Moscow USA. Gordon Stevens

said. ‘What time you seeing Pearce?’

      ‘As soon as I get in.’

      ‘What about the flight back?’

      ‘The first one as soon as I’ve wrapped up with Pearce. I’ll let the office know.’

      Sherenko slowed for a set of lights. ‘Don’t get a cab into town. Most of the drivers are cowboys and the road is bad. Cross to the Novotel, there’s a shuttle for hotel guests every fifteen minutes.’ He turned into Sheremetyevo. ‘Riley told you about the party tonight?’

      ‘Yeah, he gave me the name of the restaurant. I’ll make it if I can.’

      Sherenko pulled up the slope and stopped in front of the departures area on the upper level of the airport building. Kincaid hurried inside, checked on the monitors that his flight was on time, then stood in line for the currency, customs, ticket and passport formalities. Most of those checking in were businessmen, some of them Russian, the expats wearing the standard suits and the Russians wearing Versaces and looking as if they were going to a nightclub. Kincaid bought a black coffee in the Irish Bar and waited for the flight to be called.

      So what was that about last night? Why the hell had he gone walkabout?

      Because Sherenko and Riley had been right, even though they hadn’t told him directly. Because he, Jack Kincaid, God knows how many years in the game, had come into Moscow like all the other expats. Believing that he owned the world. Believing that because Moscow had lost the Cold War the Russians had everything to learn from him, and he had nothing to learn from them. And gently – actually not so gently – but in their different ways, Sherenko and Riley had let him know.

      Riley to start with, when Kincaid had shown his reaction to the Omega offices on Gertsena Ulica, even though Riley had done it indirectly through Brady. Then Sherenko at the Santa Fe, indirectly again, via Brady; and Riley in the company apartment that night. You got a problem with Moscow, Riley had asked. And Riley after he had failed to show Gerasimov the proper respect at their first meeting. Good to meet you, Mikhail, Kincaid had said. Mikhail Sergeyevich – Riley had referred to Gerasimov in the conversation he had had with Kincaid the evening after. Had thrown in Gerasimov’s patronymic, his second name, because in Russian that was a sign of respect. Especially formally, or at a first meeting.

      And Sherenko had pulled him out of the proverbial at the ConTex meeting. Kincaid had assumed that because the guys at ConTex, by whom he meant Maddox and Dwyer, were American like himself, they were telling him the truth. And all the time the bastards had been lying.

      So screw Jack Kincaid, not Riley and Sherenko. Which was what last night had been about.

      He looked up at the monitor, saw that flight SU247 was delayed an hour, and bought another coffee.

      By the time he landed at Heathrow the delay had extended to an hour and a half. He cleared immigration and took the walkway from Terminal 4 to the Hilton.

      So you went into Moscow like the proverbial virgin, Jack old friend. But why? Why did you screw up even though you knew what you were doing? Because you did know, right from the beginning.

      Because five years ago this week I was supposed to hold Joshua’s hand and I didn’t, and therefore, and however indirectly it might have been, I betrayed him as surely as if it had been me who pulled the trigger on him. And all I could do instead was apologize to him and say goodbye to him in the morgue at Belle Vue before the hoods came to take him back to Moscow. And ever since then, Joshua has been sitting on my shoulder like a ghost. So that was what last night was about. Laying Joshua’s ghost. Getting him off my back. And last night I did it.

      He checked with reception and telephoned the suite ISS had rented for the day.

      ‘Rich, it’s Jack Kincaid. I’m downstairs. I wonder if you and I should talk before I come up.’

      Matthews joined him two minutes later.

      ‘Any problems?’ Kincaid asked.

      ‘They’re fidgety.’

      ‘So would you be if one of your people went missing with six million dollars.’

      They ordered coffee, then Kincaid read through the range of reports collated by the London office: the second courier’s statement, the doctor’s report on his condition, and the background searches on both couriers, including financial details. Plus a security report on both.

      ‘The doctor said Pearce had a viral problem and that he’s still suffering from it?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Could we arrange a lab test, see if anything could be used to produce or simulate the condition? A forensic analysis might also be useful – try the toxicology people at Aldermaston. They’ve experience of how the Soviets used to work, so they’ll know what to look for. We might need a polygraph if Pearce doesn’t play ball, or if we suspect he’s not telling us the truth.’

      Matthews signed for the coffee and they went upstairs. The courier Pearce was in an armchair and two other men, a representative of the company and a lawyer, sat on a sofa. Matthews introduced them and they shook hands.

      ‘Before we begin there are certain guidelines.’ The lawyer was mid-thirties, public school accent, and dressed in a pinstripe suit.

      Of course, the ISS man Matthews began to agree.

      Kincaid smiled at the lawyer. ‘Before you say anything else, may I remind you that your clients lost six million dollars of my clients’ money.’ He smiled again. ‘I view this meeting as amicable. I also view your presence at this meeting as being at my discretion. If you have any problems with that you can leave now.’

      The lawyer began to suggest to the company representative that they withdraw for a discussion.

      ‘I’m on the three o’clock flight back to Moscow,’ Kincaid told him. ‘Any costs incurred by any delay will be charged to you.’

      The lawyer sat down.

      Okay, Mike – Kincaid looked at Pearce and switched on the cassette recorder. Take me back to that morning; take me back to the night before. This viral problem, when were you first aware of it, when did you first tell Zak? How did the routine that morning differ from any other? Did you and Zak always know how much you were carrying? Who else knew …

      Got to ask you this, Mike. Any chance Zak set you up, doctored your food or something so you couldn’t make the trip … He watched carefully for Pearce’s reaction. Got to ask you this as well, Mike. Any chance that you set up your own sickness, so that when Zak went into Sheremetyevo he didn’t have you by his side. Yeah, Mike, I know what I’m asking. What I’m asking is: were you part of the set-up? How do you feel about a polygraph, make sure you’re telling the truth when you deny what I’ve just said …

      How about a break for refreshments, the lawyer suggested. Get something sent in, Kincaid told him.

      So where do you and Zak stay in Moscow, Mike? You use a hotel or a company pad? Know anybody in Moscow? Outside the company, I mean … The stylus on a polygraph would have flickered, he was aware. What about girls, Mike? I mean, Moscow’s full of them? No girls, at all? So what the hell do you do in the evenings, because you don’t remind me of a Bolshoi man, if you know what I mean …

      ‘Okay,’ Pearce told him. ‘Zak and I have a couple of girls we see regularly when we’re in Moscow.’

      Oh shit – Kincaid heard the slight drawing in of breath as the company representative tried not to react.

      ‘Couple of girls you see regularly in Paris and Rome and New York as well, I guess.’

      Pearce laughed. ‘Actually not Paris or Rome because we don’t overnight there.’

      This is like Dwyer at Nite Flite, Kincaid thought, this is one big honeypot.

      The interview ended an hour later. It was fifty minutes to the last Moscow flight of the day. Kincaid hand-wrote a summary report on the interview, plus a