Moscow USA. Gordon Stevens

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