Moscow USA

He briefed Pearce, collected the small overnight bag, stuffed it inside the canvas holdall, checked out, and waited in the foyer for the pick-up. Pity about Mick, because Moscow could be fun, especially if you knew where to go. And old sweats like Mick and himself had it worked out, as they had most things worked out.

The Vauxhall Senator stopped outside, the two men in it. Twenty minutes later they had collected the six million from bond, transferred it to the two holdalls (reinforced bottoms, locks and shoulder straps) and driven to Terminal 4.

The drop-off area outside was busy. Whyte went first, pushing the baggage cart, the minder behind so that Whyte and the money were always in his vision. The interior was large and echoing. Whyte pushed the cart to one of the club class check-ins, smiled at the woman and handed over his passport and two tickets.

‘Moscow flight. A Mr Pearce and I have three confirmed seats. Mr Pearce has had to cancel. I’d still like the two bulkhead window seats.’

The entrance to the departure lounge was to the left. The minder watched as Whyte pushed the cart through, handed over his boarding pass for inspection, and cleared passport control. Airside was more secure, but even airside you didn’t hang around. He lifted the bags on to the screening belt, no indication of their weight or contents, parked the trolley to the side, and stepped through the magnetometer frame. To his left the X-ray operator stopped the belt and scanned the image on the screen. Paperwork, Whyte would say if asked. Check with the American embassy, my company and the airline security he would tell them if they pulled him on suspicion of carrying laundered money.

Gate 5 was at the far end of the departure area, flight BA872 already boarding and the last passengers going through. Whyte found the seats, stowed the bags as tightly as he could on the floor, and strapped himself into the seat nearest the aisle. Routine procedure: the bags on the seat or the floor next to the window, the courier in the aisle seat, and the other courier – if they were doubling up – in the nearest seat on the other side of the aisle. No one allowed to get anywhere near the holdalls.

Five minutes later the 767 pushed back; three minutes after that, at 10.02 GMT, it lifted off, climbed over north London, and turned east on the standard route to Moscow over Amsterdam and Berlin. Two hours and sixteen minutes later it crossed the border of what had once been the Soviet Union. An hour and sixteen minutes after that it dropped on to the pockmarked runway of Moscow’s Sheremetyevo airport, trundled to Gate 9, the air bridge was connected, the engines died, and the seatbelt signs flicked off. Whyte lifted the bags and joined the queue to leave the plane.

The boys were waiting at the top of the jetbridge. There were two of them, thirties, big build and disciplined, automatics concealed in waist holsters. A tall woman in the dark green of the Border Guards stood beside them.

‘Good flight?’ The bodyguard’s English was precise without being perfect.

‘Fine.’

Arnie Maddox was halfway to the airport when the cellphone rang. It was six-fifty in the evening; fifteen minutes to the airport and another forty after that till his flight took off for Moscow. The seven hours he had spent in St Petersburg that day had gone well and the paperwork from the last meeting was balanced on his lap.

‘Arnie?’

‘Yep.’ He held the cellphone with his left hand and used his right to turn over the page of the document he was reading.

‘Arnie, it’s Phil. There’s a problem. The money that was coming in this afternoon …’ Dwyer’s voice trailed off.

‘What about it?’

‘It’s gone missing.’

Maddox’s flight landed at Sheremetyevo just over three hours later. Arriving now, Maddox told his driver on the cellphone the moment he stepped off the plane. Even late evening the militia moved cars on outside the airport, so drivers waited at the Novotel, 200 metres away. Maddox pushed his way through the freelance drivers offering cab rides into the city and went outside. The Cherokee Grand Jeep pulled in. Maddox grunted a greeting, slid into the rear seat, and phoned Dwyer that he was on his way in. Thirty-five minutes later he was in his office off Tverskaya.

Dwyer sat opposite him and slightly left, his facial muscles twitching occasionally with nerves, and the American manager liaising with the Russian security company contracted by ConTex sat to the right, trying not to show anything. Maddox thanked his secretary for working late and asked her to bring him coffee.

‘Tell me.’ He looked at the security liaison manager.

‘The courier company confirm that one of their people, Whyte, left London as scheduled. Whyte was travelling alone. The courier scheduled to accompany him was taken ill this morning and there wasn’t time to bring in a replacement. British Airways have confirmed that Whyte was on the flight; the last time they saw him was walking up the jetbridge from the aircraft. Immigration confirm that Whyte was met by two security people. Problem is, they weren’t ours. The security team who were supposed to meet him were held up and arrived late.’

‘Jeez …’ Heads and jobs and reputations on the line, Maddox was aware; not just the man opposite him. He swung in the chair, sipped the coffee and gave himself time to think. ‘Houston’s been informed?’ It was to the security liaison.

‘Yes.’

‘And you’ve spoken to McIntyre?’ This time to Dwyer.

Cal McIntyre was President of ConTex, Cal McIntyre was ConTex. Cal McIntyre would already have been informed, but McIntyre would be waiting for Maddox to call him, because that was the way McIntyre operated.

‘Not personally.’

‘Better do it, then.’ Maddox put the mug back on the table. ‘Anything else before I talk to Cal?’

‘I still need the five million,’ Dwyer told him.

Thanks, Maddox almost said. He punched one of the direct numbers to McIntyre’s office in Houston on the Stu-iii, flicked the telephone on conference so they could all hear, then left his desk and stood with his back to the window, because that was what McIntyre would do when he took the call.

‘Cal McIntyre’s office.’ The secretary was honey-toned. Blond hair and good-looking, Maddox remembered. And efficient, because that was the only way you survived with McIntyre.

‘Hi, Shirl, it’s Arnie Maddox in Moscow. Is Cal there?’ He waited for the connection. In Moscow it was late evening, the sky purpling. In Houston it was early afternoon, the sky blue and the sun blazing. ‘Cal. Arnie Maddox in Moscow.’

‘Arnie.’ McIntyre was tall, big-boned but gaunt, early sixties and hide skin. He pushed the chair back from the desk, stood up, and leaned with his back against the window, the city spread seventeen storeys below.

‘Cal, I’m going secure.’ Maddox put the call on hold and turned the key of the Stu-iii. In Houston McIntyre did the same. ‘You’ve been informed.’ Maddox resumed the conversation.

‘Yep.’

Time to do it, Maddox understood; time to play it as Cal McIntyre would have played it.

‘Okay, Cal. This is the score. As you’re aware, this morning’s shipment went missing. I’ve begun running checks this end, first indication is that the security contractor screwed up.’ He made a point of taking a mouthful of coffee. ‘The insurance people will obviously want to run their own checks on this. I’m happy with that as long as they don’t get their noses up the wrong asses. Phil’s deal is looking good, Kazakhstan’s on schedule. In view of the latter two points we need a replacement shipment ASAP.’

‘Big shipment, Arnie,’ McIntyre told him, just to let Maddox know, then turned his attention to Dwyer. ‘Phil how close are you?’

‘Close as we can be at this stage.’

‘Anybody else sniffing?’

‘Nobody yet, but it’s only a matter of time.’

McIntyre switched his attention back to Maddox. ‘Okay, Arnie, you got another shipment coming in tomorrow.’ But don’t fuck up again. Because you’ve covered your ass on this one, but next time … ‘What about security?’

‘You want me to sort out someone else?’

‘I will. Speak to you in an hour.’ The ConTex president hung up, returned to his desk, consulted the confidential list of telephone numbers he had drawn up over the years, drew out two, and called the first.

‘Drew, this is Cal McIntyre at ConTex. Got a little problem in Moscow and would appreciate some advice on it.’

‘Shoot,’ the man in the lush forested green of the Virginia countryside told him.

‘Shipment of money’s gone missing. The security company ConTex has been employing are either involved or haven’t got their asses in the ball game. I need another company, able to provide security plus investigation.’

‘Give me an hour,’ the man from Langley told him.

McIntyre thanked him, called the second number, and waited while the secretary connected him.

‘Jon, this is Cal McIntyre at ConTex.’

‘Cal, good to hear. How’s it going?’ A year ago the Deputy Assistant Secretary had been one of the smartest counsels on Capitol Hill; now he was amongst the brightest of the bright at State.

‘Got me a problem in Moscow, Jon. Hear you just got back from there and wondered whether you might be able to help me …’

‘Plenty of security companies in Russia at the moment,’ the former lawyer told him after McIntyre had explained. ‘Give me an hour.’

Forty-three minutes later the Langley desk chief phoned back.

‘Cal, this is Drew. I know it sounds like jobs for the brothers, but the guy you want is Grere Jameson. Used to be with the Agency. One of the best. Should’ve stayed but left to set up his own company. Now runs an outfit called ISS, one of the Beltway Bandits.’ One of the myriad of companies set up by ex-government employees and located within the Washington Beltway. ‘Jameson has a joint venture going with the Russians, goes by the name Omega.’

‘Why do you say he should have stayed?’

‘Because he’s the sort the Agency should have fought like hell to keep instead of allowing him to get pissed off with internal fuck-ups and cost-cuttings.’

He gave McIntyre the number in Bethesda.

‘Thanks, Drew. I owe you.’

Three minutes later the former Capitol Hill counsel phoned back.

‘For what you want, there’s only one.’

‘Who?’

‘Omega.’

He gave McIntyre the details.

‘Thanks, Jon. It’s appreciated.’

The area code was 301. McIntyre called it and asked to speak to Grere Jameson. Mr Jameson was not available, the receptionist informed him and connected him to Jameson’s secretary. Mr Jameson was out of town, the secretary told him, could someone else help or could she get Mr Jameson to phone him back?

‘How long will it take for him to get back to me?’

‘How urgent is it?’

‘Very.’

‘Ten minutes. If he can’t, I’ll let you know.’

COPEX, the Covert and Operational Procurement Exhibition, occupied one entire floor of the Javits Center in the middle of Manhattan. The exhibits themselves were as the name suggested: state-of-the-art covert, security, surveillance, assault and operational gadgetry. Entrance was by invitation only, and requests for invites were carefully vetted. Most of those present were from national or international agencies, governmental or private, and many were from overseas.

Grere Jameson left the intelligence briefing on economic espionage and returned to the main exhibition area.

Five years ago this week someone calling himself Hemmings was phoning the Agency office in New York and asking to speak to Leon Panelli … Four years ago he was out in the cold and setting up his own company … Three years ago a London contact had introduced him to a Russian called Gerasimov who was in town looking for partners for a joint venture project in Moscow …

He stopped to check out a computer encryption programme, then hurried to the bar. Leo Panelli was waiting. Today Leo was senior partner in a Washington think tank providing high level intelligence analysis and risk assessment to US companies contemplating investment overseas.

‘Leo, good to see you.’

‘You too, Grere old friend.’

They shook hands, asked about business, and avoided talking about five years ago. Jameson’s cellphone rang. He excused himself and moved to a corner.

‘Grere, it’s Jenny. A Cal McIntyre from ConTex just phoned. Said it was urgent and asked if you could phone him back. ConTex is an E and P operator with contracts in Russia and Kazakhstan. I’ve had a check run in D and B. Cal McIntyre is president.’

Dun and Bradstreet was a subscriber database providing indepth information on business issues such as company structures, stock-holders and corporate personnel.

Plus ConTex was a big player getting bigger, Jameson thought. Which D and B wouldn’t know. And their Russian security contract expired in four months, because he and Gerasimov had discussed it the previous week.

‘Did he say what he wanted?’

‘No. He just said it was urgent. I told him you’d phone back in ten minutes.’

‘How long ago was that?’

‘Two minutes fifteen.’

‘Get me the times of flights from New York to Houston later this afternoon. Just in case.’

‘I’ve held a seat for you on the 17.25 Continental out of Newark.’

Jameson took down the number in Houston, hooked the encryptor unit on to the cellphone, and called the Moscow number. In Moscow it was twelve midnight. Gerasimov answered on the sixth ring.

‘Mikhail, it’s Grere.’ The conversation was in Russian. ‘I’m going secure.’ Jameson activated the encryptor and resumed the conversation. ‘Cal McIntyre from ConTex just called; he wants me to phone him back urgently. I’m checking in case you know what’s running.’

They discussed the options. Three and a half minutes gone since the office had phoned – Jameson checked the time. He ended the call and keyed the number in Houston.

Grere Jameson on two, McIntyre’s secretary informed the ConTex president. McIntyre glanced up at the clocks on the wall. Eight minutes down, two still to go.

‘Mr Jameson, good afternoon. This is Cal McIntyre. Thanks for calling back so promptly.’

‘My pleasure.’

‘Got a little problem in Moscow.’ Perhaps the Texan drawl was exaggerated, perhaps it was the way McIntyre opened every business discussion. ‘Like to chew it over with you.’

‘I’m in New York. I could be on the five twenty-five Continental flight, be with you eight twenty-one your time. A car at the airport would speed things up.’

‘You got it.’

The sign which the driver held up said simply ConTex. Jameson declined the man’s offer of assistance with his travel bag and followed him outside. In the sky to the west the sun was setting in a ball of fire. Twenty minutes later he shook hands with McIntyre in the ConTex president’s office.

McIntyre was wearing a dinner jacket, red bow tie and cummerbund, as if he had just come from, or was on his way to, an engagement. He poured them each a Black Label and took his place behind his desk.

‘Tell me about ISS and Omega.’

Jameson settled in a large wing-back leather chair in front of McIntyre’s desk but slightly to the right so that he wasn’t facing into the window.

‘ISS is an international security and investigation company staffed by former members of the security and intelligence services, mainly American but sometimes others. We have main offices in Washington and London, and subsidiary offices in other cities. Where necessary we form specific companies for separate projects or countries. In Russia this has taken the form of a joint venture. Omega is the company name of that joint venture.’

‘And who are your Russian partners?’

The sun had set now, and the sky was a gentle layer of blue and purple.

‘Omega is headed by a former KGB general. Most of the staff are former KGB, specialists in their fields.’

‘Why Omega?’ McIntyre asked.

Jameson hadn’t touched the Black Label. ‘Alpha-Omega, the beginning and the end, we provide it all. We would have liked to call the company Alpha, but that would have been confusing.’

‘Why?’

‘Alpha was the KGB’s anti-terrorist and special forces unit. Each republic had its Alpha unit. The head of our company in Moscow is the former head of state Alpha, the man who oversaw it all. A large number of the men we employ are also former members.’

McIntyre leaned forward. ‘Ten years ago they were the enemy, now you’re working with them?’

Jameson smiled. ‘The Berlin Wall came down in ’89, so in fact it’s seven years ago that they were the enemy, not ten.’ He placed the Black Label on McIntyre’s desk. ‘It also depends how you define the enemy. Militarily and politically the Russians may no longer be the enemy, commercially they still are, but so are all our former friends. Britain, Germany, France, Japan. It’s something my Russian partner and I are totally aware of.’ He leaned forward and picked up the glass again. ‘You said you had a problem.’

‘This morning we shipped a consignment of dollars into Moscow. It went missing. We want it investigated.’

‘How much went missing?’

McIntyre took off his jacket, draped it across the back of his chair, and loosened his bow tie. ‘Six million dollars.’ He studied Jameson’s face for a reaction to the amount. Six million was small change, he understood. When the big shipments were going through there were armoured trucks waiting on the runway to load the dollars direct off the plane, and armed guards keeping everyone, but everyone, away. But six million of his money was six million of his money.

‘Hand-carried through Sheremetyevo?’ Jameson asked.

‘Yes.’

‘How many couriers?’

‘There should have been two but one got sick.’

‘You had a secure collection?’

‘We were supposed to have.’

‘What went wrong?’

McIntyre took a file from a drawer on the right side of his desk and passed it to Jameson. Jameson opened it, speed-read the five sheets of report inside, then laid it on the desk. Most people in his business guaranteed the world, but sometimes it was better to be straight. ‘I have to tell you that the chances of recovering that money are less than remote.’

‘The Russian mafia,’ McIntyre suggested.

‘Define Russian mafia.’

‘That’s why I contract people like you, for you to define it for me.’

‘One thing before I do. Are you sending another shipment over to replace the missing money?’

‘En route from New York to London at this moment.’

‘When do you want it in Moscow?’

‘Tomorrow.’

Today in London and Moscow, because of the time difference.

‘I assume you want Omega to provide the secure collection at Sheremetyevo?’

‘Yes.’

‘In that case, would you excuse me while I make the arrangements?’

Jameson telephoned Bethesda and ran the normal security routine. ‘Jim, it’s Grere. I’m with Cal McIntyre at ConTex. We have an immediate escort assignment, London – Moscow, leaving London on the next Moscow flight. I assume that’s the 9.50 AM British Airways. The shipment is six million, so we’ll need two couriers. There’s also an investigation, I’ll send you the background, but the first priority is the escort. Check with London who’s available, and put Moscow on standby for a secure collection at Sheremetyevo. Tell Moscow I want a guardian angel in addition to the pick-up boys. I’ll also speak to Gerasimov.’

On the other side of the desk Cal McIntyre leaned to his right, picked up a phone and spoke to his personal assistant. ‘My appointment tonight. Send my apologies that I can’t attend. Then dinner for two in my office.’

Jameson ended the call, punched Gerasimov’s number, and repeated the security procedure. ‘Mikhail, I’m with Cal McIntyre at ConTex.’ The conversation, in Russian, paralleled the one he had held thirty seconds earlier. ‘Jim’s phoning you from DC. I’ve told him I want an angel-khzanitel at Sheremetyevo as well as the pick-up team.’

He finished the call and sipped the Black Label. The cellphone rang. London and Moscow were running, he was informed. ‘Who’s London sending?’ he asked.

‘The lead man is Brady.’

‘Where’s Kincaid?’ Jameson was already thinking ahead.

‘Amsterdam.’

‘Bring him in. Brady makes the run with him, but Kincaid is number one. Tell Kincaid he might be in Moscow for a while, and get someone to Amsterdam in his place.’

McIntyre left his position behind his desk and settled in a chair opposite Jameson. ‘Define mafia,’ he said when Jameson had finished the calls.

‘You want the long or the short lecture?’

‘Somewhere in the middle.’

Jameson laughed. ‘The Russian mafia is not like the Sicilian variety, not la Cosa Nostra. In a simplistic way, mafia in present-day Russia, and I’m using Russia as shorthand for the whole set-up east of what was the Iron Curtain, simply means crime. Everyone’s running scams, or exposed to scams, in Russia at the moment. Each factory or business or office is offered kreshna, a roof; each street trader is requested to align himself or herself with a group who say they will protect him.

‘However, it’s actually more multi-dimensional than that. Mafia isn’t just about market traders offering vegetables at high prices or hoods shooting each other or blowing each other’s Mercs up over territorial disputes. It isn’t just about hitting bankers and industrialists and judges. Mafia isn’t even about US or UK or other foreign firms taking on Russian partners and discovering after ten, fifteen years, that they’re in bed with the baddies. In a way it’s how society, from top to bottom, operates; it’s a recognized way of doing things. Many of the people at the top of the old economy are the new leaders of the new capitalism. Some things don’t change. The old connections, the old agreements, have simply been updated.’

McIntyre 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?’