine.’

Arnie Maddox was halfway to the airport when the cellphone rang. It was six-fifty in the evening; fifteen minutes to the airport and another forty after that till his flight took off for Moscow. The seven hours he had spent in St Petersburg that day had gone well and the paperwork from the last meeting was balanced on his lap.

‘Arnie?’

‘Yep.’ He held the cellphone with his left hand and used his right to turn over the page of the document he was reading.

‘Arnie, it’s Phil. There’s a problem. The money that was coming in this afternoon …’ Dwyer’s voice trailed off.