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‘Okay, Cal. This is the score. As you’re aware, this morning’s shipment went missing. I’ve begun running checks this end, first indication is that the security contractor screwed up.’ He made a point of taking a mouthful of coffee. ‘The insurance people will obviously want to run their own checks on this. I’m happy with that as long as they don’t get their noses up the wrong asses. Phil’s deal is looking good, Kazakhstan’s on schedule. In view of the latter two points we need a replacement shipment ASAP.’
‘Big shipment, Arnie,’ McIntyre told him, just to let Maddox know, then turned his attention to Dwyer. ‘Phil how close are you?’
‘Close as we can be at this stage.’
‘Anybody else sniffing?’
‘Nobody yet, but it’s only a matter of time.’
McIntyre switched his attention back to Maddox. ‘Okay, Arnie, you got another shipment coming in tomorrow.’ But don’t fuck up again. Because you’ve covered your ass on this one, but next time … ‘What about security?’
‘You want me to sort out someone else?’
‘I will. Speak to you in an hour.’ The ConTex president hung up, returned to his desk, consulted the confidential list of telephone numbers he had drawn up over the years, drew out two, and called the first.
‘Drew, this is Cal McIntyre at ConTex. Got a little problem in Moscow and would appreciate some advice on it.’
‘Shoot,’ the man in the lush forested green of the Virginia countryside told him.
‘Shipment of money’s gone missing. The security company ConTex has been employing are either involved or haven’t got their asses in the ball game. I need another company, able to provide security plus investigation.’
‘Give me an hour,’ the man from Langley told him.
McIntyre thanked him, called the second number, and waited while the secretary connected him.
‘Jon, this is Cal McIntyre at ConTex.’
‘Cal, good to hear. How’s it going?’ A year ago the Deputy Assistant Secretary had been one of the smartest counsels on Capitol Hill; now he was amongst the brightest of the bright at State.
‘Got me a problem in Moscow, Jon. Hear you just got back from there and wondered whether you might be able to help me …’
‘Plenty of security companies in Russia at the moment,’ the former lawyer told him after McIntyre had explained. ‘Give me an hour.’
Forty-three minutes later the Langley desk chief phoned back.
‘Cal, this is Drew. I know it sounds like jobs for the brothers, but the guy you want is Grere Jameson. Used to be with the Agency. One of the best. Should’ve stayed but left to set up his own company. Now runs an outfit called ISS, one of the Beltway Bandits.’ One of the myriad of companies set up by ex-government employees and located within the Washington Beltway. ‘Jameson has a joint venture going with the Russians, goes by the name Omega.’
‘Why do you say he should have stayed?’
‘Because he’s the sort the Agency should have fought like hell to keep instead of allowing him to get pissed off with internal fuck-ups and cost-cuttings.’
He gave McIntyre the number in Bethesda.
‘Thanks, Drew. I owe you.’
Three minutes later the former Capitol Hill counsel phoned back.
‘For what you want, there’s only one.’
‘Who?’
‘Omega.’
He gave McIntyre the details.
‘Thanks, Jon. It’s appreciated.’
The area code was 301. McIntyre called it and asked to speak to Grere Jameson. Mr Jameson was not available, the receptionist informed him and connected him to Jameson’s secretary. Mr Jameson was out of town, the secretary told him, could someone else help or could she get Mr Jameson to phone him back?
‘How long will it take for him to get back to me?’
‘How urgent is it?’
‘Very.’
‘Ten minutes. If he can’t, I’ll let you know.’
COPEX, the Covert and Operational Procurement Exhibition, occupied one entire floor of the Javits Center in the middle of Manhattan. The exhibits themselves were as the name suggested: state-of-the-art covert, security, surveillance, assault and operational gadgetry. Entrance was by invitation only, and requests for invites were carefully vetted. Most of those present were from national or international agencies, governmental or private, and many were from overseas.
Grere Jameson left the intelligence briefing on economic espionage and returned to the main exhibition area.
Five years ago this week someone calling himself Hemmings was phoning the Agency office in New York and asking to speak to Leon Panelli … Four years ago he was out in the cold and setting up his own company … Three years ago a London contact had introduced him to a Russian called Gerasimov who was in town looking for partners for a joint venture project in Moscow …
He stopped to check out a computer encryption programme, then hurried to the bar. Leo Panelli was waiting. Today Leo was senior partner in a Washington think tank providing high level intelligence analysis and risk assessment to US companies contemplating investment overseas.
‘Leo, good to see you.’
‘You too, Grere old friend.’
They shook hands, asked about business, and avoided talking about five years ago. Jameson’s cellphone rang. He excused himself and moved to a corner.
‘Grere, it’s Jenny. A Cal McIntyre from ConTex just phoned. Said it was urgent and asked if you could phone him back. ConTex is an E and P operator with contracts in Russia and Kazakhstan. I’ve had a check run in D and B. Cal McIntyre is president.’
Dun and Bradstreet was a subscriber database providing indepth information on business issues such as company structures, stock-holders and corporate personnel.
Plus ConTex was a big player getting bigger, Jameson thought. Which D and B wouldn’t know. And their Russian security contract expired in four months, because he and Gerasimov had discussed it the previous week.
‘Did he say what he wanted?’
‘No. He just said it was urgent. I told him you’d phone back in ten minutes.’
‘How long ago was that?’
‘Two minutes fifteen.’
‘Get me the times of flights from New York to Houston later this afternoon. Just in case.’
‘I’ve held a seat for you on the 17.25 Continental out of Newark.’
Jameson took down the number in Houston, hooked the encryptor unit on to the cellphone, and called the Moscow number. In Moscow it was twelve midnight. Gerasimov answered on the sixth ring.
‘Mikhail, it’s Grere.’ The conversation was in Russian. ‘I’m going secure.’ Jameson activated the encryptor and resumed the conversation. ‘Cal McIntyre from ConTex just called; he wants me to phone him back urgently. I’m checking in case you know what’s running.’
They discussed the options. Three and a half minutes gone since the office had phoned – Jameson checked the time. He ended the call and keyed the number in Houston.
Grere Jameson on two, McIntyre’s secretary informed the ConTex president. McIntyre glanced up at the clocks on the wall. Eight minutes down, two still to go.
‘Mr Jameson, good afternoon. This is Cal McIntyre. Thanks for calling back so promptly.’
‘My pleasure.’
‘Got a little problem in Moscow.’ Perhaps the Texan drawl was exaggerated, perhaps it was the way McIntyre opened every business discussion. ‘Like to chew it over with you.’
‘I’m in New York. I could be on the five twenty-five Continental flight, be with you eight twenty-one your time. A car at the airport would speed things up.’
‘You got it.’
The sign which the driver held up said simply ConTex. Jameson declined the man’s offer of assistance with his travel bag and followed him outside. In the sky to the west the sun was setting in a ball of fire. Twenty minutes later he shook hands with McIntyre in the ConTex president’s office.
McIntyre was wearing a dinner jacket, red bow tie and cummerbund, as if he had just come from, or was on his way to, an engagement. He poured them each a Black Label and took his place behind his desk.
‘Tell me about ISS and Omega.’
Jameson settled in a large wing-back leather chair in front of McIntyre’s desk but slightly to the right so that he wasn’t facing into the window.
‘ISS is an international security and investigation company staffed by former members of the security and intelligence services, mainly American but sometimes others. We have main offices in Washington and London, and subsidiary offices in other cities. Where necessary we form specific companies for separate projects or countries. In Russia this has taken the form of a joint venture. Omega is the company name of that joint venture.’
‘And who are your Russian partners?’
The sun had set now, and the sky was a gentle layer of blue and purple.
‘Omega is headed by a former KGB general. Most of the staff are former KGB, specialists in their fields.’
‘Why Omega?’ McIntyre asked.
Jameson hadn’t touched the Black Label. ‘Alpha-Omega, the beginning and the end, we provide it all. We would have liked to call the company Alpha, but that would have been confusing.’
‘Why?’
‘Alpha was the KGB’s anti-terrorist and special forces unit. Each republic had its Alpha unit. The head of our company in Moscow is the former head of state Alpha, the man who oversaw it all. A large number of the men we employ are also former members.’
McIntyre leaned forward. ‘Ten years ago they were the enemy, now you’re working with them?’
Jameson smiled. ‘The Berlin Wall came down in ’89, so in fact it’s seven years ago that they were the enemy, not ten.’ He placed the Black Label on McIntyre’s desk. ‘It also depends how you define the enemy. Militarily and politically the Russians may no longer be the enemy, commercially they still are, but so are all our former friends. Britain, Germany, France, Japan. It’s something my Russian partner and I are totally aware of.’ He leaned forward and picked up the glass again. ‘You said you had a problem.’
‘This morning we shipped a consignment of dollars into Moscow. It went missing. We want it investigated.’
‘How much went missing?’
McIntyre took off his jacket, draped it across the back of his chair, and loosened his bow tie. ‘Six million dollars.’ He studied Jameson’s face for a reaction to the amount. Six million was small change, he understood. When the big shipments were going through there were armoured trucks waiting on the runway to load the dollars direct off the plane, and armed guards keeping everyone, but everyone, away. But six million of his money was six million of his money.
‘Hand-carried through Sheremetyevo?’ Jameson asked.
‘Yes.’
‘How many couriers?’
‘There should have been two but one got sick.’
‘You had a secure collection?’
‘We were supposed to have.’
‘What went wrong?’
McIntyre took a file from a drawer on the right side of his desk and passed it to Jameson. Jameson opened it, speed-read the five sheets of report inside, then laid it on the desk. Most people in his business guaranteed the world, but sometimes it was better to be straight. ‘I have to tell you that the chances of recovering that money are less than remote.’
‘The Russian mafia,’ McIntyre suggested.
‘Define Russian mafia.’
‘That’s why I contract people like you, for you to define it for me.’
‘One thing before I do. Are you sending another shipment over to replace the missing money?’
‘En route from New York to London at this moment.’
‘When do you want it in Moscow?’
‘Tomorrow.’
Today in London and Moscow, because of the time difference.
‘I assume you want Omega to provide the secure collection at Sheremetyevo?’
‘Yes.’
‘In that case, would you excuse me while I make the arrangements?’
Jameson telephoned Bethesda and ran the normal security routine. ‘Jim, it’s Grere. I’m with Cal McIntyre at ConTex. We have an immediate escort assignment, London – Moscow, leaving London on the next Moscow flight. I assume that’s the 9.50 AM British Airways. The shipment is six million, so we’ll need two couriers. There’s also an investigation, I’ll send you the background, but the first priority is the escort. Check with London who’s available, and put Moscow on standby for a secure collection at Sheremetyevo. Tell Moscow I want a guardian angel in addition to the pick-up boys. I’ll also speak to Gerasimov.’
On the other side of the desk Cal McIntyre leaned to his right, picked up a phone and spoke to his personal assistant. ‘My appointment tonight. Send my apologies that I can’t attend. Then dinner for two in my office.’
Jameson ended the call, punched Gerasimov’s number, and repeated the security procedure. ‘Mikhail, I’m with Cal McIntyre at ConTex.’ The conversation, in Russian, paralleled the one he had held thirty seconds earlier. ‘Jim’s phoning you from DC. I’ve told him I want an angel-khzanitel at Sheremetyevo as well as the pick-up team.’
He finished the call and sipped the Black Label. The cellphone rang. London and Moscow were running, he was informed. ‘Who’s London sending?’ he asked.
‘The lead man is Brady.’
