Moscow USA. Gordon Stevens

      ‘As I say, he phoned the New York station.’

      ‘Where from?’

      O’Bramsky half-smiled. ‘You’re not going to believe this.’

      ‘Try me.’

      ‘Joshua was calling from Moscow.’ He saw the disbelief in Kincaid’s eyes. ‘Not Moscow as in USSR. Moscow as in Idaho, Moscow USA.’

      Served by the airport four miles out of town.

      ‘Arrangements and timetable?’ Kincaid asked.

      ‘Joshua’s inbound to New York from Seattle. He’s due to arrive at Newark at 1800. We’ve already spoken to him and will speak again when he lands. He’ll be directed through a number of cut-outs. After that he’ll be on his way to you. The contact is at the Famiglia restaurant on East 54th. You’ll be waiting. The security boys will be there as well, in case the opposition finds out or beats the surveillance and tries a heist.’

      ‘Who’s riding shotgun?’

      ‘Langley’s bringing in the best.’

      Erickson received the call fourteen minutes and thirty seconds after the hour. Daniel Michael Erickson was thirty-nine years old, tall, eyes shading between blue and slate-grey, and a body strength concealed beneath the loose sweater and slacks he habitually wore.

      ‘You’re needed in New York,’ his controller told him on his cellphone. ‘Usual communications.’

      Erickson closed the call and returned to the North End area of the city. Boston was warm but quiet, already tightening slightly in anticipation of Hurricane Bob which was forecast to hit the city sometime the following afternoon.

      He changed into a suit, collar and tie, checked the credentials he was carrying, left the safe house, walked three blocks, took a cab to the airport, and caught the next shuttle to La Guardia. The nerves were already eating him. No fear, no edge – he remembered what his instructor had told him.

      At La Guardia he left the plane, cleared the arrivals gate, and automatically scoured the sea of faces for the one that was out of place or the eyes that turned away from his. Perhaps he was getting too old for this, Erickson sometimes thought; perhaps the image of his wife and daughter played on his mind too much nowadays.

      He made his way to the pay phones, called the contact number, switched phones, and waited for the next instructions.

      Kincaid told the driver to drop him two blocks from La Famiglia and walked down the street. Joshua’s flight would be landing in ten minutes; between an hour and ninety minutes after that Joshua would be stepping out of a cab in front of where Kincaid now stood, and entering the restaurant. He checked up and down the street, checked the houses in front and behind. The parked cars were a problem, because the cab dropping Joshua would have to stop in the middle of the street. But it would only be a problem if the Langley tails decided that someone else was sitting on Joshua, and if they did, then the meet would already have been aborted at one of the cut-outs, and Joshua would call the contact number the next day for fresh instructions. Except Joshua had been specific that tomorrow was too late.

      He concentrated on La Famiglia. The front was white and double-fronted, blue woodwork round the windows, and dining areas either side of the door. There was a bar in the middle, according to the briefing, men’s room at the rear with a back door on to the alleyway behind. When the meet went down, the security section would be sitting in the restaurant, with more in a car at the rear in case the opposition tried to come in the back, or in case they had to take Joshua out that way in a hurry. Plus the faceless ones, who would oversee everything.

      Kincaid left the street, checked the rear, walked back to the pick-up vehicle, and returned to the safe house.

      ‘Code name Caesar,’ Daniel Erickson was informed. He switched phones. ‘La Famiglia restaurant, on East 54th,’ he was informed. He switched phones again. Typical organization – he cursed quietly; typical concern with security. He was carrying a cellphone, but cellphones were notoriously insecure.

      ‘What does Caesar look like?’ he asked.

      ‘Tall, early fifties, dark hair, wearing a dark-blue suit and carrying a brown leather attaché case. He’ll be arriving by cab.’

      ‘Any opposition?’ Erickson was always careful.

      ‘Shouldn’t be.’

      Erickson took a cab to the World Trade Center then another to East 52nd and walked the rest. East 54th was nondescript. He checked up and down the street, checked the streets and alleys behind it and running off it. Walked past the entrance to La Famiglia and imagined the moment Caesar stepped from the cab. The parked cars might have been a problem, because he might have lost line of vision as Caesar stepped through them, on to the pavement, and into the restaurant. Except the position he had already selected was high above, from where he could view all around him.

      Joshua has arrived at Newark, Kincaid was informed. Joshua has been code-named Caesar for the tails. The tails in place at each of the cut-outs, the boys from security ready to move into position inside and outside La Famiglia, and the game running. Joshua has made contact with Langley, O’Bramsky updated him. Joshua has taken a cab from Newark and is inbound for the first cut-out. Joshua is approaching the first cut-out.

      Kincaid left the safe house and was driven to East 54th.

      Caesar is approaching the first cut-out, the tails reported back. Caesar is looking clean. Caesar is leaving the first cut-out and is still looking clean.

      Kincaid walked down 54th and into the restaurant. The dining area was in two sections, a bar in the middle, and a corridor to the bathrooms at the rear. The tables were covered with gingham cloths and the waiters wore black waistcoats. Half the tables were occupied. He sat at the bar, in a position from which he could see the door, and ordered a Jack Daniels. Caesar is approaching the second cut-out, the shadows reported back. Caesar is at the second cut-out. Caesar is looking clean. Kincaid left the bar and checked the bathroom, checked the corridor and the door at the rear, and made sure the door would open.

      In his position above 54th Erickson swept the street for any sign of the opposition.

      Kincaid’s cellphone rang. ‘Mac. It’s Dennis. Managed to get those tickets for the Yankees game. The tenth be okay for you?’ Joshua through the last cut-out and with him in ten minutes. ‘Sounds good. I’ll see you.’

      Erickson scanned the streets and pavements below for the first indication that something might be wrong. The cellphone rang. In the silence of his concentration the noise was like thunder. He pressed the button and held the set close to his left ear. ‘Caesar is clean. He’ll be with you in ten.’ The nerves washed away and the calm and the cold took their place.

      The cab stopped outside the restaurant. Middle of the street, because of the cars parked either side. Too soon, Kincaid knew, and looked away from the window. Thank God for the security boys – those he could see but especially those he couldn’t.

      Erickson saw the couple step out. Man and woman, mid-twenties, the man paying the driver and the woman walking between the parked cars and waiting on the pavement for him, then the two of them going into the restaurant. His line of vision had remained unimpaired as the woman stepped between the parked cars. Significant, or just chance that a couple arrived just before Caesar was due?

      Six minutes now, five, and counting down. Another cab slowed then moved away without stopping. A man walked up 54th and entered the restaurant. Wrong age, wrong description.

      One minute. Kincaid ran the Jack Daniels around the glass and told himself to relax.

      The cab stopped and Joshua stepped out.

      On time, Kincaid thought.

      Right age, Daniel Erickson thought, right description. Dark-blue suit, early fifties, brown leather attaché case.

      Joshua paid the driver, stepped between the parked cars and stood on the pavement.

      Kincaid