Moscow USA. Gordon Stevens
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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.
‘What about it?’
‘It’s gone missing.’
Maddox’s flight landed at Sheremetyevo just over three hours later. Arriving now, Maddox told his driver on the cellphone the moment he stepped off the plane. Even late evening the militia moved cars on outside the airport, so drivers waited at the Novotel, 200 metres away. Maddox pushed his way through the freelance drivers offering cab rides into the city and went outside. The Cherokee Grand Jeep pulled in. Maddox grunted a greeting, slid into the rear seat, and phoned Dwyer that he was on his way in. Thirty-five minutes later he was in his office off Tverskaya.
Dwyer sat opposite him and slightly left, his facial muscles twitching occasionally with nerves, and the American manager liaising with the Russian security company contracted by ConTex sat to the right, trying not to show anything. Maddox thanked his secretary for working late and asked her to bring him coffee.
‘Tell me.’ He looked at the security liaison manager.
‘The courier company confirm that one of their people, Whyte, left London as scheduled. Whyte was travelling alone. The courier scheduled to accompany him was taken ill this morning and there wasn’t time to bring in a replacement. British Airways have confirmed that Whyte was on the flight; the last time they saw him was walking up the jetbridge from the aircraft. Immigration confirm that Whyte was met by two security people. Problem is, they weren’t ours. The security team who were supposed to meet him were held up and arrived late.’
‘Jeez …’ Heads and jobs and reputations on the line, Maddox was aware; not just the man opposite him. He swung in the chair, sipped the coffee and gave himself time to think. ‘Houston’s been informed?’ It was to the security liaison.
‘Yes.’
‘And you’ve spoken to McIntyre?’ This time to Dwyer.
Cal McIntyre was President of ConTex, Cal McIntyre was ConTex. Cal McIntyre would already have been informed, but McIntyre would be waiting for Maddox to call him, because that was the way McIntyre operated.
‘Not personally.’
‘Better do it, then.’ Maddox put the mug back on the table. ‘Anything else before I talk to Cal?’
‘I still need the five million,’ Dwyer told him.
Thanks, Maddox almost said. He punched one of the direct numbers to McIntyre’s office in Houston on the Stu-iii, flicked the telephone on conference so they could all hear, then left his desk and stood with his back to the window, because that was what McIntyre would do when he took the call.
‘Cal McIntyre’s office.’ The secretary was honey-toned. Blond hair and good-looking, Maddox remembered. And efficient, because that was the only way you survived with McIntyre.
‘Hi, Shirl, it’s Arnie Maddox in Moscow. Is Cal there?’ He waited for the connection. In Moscow it was late evening, the sky purpling. In Houston it was early afternoon, the sky blue and the sun blazing. ‘Cal. Arnie Maddox in Moscow.’
‘Arnie.’ McIntyre was tall, big-boned but gaunt, early sixties and hide skin. He pushed the chair back from the desk, stood up, and leaned with his back against the window, the city spread seventeen storeys below.
‘Cal, I’m going secure.’ Maddox put the call on hold and turned the key of the Stu-iii. In Houston McIntyre did the same. ‘You’ve been informed.’ Maddox resumed the conversation.
‘Yep.’