Moscow USA. Gordon Stevens

leaned forward. ‘So those are the bad guys. Tell me about the good. Tell me about Omega. Actually, tell me about Alpha.’

      Jameson sipped the Black Label again. ‘In addition to its intelligence role, both inside and outside the Soviet Union, the KGB had a number of secret armed units. One of them was Alpha. Alpha itself was created in the 1970s; its first major operation was a dirty job in Afghanistan: assist in the storming of the presidential palace in Kabul and the assassination of the then president Amin. This was before the Soviet Union occupied Afghanistan and Afghanistan became its Vietnam. In the eighties Alpha became the KGB’s anti-terrorist and Special Forces arm. Everyone knows about them now; then they were top secret.’

      McIntyre leaned back and considered. ‘If everyone in Russia is on the make, how can you be sure your guys aren’t?’

      ‘Because of where their loyalty lies.’

      ‘Explain.’

      The clock on the wall ticked past midnight.

      ‘What happened five years ago this week?’

      McIntyre shook his head.

      ‘The Gorbachev putsch,’ Jameson reminded him. ‘Gorbachev, the architect of the new Russia, on vacation in the Crimea, senior KGB and Red Army officers ordering his arrest, the crowds gathering in the streets, and Yeltsin about to make a last stand in the White House. The KGB sent an Alpha unit into the White House to assassinate Yeltsin. Instead they protected him. If they hadn’t, perhaps the coup would have succeeded. In the event, it failed.’

      ‘Why did Alpha do that?’

      Jameson shrugged.

      ‘So they’re the guys providing the security.’

      ‘Yes.’

      The ConTex president returned to his desk, opened a drawer, pulled out a cigar box, offered it to Jameson – Jameson declining – selected a Havana for himself, and sat down again. ‘And who’ll be doing the investigation?’

      ‘One of the Moscow office.’

      ‘A former member of the KGB.’

      ‘Correct.’

      McIntyre lit the Havana. ‘I’d like an American on board as well.’

      ‘One of the two couriers will stay on as joint investigator.’

      ‘Kincaid from Amsterdam?’

      ‘Correct again.’

      ‘What’s Kincaid’s background?’

      ‘Ex-Agency. Soviet Division.’

      The cigar smoke circled McIntyre like a halo. ‘What about the Russian?’

      ‘That’s Gerasimov’s business, not mine.’

      ‘So Gerasimov will be running the show?’

      ‘Gerasimov and myself. I’m flying to Moscow the day after tomorrow.’

      Which was what he knew McIntyre wanted to hear.

      The cumulus was white against the grey-green of the North Sea. Kincaid declined coffee, eased the business class seat back, and drifted into a light sleep. Thirty-three minutes later the stewardess shook him awake, asked him to fasten his seatbelt, and offered him a hot towel. He thanked her and massaged his face. The Thames was suddenly below him, London in front, then Heathrow, the lights coming fast at them. The 737 touched down, gently but firmly, and taxied to Terminal 4. Behind them a 747 lifted into the morning sky. The seatbelt signs flicked off. He pulled his bag from the overhead locker and made sure he was among the first off. Nine minutes later he was in the public area of Terminal 4. The queues were already clustered round the economy check-ins, and the boys were waiting at the coffee bar at the far end.

      Brady rose and shook his hand. ‘You want a coffee?’

      ‘No time.’

      ‘Pick us up,’ the escort told the driver on the cellphone.

      Twenty minutes later they had collected the shipment from bond, Kincaid and Brady dividing the load between them, and returned to the terminal. Fifty minutes after that BA872 climbed into the sky and carved a graceful bank east. An hour and seventeen minutes after that it crossed into what President Reagan had called the Evil Empire.

      His first time back in Russia since the death on East 54th – the ghost crept up on him … His first time in Moscow since he’d betrayed Joshua …

      The man who collected the BMW and began the twenty-minute drive to the airport wore an inconspicuous grey suit. The first gun he carried, in a shoulder holster on his left side was a Sig Sauer P226, 15-round magazine, and the second was a shortened AKSU47, 5.45mm 30-round mag, which he would hang on a pull strap under his jacket.

      Central Moscow was hot and busy; the usual BMWs and Mercedes parked outside the usual places, and the usual minders with the usual padded jackets. Last year the fashion had been shell-suits and tennis-ball haircuts.

      The traffic lights next to the Moscow Dynamo stadium weren’t working, and there was an army tank at the crossroads outside the red-brick complex built for Catherine the Great to change her clothes before entering Moscow on her visits from St Petersburg, so there might be a road block later.

      He had bought the 320 in Berlin, driven through Poland, crossed the border at Brest, and waited patiently while the police to the west checked his sales and purchase documents and those in the east his travel visas. And when he had arrived in Moscow he had customized it to his own specification. Rear window apparently cracked, no hub caps and front left wing slightly dented. Paintwork off-colour and seat covers, though not the leather beneath them, worn and ripped. Everyone in Moscow wanted a BMW, but with any luck nobody would want his.

      The M10 to St Petersburg stretched in front of him, and the white and glass façade of the Novotel Hotel loomed to his right. He jerked round a pot-hole and pulled off the road and into the airport complex. The road in front divided, one section looping to the departures area on the upper floor, and the other passing underneath the canopy to arrivals. He drove through, parked near the Novotel, hung the Kalashnikov under his jacket, and walked back to the terminal.

      The interior of the arrivals area was dirty and poorly-lit, the usual group of freelance cab drivers clustered around the exit from customs, and more drivers circling the floor near the bank and the shop. A few guards, not many and even those not paying attention. He returned outside and stood on the pavement.

      Two minutes later the convoy swept in – two Saab 9000s, the Volvo between them. Pick-up time, he thought. The drivers remained in the cars, plus one passenger in each of the Saabs. The four men who left them – two from the first, one each from the second and third – moved inside. All were young – late twenties, early thirties – big build but athletic movement. The men went inside and the convoy pulled toward the Novotel.

      In the sky to the west he saw the sun glint on the incoming plane.

      Kincaid felt the bump as the 767 touched down. The Boeing swung right, followed the taxiway and stopped, and the seatbelt signs flicked off. Kincaid pulled one bag on to the seat, stood in the aisle, and allowed Brady to stand in front of him and pull the other bag from the floor. Whyte came this way yesterday, he was aware; Whyte thought everything was going smoothly. He took the weight of the bag, thanked the cabin crew and walked up the tunnel of the jetbridge. The woman in the Border Guard uniform was at the top, two men with her.

      ‘Kincaid?’ One of the two pick-ups greeted him in Russian.

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘How’s the weather in London?’ The first line of the code, still in Russian.

      ‘Fine, how about Moscow?’

      ‘Sunnier than Washington.’

      Right pick-up team today.

      He and Brady gave the woman their passports and visas; she ticked them off a list, waited till one