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‘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.
Nikolai Sherenko pulled himself from the nightmare and stared at the ceiling. The apartment was quiet around him and the first light shone cold through the windows. He checked the time, rose, pulled on a dressing-gown, and made himself coffee. When he left it was six-thirty. Three minutes before seven he was at the office. Kincaid arrived at seven-fifteen. By seven-thirty they had updated the case log and Gerasimov and Riley had joined them.
The first backgrounds on Maddox and Dwyer at ConTex, and the couriers Whyte and Pearce, had come in overnight. They called for fresh coffee and flicked through them, then Kincaid and Sherenko were driven to the ConTex offices off the Tverskaya.
Maddox and Dwyer were waiting for them in Maddox’s office; both were in shirtsleeves and Maddox wore cowboy boots. They shook hands and sat down, Maddox leaning back in his chair with his feet on the desk, Dwyer in a high-backed leather chair to the right, and Kincaid and Sherenko facing them.
‘I’d like to make two things clear right away.’ Kincaid took the lead. US company, US money goes missing after all. ‘First, we’re all on the same side. Second, I brought in six million yesterday, and only one million of that went to Kazakhstan, so you’ve obviously got something else going which you might not want to talk about.’
‘Appreciated.’ Dwyer looked nervous.
Maddox changed position slightly. ‘Shoot.’
‘I’d like to do the interviews separately.’
‘No problems.’
Because we’re all on the same side, Kincaid understood; because us American boys have to stick together. He opened the briefcase he carried and took out a Sony cassette recorder. ‘I’d also like to tape the interviews. That way there’s no misunderstanding.’
‘Fine,’ Maddox told him. ‘Who’d you want to speak to first?’
‘Guess we’ll start with you.’
Dwyer began to leave. Got a meeting over lunch, but other than that he’d made the day free, he informed them. Kincaid thanked him, watched him go, accepted a coffee and clicked on the cassette recorder. ‘Arnie, I’ve read the reports. Can you take me through them, give us the general overall picture of what happened.’ His ballgame, his demeanour said; him calling the plays.
Maddox led them through his return from Kazakhstan, which was routine; the need for the dollars there, which was also routine, plus the need for additional dollars to finance something Phil Dwyer was working on.
‘Can you tell me what that is?’
Difficult, Maddox’s grimace said.
Commercial confidentiality – Kincaid nodded his understanding, no problems. Take me on, he told Maddox: how’d you communicate with Houston over this? When Kazakhstan wants money, how do your people there tell you? How did this shipment differ from any others? How many staff would have known about it and how much did the company providing the security pick-up know?
They broke for ten minutes while Maddox took a call from Kazakhstan.
Take me through your personal timetable, Kincaid asked Maddox when they reconvened; who you met and who you talked to. Take me through that day. What about the waiter who served him and Phil Dwyer at dinner, what about when he and Phil went for a walk after? What about Nite Flite; anyone pick them out more than the usual way, anyone target them? What about when they left, when Maddox’s driver picked them up?
They moved next door to the office Dwyer was using and ran the same routine, Kincaid asking the questions because the show was his.
Anybody Dwyer had met who’d asked him about what he was doing, anybody ask about the dollar shipments? The shipment was in two sections, they didn’t want the details of course, but what about the people he was dealing with? Were they from a company or a government department or were they individuals? How and when did the subject of payment come up? Did the guys he was dealing with specify a date and did they therefore know the money was coming in? Anyone asked him anything, but anything, which in retrospect struck him as unusual? What about his staff? Anyone at the hotel or Nite Flite?
Dwyer glanced at his watch.
‘Time to leave?’ Kincaid asked.
‘Afraid so.’ Dwyer stood up. ‘Like I said, I have to meet someone over lunch. Feel free to come back this afternoon.’
‘Not necessary, Phil. I think we have everything we want.’ Kincaid returned the cassette recorder to the briefcase and allowed Dwyer to show them out of his office and down the corridor. The atmosphere was relaxed and friendly. They shook hands. Dwyer half-turned from them to return to his office.
‘Hope you used some protection, Phil.’ It was Sherenko, casual, boys amongst boys, beer at the bar and your round next. ‘You know about the girls in Moscow.’
‘Course I used some protection.’ Dwyer was still on the half-turn, the laugh on his face and the conspiracy in his eyes. ‘Course we all know about the girls in …’ His face froze.
The fog descended on Kincaid: deep and cold and freezing. Screw you, Sherenko, he thought, because all morning you sat and listened and didn’t intervene. Okay, so I didn’t give you the chance, but screw you anyway. Screw you Dwyer and Maddox, because you played the American card with me and I fell for it. Thought you were telling me the truth therefore went easy on you. Okay, so I believed you because the ConTex enquiry is as good as wrapped up and the report’s as good as written. Okay, so I went into the goddam interview believing you before you’d even said a word, because I detest and loathe this city just as I detest and loathe people like Sherenko. So screw you, Dwyer and Maddox, for taking me to the cleaners. Screw you, Sherenko, for knowing what they were doing all along, even screw you for getting me out of it. Screw you, Joshua, because you’re still sitting on my shoulder as Bram said you would.
He stared at Dwyer. ‘Thought you said Arnie’s driver collected you and him from Nite Flite, Phil.’ There was just enough threat in his voice. ‘Thought you said you didn’t score that night?’
‘Yeah, well …’ Dwyer hesitated.
‘Think you’d better cancel lunch, Phil.’ Kincaid walked past Dwyer and back into the office, held the door while Dwyer then Sherenko came in, and closed it. ‘You want to sit down, Phil?’
Dwyer sat at his desk, the desk itself no longer a barrier between them, no protection for him. ‘Okay.’ He pulled the handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. ‘I scored at Nite Flite.’ He looked at his watch again. ‘Look guys, I really got to make this lunch.’
‘No problems, Phil,’ Sherenko told him. ‘Do lunch and speak to us after.’ He rose and opened the door for Dwyer. ‘Hell, Phil. Look on the positive side. At least you did wear some protection.’
The relief flooded over Dwyer. ‘Yeah, at least I did.’
They watched him leave, made sure he didn’t speak with Maddox, told Maddox’s secretary they needed ten minutes with the boss, and waited till they were shown in again.
‘Got a problem, Arnie.’ Kincaid looked straight at Maddox. No preamble. ‘You said that you and Phil left Night Flite together, that your driver picked you both up and drove you both home.’ We got it on tape, Arnie – it was in Kincaid’s stare; so time to come clean, time to drop the bullshit. ‘Phil tells us he scored that night. Phil says he picked up someone at Nite Flite.’
Okay, guys – Maddox was always bullish when he was on the defensive. Phil pulled someone. Good-looking chick, but they all were. He’d made sure Phil was covered, though, because although Phil was a man of the world, Moscow was something else. So he’d called his driver, made sure he was waiting outside Nite Flite with strict orders to take Phil and Phil’s piece of ass to Phil’s hotel and nowhere else. Then he had made his own way home. Except Phil was married – hell, they all were. So when Phil had asked him to cover it, he’d agreed.
Bastards – the anger boiled inside Kincaid. You set me up, laughed at me all the way to the bank. No problems, he told Maddox; they’d have to run a couple of things past Phil, but it was Phil who’d suggested he’d scored that night in the first place, so Arnie was covered. And no sweat anyway, because we all like a bit of spare occasionally, especially when we’re away from home.
‘Nite Flite …’ Kincaid picked up with Dwyer when he returned. ‘No problems, and everything’s confidential. The chick you picked up, though. Did you pick her up, or did she pick you up? Good idea taking her to your own hotel, of course, because you have to be careful.’
‘Lucky it wasn’t the Intourist.’ Sherenko’s voice was like winter.
‘Why?’ Dwyer looked at him.
‘Because there you have to buy in-house.’ Kincaid came at him like a wind out of Siberia. ‘Try to take your own in and they beat the shit out of you both.’
Dwyer was theirs, Dwyer would do anything for them. Dwyer would tell them nothing but the purest, most absolute truth.
‘Okay, Phil,’ Kincaid told him. ‘Take us through that evening.’
At four-thirty they left ConTex and the technical team moved in to sweep the premises. Freelance team, by which Sherenko meant FSB boys on a moonlight. Good at their job – installing or detecting – and American gear they’d bought personally from the shop at Frankfurt airport.
By the time Sherenko and Kincaid reached the Omega office Grere Jameson had arrived from Washington via an overnight in London. Kincaid did the introductions, then updated the case log and Sherenko phoned the morgue.
‘No Whyte.’ He put the phone down.
‘You don’t think we should check for ourselves?’
‘You want to?’
‘No point if we’ve left a photo.’
Riley came in, Gerasimov and Jameson behind him. They went through to the conference room, Jameson looking slightly tired and allowing Gerasimov to lead. Gerasimov checked his watch, brought the session to order and asked Sherenko for an update.
‘Looks leaky,’ Sherenko told him.
‘Explain.’
‘The organizational front at ConTex to begin with. The internal security is bad. Knowledge of a money shipment is not restricted. The chain of command and communication is such that too many people know when and how much is coming in, and we haven’t even started on the Russian staff or the office in Kazakhstan.’
Gerasimov turned to Kincaid.
‘There are also potential security problems on the personal front,’ Kincaid told them. ‘Five million of the missing money was requested by a ConTex vice president, Dwyer, who is doing some deal in Moscow. Probably getting ahead of the game in oil or gas leases. Unless it’s a scam, which is not our business at the moment, though I guess it might be sometime. On the night the money was ordered he and Maddox went to Nite Flite. Although they tried to brush it over, Dwyer picked someone up and spent the night with her.’
Gerasimov nodded. ‘Next?’
‘The motor the security pick-up used,’ Sherenko told him. ‘We should get the fingerprint people to take a look at it.’
‘Why?’
‘If it was involved in an accident, and the accident was one reason they didn’t make the airport for the pick-up, there’s an outside chance someone might have left a print.’
‘I’ll get someone in tomorrow.’
‘What about the courier who fell sick in London?’ Jameson spoke for the first time.
‘Tomorrow Nik does the security pick-up team and starts on the ConTex staff, and Jack flies to London to interview the courier. You carrying, Jack?’
‘No.’
‘Might be an idea. Fix him up, Nik.’ Gerasimov looked around the table. ‘What else?’
‘Might be good to know who runs the mafia at the airport.’ It was Sherenko again.
‘Why?’
‘Because if we don’t get anywhere within ConTex, whoever runs the airport mafia might not be too happy that someone else is doing something on his patch. Assuming he had nothing to do with it, of course.’
‘I’ll check it out,’ Gerasimov told him.
They left the conference room and returned to their offices. Gerasimov checked that his driver was waiting, then he and Jameson left.
‘Where are they going?’ Kincaid asked Riley.
‘Get changed, I guess.’
