Moscow USA. Gordon Stevens

enjoy it.’ He finished the coffee and poured himself another. ‘I’ve asked one of the boys to show you both around this evening.’

      He turned to Brady. ‘Give us five, Tom.’ The order was polite and friendly. Brady nodded. Riley settled behind the desk in the left corner of the room and Kincaid pulled a chair in front of it and took the file Riley gave him.

      ‘Background on the ConTex investigation. You’ll be working with one of Mikhail’s people. We know this is a team job, but remember this is Moscow. New Moscow maybe, but some things never change. If you want anything, do it through them.’

      Mikhail Gerasimov was on his way in, the office manager told them.

      ‘Any questions?’ Riley asked Kincaid.

      ‘Not yet.’

      Kincaid went through to the conference room, sat at the table and read through the file. It was eleven hours since he had first been woken in Amsterdam and told to get to London, and the tiredness was seeping into him. Perhaps because he had been woken in the middle of the night, perhaps because he’d been carrying six million dollars and the previous day six million dollars had gone missing. Perhaps because he was in Moscow again.

      The door opened and Gerasimov and Riley came in. Gerasimov was forty-eight, tall and powerfully built.

      ‘Mikhail Sergeyevich Gerasimov.’ Riley did the introductions. ‘Jack Kincaid.’

      ‘Good to meet you, Jack.’

      ‘You too, Mikhail.’

      They sat at the conference table, Gerasimov at the head, his back to the window and facing the door, Riley at the other end, and Kincaid between them. The door to the boardroom opened again and the fourth man came in. I know you – it was a flash in Kincaid’s subconscious. I’ve seen you before.

      ‘Jack Kincaid, Nikolai Sherenko.’ Gerasimov did the introductions this time. ‘I think you’ve already met.’

      ‘Sort of.’ Kincaid spoke in Russian. The angel-khzanitel, at the airport. ‘Good to meet you.’

      ‘You too.’ Sherenko’s reply was in English. Traces of East Coast, almost Boston, Kincaid thought.

      Sherenko hung his jacket on the back of the chair opposite Kincaid and sat down. The Sig Sauer still hung in the shoulder holster, but he had left the Kalashnikov in the secure cupboard in the other office.

      ‘Anyone interested in what was happening today?’ Gerasimov asked him.

      Sherenko shook his head. ‘Not after yesterday.’

      Gerasimov nodded and opened the briefing. ‘The pick-up went smoothly, which it should have done anyway, but ConTex is pleased. ConTex has now confirmed the contract to investigate the six million that went missing yesterday. Grere Jameson flies in from DC tomorrow to head up that investigation.’

      ‘Why?’ Sherenko asked.

      ‘Why what?’

      ‘Why is it necessary for someone to come in from DC to head an investigation in Moscow?’

      Arrogant bastard – it was a flicker in Kincaid’s subconscious.

      Gerasimov was unruffled. ‘Politics. ConTex is an American company, therefore wants to see an American running the show. We want the main ConTex security contract, they call the tune, we dance.’ He switched his attention to Kincaid. ‘You’ve read the reports?’

      ‘Yes.’

      They ran through the various lines of enquiry. Whether the theft came from a conspiracy or a leak of information. ConTex itself, and the Americans and Russians who worked for the company. Whether the plan for the robbery began in Kazakhstan or Moscow, and who knew or might have known of the shipment. The security and courier companies contracted to ConTex and the couriers themselves, including the significance of Pearce’s sudden illness.

      ‘No sign of Whyte yet?’ Kincaid asked.

      ‘We haven’t had time to make enquiries. The primary objective today was the safe pick-up of the second shipment.’ Gerasimov spread his hands on the table. The hands were large and the fingers were thick and muscular. ‘We have his personal details and description, but we’re still waiting for a photograph.’

      They finished the preliminaries and moved to the short and medium term stages of the investigation.

      ‘Background checks on the key players, both American and Russian. Whether any of them are in financial trouble or show indications in the past of sudden jumps in wealth.’ Gerasimov spoke in shorthand, Kincaid thought; the delivery clear-cut but staccato. Or perhaps it was the way he himself heard it, the combination of tiredness and the fact that he hadn’t listened to someone speaking Russian for five years. ‘Whether any of them are screwing, or being screwed by, anyone who might be a security leak. Jack, you run one set of checks through ISS’s offices in London and Washington. Nik, you run a second set through Igor Lukyanov, see if the computers at the FSB have anything to offer. You also check the morgues. Start this evening, show ConTex in Houston that we’re already moving.’

      Five years ago this week he stood in the morgue at Belle Vue … it was a wisp in Kincaid’s subconscious.

      ‘Jack, you arrange interviews with ConTex personnel. Nik, you do the same with the security company personnel. Electronic sweep of ConTex offices and examination of their communication systems. Questions to airline and airport staff, plus interviews with VIP lounge staff and Border Guard personnel for a description of the bogus team which met Whyte.’

      Gerasimov looked round the table. ‘Questions?’

      Sherenko raised his hand. ‘How much time do we have and how long and how far do we go?’

      ‘I’ll tell you after Grere and I have talked.’

      ‘But what’s the bottom line?’

      ‘We want the main security contract for ConTex, therefore we’ll pursue this enquiry as far as we can, but the bottom line is that we don’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell of getting the money back.’

      ‘And ConTex know that?’

      ‘Grere has already warned them that the chances of getting the money back are zero. ConTex aren’t virgins. If we come up with anything more than a detailed report, they’ll be happy.’

      He closed the meeting and they returned to the main offices, Sherenko to his desk in one corner of the main office, and Kincaid to one opposite which had been cleared for him. Brady was waiting patiently. Couple of things to set up, then they’d be gone, Kincaid told him.

      Igor Lukyanov crossed the room and slipped the photograph on to Sherenko’s desk. ‘Zak Whyte. Just come through from London.’

      Sherenko studied it and passed it to Kincaid. Better get it out the way, his expression said. He lifted the telephone and punched the number. ‘This is Nikolai Sherenko at Omega. We’re looking for someone who went missing yesterday. Okay if we come now?’ He put the phone down. ‘You ready?’

      My first time in Moscow since Joshua, Kincaid thought, and the first thing we do is go to a morgue. ‘Yeah, I’m ready.’ He turned to Brady. ‘Get Riley to arrange transport for you back to the apartment. We’ll pick you up when we’re through.’

      They ran off copies of the photograph, took the stone stairs to the ground floor and collected Sherenko’s BMW from the courtyard at the rear. The evening was busy, the pavements crowded.

      Kincaid settled in the passenger seat. ‘So where are we going?’

      ‘The central criminal morgue. Anybody goes missing, that’s where they turn up.’

      ‘If they turn up,’ Kincaid suggested.

      Sherenko laughed.

      They crossed the river, drove along Leninski Prospekt, and turned left down Profsojuznaja Ulica. It was early evening, warm and