Moscow USA. Gordon Stevens
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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.
‘No answer,’ he told Sherenko.
They settled down to the material:
Alexei Ivanevich Kosygin. Born 1964. Education: School Number 20 and Moscow State Institute of International Relations. Occupation: businessman. Frequent trips to Europe and the Middle and Far East. Home and office address and telephone numbers.
‘Not much.’ Kincaid tossed his copy on to the desk. ‘Either we have the wrong man or the file’s been filleted.’ His head thumped and his mouth and throat were dry. ‘What’s the conventional wisdom from Moscow?’
Sherenko shrugged. ‘Either he’s clean, which nobody is. Or he’s bent, which everyone is. Or he has connections and somebody’s protecting him.’
Kincaid read the report again. ‘If he’s mafia, what sort of things is he running as well as the airport?’
‘Could be anything. He was educated at School Number 20, one of the top schools in Moscow, which suggests his parents were high up in the Party. He was also educated at the Institute of International Relations, which is the best there is, so his classmates will already be going places in government or business. He’ll speak at least one foreign language, certainly English, and he’s sophisticated, with good connections.’ Sherenko leaned back in his chair. ‘He’s doing the airport because that’s a nice little earner, but which probably also keeps him cosy with the FSB. He lets them know what’s going on, and they give him some protection. Probably the SVR, the foreign intelligence people as well.
‘He probably has interests in some clubs, runs one or two floors of a couple of hotels. Almost certainly he has some deals going with foreign businessmen.’ Sherenko stood up and paced the room. ‘Hell, he’s just what the Americans and the English and the French and the Germans and everybody else is screaming for. So he goes into partnership with them, fronts them. Plus he’s probably doing some share scams, might be into property, including overseas. Next time you go home you’ll probably find he owns half of New England. I mean, this guy is what the Protestant ethic and the American dream are all about. And in twenty, thirty years time he’ll be a pillar of the community.
‘Oh yeah, he’s probably having some run-ins with the banks. He’ll have taken out some loans, I mean big loans, but now some of the banks will be calling them in. So a banker goes missing, or goes dead. Gets blown up, gets shot, gets dead because someone’s put some sort of poison in his telephone, so every time he uses it he’s killing himself.
‘And each evening friend Alexei does the clubs, and picks up the girls, and has a great time.’ He looked at Kincaid. ‘Remind you of anyone?’
‘Yeah. He reminds me of the way some of America’s own great and good got started.’
‘You said it, not me.’
Something about the night before, Kincaid remembered. ‘Last night at the party.’
‘Yeah?’
‘One of the toasts was the bastards at the Kremlin, another was to Friends. What was that about?’
‘Betrayal.’ Sherenko was sharp, almost aggressive. He swung in his chair, checked the details on the report, lifted the telephone, and punched the number.
‘This is Nikolai Sherenko, from Omega. I’d like to speak with Mr Kosygin.’ He flicked the phone on to mute. ‘Kosygin also loves being called Mister.’ He flicked the mute off. ‘Sure, I’ll wait.’ He stared at the ceiling. ‘Mr Kosygin. Good afternoon. This is Nikolai Sherenko from Omega. There’s something we should talk about …’ He listened. ‘Yeah, the Tokyo at eight would be fine.’
He put the phone down.
‘So …’ Kincaid asked.
‘That was too easy. The bastard didn’t even ask who or what Omega was, or what it was about.’
‘Therefore he knows about the money?’
‘Either that or someone tipped him off.’
Gerasimov and Jameson were still out. They had a meeting with Kosygin this evening, they told Riley; like to put it on record in case there were any comebacks; like to get the company’s and ConTex’s go-ahead. Decision by six, Riley told them.
Alexei Kosygin replaced the phone and sat back in the leather executive chair he had had flown in from Berlin. The office was situated on an upper floor of the Intourist Hotel, at the end looking toward Red Square and the Kremlin. It was modern – computer, fax, shredder, three telephones, plus concealed drinks cabinet. It was also relatively secure, minders in the outer office, where his two secretaries sat, and reinforced doors.
He swung in the chair and punched Vorkov’s direct number at Yasenevo. There was no answer. He pressed the button for another line and punched the number of the cellphone. Felix Vorkov answered three seconds later.
‘It’s Alexei. The thing you mentioned last night. They’ve been in touch. I’m meeting them tonight.’
Vorkov was relaxed, as if it didn’t matter. Plus the fact that cellphones were still notoriously insecure. ‘Fine. I’ll be in touch tomorrow.’
Kosygin pressed the button for another line and called